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World War III: 1988
Chapter 4: “The Hawk and the Sparrow”
The Kremlin Senate
Grounds of the Kremlin Palace, Moscow, U.S.S.R.
March 5, 1987
To the tall, sharp-nosed man who observed the grand columned building before him in the tiled courtyard, the Kremlin Senate would have been a welcome sight to the often prevalent socialist-realism architecture typically seen in Moscow that followed “function over form”. And yet today…he felt an odd chill emanating from the massive yellow-painted edifice looming before him…and it was not because of the lingering Russian winter.
“Moscow is rather cold this time of year, is it not, Comrade Petrovkin,” a woman’s voice almost sang softly off to the man’s right. Colonel Leonid Petrovkin, one of the youngest Colonels in the Committee for State Security, or KGB as it was typically known, made a slight turn of his head to regard the tall, stunning female companion to his side, Major Irina Ilyasov.
“It goes without saying, Irina,” Leonid replied casually. Leonid Petrovkin was a tall, athletic fellow, with piercing blue eyes that contrasted his dark hair rather handsomely. When he was in uniform however, much like the winter version he wore now under his woolen overcoat, he always carefully exuded an air of professionalism befitting a Soviet officer. He had grown up along the north shore of the Black Sea coast, raised by his father, a fisherman who of all things had ironically become a T-34 tank commander when the Nazis invaded during the Great Patriotic War. He had attended the University of Leningrad in the hope of becoming a tank officer like his father…only to be “selected” after a review of his aptitude, grades and the fact he had learned to speak several languages rather fluently, to become a member of the KGB. And thus, now after 20 years of service, Leonid had become one of the youngest officers to be promoted to Colonel in the KGB. But it was not because he was a careerist; Leonid considered himself a professional first and foremost and despised careerists, as much as he despised some of the near-psychopathic brutes employed by other countries such as the East Germans and the Cubans. He always carefully observed everything around him, and missed almost nothing. He assumed that was why many in both the East and the West had come to nickname him “the Hawk”. He had chuckled at the name as he found it amusing, but considered it an honor regardless. To him, psychological warfare was an art form, and he considered breaking people with words, rather than fists, the mark of a true artist and professional.
Leonid’s companion, Major Irina Ilyasov, was an unusually tall woman, almost Leonid’s height. With enthralling blue-green eyes and honey-blonde hair, and a stunning figure, Irina walked with an uncanny grace that would have easily placed her on a modelling catwalk in Paris or London if she wished to assume the role. Irina however scoffed at such Western vanity, as her grace and athleticism came from her years studying to be a ballerina in Volgograd. Her mother had been one of the famed “Night Witch” aviators of the Great Patriotic War, and when she had been recruited by the KGB into their ranks, she had done so enthusiastically out of a sense of patriotism. She had been a graduate of a program within the KGB known only as the “Red Room”, but she spoke little about it. Irina, much like Leonid, was highly observant, skilled, graceful, and also a deadly fighter. Though Leonid was no stranger to violence and knew how to exercise it as a weapon when needed, Irina exercised the application of violence as an art form. She could break any human being twice her size in over a dozen different ways physically, but thankfully for Leonid, she usually followed his direction and avoided unnecessary violence if possible. She considered breaking people mentally the greatest feat of a professional, and had an almost uncanny gift for reading people when observing them. She had become known in both the East and West by the moniker “the Sparrow”, but she preferred a different term. As she remarked to Leonid after the completion of one mission, “You are the artist, and I am the scalpel.”
Irina shivered as she made a slight adjustment to the ushanka fur cap that was part of her KGB officer’s winter uniform, the woolen greatcoat displaying her badge and rank for all to see. Her blue-green eyes scanned the dreary gray overcast that hung over the city that day, which was perhaps fitting, considering all that had occurred as of late. While there were some of the usual military aides and apparatchiks coming and going about their business in the courtyard, the most prominent display was of two manned BTR-80 armored personnel carriers parked in a corner in the southern edge of the expanse, alongside a number of the Kremlin Guards watching everyone coming and going from the Senate. Each of them were outfitted in full battle dress uniforms with AK-74 rifles slung across their chests at the ready. It was yet another reminder of the recent change of leadership, again, in the Kremlin.
