Red Scare, Ukraine

[GingeOrCringe]

​

Day 1, 19:43
Lypky District, Kyiv

The winter night was frigid, and with all the blood seeping down his chest it felt even colder. In search of an exit wound, his Chief of Staff Yurik Horbulin had removed his jacket for him. He was asking Yushchenko something in an urgent tone, but the words passed through him just as easily as the bullet had. It was so difficult to stay awake.

They drifted around the icy corner of Instyutska Street and Shovkovchna. The red and blue lights of the police-escort strobed through the windows.

“You still with us?” Asked one of the Spetsnaz who had shoved him into the car. He was holding Horbulin’s plastic ID card over the wound in an attempt to stop any more air from entering the president’s chest cavity. A makeshift occlusive bandage. Over that he had a bundle of gauze retrieved from a first-aid kit stashed under one of the seats.

Yushchenko nodded between increasingly painful breaths. “Tired,” he said. The right side of his chest felt like it had been stuffed full of nails and burning coals. Later, medical personnel would find that the bullet had splintered a rib.

“Hang in there, we need you to stay awake a little longer.”

He wondered what would happen if he died. His first thoughts went to his wife and children, then to the country he’d be leaving them with. As Chairman of the Rada, the presidency would go to Kuchma—a man with motives as hazy as a cloud of smoke. Of course, even if they had sincere leadership, there was no guarantee the military would be able to subdue an insurrection if one did arise. They certainly couldn’t hold off an invasion by a red Russia, which seemed to be a greater possibility with every passing hour. So much for joint training exercises…

The driver stomped on the breaks, almost slamming into the cop car ahead of them as they fishtailed down the slush filled road.

“The fuck are you doing?” Horbulin shouted. He was holding one of those cellphones and nearly whipped it at Zharovskiy, their driver.

“There’s a car accident just before the intersection with Liuteranska,” Zharovskiy nodded at his radio as he threw the gear into reverse. “It’s going to be impossible to get passed, we gotta go another way.”

Wheels spinning on ice, so much energy spent to go nowhere.

Yushchenko had almost implemented military reforms to make Ukraine stronger, almost reunited Crimea with the Republic, almost obtained an apology from Russia for Holodomor… He had almost done so many things, but his presidency hadn’t actually changed anything, had it? Ukraine was still considered a provincial backwater, a runaway Russian vassal state, as unremarkable in the grand scheme of geopolitics as it was one-hundred years before. He wondered if they’d ever be considered a central beacon of civilization, or if they were just doomed to the margins of two competing worlds.

The Spetsnaz said something, but it was becoming difficult to focus. He felt like a short-circuiting computer. “We need you to stay awake," the guard repeated. “You can rest at the hospital, but not yet. There’s less than a kilometer to go, I promise.”

Yushchenko wasn't sure this man understood just how much he was asking. His eyes refused to stay open, he was cold, thirsty, and as the seconds ticked by the shock was wearing off and the pain increasing.

Horbulin snapped his phone closed. He said something about a hospital director, the holidays, all the snow. “We’re lucky Ukrainians are so willing to give blood.”

Yes, they'd always had people generous in giving that. In comparison, was staying awake really such a demand? He wasn't Pylyp Orlyk or Vladimir the Great, but someone needed to shepherd Ukraine away from the confines of corruption and authoritarianism towards greater liberty. It would be a lie to call the future bright--and there'd always be wolves like Symonenko lurking about--but they could at least keep the gate open to the West. As dim as prospects might seem, they could ensure life wasn't as dark as the past. Exhaustion gripped him as tightly as those Soviet-hardliners clung to their failed ideology. It would be so much easier to close his eyes and drift off, but how could he? He thought of that poem--the one his father, Khoruzhivka’s singular English teacher, had always repeated when he was tired. The man had used it as a crutch when he was conscripted into the Red Army, and later when the Nazis sent him to Flossenbürg.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Yushchenko looked to his Chief of staff. "Call Kuchma. Politely tell him--" he was interrupted by his own coughs and gasps. There was a metallic taste of blood in his mouth now, but Oleksandrivska Hospital was so close. "Tell him he can spend the New Year at his dacha. Neither Mariyinsky Palace nor the presidency will be vacant."

