March 22, 1991, 8:15 AM – Leningrad Fuel Depot
The ZIL-130 sat dead in the middle of the depot's loading bay, its engine cold, its transmission spread across the concrete in greasy pieces. Kolya stood over the wreckage, his expression a mixture of fury and resignation. Around him, three mechanics he had hired for the fuel operation worked in silent misery, their tools making small, defeated sounds.
Alexei arrived to find this scene. He stood at the edge of the carnage, taking it in. The ZIL had been one of the tankers—the oldest, the most unreliable, the one Kolya had warned him about before they left for Siberia.
"What happened?" he asked.
Kolya didn't look up. "Transmission. Transfer case. Drive shaft. In that order." He kicked a gear-tooth fragment across the concrete. "This truck was dead when we bought it. I just didn't know it yet."
"How much to fix it?"
"More than it's worth." Now Kolya looked up, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. "The whole fleet is like this, Alexei. We bought junk because that's all we could afford. Junk breaks. Junk costs money. Junk gets people killed if it fails at the wrong moment."
The words hung in the cold air. Alexei looked at the other tankers lined up against the depot fence—four survivors of the Siberia run, each with its own collection of quirks and complaints. They had carried four hundred seventy-three thousand liters across three thousand kilometers of hell. They deserved better than this.
"We need new trucks," he said quietly.
"We need any trucks that aren't held together with hope and prayer." Kolya wiped his hands on a rag that was already black. "But new trucks cost money. Real money. The kind we don't have yet."
Alexei did the math in his head. A new Ural-4320, the workhorse of the Soviet military, cost about twenty-five thousand dollars on the legitimate market—if you could find one. On the black market, with no questions asked, maybe thirty. A fleet of ten would be three hundred thousand. Half his remaining capital.
But ten reliable trucks could run multiple operations simultaneously. They could move copper from Belarus while fuel was coming from Siberia. They could scale.
He looked at the dead ZIL. At the four survivors. At Kolya's exhausted face.
"Find me prices," he said. "New trucks, good condition used, military surplus—everything. I want options by tomorrow."
Kolya nodded, a flicker of hope crossing his features. "You're thinking about buying."
"I'm thinking about owning. There's a difference."
2:30 PM – Obvodny Canal Warehouse
Ivan found Alexei in the warehouse, staring at a wall covered in papers. Maps, lists, diagrams, numbers. The beginnings of a logistics network.
"You've been here all day," Ivan observed.
"I've been thinking."
"About what?"
Alexei gestured at the wall. "This. The trucks. The fuel operation cost us forty-two thousand in vehicle expenses—purchase, repairs, fuel, maintenance. Forty-two thousand dollars that we'll never see again. If we'd owned those trucks, if they'd been reliable, the cost would have been half that."
Ivan studied the wall. "You're talking about capital investment."
"I'm talking about infrastructure. Trucks are infrastructure. They're the bones of everything we do. If the bones are weak, the whole body fails." He turned to face Ivan. "We need to stop renting and start owning. Not just trucks—warehouses, depots, everything. The more we own, the less we pay, the more we control."
Ivan absorbed this. "That takes money. Lots of it."
"We have money. A million dollars, more or less. But it's sitting in a safe deposit box, doing nothing. It needs to work."
"And if we spend it all on trucks and the next operation fails?"
"Then we're broke and stupid. But if we don't spend it, and the next operation fails because our trucks break down, we're just stupid." Alexei shook his head. "I'm not playing for one operation, Ivan. I'm playing for ten, twenty, a hundred. The only way to do that is to own the means."
Ivan was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Your father thought like that. Not about business—about men. He invested in us. Trained us, equipped us, trusted us. When the fighting came, we were ready because he'd built us."
"That's the same thing. Different tools, same principle."
Ivan almost smiled. "You're learning."
March 23, 1991 – Kolya's Report
The list was depressing.
Kolya presented it that evening, spread across the hood of the surviving Ural. Twenty-three trucks, ranging from a decrepit ZIL that looked like it had fought in the Great Patriotic War to a nearly-new KamAZ that cost sixty thousand dollars and required a bribe just to inspect.
"The math is simple," Kolya said, pointing at each entry. "Cheap trucks are cheap because they're broken. They'll cost us in repairs what we save in purchase price. Good trucks cost good money, but they run. They run consistently, reliably, without killing my mechanics."
Alexei studied the list. The numbers aligned with his calculations. A fleet of eight reliable trucks—the minimum for parallel operations—would cost approximately two hundred forty thousand dollars. Add another sixty for spare parts, maintenance equipment, and a dedicated repair facility, and they were looking at three hundred thousand.
A third of his capital. A significant bet.
But the alternative was more of the same: breakdowns, delays, near-disasters like the ZIL's transmission. The fuel operation had succeeded despite the trucks, not because of them. Next time, they might not be so lucky.
"Buy them," he said.
Kolya blinked. "All of them?"
"The eight best. The ones you said would run. Buy them, register them—somehow—and get them ready. We have operations waiting."
Kolya's face broke into something that might have been a smile. "Eight trucks. Real trucks. I'll have a fleet."
"You'll have the beginning of one. The rest comes later."
Kolya gathered his list and disappeared into the warehouse, already planning. Alexei watched him go, then turned back to his wall of plans.
Eight trucks. A depot for fuel. A warehouse for goods. A banker working on legitimacy. A network of veterans spreading across the map.
The infrastructure was becoming real.
March 25, 1991 – Volkov Apartment
That night, Alexei sat at the kitchen table with his grandfather's address book and a new diagram. The trucking idea had expanded in his mind, becoming something larger than just vehicles. It was a system—a way of moving anything, anywhere, at any time. A logistics network that could serve not just his own operations but others as well.
Legitimate businesses would need trucks. Factories that were still operating. Shops that needed supplies. The new entrepreneurs springing up in every city. If he owned the trucks, he could serve them all. His operations would be just one client among many, a cover for the real work.
He wrote on a fresh page:
Neva Transport – Phase 2
- 8 trucks (initial fleet)
- 12 drivers (veterans, trusted)
- 2 mechanics (Kolya + 1)
- Dispatch office (warehouse)
- Clients: internal ops + external contracts
The external contracts were key. They provided cover, legitimacy, a reason for the trucks to be on the road. They also provided revenue that didn't depend on base closures and risky operations. A hedge against the day when the scavenging ended.
He thought of Borisov, the factory director who had bought the copper. He had mentioned his own trucks were unreliable. Maybe he would pay to use Neva Transport instead. And others like him.
The idea grew. A trucking company that served the new Russia. Moving goods, building relationships, becoming essential. The infrastructure that everyone else took for granted, owned and operated by a sixteen-year-old with a dead family and a million dollars in stolen money.
His mother's face floated in his memory. *Be better than this world.*
He didn't know if this was better. But it was *his*. His idea, his risk, his future.
He picked up the phone and dialed Kolya's number.
"Buy nine trucks," he said. "Not eight. Nine. One extra for backup. And start looking for drivers. Good ones. Men who can be trusted."
Kolya's voice was tired but satisfied. "Nine trucks. Done."
"And Kolya?"
"Yes?"
"Congratulations. You're now the director of Neva Transport."
A pause. Then, quietly: "The Captain would never believe it."
"Neither would my mother. But here we are."
He hung up and looked at his diagram. The infrastructure was growing. One piece at a time, one decision at a time, one risk at a time.
The trucking idea had become a company. The company would become an empire.
And somewhere in the darkness, the ghosts of his family watched—and maybe, just maybe, approved.