military options, of course, but they could organize and refuse to cooperate. They could unite in spirit. They could provoke us to take actions none of us wants. We must move quickly. I have a plan, the only one I believe will avert disaster. The United States of
America must cease to exist. It must be reformed, broken up into separate countries, based upon the administrative areas you now direct. Only such a demonstration of American helplessness, I am convinced, will prevent the extreme elements in the Kremlin from proceeding with their nuclear demonstration.”
There was a long, startled silence. The KGB officers, men not easily shocked, exchanged astonished glances. Again, it was Andrei who spoke. “General, we here today seem to be in a most difficult position. We must negotiate some sort of balance between those in the Kremlin who want this nation utterly prostrate, and the Americans themselves, who wish to cling to some semblance of dignity and independence.”
“Well put, Andrei,” Samanov said.
“Thank you, General, but it is only a pretty phrase. To reconcile those objectives, we need a plan that all concerned can live with.”
“And that,” said Samanov, without missing a beat, “is precisely what we have. The specific mechanism for dismantling the United States will be what we are calling the Third Continental Congress. The whole idea will be to persuade Americans that they are participating in the process, not that they are being forced. This will require tact and subtlety. We must do in a few months what took the Romans generations—-we must develop an indigenous ruling class, Americans who look to us for leadership yet have the trust of their fellow citizens.”
Petya lowered his head and spoke now in a different tone. “Too often, the world has viewed us Russians as a rude, uncultured people. It is a lie! We are the nation of Tolstoi, of Chekhov, of Pushkin, of Tchaikovsky. We are a great and sensitive people. The eyes of the world are upon us, and it is our great and historic responsibility to make this occupation a humane one.”
Andrei Denisov had heard this speech, or others like it, often enough to follow along by rote. But he wasn’t, listening. He was already thinking how Petya’s plan might be implemented in his home territory,
Amanda took a seat at the back of the darkened, nearly empty auditorium just as her daughter began to dance.
Jackie seemed buoyed up by the recorded music as she gyrated masterfully across the stage alone. She’d chosen a piece by Aaron Copland for this audition— “Fanfare for the Common Man,” a raucous tone poem that was kinetic, vibrant, redolent of A m erican myth. It called for movements that were expansive, loose-limbed, muscular, for strutting postures that might be feminine but could never be finicky. In her stark white leotard and with a single red ribbon holding back her hair, Jackie mimed a physical wisdom beyond her years. She was part dervish, part temptress. She was riveting.
When Jackie had stepped onto the stage, Amanda’s face had been unconsciously composed into the mixture of interest and support that mothers have always worn when their children performed, recited, or played a sport. But by the time Jackie turned and flipped into the handstand she’d worked so long to perfect, Amanda’s mouth had dropped slightly open, her eyes just a bit wider with the awe that anyone, parent or not, feels at a great performance. She had almost forgotten that Jackie was her daughter in those last uplifting moments of movement; she was transfixed simply by the technical expertise and deep emotion that a performer was conveying to an audience.
The music stopped, and as the other contestants broke into unrestrained, even enthusiastic applause, Jackie was abruptly an anxious teenager again—thrilled with her dance, yet eager for approval. Soon all eyes were on the judges, three women with clipboards, staff members of the all-powerful Area Cultural
America must cease to exist. It must be reformed, broken up into separate countries, based upon the administrative areas you now direct. Only such a demonstration of American helplessness, I am convinced, will prevent the extreme elements in the Kremlin from proceeding with their nuclear demonstration.”
There was a long, startled silence. The KGB officers, men not easily shocked, exchanged astonished glances. Again, it was Andrei who spoke. “General, we here today seem to be in a most difficult position. We must negotiate some sort of balance between those in the Kremlin who want this nation utterly prostrate, and the Americans themselves, who wish to cling to some semblance of dignity and independence.”
“Well put, Andrei,” Samanov said.
“Thank you, General, but it is only a pretty phrase. To reconcile those objectives, we need a plan that all concerned can live with.”
“And that,” said Samanov, without missing a beat, “is precisely what we have. The specific mechanism for dismantling the United States will be what we are calling the Third Continental Congress. The whole idea will be to persuade Americans that they are participating in the process, not that they are being forced. This will require tact and subtlety. We must do in a few months what took the Romans generations—-we must develop an indigenous ruling class, Americans who look to us for leadership yet have the trust of their fellow citizens.”
Petya lowered his head and spoke now in a different tone. “Too often, the world has viewed us Russians as a rude, uncultured people. It is a lie! We are the nation of Tolstoi, of Chekhov, of Pushkin, of Tchaikovsky. We are a great and sensitive people. The eyes of the world are upon us, and it is our great and historic responsibility to make this occupation a humane one.”
Andrei Denisov had heard this speech, or others like it, often enough to follow along by rote. But he wasn’t, listening. He was already thinking how Petya’s plan might be implemented in his home territory,
Amanda took a seat at the back of the darkened, nearly empty auditorium just as her daughter began to dance.
Jackie seemed buoyed up by the recorded music as she gyrated masterfully across the stage alone. She’d chosen a piece by Aaron Copland for this audition— “Fanfare for the Common Man,” a raucous tone poem that was kinetic, vibrant, redolent of A m erican myth. It called for movements that were expansive, loose-limbed, muscular, for strutting postures that might be feminine but could never be finicky. In her stark white leotard and with a single red ribbon holding back her hair, Jackie mimed a physical wisdom beyond her years. She was part dervish, part temptress. She was riveting.
When Jackie had stepped onto the stage, Amanda’s face had been unconsciously composed into the mixture of interest and support that mothers have always worn when their children performed, recited, or played a sport. But by the time Jackie turned and flipped into the handstand she’d worked so long to perfect, Amanda’s mouth had dropped slightly open, her eyes just a bit wider with the awe that anyone, parent or not, feels at a great performance. She had almost forgotten that Jackie was her daughter in those last uplifting moments of movement; she was transfixed simply by the technical expertise and deep emotion that a performer was conveying to an audience.
The music stopped, and as the other contestants broke into unrestrained, even enthusiastic applause, Jackie was abruptly an anxious teenager again—thrilled with her dance, yet eager for approval. Soon all eyes were on the judges, three women with clipboards, staff members of the all-powerful Area Cultural
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