“A shame, Leonid, it seems we missed our chance several months ago to listen to some lovely Tchaikovsky,” Irina noted wryly, referring to the Soviet radio station’s habit of playing classical music whenever there was an "internal emergency" in the motherland.
“Perhaps, but Mexico was far sunnier, was it not?”
Irina grimaced. Mexico had been, for all intents and purposes, a complete and utter disaster. They had barely exfiltrated from the country as the Americans had rolled in. To say nothing of course for the debacle concerning the KGB’s Vympel unit and the capture of one of their own agents. It had taken a rather visible prisoner swap concerning a rather simple American shoe salesmen who had been foolish enough to attempt a sale in Poland to get the operative back, who no doubt had either been reassigned to Afghanistan, or was equally likely working in a camp in Siberia. “Mexico should have never happened, Leonid! A parade of fucking imbeciles…the Libyans, the Cubans, they’re worse than the Germans! A pity they were more interested in my tits than actual intelligence.”
Leonid barely suppressed a chuckle, and the urge to say something debauched. “They do have their uses, however. If it ever comes to war, we can simply give them all bayonets, point them toward the West, and shout ‘charge’. Speaking of which….” He trailed off, grimacing visibly. There was a reason they had both been summoned to the Kremlin Senate that day: To give their input, or so it was assumed, on the KGB’s operational plan DARK MIRROR.
“Leonid…what are you going to tell them?” The worry on Irina’s porcelain face was clearly evident.
“Simple Irina…I will tell them that BLUE FUNNEL would be a far more preferable option.” Or rather, it is a far saner option, all things considered, Leonid thought. We have crossed swords with the Americans since the Great Patriotic War, that is true, but it was always in the shadows. The game always had certain rules, and we both followed them to an extent. But this?! No…surely the Kremlin is not so convinced or desperate to resort to this insanity. These matters had occurred before, 1962 being a prime example, and as heated as they were, they eventually dissipated. But what was outlined in DARK MIRROR? It was all madness…
Irina casually glanced to her left and right, as Leonid glanced beyond her to where some of the Kremlin Guards were quietly observing them in the distance. They were few pedestrians in the courtyard, thankfully. When discussing such matters, discretion was an absolute necessity. “And do you think they’ll listen to you? I have spoken with, and observed some of my associates…there are concerns within some inner circles of the Army about decisions that have been made in the Kremlin as of late.”
“Irina…be very careful what you hear, and especially say in that matter,” Leonid spoke softly, but grimly.
The blonde locked her eyes with her superior. “You and I both serve the Soviet Union, Comrade Colonel. We are both patriots…and professionals. I only tell you what I am hearing, and you know it as well.”
Leonid sighed as he adjusted his grip on the black briefcase in his left hand. It felt a bit heavier today, for some reason, and this time he had chosen not to pack his Skorpion machine pistol in it for this official visit. He was almost beginning to miss the games he’d usually play with the CIA, MI6 and other intelligence agencies. He spared a glance at the massive, brooding 16th century Tsar Cannon off in the distance, wondering how many other “changes of leadership” the bronze-cast behemoth had witnessed in silence. All things considered, the ancient cannon looked and felt appropriate as it stood silent watch over the square. “Come Irina…let’s get this over with.”
They approached the entrance to the massive building, flanked by two more Kremlin Guards who were dressed in immaculate winter parade dress with buttons polished to a sheen, AK-74 rifles with gleaming bayonets attached at the ready. “Needless to say, do exercise caution, Comrade Colonel…there are a few here who would love to cut our throats,” Irina whispered.
“We serve the Soviet Union…and the KGB, Comrade Major. Is there any place they don’t wish to cut our throats?” Leonid whispered back dryly, as the Doric and Ionic order-style columns of the building loomed over them. Once inside they found themselves in a grand hallway flanked by more columns, stucco white ceilings and gleaming floors that echoed their footsteps. It was also much warmer. They were immediately greeted by a severe-looking Guard with a close-cut mop of blonde hair with the rank of Captain, flanked by several more of his fellows again with rifles at the ready. The Captain saluted both of the newcomers, who saluted back. “Papers, please,” he spoke blandly.