 

[GingeOrCringe]

Day 1, 19:20
Maidan Nezalezhnosti, Kyiv

He said nothing when he felt the gun under Zabrodsky’s wool coat. They locked eyes for a moment—Zabrodsky’s icy, pale gaze being the only visible feature under the thick scarf and floppy ushanka. This was Ivanoff’s last chance to change his mind. No one was making him do this. They both stood as frozen as the city, flakes drifting down around them.

“You’re free to go.”

“Slava Ukraini,” Zabrodsky said.

“Heroiam slava,” Officer Ivanoff said—Glory to Ukraine, glory to heroes. He glanced at Goraya, one of three other police officers on duty at the Check Point A, the western most entrance to the Maidan, and gave him a solid nod. They had already let Kazan through about 15 minutes earlier. Goraya looked up at the sky and exhaled, his breath a heavy drag of fog in the winter air.

There was a bigger crowd than they’d expected, better to lurk within but harder to push through. Kazan stepped past a small gaggle of elderly folks in fur coats and found an open space next to a slender young woman. She offered him a smile which he tried to ignore.

“Are you a student?” She asked.

“Huh?” He glanced over, trying to adjust his scarf to better cover the lower half of his face. Blonde hair and dark lashes, her skin was mostly clear aside from one freckle near the corner of her left eye. There was no way she was interested. They never were.

“Are you in poli-sci? Most guys our age would rather spend the night out at a bar, not attending a speech.”

He shook his head and stared at the podium. If he didn’t look at her, maybe she’d stop examining him so closely. She was very difficult to disregard, and not just because she kept talking.

“Oh, sorry. I just transferred to Shevchenko and thought maybe… never mind.”

Kazan sighed, glancing at his watch. He had synchronized his with Zabrodsky’s before they’d left for the Maidan. Sweat was beginning to form at the nape of his neck, just under his knit-cap. His scarf kept slipping from his face.

“So… what do you think of all this economic craziness?”

“What kind of question is that?” He snapped, taking a harsher tone than he’d intended. His thick brows scrunched together. “And would you stop watching me like a fucking Cheka? It’s creeping me out.”

She apologized and shrank back a step. Kazan sighed and adjusted his scarf again. She wasn’t interested. She’d only been talking to him because she was bored and the president was late. He had a job to do.

Zabrodsky was in position at the opposite edge of the crowd. At 7:36pm, six minutes later than scheduled, Yushchenko would approach the podium. He spoke pure Ukrainian, no grammar mistakes, not a dash of Russian vocabulary.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing, Zabrodsky thought, fixing an unblinking glare on him. This was the man who had promised to amputate Crimea. He wanted to place it in Moscow’s greedy, red hands like a parent selling their child to a cannibal. Now he was talking about emptying the national treasury for them, too? If anything, the Russian brutes owed them money for all the wheat, and coal, and blood they had taken.

They had taken so much.

They would continue to take.

Zabrodsky’s hand reached for the Makrov but didn’t draw yet. They had agreed, seven minutes. They had practiced before. Zabrodsky clicked the safety off. The folds of the coat kept the gun concealed for now.

Meanwhile Kazan’s eyes couldn’t be torn away from his watch as it slowly ticked towards Viktor Yushchenko’s death. Ten seconds. He reached into his coat pocket for the airhorn. Eight seconds his eyes went to the spetsnaz as they scanned the crowd. The whole point was to draw their attention away, to give Zabrodsky a heartbeat to aim. Five seconds, breathe in. Breathe out. The shriek of the airhorn did it’s job, everyone’s gaze had turned from Yushchenko to Kazan. The blonde girl had practically jumped.

With even the spetsnaz’s attention turned, Zabrodsky drew the Makrov, fired, and… missed? There’d been no issues unloading a tightly packed cluster of bullets into the heads of paper-target silhouettes. Why was it so difficult to aim at a real face? Zabrodsky let out a shaking breath. Attention had turned again. There was no time. One more pull of the trigger before turning to run. It was surprisingly easy to cut through the chaos of the crowd, people stepped out of the way as soon as they saw the gun and the Spetsnaz weren’t going to risk hitting a bystander.

