January 19, 1991, 9:07 AM
The grave diggers worked with the grim efficiency of men who had buried too many soldiers.
Their shovels bit into the frozen earth of the Serafimovskoye Cemetery with a sound like breaking bones. Thud. Crack. Thud. Steam rose from their backs in the morning cold, mixing with the breath from their mouths and nostrils—four sets of lungs working in rhythm, four veterans of Afghanistan making good on a promise.
Ivan Morozov stood apart from the digging, his thick arms crossed over his chest, watching Alexei instead of the grave. His eyes missed nothing—the way Alexei stood at perfect attention despite the cold, the way his grey eyes tracked the diggers' progress without emotion, the slight tremble in his left hand that only appeared when he thought no one was looking.
"Captain would have liked this," Ivan said, his voice a low rumble. "Military funeral. Full honors. Even if the country giving them doesn't know what it honors anymore."
Alexei didn't turn. "He didn't like anything at the end, Ivan. He liked the memory of what was. There's a difference."
The sergeant grunted, acknowledging the truth. "Still. Better than a pauper's plot. Better than most of us will get."
The diggers hit something—a rock or a root—and one of them cursed. Ivan glanced over, and the man fell silent, returning to his work with renewed focus. They were all from Dmitri Volkov's old company. All owed their lives to the captain. All were now taking orders from his sixteen-year-old son.
The coffin sat on wooden planks beside the growing hole. Plain pine, because the fancy oak ones cost dollars, and the rubles Grandfather had left wouldn't cover a week's groceries, let alone funeral expenses. Alexei had paid for this with the last of the cash from the sold medals—the Order of the Red Banner, finally gone like all the others.
A whistle cut through the cemetery air. Three short blasts, then two long.
"They're here," Ivan said.
Alexei turned. Down the main path, between rows of Soviet-era headstones adorned with fading red stars, marched a formation of twenty-four cadets from the Suvorov Military School. Their boots struck the frozen ground in perfect unison, the sound echoing between the graves. At their head walked Colonel Mikhailov, the new principal, a man who had been Grandfather's subordinate for fifteen years and was probably already clearing out his office.
The cadets formed two lines, creating an honor guard from the path to the gravesite. Their uniforms were immaculate, their faces carefully blank. Boys aged fourteen to seventeen, playing at being soldiers in a country that no longer needed real ones.
Colonel Mikhailov approached, his hand coming up in a crisp salute that wasn't quite regulation—the fingers slightly curved, the thumb positioned just so. The old style. The Volkov style.
"Alexei Dmitrievich," he said, lowering the salute. "On behalf of the Suvorov Military School, and on my own behalf, I offer deepest condolences. Your grandfather was... he was the last of a certain kind of man."
Alexei returned the salute perfectly. "Thank you for coming, Colonel. And for bringing the honor guard."
Mikhailov's eyes flickered to the pine coffin, then back to Alexei. "It's the least we could do. He trained every officer of significance in this city for twenty-five years. Half the men making decisions in the Ministry right now still jump when they remember his voice."
"Not enough of them," Alexei said quietly.
The colonel's face tightened. He understood the reference—the phone calls that hadn't been returned, the requests for funeral assistance that had been met with bureaucratic silence, the sudden unavailability of the military band that usually played at full-colonel funerals.
"The world is changing, Alexei," Mikhailov said, dropping the formal patronymic. "Loyalty is becoming... transactional."
"I've noticed."
The diggers finished. The hole in the ground was a perfect rectangle, precisely two meters deep, the sides straight as if cut with a knife. Ivan gave a hand signal, and the four men moved to the coffin.
"Wait," Alexei said.
He walked to the coffin and placed his hand on the rough pine. The wood was cold, already leaching warmth into the January air. He had nothing to put inside—no medal, no photograph, no letter. Grandfather had sold anything of value, and the things that mattered couldn't be buried.
Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and took out a single Suvorov School shoulder board—the old style, with the gold threading Grandfather had insisted on maintaining even when the cheaper versions were introduced. He'd found it in the desk drawer, tucked beneath stacks of unanswered correspondence.
He laid it on the coffin lid, just above where the heart would be.
"All right," he said, stepping back.
The four veterans lifted the coffin with the ease of men who had carried heavier burdens. They positioned it over the grave, then lowered it slowly on ropes, their muscles corded with the strain. The coffin descended into the earth without a sound, settling at the bottom with a finality that made something in Alexei's chest tighten.