At least there are a few things that don’t change, Leonid thought as he and Irina both produced their documents and handed them to the Captain for inspection. “What is the purpose of your visit?” The Captain inquired as he studied the papers.
“We are summoned by Director Chebrikov to discuss classified information,” Leonid replied curtly.
The Captain returned the documents to the two newcomers. “Wait here,” he directed before going over to a red rotary phone on a nearby desk and dialing a number. After a minute or so of muffled conversation, the Captain hung up and returned to them. “Please step over here and remove your caps, your coats, your gloves, your weapons, and open your cases for inspection please,” he said, pointing to a corner where several uniformed and armed men and women waited, two of them with metal-detection device wands in hand. These men and women wore uniforms denoting them as members of the Ninth Chief Directorate, the KGB’s elite bodyguards and security force.
Leonid placed his black briefcase on a nearby desk and snapped it open for inspection, while Irina placed her leather mapcase next to it and unbuckled the clasp. Next, they removed their caps, coats and gloves, then Leonid carefully unholstered his prized sidearm, a CZ-82 pistol that he personally found superior to the Makarov, and carefully placed that on the desk as well, while Irina did likewise with her Tula PSM pistol. Finally, both were professionally searched and frisked and checked over with metal detectors.
“You may retrieve your caps, gloves, coats and weapons when you leave the building. Follow me please,” the Captain noted as the briefcase and map case were returned to Leonid and Irina after a thorough inspection. The two then followed him down a long hallway flanked with marble busts of various past personas of the Soviet Union, each seeming to stare down coldly at the trio as they walked past. Several aides could be seen quietly going about their errands with the occasional uniformed sentry guarding a closed door. Finally they reached their destination, a set of imposing heavy polished wooden doors flanked by several more guards who checked their papers and searched them again. After they were satisfied, the doors were opened and they were ushered into an oak-paneled chamber where a middle-aged female secretary who looked like she had been at her job perhaps longer than she’d care to admit sat at her desk, while a row of leather chairs were lined up against one wall, several of them occupied by various folk, some of them in uniform. The Captain gestured to them to sit while he went to confer with the secretary. Another man, lean with thinning hair who wore the rank and uniform of a Colonel in the Soviet Red Army turned from a quiet conversation he was having with another man, a Captain in Army uniform and smiled at the two newcomers. “Leonid! What trouble are you stirring up this time?”
Leonid smiled in earnest at Alexei Baranov, an old friend of his from Leningrad University. “Alexei, you’re a welcome sight, I must admit,” he said as they clasped and shook hands. “I trust you remember Major Ilyasov…?”
“Ah…yes,” Alexei noted, turning slightly red and shifting uncomfortably, “And how are you, Major...?”
“Since our last cordial meeting, quiet well Colonel, thank you...though I remember you were a bit more playful with your words , and your hands, the last time we met,” the Major purred in a tone that was both slightly playful and dangerous at once. Alexei turned even redder at that as Leonid chuckled.
“I’m as surprised to see you here, Alexei, what brings you here?”
“I’ve been ‘promoted’, you might say,” Alexei noted dryly. “New assignment...I am now an aide to General Kamenev, 7th Guards Tank Army. I’m just here delivering a report.”
“Ah, well, congratulations then. And how is General Rykov? Still living up to his name of ‘General Vinegar’? Or has he finally chosen retirement?” General Rykov was a highly-decorated armor veteran of the battles of Kursk and Berlin, and was a talented officer and much respected by his men. He was also known to be a very direct man and could be quite caustic, hence the nickname…and in spite of it all, had been a friend to Leonid’s father.
“Aging, like all of us, but well I suppose. But I doubt you’ll have a chance to see him in Olomouc. He’s no longer commanding the 31st Tank Division. He’s been reassigned…to Vladivostok.”
Leonid raised his eyebrows at that. “Vladivostok?” Rykov is one of the Red Army’s most talented armor officers, the Kremlin is talking like war is just around the corner, and they reassign one of their best men to the rear?! Yes, I know his family once sided with the White movement during the Civil War, but this, now? “When did this happen?”
