Politika

But now… now the mill was silent, shut down, its shipping floor deserted. The rail cars that normally transported the raw wheat from the farms to the mill, and sackfuls of processed flour from the mill to warehouses in the northern regions, sat clustered at the receiving station, their engines cold and dead beneath the gray October sky.

There was no grain to process.

Nothing.

The chyornozyom, the fertile black earth that had nourished the crop through the most devastating of catastrophes, had failed to produce even a meager harvest. In August, when the wheat had come up stunted, some men from the Ministry of Agriculture had arrived from the capital and tested the soil and explained that it was fouled. It had been overfarmed, they said. The rain had poisons in it, they said. But what the bureaucrats had not said was that the overfarming had been ordered by their own ministry back when it would set compulsory production quotas and regulate the distribution of food. What they had not said was that the water had been contaminated by wastes from government chemical and munitions facilities.

What they had not said before they finally left was whether there was any way to repair the damage in time for the next planting season, or even the one after that.

Perhaps it was too late, Veli Gazon thought.

The mill was silent, now.

Silent as a tomb.

There was no grain.

Veli moistened the tips of his thumb and forefinger with a little saliva, pinched out his cigarette, and dropped the stub into his shirt pocket. Later, he would add the tobacco inside it to that of other stubs and reroll them, wasting nothing.

There was no grain.

Not in his village, or the neighboring one. Not in any of the fields between the Black Sea and the Caspian.

And what that meant was that soon…

Frighteningly soon…

The only things that would be plentiful in Russia were the cries of the hungry and the dying.

FOUR

THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON, D.C. OCTOBER 26, 1999

“…In Russia, bread is Everything,” Vladimir Starinov was saying in fluent but heavily accented English. “Do you understand?”

President Ballard considered Starinov’s words.

“I think so, Vladimir,” he said. “As best I can from where I sit, anyway.”

Both were silent a moment.

The Rose Garden photo ops behind them, the two men had retreated to the large, wood-paneled conference room down the hall from the Oval Office, eager to rough out an emergency aid agreement before their luncheon with congressional leaders. On Starinov’s side of the table were his minister of the interior Yeni Bashkir, known to be a strong supporter of the Communists, and Pavel Moser, a high-ranking member of the Federation Council. With the President were Vice President Stephen Humes, Secretary of Agriculture Carol Carlson, and Secretary of State Orvel Bowman. A White House interpreter named Hagen sat at the far end of the table, looking and feeling superfluous.

Now Starinov gazed across at the President, his broad, round face sober, his gray eyes steady behind a pair of wire glasses.

“I want to make it clear that I am speaking literally,” he said. “What matters to American voters is the availability of choices. If costs and incomes are stable, choices expand and politicians win reelection. If the economy falters, choices narrow and leaders are replaced. But the concerns of the Russian people are more basic. They do not worry about what they will eat, but whether they will eat at all.” He paused, took a deep breath. “Perhaps the best way to illustrate my point is with the exception. Have you ever seen the McDonald’s restaurant in Moscow? Men and women save for months before bringing their families there for a meal… those with jobs, that is. They stand in line for hours to get through the door, as if it opens to some strange and unimaginably wondrous place. And in a sense it does. It is an extravagance for them. A rare indulgence. And for those outside the capital, who are often without work, it is a place no one even dreams of visiting. Do you see? Bread is all they can afford. Without it millions will have nothing on their tables. Absolutely nothing. Their children will die of hunger. And fairly or not, their anger will turn toward their leaders.”

The President leaned forward, his elbows on the table, fingers tented under his chin. “Most of all, I’d think, on a leader who appeals to the United States for assistance and comes back empty-handed.”

Their eyes met.

“Yes,” Starinov said. “He might indeed appear ineffectual. And, regrettably, there are elements within the government, some of whom still harbor cold war resentments toward your country, who would be pleased to use such a failure to incite the Russian electorate and gain greater standing for themselves.”

Touche, the President thought. You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream.

He turned to Secretary Carlson. “Carol, how much aid can we provide, and how fast could we get it moving?”

An elegant woman of fifty-five with the inexhaustible energy and slender good looks of someone ten years younger, she pursed her lips in thought, pretending to make some hurried mental calculations. In fact, she and the President had run through this whole scenario in advance. Ballard liked, respected, and, most importantly, needed Starinov as an ally. He was prepared to do whatever it took to bolster his popularity and keep him in office. And, not to be too cynical, he liked the idea of getting food into the mouths of starving babes. Still, it was hardly beneath him to also use food as leverage — or even as a weighty club — in certain ongoing arms reduction and trade negotiations.

“We have sufficient reserves to provide at least a hundred thousand tons of wheat, oats, and barley, with a somewhat lesser quantity of cornmeal,” she said after what seemed a reasonable pause for thought. “As far as a time frame, my best guess is we could get our first shipments out within a month. Of course, that’s assuming we can persuade Congress to go along with us.”

The President nodded, shifting his attention to the Veep. “Steve, what about financial aid?”

“I’ve been recommending three hundred million dollars in loans as part of an overall package. Realistically, we might be able to secure half that amount, with strict conditions attached to its use and repayment.”

“In my opinion, it’s the distribution end of this effort that’s going to be the hardest sell,” Secretary Bowman said. “Even with the participation of U.S. troops kept to a minimum, everybody’s concerned about another Somalia- type situation.”

Which, everyone in the room knew, was a moderately delicate way of saying a situation in which American soldiers were forced to repel violent mobs of looters trying to raid cargo from trucks and grain storehouses.

Bashkir gave Bowman a sharp look. A dour man of middle age whose dark complexion and thick, flat features bore the somatotype of his Far Eastern ancestry, he was known in diplomatic circles for being as personally loyal to Starinov as he was outspokenly critical of his pro-Western policies.

“With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, my government is fully capable of dispensing the food to its own citizens once it arrives,” he said. “I see no reason for direct involvement by your military.”

“Actually, I was thinking in terms of a larger World Food Program mission.” Bowman cleared his throat. “If the U.N. contributes as expected, it’s likely to ask that my country send forces as a component of a multinational disaster relief team. We’d have great difficulty denying such a request.”

Bashkir shifted in his chair but made no further comment.

Noting his ramrod-straight posture, the President decided it would be a good time to cut in and break the tension.