Colonel Mikhailov stepped forward. "Vladimir Sergeyevich Volkov. Colonel of the Soviet Army. Hero of the Soviet Union. Veteran of the Great Patriotic War. Principal of the Leningrad Suvorov Military School from 1965 to 1990. He served his country with honor in war and in peace."
The words were standard. The script for military funerals hadn't changed since Stalin's time. But when Mikhailov finished, he didn't step back. He looked at Alexei, then at the cadets, then at the veterans standing at attention.
"Off the record," he said, his voice dropping, "he was also the last honest man in a system that stopped rewarding honesty around 1970. He protected his cadets from political purges. He fought for budgets when others stole them. He remembered what the uniform was supposed to mean. And he died watching it all turn to shit."
A ripple went through the cadets. One of them—a boy with sharp cheekbones and intelligent eyes—leaned forward slightly, drinking in the heresy.
Ivan made a small sound in his throat, something between approval and warning.
Mikhailov seemed to realize he'd said too much. He straightened, nodded to Alexei, then turned to the cadets. "Honor guard! Present... arms!"
Twenty-four rifles came up in unison. The metallic click-clack of bolts being worked echoed like gunfire.
"Fire!"
The first volley shattered the cemetery silence. Crows burst from nearby trees, black against the grey sky.
"Fire!"
The second volley. Alexei felt the concussions in his chest.
"Fire!"
The third. The smell of cordite mixed with frozen earth and diesel exhaust from the city beyond the cemetery walls.
Silence fell again, deeper now.
The cadets lowered their rifles. Mikhailov saluted one last time, then nodded to Alexei. "If you need anything. Within reason."
He turned and marched away, the cadets falling in behind him. Their boots on the frozen ground faded slowly, leaving only the four veterans, Alexei, and the grave.
Ivan gestured, and the diggers began filling the hole. The first shovelfuls of earth hit the pine lid with a sound like rain.
"Colonel's right, you know," Ivan said quietly, moving to stand beside Alexei. "About your grandfather. About the world."
"I know."
"They won't help you, though. Not unless you make it worth their while."
"I know that too."
Ivan studied him. "You have a plan."
"Beginning of one."
"Need men?"
"Eventually. Not today."
The sergeant nodded. "When you do. We're here. All of us. The captain's boys."
Alexei looked at him—the scar across his cheek from shrapnel, the nose broken and reset poorly, the eyes that had seen too much in the Hindu Kush. A man who had survived Afghanistan only to come home to a country that had no use for his skills except as a thug or a laborer.
"How many are there?" Alexei asked. "From my father's unit. Still alive. Still in Russia."
Ivan didn't hesitate. "Thirty-seven. That I know of. That I can find."
"Where are they?"
"Everywhere. Nowhere. Moscow. Siberia. Some still in uniform, trying to hold things together. Some... not doing so well. A few in places they shouldn't be."
"Can they be trusted?"
Ivan's smile was bitter. "Trust? No. Not in that way. But they owe. They owe the captain. They owe me. And debts are more reliable than trust in times like these."
The grave was half-filled now. A mound of dark earth grew beside it.
"Find them," Alexei said. "Quietly. Don't tell them why. Just find them."
"Then what?"
"Then I'll tell you."
Ivan nodded, accepting the order from a boy half his age without question. That was the blood debt, and both of them understood its weight.
They stood in silence until the grave was filled, the earth mounded and patted smooth. The diggers shouldered their shovels. Ivan paid them from a roll of rubles—not much, but more than they'd see in a month of legitimate work. They vanished toward the cemetery gates, already talking about vodka.
Alexei and Ivan were alone.
"What now?" Ivan asked.
"Now I go home and make a list," Alexei said. "You go find your thirty-seven."
"And after that?"
Alexei looked at the fresh grave, then at the cemetery around them—rows and rows of monuments to dead soldiers, dead patriots, dead believers.
"After that," he said, "we stop being people things happen to, and start being people who make things happen."
He turned and walked away, his boots making the same sound on the frozen ground as the cadets' had, but alone now. Entirely alone.
3:42 PM
The apartment was different with both of them gone.
It wasn't just the silence—though that was profound, a thick absence of sound that seemed to swallow the tick of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator. It was the space itself. Grandfather's presence had filled it like water fills a glass. Now the glass was empty, and the walls seemed farther apart, the ceilings higher, the rooms echoing with ghosts.
Alexei sat at the kitchen table with three things in front of him:
The black address book.