Seeing Zabrodsky approach their gate, Officers Goraya and Ivanoff would begin shouting at a random civilian, “He's got the gun! It’s him! Get on the ground with your hands where we can see them!” The two other officers would join them in subduing the wide-eyed patsy, allowing Zabrodsky to slip out unhindered.

The panicked crowd parted just as easily for Kazan. He was halfway to the gate when something heavy hit his skull. He dropped onto the slushy ground, feeling like a split log. Before he could stumble to his feet again, he felt another, and another thwack to his ribs.

“Stop, there’s no need for that, we’ve got him,” said police as the slapped handcuffs on him. The metal was frosty and stuck to his wrists. Kazan turned his head and caught the blur of an old man's cane just before it smashed into his face.

 

[GingeOrCringe]

Day 1, 19:38
Verkhovna Rada Chairman’s Office
Kyiv

“Why aren’t you at the Maidan--are you just a shitty reporter?” Leonid Kuchma had never been a big fan of the press. Freedom of speech of course, of course, but he couldn’t help feeling there was some kind of malintent behind the black and white stories the newspapers printed these days.

He placed a draft-bill on his desk and leaned back in his chair. As Chairman of the Verkhovna Rada, Kuchma enjoyed a slightly larger office than most of the other Peoples’ Deputies. A portable TV was perched on the top of one of the file cabinets, broadcasting the President’s speech.

“A big event like that is too easy to cover--all you have to do is turn on your camera. Now, corruption,” said the journalist, some nobody from Pravda, “that’s a challenge. I like investigations”

“If a court requests my tax returns I’ll give them my tax returns,” He said, addressing an earlier inquiry. His eyes were fixed on the image of the President as if he were trying to dissect him. The Chairman had an igneous personality, a flaring temper almost incapable of repressing negative remarks about political rivals. He remained silent on the subject of Yushchenko.

“I’m requesting your tax returns.”

He let out a genuine laugh. “I’ll give you the card for my financial lawyer, how about that?” He was about to open a desk drawer when he noticed the speech had ended. There was some sort of commotion on screen. He leaned forward in his chair and tapped the volume on the remote.

“Is that blood?” He blinked. Too much blood. “For fucks sake, this is exactly what we need…” He grumbled, getting up from his chair and striding towards his office door. “Get out.” He ordered, motioning with his hand.

As soon as the reporter exited, Kuchma would huddle his staff together. If the President died, then by the specifications of Ukraine’s constitution he would be the successor--at least until an election was held. If he lived but his medical condition prohibited him from fulfilling the duties of the Presidency, then that was also grounds to install an Acting President. Both scenarios would require the approval of the Rada, and there was much to address aside from the matter of who would be Head of State.

Calls would be made and answered. A mass email to the Peoples’ Deputies would announce an emergency session of parliament to take place the following morning at 11:30AM. With all the aids and staff rushing around within the Rada, one might have thought it was on fire. But it would be alright, thought Kuchma with a high degree of comfort. Chaos was his element.

Day 2, 02:16
Olyksander Hospital
Kyiv

They found a mess when they cut him open. The bullet had splintered Yushenko’s second rib like a twig of kindling, creating sharp slivers of bone. After punching a hole through the president’s right lung, the full metal jacket lodged itself in the posterior of the second rib. Silver lining: no exit wound meant one less place to bleed from. Still, the medical staff at Olyksander Hospital spent six and a half hours fixing him.

“He might not wake up for a while,” the head surgeon explained to Chief of Staff Horbulin, Press Secretary Boyko , and Mrs. Yushchenko. Seeing the look on the First Lady’s face he quickly specified, “a few hours. He’s on quite a few painkillers and will need rest.” He handed her and Horbulin both a file detailing the operation.

A brief press statement would be given by Secretary Boyko. “The President is in stable condition, and we expect him to improve in the coming days. This is thanks to the tireless work of Dr. Glazkov and the dedicated staff at Olyksander Hospital. The President would also like to thank the countless Ukrainians who gave blood this holiday season. Your selfless donations can be credited not only with helping to save the President’s life, but the lives of countless others requiring surgeries or transfusions. This priceless gift of life is one which the Yushchenko administration will forever strive to repay.”

