Killov? Use those Enhanced Radiation Neutron Devices?”
“Small atomic devices. Flashes of radiation that only destroy life and rapidly diminish in a few days.”
“Killov, no more radiation! That’s what the premier wants. He is a conservationist, an ecologist, a humanitarian. We can’t go dropping atomic bombs on a few ragged—” Killov was silent on the other end. His lips were tight and pale. Finally he spoke.
“Mikael Ivanovich,” he said using the familiar, “just do me one favor. Bring it to the attention of the premier that we may not have a United Socialist States of America for the centennial next year if I am not able to discharge my duties.”
“Your duties are intelligence. Intelligence, Killov. Intelligence, counterespionage and internal security. You have expanded your function, with my—and the premier’s—permission. You have expanded your Blackshirt force to over five hundred thousand, with, I must say, a tremendous budget. Do I not let you send in your Deathhead paratroop commandos to destroy these wretched freedom brigades—which, as I’m sure you know, many of the other generals do not appreciate at all, considering it a usurpation of their authority. And now you want still more. Can’t you do the job without pulverizing the country that feeds Mother Russia?”
“Approach the premier,” Killov continued firmly, as if he hadn’t heard a word of Zhabnov’s tirade. “Tell him I need more troops, more weapons if he is against using these neutron weapons. We have a situation here in America, a critical one!”
Zhabnov let the KGB leader sweat for a minute as he admired the bright cherry redness of the roses that surrounded the White House. Why, they almost disguised the barbed-wire fence that ran through their delicate petals. “I’ll tell you what, my friend,” Zhabnov spoke up briskly. “I’m attending the annual party meeting in Leningrad next month. I will personally intervene with my uncle at that time and persuade him you need more of everything—”
“Including the neutron devices—”
“Including a few, two or three, neutron devices to destroy these annoying American bandits once and for all.”
“Thank you Mikael Ivanovich,” Killov said. “I will, of course, repay you for this favor.” He hung up.
Zhabnov let the phone drop from his fingers and fall onto the receiving hook with a snap. Of course he had no intention of letting the KGB expand its operations in the United States. It was already too large, a threat to the normal military channels and control. Zhabnov pleaded with the premier at every opportunity to reduce Killov’s Blackshirt force, but Vassily would only smile in that grandfatherly way and say, “You worry too much, nephew. I only let Killov play with his toy soldiers in America to occupy him. He is not . . . normal, you know. He likes to hurt, to destroy things, people, land. So, we in the Presidium asked ourselves: where can such a person be useful? And the answer: America. Let him destroy these Freefighters. They seem afraid of nothing except such as Killov. And does not Killov keep his part of the bargain—sending over good breeding stock of American females with their fertile bodies and radiation-resistant genes? I think you had best put up with the Blackshirts and just keep the production of wheat and corn in line with the five-year plan. That is your job. I know you can handle it, can’t you?”
So it went like that. Vassily wasn’t letting either him or Killov get too powerful. He was using them to balance one another, leaving the ultimate control back in Moscow. So be it! This job did have its compensations after all. Indeed.
He pressed the intercom. “Prepare the bedroom.” Zhabnov smiled. The last one had been a little Negress. Delightful. Absolutely delightful. Too small for breeding purposes. Not meant for Russia’s cold winters. Soft, frightened, the kind he liked most.
Killov paced back and forth in his office—a
“Small atomic devices. Flashes of radiation that only destroy life and rapidly diminish in a few days.”
“Killov, no more radiation! That’s what the premier wants. He is a conservationist, an ecologist, a humanitarian. We can’t go dropping atomic bombs on a few ragged—” Killov was silent on the other end. His lips were tight and pale. Finally he spoke.
“Mikael Ivanovich,” he said using the familiar, “just do me one favor. Bring it to the attention of the premier that we may not have a United Socialist States of America for the centennial next year if I am not able to discharge my duties.”
“Your duties are intelligence. Intelligence, Killov. Intelligence, counterespionage and internal security. You have expanded your function, with my—and the premier’s—permission. You have expanded your Blackshirt force to over five hundred thousand, with, I must say, a tremendous budget. Do I not let you send in your Deathhead paratroop commandos to destroy these wretched freedom brigades—which, as I’m sure you know, many of the other generals do not appreciate at all, considering it a usurpation of their authority. And now you want still more. Can’t you do the job without pulverizing the country that feeds Mother Russia?”
“Approach the premier,” Killov continued firmly, as if he hadn’t heard a word of Zhabnov’s tirade. “Tell him I need more troops, more weapons if he is against using these neutron weapons. We have a situation here in America, a critical one!”
Zhabnov let the KGB leader sweat for a minute as he admired the bright cherry redness of the roses that surrounded the White House. Why, they almost disguised the barbed-wire fence that ran through their delicate petals. “I’ll tell you what, my friend,” Zhabnov spoke up briskly. “I’m attending the annual party meeting in Leningrad next month. I will personally intervene with my uncle at that time and persuade him you need more of everything—”
“Including the neutron devices—”
“Including a few, two or three, neutron devices to destroy these annoying American bandits once and for all.”
“Thank you Mikael Ivanovich,” Killov said. “I will, of course, repay you for this favor.” He hung up.
Zhabnov let the phone drop from his fingers and fall onto the receiving hook with a snap. Of course he had no intention of letting the KGB expand its operations in the United States. It was already too large, a threat to the normal military channels and control. Zhabnov pleaded with the premier at every opportunity to reduce Killov’s Blackshirt force, but Vassily would only smile in that grandfatherly way and say, “You worry too much, nephew. I only let Killov play with his toy soldiers in America to occupy him. He is not . . . normal, you know. He likes to hurt, to destroy things, people, land. So, we in the Presidium asked ourselves: where can such a person be useful? And the answer: America. Let him destroy these Freefighters. They seem afraid of nothing except such as Killov. And does not Killov keep his part of the bargain—sending over good breeding stock of American females with their fertile bodies and radiation-resistant genes? I think you had best put up with the Blackshirts and just keep the production of wheat and corn in line with the five-year plan. That is your job. I know you can handle it, can’t you?”
So it went like that. Vassily wasn’t letting either him or Killov get too powerful. He was using them to balance one another, leaving the ultimate control back in Moscow. So be it! This job did have its compensations after all. Indeed.
He pressed the intercom. “Prepare the bedroom.” Zhabnov smiled. The last one had been a little Negress. Delightful. Absolutely delightful. Too small for breeding purposes. Not meant for Russia’s cold winters. Soft, frightened, the kind he liked most.
Killov paced back and forth in his office—a
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