square.
The four smaller units roared off in a cloud of diesel fumes, and as Drankov’s main unit headed up Gruzinskaya Boulevard, Tarankov spoke into a lapel microphone that relayed his voice by radio to loudspeakers atop all their assault vehicles.
“COMRADES, MY NAME IS YEVGENNI TARANKOV, AND I HAVE COME TODAY TO OFFER MY HAND IN FRIENDSHIP AND HELP.”
The crowds lining the boulevard fell silent as Tarankov’s voice rolled over them like waves on a vast shoreline. As the column passed, the people pressed in behind and followed the armored vehicles up to the square.
“OUR COUNTRY IS FALLING INTO A BOTTOMLESS PIT OF DESPAIR. OUR FORESTS ARE DYING. OUR GREAT RIVERS AND LAKES HAVE BECOME CESSPOOLS OF WASTE. THE AIR IS UNFIT TO BREATHE. THE ONLY FOOD WORTH EATING FILLS THE BELLIES OF THE APPARATCHIKS AND FOREIGNERS. OUR CHILDREN ARE DYING AND OUR WOMEN ARE CRYING, BUT NO ONE IN MOSCOW CAN HEAR THEM. NO ONE IN MOSCOW WANTS TO HEAR THEM.”
The column moved at a steady four kilometers per hour, which made it easy for the crowds on foot to keep up with it, and which would give the four out riding assault units a chance to complete their assignments by the time the main force reached the square. The plans had been orchestrated by Chernov, and no one questioned his brilliance. Every town they’d entered had become theirs within thirty minutes, without exception. Kirov, though larger, more sophisticated and much closer to Moscow, was proving to be no different than the much smaller, rural towns.
“OUR HEALTH CARE SYSTEM IS BANKRUPT. OUR MILITARY HAS BECOME LEADERLESS AND USELESS. HOOLIGANS AND PROFITEERS ERODE OUR LIVELIHOODS LIKE CANCER. THE MAFIA EATS BEEFSTEAKS AND CAVIAR, DRINKS SWEET CHAMPAGNE AND DRIVES CADILLAC AND MERCEDES CARS WHILE RAPING OUR DAUGHTERS, WHO HAVE NO HOPE FOR A FUTURE.”
Bankrupt, cancer, rape, were what Chernov called “buzzwords.” He’d spent three years working out of the Russian embassy in Washington.
“AIDS AND DRUGS AND MINDLESS MUSIC ARE ROTTING THE BRAINS OF OUR CHILDREN. THE WEST HAS IMPOSED ITS FILTH UPON US BECAUSE WE ARE THEIR ENEMY AND THEY WANT TO BURY US.”
Tarankov could look out the slit windows and see the people walking beside his lead APC. Many of them were crying, tears streaming down their weathered faces. Some of them smiled, while others walked with hands touching the side of his armored truck. Many of them were military men in shabby uniforms. They were his people. They were the soul of Russia, and by their tears and their smiles, by their touching his truck, they were crying out to him for salvation.
Still talking, Tarankov pushed open the side door, scrambled out of his seat and jumped down onto the street with the people before Drankov or anyone else could stop him. He was still connected by radio link to the loudspeakers on his units all across the city by now.
“MOSCOW… HOW MANY STRAINS ARE FUSING IN THAT ONE SOUND FOR RUSSIAN HEARTS!” he quoted Pushkin.
The crowd roared its approval. “what store of riches it imparts!” Women and men and old babushkas crowded around in an effort to touch him. His voice seemed to be everywhere, it seemed to be coming from heaven itself.
“I WILL RETURN YOUR PRIDE, YOUR HOPE, YOUR DIGNITY. I WILL RETURN THE UNION!”
Chernov climbed down from the APC, and he and Liesel joined Tarankov for the last half-block into the square. Unit Four had pulled up and was herding its prisoners from the city and federal buildings into a clear area in front of the frozen fountain. The square was jammed with people, tens of thousands of them, possibly more than one hundred thousand, one third of the entire population.
A broad path opened automatically for Tarankov and his column as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.