Meanwhile, Horbulin would call on a private and encrypted line to convey the president’s condition to the Cabinet of Ministers, then to Chairman Kuchma. “There’s no need for a vote,” he firmly underscored. “The President doesn’t wish for one to take place.”

Kuchma had not left the Rada building in over 17 hours. He had been taking a nap on the couch in his office when an aid woke him for the call. “I already called for the emergency session. If an Acting President isn’t needed then the Rada will voice that with their votes. I’d prefer for things to go back to normal. Less work for me. But, personally, I don’t believe Mr. Yushchenko is going to be of much use doped up on a bunch of morphine for several weeks.”

“He’s not going to be doped up on morphine,” Horbulin snapped.

“He just got shot...”

“He’ll be fine!”

Kuchma chuckled to himself.

“What?”

“They said that a lot when I worked at Baikonur. You sounded very Soviet.”

Horbulin would spit a few choice words before snapping his phone shut to end the call.

Day 2, 08:57
Verkhovna Rada, Kyiv

Overnight a shield wall had risen in front of the Verkhovna Rada. Most of the officers wore balaclavas to protect their faces from the cold. The black fabric matched their dark anti-riot uniforms. Against the backdrop of dove-white marble and fresh snow they looked like a tar slick.

“Excuse me,” a young woman smiled as she approached. With her hair in a crown-braid and a floral shawl draped over her shoulders she looked like a typical Ukrainian woman in winter. She would flash her government ID. “Yulia Tymoshchenko, People’s Deputy and leader of the Fatherland party. You gentlemen aren’t usually on guard here. May I ask what you’re doing?” Her voice was polite, sweet. Several meters away, near the road, a handful of People’s Deputies and a reporter were beginning to congregate. The Police had already turned each of them away from the building.

“We’re protecting Ukraine,” one of them said. A massive brick of a man, he looked past her, not at her.

Yulia offered another small smile. “Of course, that’s what our policemen always do, you work incredibly hard to keep us safe. I will attempt to ensure your own safety via my vote today.” She stepped forward and two of them shoved her back.

“There’s nothing for you to vote on. I advise you to go home, Mrs. Tymoshenko. You may not plan on voting in favor of instating an Acting President, but by agreeing to participate in the vote you’re helping to legitimize Kuchma’s coup.”

Many of the officers, she noted, had sewn a black and red patch onto their uniforms, just under the city-police patch on their shoulders. “Coup...” Repeated Yulia, turning her attention back to the man she assumed was in charge. “Who ordered you to stand out here?”

The officer furrowed his brow, “the Chief of Militsiya of Civil Security, of course.”

“And who--”

“I think you should leave before you get cold,” he interrupted. Then, giving a nod to the other People's Deputies, “So should they. Loitering is not permitted outside the Rada. Lurking about like that is suspicious."

Yulia paused, tight lipped. "I swore an oath to represent Ukrainians in the Rada, just as you’ve all sworn oaths to protect us and uphold our laws. Others might go back on their word, I do not.” She tried not to tense up too much as she took another step forward. The officers would shove her again, as she had expected. She hadn’t anticipated falling to the ground though, and she certainly hadn’t predicted one of the militsiya would crack his baton against the side of her head hard enough to cause a bleed.

"Drop your weapon!" The officer screamed several times, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the street as he continued to bludgeon her.

Yulia lifted her hand in an unsuccessful attempt to stop him from hitting her again. It was at this point that Vitaliy Nazarchuk, a member of the Party of Regions, would rush over. He would drag her away from the police line and onto her feet. Meanwhile, Bohdan Filitov, an independent from Cherkasy Oblast, would position himself between his fellow politicians and the officers. He’d catch a few baton strikes in his shoulder and ribs but dodged a number of them as well.

Within the hour, Ukrainian news channels and websites would broadcast video to the world of the hulking officer battering petite Ms. Tymoshenko. The day was still young.

