Red Hammer 1994

Marlina glanced up through salty tears at the high-bay factories and shops. What was left of the old plant? Machinery so antiquated that Uralmash couldn’t compete with the rest of the world, even if her workers labored for free. The arthritic plant required hundreds of millions of dollars of scarce capital to even contemplate the task of rebuilding. And who would lend such vast sums? Not the West. They were greedily pouring money into the Eastern European nations, those despicable ingrates. For decades their socialist brothers had sucked up Soviet largesse in the form of nearly free fuel and blanket military protection, and now they thumbed their noses at their erstwhile friends. The capstone of humiliation had been when Poland, Hungary, and the Czech Republic had begged their way into NATO.

Marlina shivered uncontrollably with raw fear. Unemployment was a sentence of near death, a perpetual, grinding poverty with absolutely no escape. No so-called safety net existed in Russia; the state was bankrupt, the ruble—worthless. She tugged at her worn and faded wool sweater. The first signs of winter loomed on the horizon; a stiff breeze carried the telltale frigid air from Siberia. The cold wind bit her cheeks and made her shudder. It would be a long winter; the worst in memory they predicted. As usual, it was the common people who would pay the price for the bureaucrats’ arrogance and incompetence.

Marlina sniffed and wiped her nose and stood, adjusting her damp scarf and rumpled skirt. Drying tears stained her cheeks. She staggered in the direction of her miserable apartment, wishing beyond hope that someone could bring back the old days. Who would save them, save Russia? Marlina shook her bowed head sadly and shuffled along in a very Russian mixture of stoic acceptance and steadfast perseverance in the face of insurmountable odds.

The gloating, stiff-necked man with short-cropped gray hair preened. He sat pompously in his anointed chair in the section reserved for members of the Liberal Democratic Party. Actually, there was nothing in the least democratic about this gang of thugs. Once a hodgepodge of ultranationalists, neo-fascists, revanchist Stalinists, and a sprinkling of monarchists, the Liberal Democrats had deftly closed ranks and were now just hitting their stride. They had gained long-sought legitimacy through their recent smashing victory. No need to any longer kowtow to coalition partners. Nikolai Laptev had seen to that.

Over time, the more faint-hearted LDP members, those deputies lacking the stomach for a knock-down, drag-out fight, had been pushed aside to make way for the fire-breathers. The crowning glory in the early years had been the pact with the Communists and the agrarians. While those simpletons dreamed of the old collective days and Potemkin villages, the Liberal Democrats had used their votes to thwart reform and paralyze the government. Disaster led to disaster, until the government had collapsed. A sham presidential and parliamentary election had thrust Nikolai Laptev and his cohorts from the role of noisy and troublesome opposition to the seat of unchallenged power. Russia’s Choice and the other so-called reformers were in tatters—discredited, chastened, and on the run.

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.