A map of the Soviet Union.
A notepad with columns already drawn.
He worked with methodical precision, the Suvorov discipline manifesting not in rifle drills but in strategy. He opened the address book to the first page and began reading, not as a grandson reading his grandfather's notes, but as a general assessing troop deployments.
Abramov, Vasily Ivanovich - Class of 1966
Current: Deputy Director, Leningrad Port Authority
Note: 1973 cheating scandal covered up. Wife's brother emigrated to Israel in 1979 (unauthorized).
Alexei wrote on the notepad: Abramov - Port Authority - Leverage: immigration violation, scandal.
He checked the map. Leningrad Port. Critical infrastructure. Control point for exports.
Borisov, Anatoly Semyonovich - Class of 1967
Current: Director, Factory #312 (Machine Parts), Chelyabinsk
Note: Production quotas falsified 1984-1988. Personal enrichment estimated 200,000 rubles.
Borisov - Factory Director - Leverage: embezzlement.
Chelyabinsk. Industrial heartland. Manufacturing capacity.
Chenko, Grigory Mikhailovich - Class of 1968
Current: Colonel, Supply Division, Transcaucasus Military District
Note: Fuel "misappropriations" 1986-1990. Moderate risk.
Chenko - Military Supply - Leverage: theft.
Fuel. Always fuel.
He worked for two hours, flipping pages, making notes. The picture that emerged was staggering. It wasn't just a list of names. It was a schematic of Soviet power—or what remained of it. Military officers overseeing base closures. Factory directors sitting on assets about to be privatized. Port officials controlling export channels. Ministry bureaucrats who would soon be deciding who got what in the coming fire sale.
And beside each name, Grandfather's neat handwriting detailing their weakness, their secret, their debt.
It was a blueprint for corruption. Or a blueprint for building something, depending on how you used it.
Alexei leaned back, rubbing his eyes. The afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the kitchen. He'd gone through 200 names. Only 1,947 to go.
His stomach growled. He realized he hadn't eaten since yesterday. He went to the refrigerator—mostly empty. Some bread going stale. A jar of pickles. Butter. The reality of his situation settled on him like a physical weight.
No parents.
No grandfather.
No income.
A few hundred rubles in cash.
And a notebook full of nuclear secrets.
He made himself a pickle sandwich, the sour taste cutting through his fatigue. As he ate, he flipped to the back of the address book, to the most recent entries—the class of 1990. Boys who had graduated less than a year ago, just in time to watch the empire they'd been trained to serve disintegrate.
Zaitsev, Dmitri Olegovich - Class of 1990
Current: Lieutenant, 345th Independent Guards Airborne Regiment, Afghanistan
*Note: Exceptional tactical mind. Father imprisoned for "anti-Soviet agitation" 1989. Resentful.*
Alexei stopped chewing.
345th Independent Guards Airborne Regiment.
His father's old unit.
He checked the date of entry—June 1990. Grandfather had made this note after Father's death, after the regiment had been pulled out of Afghanistan. Which meant Zaitsev was probably back in Russia now, a highly trained paratrooper with a grudge against the system, stuck in a military that was falling apart.
Alexei circled the name. Then he flipped back through the book, looking for other 345th Regiment alumni. He found three more, all from earlier classes, all now in staff positions or training commands.
He finished his sandwich, washed the plate, and returned to the table. The strategic picture was clarifying. He needed to start somewhere concrete, somewhere with immediate return, low risk, and high upside.
His eyes landed on a name he'd circled earlier:
Markov, Yuri Grigorovich - Class of 1971
Current: Commander, Karaganda Air Base, Kazakhstan SSR
Note: Average student. Limited initiative. Loyal to superiors. Currently overseeing base closure. Vulnerable.
Kazakhstan. Remote. A base closing. A commander who was "vulnerable."
Alexei opened the map. Karaganda was in central Kazakhstan, thousands of kilometers from Leningrad. An air base there would have equipment—vehicles, fuel, maybe metals. All needing "disposal" before the Kazakhs took over.
He calculated. Transport would be a problem. But not impossible. He had Ivan's veterans. He could get trucks. The hard part would be getting Markov to agree.
He went to his father's study—now his study—and took the rotary phone from the desk. He carried it to the kitchen table, the cord stretching taut. He dialed the long-distance operator.
"Yes, I need to place a call to Kazakhstan. Karaganda military base. Commander Yuri Markov's office."