“Last week apparently. It seems the General’s habit of speaking rather bluntly gave the indication he was perhaps a bit stressed from work, and it was felt a new assignment guarding our eastern front would be more suitable for him,” Alexei spoke in a rather dry tone, indicating how much he believed that story. “The General had apparently raised some concerns in a speech he’d made to his comrades regarding Czechoslovakia in 1968…I imagine it is as cold out in Vladivostok right now, as it is here.” Before Leonid could ask any more questions, Alexei quickly mouthed the word “later” and shook Leonid’s hand again. “I apologize for making this so short, my friend, but duty to the Motherland always comes first. Come visit Magdeburg, if you’re ever back in the DDR,” he added, before offering a curt farewell to Major Ilyasov, and made his leave. Both the KGB Colonel and the Major shared a look that spoke many things, but said nothing.
“Colonel Petrovkin!” A KGB Guards Lieutenant of the Ninth Chief Directorate in full uniform, a holstered pistol displayed prominently on his belt, appeared from the entryway on the far side of the room to another chamber, gazing sharply at the KGB Colonel like a well-decorated, yet very well-honed knife. “You are awaited, sir.”
“Well, wish me luck,” Leonid noted dryly, as the KGB Colonel adjusted his tie slightly. “How do I look?”
“Like a proud Soviet officer,” Irina demurred.
“Ah yes…but even pigs look pretty after a good clean, no?” Leonid replied, which brought a smile and a chuckle to the Major's face. She went to sit demurely in a chair as Leonid was led by the Lieutenant into the other chamber, a similarly decorated room with old, fine wood paneling and white stucco roof with crystal chandeliers. A long rectangular table of dark wood, polished to such a high sheen it practically mirrored the stucco ceiling, occupied the center of the room while a great fireplace roared with a crackling fire along one wall. Tall windows decorated with old lace curtains were featured on the other end. At the table, were several older gentlemen, with one sitting at the end. Petrovkin recognized them immediately…and walked several steps briskly before coming to a halt parade-style, snapping to attention as the door was closed behind him.
“Colonel Leonid Petrovkin of the KGB First Chief Directorate reporting as ordered, Comrades.”
“Ah, Colonel Petrovkin, welcome,” General Secretary of the Communist Party Andrei Gromyko spoke, nodding to the Colonel. The Communist Party badge on the left lapel of his suit gleamed even in the fairly dim light. He sat at the head of the table, his greying dark hair matching his suit. Flanking him to his left was the KGB Director and Petrovkin’s overall superior, Viktor Chebrikov, his black-rimmed glasses hanging over his face almost like an obfuscating veil, nearly hiding his eyes. To Gromyko’s right sat the current Defense Minister, Dimitry Yazov. Yazov had gained a bit of a reputation as a careerist, and Petrovkin suspected that was why he had been elevated to his current position after his predecessor, Sergey Sokolov had announced his retirement immediately after the coup “for reasons of personal health”. The other aging gentlemen at the table were of various other ministerial positions in the “new” regime now governing the Union of Soviet Socialists Republics. There is some truth to that saying, the more things change, the more they stay the same, Leonid thought wryly to himself.
“Come forward, Colonel, at ease. At least you won’t need to shout when we ask you questions,” Andrei noted, earning a few chuckles from the men sitting at the table. As Leonid did just so, he was rather well aware of two other KGB Guards standing at attention, facing each other from opposite positions along the walls of the large conference room. Both were impeccably dressed much like the Guard standing behind him blocking the exit door, and each of them had their right hand resting on the leather holsters on their belts, each undoubtedly containing a Stechkin APS pistol or a similar weapon.
“Director Chebrikov has told us much about you, Colonel. One of the youngest to be promoted, yes?” Gromyko opined, receiving a nod from Chebrikov. “But only out of recognition of your immense contribution to the security of the Motherland. Twenty years of dedicated service…you are often regarded to as the ‘Hawk’, yes?”
“That is how both my fellow comrades and our enemies seem to refer to me as, Comrade Secretary.”
“And Major Irina Ilyasov, who is outside…she has quite an impressive record of her own, much like yours. The ‘Sparrow’, as many also refer to her as, correct?”