“IT IS BETTER TO LOSE A RIVER OF BLOOD NOW, THAN THE ENTIRE COUNTRY LATER, EVEN IF IT IS RUSSIAN BLOOD. BECAUSE WE WILL ONLY SPILL THE BLOOD OF TRAITORS.”
A lot of the people in Kirov knew what had happened in other cities that Tarankov had visited, and now that the prisoners were in plain view an odd, ugly mood began to sweep over the crowd. Liesel called it the “blood lust,” when a crowd suddenly began to act as a single entity. A wild animal that wanted to kill.
“LOOK AROUND AND YOU WILL SEE WHAT THEY HAVE DONE,” Tarankov’s voice boomed across the square, now ringed with his mobile units.
“Units One and Two are completing their mission,” Chernov said at his ear. “Radar is still clear.”
Without breaking his stride Tarankov led his column into the square down the long path to where the two dozen city and district officials were lined up. They hadn’t been allowed to get their hats and coats, and they stood shivering in the bitter northwest wind that gusted across the square. It would probably snow later today, but most of them understood that they wouldn’t be alive to see it.
“IT IS TIME FOR A CLEAN SWEEP. THE FILTH MUST BE RUTHLESSLY CLEANED AWAY BEFORE WE ALL CHOKE ON THE DUST.”
A low, guttural murmur spread across the square.
“WHEN OUR STRUGGLE IS COMPLETED, I WILL RAISE A BRONZE STATUE IN MOSCOW’S DZERZHINSKY SQUARE WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS. IT WILL BE OF A YOUNG SOLDIER, HIS RIFLE RAISED OVER HIS HEAD, AND HIS FACE POINTED UP TO HEAVEN IN HOPE.”
“Unit Three has completed its mission,” Chernov said. “All units are on the way back. ETA under five minutes.”
Tarankov held a hand over his lapel mike. “Was Unit Three successful?”
Chernov spoke briefly into his lapel mike. He nodded. “No gold this time but they got millions in roubles, and a very large amount of hard currencies. Mostly Swiss francs.”
“Distribute the roubles, we’ll keep the francs for our expenses,” Liesel said, Chernov waited for Tarankov to respond.
“It’s expensive running a revolution, Zhennia,” Liesel prompted.
Tarankov looked at his wife, then nodded after a moment, and Chernov relayed the order. Reality was sometimes a bitter pill, something his countrymen for all their tribulations under Stalin had never learned. He would have to teach them.
The armored column stopped fifty meters from the fountain. Drankov’s commandoes piled out of the transports to take up defensive positions in case they had to retreat under the press of the crowds, or under fire by an organized force.
Tarankov continued up the broad path, his stride long and purposeful. Ten meters from the prisoners he unbuttoned the flap on his holster.
Kirov’s Mayor Eduard Bakursky, a democratic reformer who’d been trying unsuccessfully to jump start the city’s flagging economy, stepped to one side and pulled out a pistol that one of the commandoes had slipped him.
The prisoners nearest him reared back.
“You bastard!” Bakursky shouted. He raised the pistol and started shooting, the bullets apparently going wild. They were blanks. He’d been set up.
Tarankov stood his ground and calmly drew his pistol, switched off the safety and fired two shots, one hitting Bakursky in his chest, and the other catching the portly man in his thick neck just below his chin. He was driven backward into the frozen fountain, his blood splashing across the ice and snow.
“TRAITOR,” Tarankov shouted, his voice thundering across the square. “TRAITORS TO THE PEOPLE, ALL OF YOU.” He shot the man who’d been standing next to the mayor, and as the prisoners tried desperately to get away, Tarankov followed them, emptying his pistol into the group. The Unit Four commandoes opened fire with their Kalashnikovs on full automatic, killing the remaining prisoners within seconds.
As the sounds of the final shots echoed off the buildings and faded, the huge crowd suddenly erupted in a frenzy of cheering and clapping and whistling. They began to sing the old Communist Party anthem. The Internationale, though probably not one in a thousand knew that the song originated in France in the last century. But it didn’t matter. The people were happy. Blood had been shed, but it was a just killing. The revolution had finally