The operator's voice was bored. "Personal or official?"
"Official. From the office of General Vladimir Volkov."
A pause. "The general is calling?"
"The general's office," Alexei said, putting steel into his voice. The voice Grandfather had taught him—the command voice that expected obedience.
"Routing through Moscow. There will be a delay."
"I'll wait."
He waited twenty minutes, listening to clicks and echoes on the line, imagining the signal bouncing through decaying Soviet infrastructure. Finally, a connection.
"Karaganda base." A young voice, probably a junior officer.
"I need to speak with Commander Markov. Tell him it's regarding General Volkov's correspondence."
"General who?"
"Just tell him. He'll know."
Another pause, longer this time. Alexei heard muffled voices, then footsteps.
Then an older voice, wary: "Markov here."
"Commander Markov. This is Alexei Dmitrievich Volkov. General Vladimir Volkov's grandson."
Silence on the line. Alexei could almost hear the calculations happening three thousand kilometers away.
"The general passed away three days ago," Markov said finally. "I received notice."
"You received the official notice," Alexei said. "I'm calling with the unofficial one."
"What does that mean?"
"It means my grandfather left me his papers. Including his personal assessments of former students. Including notes about their current postings and... situations."
Another silence, thicker this time.
"I see," Markov said slowly. "And why are you calling me, Alexei Dmitrievich?"
"Because you have a problem, Commander. You're ordered to abandon Karaganda base by the end of February. You have equipment worth millions of rubles sitting in hangars and warehouses. You have no budget to transport it. No orders about what to do with it. And every local with a truck is probably already planning how to steal it."
Markov's breathing changed. "That's not—"
"Don't insult me," Alexei cut him off, channeling his grandfather's impatience. "I'm not Moscow. I'm not checking up on you. I'm offering a solution."
"What solution?"
"I have a disposal company. We handle military surplus. We come in, we take the equipment off your hands, we give you paperwork showing proper disposal per regulations, and we split the proceeds."
A sharp laugh. "You're a child."
"I'm Vladimir Volkov's grandson. And I'm offering you a way to turn a problem into cash before you get shipped to some desk job in Vladivostok. Or worse, before Kazakhstan becomes independent and you're stuck here answering to people who don't like Russians."
The truth of that hung between them. The independence movements were already stirring in every republic. A Russian officer in Kazakhstan in 1991 was a man sitting on thinning ice.
"What kind of split?" Markov asked, his voice lower now.
"Fifty-fifty."
"Seventy-thirty. My favor."
"Sixty-forty. My favor. I'm taking all the risk. Transport, bribes, sales. You just sign papers."
Markov was quiet for so long Alexei thought the connection had dropped. Then: "What equipment are you interested in?"
"Start with the non-sensitive stuff. Metals. Fuel. Vehicles."
"There's copper wire. Communication lines we're ripping out. About a thousand tons."
Copper. Alexei's mind raced. Current black-market price per kilogram... He did the math. Even at a fraction of value...
"We can start with that," he said, keeping his voice even. "I'll need authorization papers. Signed by you. Blanket disposal authority for all non-strategic materials."
"You'll need more than papers. You'll need trucks. Men. Security."
"I have them."
Another pause. "When?"
"Two weeks. I'll call you with details."
"And if I say no?"
"Then you can explain to your successors why a thousand tons of copper wire vanished without paperwork. Or why the Kazakh police found it in local markets. Either way, it becomes your problem instead of your profit."
The threat was delivered calmly, reasonably. Just stating consequences.
Markov sighed—the sound of a man accepting reality. "Call me in two weeks. Have your paperwork ready. And Alexei Dmitrievich?"
"Yes?"
"Your grandfather was a hard man. But fair. Don't make me regret honoring his memory."
"The only thing you'll regret is the split, Commander. But you'll still be richer than you are today."
He hung up before Markov could reply.
The kitchen was dark now. Alexei sat in the gathering gloom, the phone receiver still in his hand. His heart was pounding, but his hands were steady.
First contact made. First deal proposed. The first step.
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the lights of Leningrad coming on in the winter evening. A city on the edge of history. An empire ending. A thousand opportunities being born in the chaos.
He thought of his mother in her hospital bed. His father in his Afghan grave. His grandfather in the frozen earth.
Then he thought of copper wire. A thousand tons of it. And a colonel in Kazakhstan who had just become the first piece on his board.
He went back to the table, turned on the lamp, and opened the address book to the next page.
The work continued.