“Yes, Comrade Secretary. Major Ilyasov is one of the most professional, talented and dedicated women I have worked with in my twenty years with the KGB.”
Gromyko nodded. “Of course. You need not elaborate, Colonel. As previously stated, your actions speak for themselves. “The Hawk and the Sparrow…it is fitting I admit. A hawk that is a bird of prey, it sees and observes everything, while the sparrow is a lovely bird, a creature of beauty. Your exploits have caught our interest, Colonel.” Gromyko’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It is only a pity that your talents were not effectively used to correct the recent issue with Mexico.”
Leonid kept his face carefully neutral. “Yes…Mexico was a disaster, Comrade Secretary, and there is no excuse for how it panned out…”
At this Chebrikov waved his hand dismissively. “This is all past tense now, Colonel. Mexico was indeed a mess…and you were right, to an extent. It would have been better, at least in hindsight, to give your team the required explosives and given them the authorization to carry out the destruction of the arms warehouses at Veracruz themselves. A pity that the Vympel under Colonel Zima were not quite up to the task at hand.”
Leonid blinked. “I…appreciate your confidence in me in regards to the matter, Comrade Director.”
At this Chebrikov shrugged, his thick-rimmed glasses continuing to nearly obfuscate his eyes. “Colonel Zima is a professional, much like yourself, Colonel, but I sometimes wonder if his enthusiasm runs ahead of his brains…” He lightly tapped a pencil on the table for a moment, like a schoolteacher with a ruler about to use it as a whip on a misbehaving toddler. “That shall need to be looked at, but that is not why you are here, Colonel. The matter of Mexico is finished, we must look to the future, and prepare for what is to come. You have reviewed the outline of DARK MIRROR, have you not, Colonel?”
The Colonel nodded. “Yes, Comrade Director, and I wished to discuss…”
Chebrikov waved his hand dismissively again. “Good, begin the operational planning and logistics of DARK MIRROR…immediately.”
In spite of the warmth in the conference room, it began to feel as chilly to Petrovkin as it was outside. The Colonel paused a moment, as he carefully considered his words. “I was wondering, Comrades, if we might first analyze a different plan that has also been drafted? BLUE FUNNEL…”
The KGB Director shook his head assertively. “No Colonel, that will not be necessary. BLUE FUNNEL would take much more time…and time is against us all, we fear.” Heads nodded at the table, including Gromyko. At this, the Director continued. “It is unfortunate it has come to this, no? For since the end of the Great Patriotic War, the warmongering West has continued to bay and threaten us, spurred on by our greatest foe: The United States of America. A nation of young, reckless cowboys who understand nothing of history, but are peopled with capitalist gangsters who hurl vitriol while they stuff themselves fat with the wealth of the proletariat." Chebrikov pushed back his chair and stood up, the old chair legs squealing in protest against the floor. He turned and began to walk every so slowly toward Petrovkin. “But in the past, those cries and threats were but empty words, thrown out to conceal their own softness. But now…now with this cowboy Reagan and his lackey Thatcher, they seem to think nuclear missiles are six-shooters. They wage war with imperial ambition, and yet know nothing of true sacrifice, like what our own Motherland endured during the Great Patriotic War, when we pushed back the Nazi scourge. When we sacrificed a third of our own country, our own sons and daughters, to stem the Nazi tide. And how did the West thank us? By stabbing us in the back!” Heads nodded again, as the blazing fire in the hearth continued to crackle.
Chebrikov regarded the men at the table momentarily, before returning his gaze to the KGB Colonel. “And so now it has come to this. The Americans and their gangster allies are preparing to bring war to the Motherland. And thus, we have no other choice, Comrade Colonel. It is regrettable, but necessary. When the inevitable war comes, we must strike at their very heart, where they are the most vulnerable, and show them the true meaning of fear. They will learn they are not safe in their pristine palaces an ocean away. No, they will learn the same lessons we did when the Nazis invaded and burned our own Motherland. We shall bring the war to their very shores, using the peasants of the world that they trampled upon for so long." Chebrikov stopped within a few feet of the Colonel, his black rimmed glasses seemingly concealing his true self as he bore his own gaze into Petrovkin like a drill.
