“I don’t need any pension, Comrade Colonel.” Again I tried to sound reasonable. “I’m too young to worry about that. How can a man live on two hundred rubles a month? Besides, there are many new opportunities in the civilian sector.”
Now Frolov rose from his desk. “Perhaps, Captain. But I am not authorized to endorse such a discharge. The entire matter of force reduction is under review by the chief of staff of the VVS.”
I remained stubbornly rooted in my chair. This was my last chance. The elaborate deception was coming apart, about to fail completely. The physicians had judged me fit for ground duty, and Frolov’s recommendation as a psychologist would confirm the diagnosis. I had perhaps ten more days of follow-up tests here at the hospital before the board met, then I would have to return to Tskhakaya. In two months the final divorce process would be finished. Prozukhin would make sure to see me transferred to the dusty abyss of Central Asia. I had gambled, and I had lost.
“I’m no longer a Communist,” I blurted out. “I’ve come to hate atheism. I want to learn more about religion. How can I serve as a Soviet officer?”
Frolov even had an answer for this. He nodded gravely. “Captain, many pilots are religious. You are not alone. You may have doubts about the Party, but you have sworn to serve the Soviet people.”
How could I respond? Finally I stood, and Frolov quickly shook my hand, eager to see me go. “Just take your medication, Captain,” he said. “Everything will be better soon.”
Two days later I learned exactly why Frolov had been unable to help me. Lieutenant General Vasily Semakhin, chief of Air Force personnel, came to the hospital with an entourage of aides to brief all the pilots undergoing treatment on the impact of Gorbachev’s well-publicized force reduction policy. Over 350 active-duty and retired pilots — some of them white-haired veterans of the Great Patriotic War — crowded the hospital theater to hear Semakhin.
The chunky, thick-waisted general spoke brusquely, his face set in an overbearing frown that signified his impatient distaste at having to personally explain such a policy to this collection of aviators. Having the ultimate decision on personnel assignments was a gold mine. And Semakhin was known to be a true Moscow general, a man who had made a personal fortune from the blat that came his way during the Brezhnev era. Some poorly qualified but well-connected fighter pilot who had received a plum had reportedly contributed to Semakhin’s wealth.
Semakhin began his remarks by noting that the press had distorted Gorbachev’s United Nations speech. True, the general said, there would definitely be cuts in the ranks of all the services. But this did not mean officers would be arbitrarily relieved of their service obligation. Reductions in the Air Force ranks, Semakhin said, “will come first from those who have already completed twenty years’ service. If we can’t fill our allotment of cuts with these officers, we will next discharge those with medically documented alcohol problems. That will more than cover our quota.”
Around me in the theater, pilots whispered. There were a few barely audible groans. Men, like me, who had come to this briefing hoping to be discharged soon, had those hopes abruptly punctured.
Now Semakhin was speaking about unit reduction and reassignments. Frontal Aviation regiments would be cut from forty aircraft to as few as thirty-two, with new MiG-29 and Su-25 fighters replacing older aircraft. Many pilots from MiG-21 regiments would be reassigned to bombers. “I know this goes against fighter pilots’ grain,” Semakhin stated, almost sneering, “but we’re modernizing our forces, not running a popularity contest. Despite glasnost,” he added, “the Air Force still reaches its decisions without the benefit of public opinion polls.”
Again there were groans. I stared at the heavy-faced general and his silent coterie of colonels in their well- tailored uniforms. Despite Semakhin’s scorn for glasnost, it had been foolhardy to reveal the cold truth about Gorbachev’s actual intent in his famous policy speech. This force reduction had nothing to do with a shift to a defensive military posture. Gorbachev and his Defense Minister, Marshal Yazov, intended to streamline and modernize the forces. Pilots taken from obsolete aircraft were to be reassigned to bombers. Was that a “defensive” posture?
“This whole matter has been badly handled by the politicians,” Semakhin added with unfeigned disgust. “A full eighty percent of the pilots serving in Siberia and Central Asia have already submitted written requests for discharge. This is ludicrous. All your units will soon receive official guidelines. Unless you have twenty years’ service or the medics have certified you an alcoholic, don’t waste our time applying for a discharge.”
Semakhin, a man who had never even flown an L-29, looked at his elaborate pilot’s watch and snapped that he would have time for a few questions.
One old veteran of the war stood and unceremoniously demanded to know if the Air Force intended to raise veteran pensions to a reasonable living standard.
Semakhin said the Defense Ministry was trying to “pass legislation” on the matter in the Supreme Soviet. This was hardly a reassuring answer to a brave old man trying to survive on 120 rubles a month.
A major wounded in Afghanistan now rose. “When can we expect an all-volunteer military?”
Semakhin was not taken unprepared. He smiled now, a reasonable leader. The USSR, he said, “simply cannot afford” such a force. “We would have to increase salaries tenfold. This is not realistic.”
A colonel rose at the rear of the room. “Does that mean there’ll be no increase in pay?”
“A good question, Comrade Colonel,” Semakhin crooned, again stressing his reasonable nature. “We’re working on a proposal for a thirty-ruble pay raise to come this summer.”
The groans were louder now, but Semakhin pretended not to hear. After a moment another decorated senior pilot stood up to address the general. “A thirty-ruble salary increase is an insult.”
Again, Semakhin had a ready answer. “We are soldiers, comrades. And a soldier can never be wealthier than a merchant.”
“What shit,” a stocky major seated nearby said, not even trying to whisper. Semakhin’s reputation as a profiteer was well known.
This briefing was unlike any military meeting I had ever attended. Although few of the assembled officers knew each other — and no one could tell who might be an Osobist knocker — men were boldly speaking their minds. Now it was my turn.
“Comrade Lieutenant General,” I asked, staring directly into Semakhin’s mottled face, “is the decision to reduce our forces by five hundred thousand servicemen a reflection of our grim economic situation or an indication of our nation’s peace-loving policies?”
No one groaned, but I did hear chairs shift as officers strained to see who had the audacity to ask such a question.
Semakhin spun on his polished heel to face me, as if squaring off for a fight. “Our reduction offerees, Captain,” he said coldly, “was clearly explained in the press by the President of the USSR, the respected Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev.”
It was a clever response that shielded Semakhin from the potential criticism of hard-liners in the room.
But I remained standing to ask another question. “I have been grounded from flight duty,” I explained, “but still have seven years’ service. I have no need of my pension because I want to work in a civilian field. Can you help me be among the five hundred thousand to be discharged?”
Semakhin seemed about to dismiss me brusquely, but then his face softened. It would cost him nothing to humor me. He nodded toward one of his aides, a tall colonel. “Give your name to this officer after the meeting, Captain.”
I sat down. There was still a slight chance that the general would personally review my case. Around me in the theater, my colleagues were frowning and speaking quietly. They seemed troubled and confused. All of us were.
Four days passed and I heard nothing from Semakhin’s office. When I tried to call the colonel, a typically rude secretary said he was away on an official mission and that I would be contacted “in good time” after I returned to Georgia. I had heard often that phrase on trips to Moscow when I was trying to secure patronage for my application to the Akhtubinsk test pilot school. From that frustrating process, I’d learned that a man’s most successful patron was himself. The medical bureaucrats would not complete the official evaluation of my case for at least a week, so I planned to use the time to prepare for the worst case.
I would probably have at least two months of ground duty at Tskhakaya before Prozukhin managed to have me transferred. That was ample time to prepare my unofficial exit from the Soviet Union. But whatever means of travel I chose would cost money. And here in Moscow there were unusual opportunities for making money. Jana had been in Kiev for several months the previous year and I had actually managed to save most of my salary. I now
