Zhabnov thought. Oregon was said to have once been the most beautiful of the fifty states.
The supreme commander was too fat for the presidential chair. These damn American presidents, how could they have been so thin. And his Russian antecedents in the office that he now held—Bulganin, Medledov, Orlovsky and the others—were they all so narrow, too? Bah. He picked up the ornate antique phone which instantly crackled to life. A male operator said, “Yes, sir,” in an excited voice.
“Give me Killov,” Zhabnov demanded.
“Home or office?” the new operator asked nervously.
“Office, office,” the supreme commander bellowed out. “Do I ever call my friend at home? Do you think I want to talk to his maid, his cook? Idiot—his office, of course.”
“Yessir, sorry!” the operator sputtered. The phone began ringing. Zhabnov coughed, preparing his warmest voice. Despite his bluster and sarcasm with the operator, Zhabnov had to admit he was a little afraid of this Killov. If Zhabnov hadn’t been the nephew of Premier Vassily he would suspect that Killov was being groomed by the premier to replace him.
“Yes?” an unmistakable voice answered. The cold, crisp diction of the head of KGB-Amerika—the dreaded Blackshirts.
“Killov, it’s the president.” Zhabnov used his title as often as possible. “We’ve got to talk!”
“Talk!” Killov replied coolly. Zhabnov burned red. Now, the KGB commander was actually challenging him openly. The general calmed himself. He had no desire to tangle with him.
“Well, it’s this little matter I have before me on my desk. I just got it actually and I thought I would call you about it so it could be straightened out—ironed out as the Americans say—before it got into the hands of the premier.” In fact, Zhabnov had been staring at the document from Killov for some days now. It was a request to use neutron weapons —neutron weapons —against some suspected rebel resistance areas around the country. This man Killov always overestimated the danger from these ragged bands of counterrevolutionaries, hiding in caves in the mountains eating berries and rats.
“Oh,” Killov said testily, “you only just received my urgent request to stop these scum who have attacked our forces with impunity. The army doesn’t seem able to handle it properly.”
“My staff downgraded its importance,” Zhabnov said curtly, fuming at Killov’s second dig at his command of all the occupying military forces. “I have been occupied with important matters for days.”
“Downgraded the report on clandestine resistance bases?”
“Downgraded the speculation you sent me about these so-called Freefighters.”
“I assure you, Mr. President, these Americans are much better armed and equipped than you can imagine. Several patrols have simply vanished without a trace in Colorado and Utah lately—and others are being attacked with increasing frequency.”
“And you think this is the result of resistance fighters?” Zhabnov asked, turning his chair and staring out the window at the front lawn, with its omnipresent row of tanks next to the rose garden. “Probably some of our green soldiers made a wrong turn in a magnetic storm or got themselves eaten by those toothy American wolf dogs.”
“Mr. President, wolves don’t make off with all the ammunition and medical supplies.” Zhabnov was such a fool.
“So these patrols fell down some crevasses, or died in one of those sandstorms. Killov, you are too excitable. The premier—I know this for sure, I talked to him in person at his granddaughter’s wedding in Minsk, only last month—wants to limit military action. You must get out in the fresh clean air of Mother Russia more. The premier pulls me aside at the reception and tells me, ‘Nephew, please’—he is so polite—‘Please, don’t use any more atomic weapons in America. There is enough radiation in the world.’ Now is that not what you are planning to do, Commander
The supreme commander was too fat for the presidential chair. These damn American presidents, how could they have been so thin. And his Russian antecedents in the office that he now held—Bulganin, Medledov, Orlovsky and the others—were they all so narrow, too? Bah. He picked up the ornate antique phone which instantly crackled to life. A male operator said, “Yes, sir,” in an excited voice.
“Give me Killov,” Zhabnov demanded.
“Home or office?” the new operator asked nervously.
“Office, office,” the supreme commander bellowed out. “Do I ever call my friend at home? Do you think I want to talk to his maid, his cook? Idiot—his office, of course.”
“Yessir, sorry!” the operator sputtered. The phone began ringing. Zhabnov coughed, preparing his warmest voice. Despite his bluster and sarcasm with the operator, Zhabnov had to admit he was a little afraid of this Killov. If Zhabnov hadn’t been the nephew of Premier Vassily he would suspect that Killov was being groomed by the premier to replace him.
“Yes?” an unmistakable voice answered. The cold, crisp diction of the head of KGB-Amerika—the dreaded Blackshirts.
“Killov, it’s the president.” Zhabnov used his title as often as possible. “We’ve got to talk!”
“Talk!” Killov replied coolly. Zhabnov burned red. Now, the KGB commander was actually challenging him openly. The general calmed himself. He had no desire to tangle with him.
“Well, it’s this little matter I have before me on my desk. I just got it actually and I thought I would call you about it so it could be straightened out—ironed out as the Americans say—before it got into the hands of the premier.” In fact, Zhabnov had been staring at the document from Killov for some days now. It was a request to use neutron weapons —neutron weapons —against some suspected rebel resistance areas around the country. This man Killov always overestimated the danger from these ragged bands of counterrevolutionaries, hiding in caves in the mountains eating berries and rats.
“Oh,” Killov said testily, “you only just received my urgent request to stop these scum who have attacked our forces with impunity. The army doesn’t seem able to handle it properly.”
“My staff downgraded its importance,” Zhabnov said curtly, fuming at Killov’s second dig at his command of all the occupying military forces. “I have been occupied with important matters for days.”
“Downgraded the report on clandestine resistance bases?”
“Downgraded the speculation you sent me about these so-called Freefighters.”
“I assure you, Mr. President, these Americans are much better armed and equipped than you can imagine. Several patrols have simply vanished without a trace in Colorado and Utah lately—and others are being attacked with increasing frequency.”
“And you think this is the result of resistance fighters?” Zhabnov asked, turning his chair and staring out the window at the front lawn, with its omnipresent row of tanks next to the rose garden. “Probably some of our green soldiers made a wrong turn in a magnetic storm or got themselves eaten by those toothy American wolf dogs.”
“Mr. President, wolves don’t make off with all the ammunition and medical supplies.” Zhabnov was such a fool.
“So these patrols fell down some crevasses, or died in one of those sandstorms. Killov, you are too excitable. The premier—I know this for sure, I talked to him in person at his granddaughter’s wedding in Minsk, only last month—wants to limit military action. You must get out in the fresh clean air of Mother Russia more. The premier pulls me aside at the reception and tells me, ‘Nephew, please’—he is so polite—‘Please, don’t use any more atomic weapons in America. There is enough radiation in the world.’ Now is that not what you are planning to do, Commander
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