“And when we plunge the dagger into their very hearts, we must exercise that same resolution, that same determination…and that same ruthlessness that we once displayed to drive back the Nazi invaders, again. Just like what your father did as he commanded a tank in the drive to Berlin, or like Major Ilyasov’s mother, who dropped bombs on the Nazi’s heads from her biplane. We must be as hard as steel…and be as cold as ice.” He continued to scrutinize Leonid like a doctor about to dissect an insect.
“Have faith in our great socialist state, Comrade Petrovkin, and we shall be victorious, when the war comes. You do have faith, yes…?”
Leonid felt like he was a man standing at the edge of an abyss…and peering into it. He knew all it would take was one word or motion from anyone in that room including the Director, and any of the KGB Guards would shoot him where he stood…and by tomorrow it would be like he never existed. He remembered the most important advice he’d ever known in his life from his paternal grandfather: “If one must swim with sharks boy, do so wisely. Be courteous to everyone, observe everything, reveal nothing…and trust no one.”
The Colonel matched the Director’s gaze with his own. “In the twenty years I have served the Motherland, I have always had faith, Comrade Director…and still do.”
Chebrikov nodded, apparently satisfied, allowing a smile to touch his lips, but not his eyes, which remained obfuscated by his glasses. He turned and walked back to his seat. “Don’t worry Colonel…this operation will be vast and complex, even for you. Hence, you and the Major will only handle the logistics and organizational planning of this endeavor.” He relaxed his frame back into the old wooden chair and pulled himself up to the table again. “It’s overall planning and execution will be handled by a compatriot of ours…Colonel Morozov.”
Leonid’s eyes almost widened before he was able to steel himself. Morozov?! The man is an utter sociopath! The brutality of Afghanistan is one thing, but there are entire towns that no longer exist because of him! “Yes, Comrade Director…I understand.”
Chebrikov nodded to General Secretary Gromyko, who spared a glance to Defense Minister Dimitry Yazov, who had said nothing, but merely nodded when the General Secretary looked at him. What was it some of the Army officers called Yazov in private, Leonid thought to himself. Ah yes…the Nodding Ass.
“Thank you, Colonel Petrovkin…that will be all,” Gromyko intoned, dismissing him. Leonid snapped to attention and began walking out. As he neared the door, the General Secretary called out. “Oh, Colonel Petrovkin…? Do give Major Ilyasov our kindest regards.”
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Leonid wasn’t sure what to feel when he finally exited the conference room. What was that saying that was also popular in the West? Out of the frying pan, and into the fire? As Irina instantly rose to meet him, he narrowed his eyes and made a quick but subtle shake of his head. The blonde Russian said nothing as she followed her superior out of the atrium, rather quickly back to the entrance where they retrieved their caps, gloves, coats and firearms from the Kremlin Guards, and briskly walked out back into the cold, gray overcast day that hung over Moscow…and yet somehow it felt even chillier now. It conflicted with a strange sense of relief to finally be out of the massive Senate building.
Leonid finally stopped and turned to face the Major…the eyes betraying a hint of something she had not seen in a long time, not since an operation that had gone nearly to hell several years ago in Istanbul: Fear.
“It is decided, Major…operational planning and logistics for DARK MIRROR are to commence, immediately.” He spoke in a terse manner, as though he were reading someone’s last will and testament.
Irina’s jaw nearly dropped.
“Worry not though Major,” Leonid continued, sarcastically. “We will not be involved in the actual execution of this operation, when the time comes…that will be another fellow.”
“Who?” The Major demanded.
“Morozov.”
At the mention of that name, the blonde woman’s blue-green eyes widened incredulously…before they too betrayed a hint of fear as well.
Leonid sighed heavily, looking toward the courtyard of the Kremlin, the coming and going of government aides, the ever presence of the Kremlin Guards and their vehicles, and the dreary gray skyline. It felt so deceptively…ordinary. Yet it disguised a more unimaginable storm to come. Off in the distance, the Bell Tower of Ivan the Great began to ring solemnly.
“You are quite right, Irina…it is very cold in Moscow this time of year.”
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