February 25, 1991, 8:47 PM – Volkov Apartment
The phone rang six times before a sleepy voice answered.
"Major Chazov."
Alexei had the address book open to the page he had studied all afternoon. *Chazov, Igor Petrovich – Class of 1975 – Base Commander, Zhukovsky Air Base, Siberia.* Grandfather's note was sparse but potent: *1986: covered up crash of MiG-29 during unauthorized flight. Nephew of dead pilot received promotion. Debt remains.*
"Major Chazov, this is Alexei Dmitrievich Volkov. General Vladimir Volkov's grandson."
A pause. He could hear the man's breathing change, the fog of sleep burning off as alarm took its place. "Volkov? The General from Suvorov?"
"The same. I'm calling about a matter of some urgency. Your base's aviation fuel reserves."
Another pause, longer. When Chazov spoke, his voice was careful, controlled. "What about them?"
"You have approximately five hundred thousand liters of jet fuel in your storage tanks. Moscow has ordered the base closed by April. There is no budget to transport the fuel anywhere. And the local population is already eyeing your perimeter with interest."
"You seem remarkably well-informed for a—" Chazov stopped. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to understand your problem. And old enough to offer a solution."
"And what solution would that be?"
"I have a logistics company. We can remove the fuel, provide you with proper disposal paperwork, and split the proceeds. Fifty-fifty."
Chazov laughed, a harsh, disbelieving sound. "You want to steal aviation fuel from a military base?"
"I want to *salvage* aviation fuel that will otherwise be stolen by locals or left to freeze and crack your storage tanks. Moscow will never send transport. You know this. The alternative is a frozen asset and an audit that asks why you did nothing."
Silence stretched across the line. Alexei waited, letting the logic work.
"You're the boy who took Markov's copper," Chazov said finally. "Word travels. He got paid."
"He did. Generously."
Another pause. Then, quieter: "How do I know you're not KGB? Not some trap?"
"Because the KGB doesn't need traps. And because I'm offering you cash, not questions." Alexei softened his tone. "Major, I'm not here to threaten you. I'm here to offer you a future. The Soviet Union is dying. The men who adapt will survive. The men who don't will be buried in its grave. I'm giving you a shovel."
Chazov was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was resigned. "What do you need?"
"Access to your fuel depot. Authorization papers. And forty-eight hours of quiet while my trucks load."
"Trucks? For five hundred thousand liters? You'll need a convoy."
"I have one."
"And payment? When?"
"Half on completion. Half within thirty days. In dollars."
Chazov breathed out slowly. "Markov said you were young but serious."
"Markov is now half a million dollars richer. He would know."
"All right." The words came reluctantly, as if dragged from deep within. "But there are conditions. My men—the ones I trust—need a cut. Ten percent, off the top, before the split."
"Five percent. And they work security while we load."
"Seven."
"Six. Final."
A grunt that might have been approval. "Six. When do you arrive?"
"Two weeks. I'll call with details. Have your paperwork ready."
The line went dead. Alexei set the receiver down and stared at the address book. Second call. Second deal. The template was holding.
---
February 26, 1991, 10:00 AM – Obvodny Canal Warehouse
The veterans gathered again, this time with a different energy. The Kazakhstan money had been spent—some on rent, some on family, some on vodka, some simply hoarded against an uncertain future. But its absence had left a vacuum, and they were hungry for the next mission.
Alexei stood before them with a map of Siberia marked with a red circle near the city of Zhukovsky.
"Deal two. Aviation fuel. Five hundred thousand liters at an air base outside Zhukovsky. Major Chazov is our contact. He's in the same position as Markov—base closing, no transport, locals circling."
Kolya frowned. "Fuel is different from copper. We can't just throw it in a truck. We need tankers. Specialized equipment."
"I know. Can you find them?"
Kolya rubbed his chin, thinking. "There's a depot outside Tver. They had fuel trucks for sale last month. Old, but serviceable. If they're still there..."
"Go tomorrow. Buy whatever we need. Budget is fifty thousand dollars."
Vasiliev spoke from the shadows. "Security concerns? Fuel is flammable. One spark, one bullet, and the whole operation goes up."
"Then we make sure there are no sparks and no bullets. You'll handle perimeter security. No one gets close with weapons."
"And the locals?" Ivan asked. "Siberia is different from Kazakhstan. Hungrier. More desperate."
"Then we prepare for them. Same play as before—bribes, intimidation, speed. We're in and out in forty-eight hours."
Sasha was studying the map. "Zhukovsky is three thousand kilometers east. The roads will be worse than Kazakhstan. Permafrost, spring thaw coming, rivers flooding."
"Then we leave in ten days, before the thaw. Kolya, can you have tankers ready by then?"
Kolya calculated. "If the Tver depot still has them, and if they're in decent shape, yes. But we'll need drivers. Trained ones. Fuel is not copper—you can't just load it and go. It needs handling."
"Then find drivers. Pay them well. We'll have enough."
The twins exchanged a look. Misha spoke. "This is bigger than Kazakhstan. More moving parts. More risk."
"Yes," Alexei agreed. "But also more reward. Aviation fuel sells for a premium. Industrial buyers, black market, even some legitimate factories that have converted heating systems. Sasha, start finding buyers now. Don't wait until we're sitting on half a million liters with nowhere to go."
Sasha nodded, already making notes.
Ivan stepped forward. "Who leads this one?"
"You do. With Vasiliev on security, Kolya on logistics, and a team of drivers we haven't hired yet. I'll stay here, coordinate with Chazov, handle the money side."
Ivan absorbed this without expression. "And the other operations? Belarus? Ukraine?"
"Those come after. One at a time until we have the capacity for multiple. This is the next test. If we can handle fuel, we can handle anything."
The veterans absorbed this. The scale was growing, but so was their confidence. Kazakhstan had proven they could operate. Now they needed to prove they could adapt.
---
March 5, 1991 – Tver Fuel Depot
Kolya called that evening, his voice crackling over the bad line.
"We have tankers. Five of them. Each holds twenty thousand liters. Old, but I've checked the seals, the pumps, the valves. They'll hold."
"Cost?"
"Forty-two thousand for the lot. Plus another five for the mechanic who helped me inspect them. He's good. I hired him."
Alexei made a note. "Drivers?"
"Working on it. There's a whole community of former military transport drivers in Tver. Base closed last year, they're all unemployed. I've found three so far. Good men, desperate, know fuel handling."
"Hire them. Offer the same terms as our veterans—five hundred for the job, bonus on completion."
"Done." Kolya paused. "Alexei, this is real. We're really doing this."
"We're really doing this."
The line crackled. "My mother would never believe it. Her son, a businessman."
"Believe it, Kolya. We're just getting started."
---
March 7, 1991 – Volkov Apartment
The call to Chazov was brief.
"We're coming. Ten days. Five tankers, twenty thousand liters each. We'll need access to your pumps for forty-eight hours, starting at midnight on the seventeenth."
"I'll have the pumps ready. And the paperwork." Chazov's voice was tense. "There's been... interest from the locals. A group from the nearest town has been asking questions about the fuel. They know it's here. They know it's unguarded."
"Can you hold them off?"
"Barely. My men are loyal, but they're also hungry. If the locals offer enough..."
"Then we need to move faster. Can we come earlier? The fifteenth?"
A pause. "The fifteenth might work. I'll have to rearrange the duty roster, but—"
"Do it. We'll be there on the fifteenth. Midnight. Have your men ready."
The line went dead. Alexei stared at the map. Siberia was vast, cold, and hungry. The window was closing.
But the template held. And the machine was moving.