The Soviet Comeback by Jamie Smith (best ereader for academics TXT) 📕

I will be forced to treat you the same way as your subordinate back there,” he added, waving the gun over his shoulder in the direction of the dead soldier, and giggled a shrill, manic laugh.

“Yes, sir, of course, sir,” the captain replied, standing to attention and saluting the colonel.

“Very good,” said Klitchkov, tucking the gun back into his belt, still chuckling. “It is important that you destroy all of these citizens and soldiers; is that understood? Scorched Earth tactics, raze it all to the ground. It needs to be complete by the end of today, with nobody remaining other than the warlords in those caves. You are now under KGB jurisdiction for this offensive.”

“Understood, sir,” replied the captain, the colour beginning to slowly return to his face.

“I can get you any resources you need. Succeed in this and there is a promotion in it for you, provided you can keep it in your pants for the next twenty-four hours.”

A young man in KGB uniform stepped down from the helicopter. “Colonel? We have just received a message from the Kremlin asking you to contact them as a matter of urgency, sir.”

“Very well,” replied Colonel Klitchkov, and started walking back towards the helicopter. As he passed the captain he added, “Radio through to HQ when the mission is complete. If you fail, do not bother coming back at all.” He climbed back into the helicopter; the rotors began spinning immediately as the engine fired up and clouds of dust blew in all directions.

The captain covered his eyes from the dust before squinting upwards at the chopper moving off over the foothills, quickly just a black speck against a field of blue.

Only then did he allow himself to exhale, gasping on the dusty air. It was one of those rare occasions where the myth paled in comparison to the reality.

Inside the helicopter, Klitchkov watched as the mountains passed far below him and wondered how effective the region would be for his plans. The principles were perfect, but he knew too well how rarely perfect principles translated into perfect execution.

He closed his eyes wearily. “What is the time in Moscow?” he asked the KGB soldier across from him.

“It would be just after twelve hundred hours, sir.”

“I have lost track of time in these recent days with much travel. How long until we land at the base in Tashkent?”

“It will take just over two hours, sir, conditions permitting.”

“Was there any mention of the nature of the Kremlin’s request in their transmission? Our work here is too important to be abandoned at this key moment. The future of the Soviet Union depends on it.”

“I understand, sir. But they gave no indication, only of its urgency.”

Klitchkov’s smooth granite jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth and counted the minutes until he reached the capital of the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic.

Two hours later, the helicopter began its descent towards the large square of grass behind what had historically been the government offices of Russian Turkestan. The sprawling city was stretched out for miles ahead of them, the largest city in central Asia.

The city was a testament to durability, being reborn from the ashes of Genghis Khan’s destruction and rebuilt again following the earthquakes of 1966. Now little of its Silk Road history could still be seen and despite its southern location there was a chill in the air which suggested winter was on its way.

Colonel Klitchkov, however, cared little for the aesthetics of the city, or indeed its weather, but more about its strategic location. Rooted in the south of the USSR, it had the great territorial advantage of bordering China and the Turkestan states, and beyond that Afghanistan, Pakistan and India.

The helicopter had barely landed before he was striding his way across the well-kept lawns to where the Tashkent commissar stood waiting.

The commissar held out his hand in greeting but Klitchkov strode straight past him and into the building beyond, his dusty black boots clicking on the tiled corridors, his KGB assistant hurrying to keep up.

They entered the communications room, which was a hive of activity of humming monitors, ringing phones and reams of post being sorted into boxes. All of the staff stopped and looked up as the doors slammed open.

“Everybody out,” barked Klitchkov’s assistant while the colonel leant nonchalantly against the wall, inspecting his fingernails.

Nobody moved, so the young KGB soldier drew his weapon and fired it at the ceiling. There was a deafening silence followed by the scraping of chairs and steps as everybody in the room hurried to get out.

As they filed out of the room, Klitchkov put his arm in front of the last person to leave, an elderly woman who was shuffling towards the door. “You, stay,” he commanded.

The woman stopped her shuffling and tutted. She turned and walked back to her radio desk where she sat down heavily, her white permed hair wobbling as she brushed away dust that had fallen from the bullet hole in the ceiling. “What do you want of me?”

“Get me the Kremlin; I understand they are urgently trying to contact me,” said Klitchkov sharply, walking to stand beside the woman who began expertly negotiating the system in front of her with her veined, knotted fingers.

“Not via radio, you old crone, that will be too easily intercepted. Dial them for me,” he snapped.

She tutted again, and picked up the phone next to her desk, patiently putting in the numbers she was clearly familiar with on the rotary dial.

“Da? This is the commissar’s office for Tashkent; I have Colonel Klitchkov of the KGB waiting for an urgent message,” she croaked.

She put her hand over the receiver and said to the colonel, “They are patching you through, dear,” before handing him the telephone.

He raised an eyebrow at her tone but clearly decided against commenting on