Robert Ratcliffe - Red Hammer 1994

The rebuilt Russian Parliament building, or White House, never looked better than this late October eve. A horde of workers had put the finishing touches on the pale marble masterpiece and scrubbed and polished for this special gathering. The rich, historical monument was a fitting backdrop for the occasion. The scene of death and destruction at Yeltsin’s direct order earlier in the month, its resurrection signaled the final triumph of the State Duma over the disgraced president.

The former army paratroop officer suppressed the building anxiety that made him subconsciously squirm. Patience, he coaxed himself. He shifted his train of thought and focused on his earlier speech to the Duma, while he was still its speaker. He had been magnificent, his booming voice rising and falling in spirited intensity like thunder in a violent summer storm. He had his strong arms raised in defiance, his balled fist daring anyone to deny him his destiny. His pale blue eyes breathed fire, smoldering. Russia would rise from the ashes.

Laptev’s invective had issued forth like a poisonous snake spitting venom. Betrayal of the common people. Slaves to the West. And what to show for the years of agony? Ruthless capitalists grown obscenely rich, prostitutes on every corner, petty criminals ran amok, and a thriving, homegrown Mafia. That and millions upon millions of hungry displaced factory workers and a vicious depression that clung like a leech. Russia was an international joke, humiliated and prostrate, groveling before Jewish bankers and despicable American and German capitalists. Castrated by hastily negotiated strategic-arms agreements, her military might lay in ruins. Russia was impotent and needed to reclaim her rightful place in the world. Laptev had left no emotional stone unturned.

His blistering attack upon the remnants of the reformers had inspired sustained applause and rampant foot stomping, fueled by a deadly mixture of half-truths and blatant lies. The outcome of yesterday’s vote had been preordained, as sure as the misery gripping the Russian people. The final tally hadn’t been announced, but the consensus had the current Russian president unceremoniously thrown out on his rump, along with his cabal of baby-faced economic advisors and worthless political sycophants. Real men would once again rule Russia.

Long dismissed as a reprehensible madman, Laptev had masterfully manipulated the bone-weary populace. While others had fed them bland economic theory and esoteric political nonsense, Laptev spoke to their abandonment and personal humiliation. He proudly bore the common man’s burden of pain and frustration squarely on his shoulders. His maudlin brew of self-pity and deep-felt resentment struck a chord with the unemployed, the homeless, the deserted, and, most of all, the dejected and angry officer corps. Laptev and his cronies had swept both the capitol region and the countryside like a tidal wave.

The new speaker of the Duma, the lower house of the restructured Parliament, assumed his post. He signaled for quiet. An unaccustomed hush swept the floor. He gripped the microphone and triumphantly announced the latest vote tallies. He flung his arm to the right and dramatically presented the next president of the Russian Republic. Over half the audience jumped to their feet, cheering wildly. The dejected minority clapped limply or sulked in despair. Their worst nightmare had come true.

Nikolai Laptev held court inside the stonewalled Defense Ministry, surrounded by his inner circle of trusted generals and marshals. Laptev found comfort with this obedient lot. They fed his ravenous ego with their incessant groveling. The clever demagogue had proven skilled at fueling their innermost fears and arousing petty jealousies. He had deftly played to their hurt and humiliation and had them in his hip pocket. Most of the Russian brass could remember the old superpower days, when the Red Army had struck terror into the hearts of free-world leaders, and now smarted at their current societal status, one rung above the detested Moscow police. Laptev had cast a spell and had snared even the best and the brightest. Despite their misgivings, they fervently believed only their tough-talking president could restore Russia’s greatness.

The room was cramped, but the furnishings were magnificent. Lavish ceiling-to-floor velvet drapes were gathered and pulled back from the leaded-glass windows, while ornate crystal lighting fixtures hung gracefully from the freshly painted plaster ceiling. The meeting table was polished mahogany and round, with Laptev at the head in a captain’s chair. Nearly twenty Russians completed the assembly, an emergency meeting of the Military Planning Group. Every gathering was an emergency these days.

Laptev’s mood was combative and nasty. Outside the Defense Ministry, a brutal January storm lashed at the ancient Kremlin walls, with marble-sized ice balls violently banging on the thick windows and sounding like kettle drums at the Moscow symphony. The creaky Russian state, in desperate straits at Laptev’s ascendancy, was comatose at this, the height of the worst winter on record. The atrocious weather was a harbinger of impending doom for the punch-drunk Russians. The state survived on nothing more than constant doses of Laptev’s rhetoric, and like the habitual use of drugs, the desired effect was beginning to fade, requiring even more outrageous pronouncements to soothe the patient’s pain.

A blend of self-deprecation and betrayal stoked the hatred brewing in Laptev’s heart. The reformists had so thoroughly destroyed the country’s weakened and fragile infrastructure that an attempt to turn back the clock was failing miserably. The civil glue that held man’s more primitive instincts in check was cracking. The prognosis made even the most hardened and cynical Kremlin bureaucrat tremble—civil war across the length and breadth of Russia. Once unleashed, the fighting would be uncontrolled and catastrophic, like Yugoslavia magnified one hundred times.

The Russian defense minister banged the door open and entered the smoke-filled room, waving a message over his head, incensed. An adroit old communist that had long ago sold his soul to the Liberal Democrats, the anointed head of the military was of medium height, completely bald, grossly overweight, and sour looking. His reddened face was puffy like he had just awakened from a difficult nap and his ample jowls jiggled as he shuffled toward his chair to the right of Laptev. He wore a drab brown suit that fit like a tent. Despite his shabby appearance and dull eyes, he was a clever survivor who had served many masters and had proved himself invaluable in military matters.

Laptev publicly applauded the old-party faithful who had flocked to his banner. Privately, he ridiculed them. To their credit, they worshipped a strong leader, despised democracy in any form, and rarely had an independent bone in their body. Orders were obeyed without question. Even many of the early Liberal Democrats exhibited a tendency to question Laptev’s more outrageous commands. Today the defense minister was the indignant patriot as he plopped into his chair.

“The latest dispatch from Ossetia,” he blurted out to no one in particular. “Traitors! They will be shot!” A buzz rose, and heads nodded in unison. A nondescript secessionist group in the so-called Northern Ossetian Republic had stormed an armory and made off with a cache of weapons including handheld surface-to-air missiles, leaving over twenty Russian troops dead. Such crimes were coming much too regularly. Laptev rightly suspected that some of the generals in this very room were encouraging such treasonous behavior, skimming a share of the spoils. A rash of executions had temporarily squelched such treason, but the lure of hard currency tucked safely in a foreign bank account provided a powerful inducement.