 

[GingeOrCringe]

Day 2, 10:00
Ministry of Defense Press Room
Kyiv


Minister Kuzmuk would sit down at a table in the Ministry of Defense. Several news agencies, including UkrInform, had been invited to broadcast his speech. He had proudly donned his uniform for the occasion. A weighty ribbon rack on his chest, hefty stars he carried on his shoulders, no journalist could accuse him of being unpatriotic or anti-Ukrainian.

The minister would begin when he was ready, not waiting for the room to quiet. “Today, Ukrainians, we face horrible unrest. I address you at this hour with a plan of action. A plan for stability. We are electing the Ministry of Defense as Ukraine’s Temporary State Leadership. This is a decision we contemplated with great urgency. I will outline the reasons for this elected decision, then explain our plan to return order and peace.”

“First and most obvious is the attempted assassination of President Yushchenko. This was clearly an act of terrorism. The SSU has been incredibly secretive in regards to their investigation of the crime, but any reasonable person should know that this was an attack motivated by the communist ideology. Based on the messages conveyed in systematic vandalism inflicted on Kyiv’s treasured landmarks, we know the goal was not only to instill fear in Ukrainians, but to seize power from our democratically elected Head of State and 'redistribute' it to men sympathetic to the Soviet cause.”

“Ukraine needs emergency leadership while President Yushchenko recovers. The Ministry of Defense is unlike other government organizations in that we are a communist-free institution. After the Symonenko Coup of 1995 ours was the only ministry to undergo complete decommunization. Even the Ministry of Justice, as we saw earlier today, is infested with Neo-Soviets and Russophiles. The Militziya who beat Mrs. Yulia Tymoshenko wore Soviet flags next to their police patches, the SSU Senior Leadership consists of former KDB officers, and the very Spetsnaz who failed to protect President Yushchenko were originally funded by the Russian Federation.”

“To ensure Ukraine’s continued liberty, independence, and prosperity, the Ministry of Defense is announcing a 19:00 to 6:00 curfew--effective immediately for Kyiv and all Oblast Capitals. This curfew will be in effect for the next 20 days unless extended by the Verkhovna Rada. The Rada shall not meet for the next twelve days or until military personnel can verify that the building is secure. Ukraine’s borders will not admit any foreign nationals for the next 20 days. No government officials are permitted to leave the country during this period of time. Finally, the Ministry of Defense will take over the investigations of the assassination attempt, recent police brutality, and misconduct within the SSU and Ministry of Justice as a whole. ”

He would clear his throat and look straight into the camera. “These decisions are not made lightly. I myself was reluctant to agree to them, that is until I heard of the destruction at the National Holodomor Remembrance Museum this morning. There stood one of our most hallowed monuments—the statue of a starving child clutching a stalk of wheat, she represented the millions of lives lost during the Holodomor genocide.” He paused, now turning his gaze to the paper in front of him rather than the camera.

“Today her frail body was found toppled, decapitated, her head stolen. From the rioting communists in Moscow to this cruel destruction of our history, it is clear Ukraine’s citizens are in grave danger. We faced this same threat of extermination not long ago--the Soviets took so much. They will continue to murder and steal if we do not take bold action. In order to protect you, we require this temporary restructuring of governance. By my honor, the red-stained hands of communists and Russophiles shall never again debauch our glorious Motherland. Under my leadership Ukraine shall always be free. Slava Ukraini! Heroiam slava!"

With that, Minister Kuzmuk would rise and leave the room, marching back towards his office. There was so much to do.

"Mister Minister, Sir," said one of a half dozen aids jockeying for his attention. He was holding out a clunky cellphone. "The President is on the line." In a lower tone, "he's upset."

To be expected. He would call back from the comfort and privacy of his office, he assured. The hallway he walked had a wall of windows to one side. On any normal day an individual could expect to see a flutter of blue and wheat-gold on the flagpole just outside. Today there were two banners. The Minister nodded in approval.

 

[GingeOrCringe]

Days 1-2
Prior to 10:15
Donbass Region, Eastern Ukraine

Between the assassination attempt and the end of Minister Kuzmuk’s address, communist protests in the Donbass region had been completely subdued by local militsiya. The demonstration at Donetsk National University had ended when police unleashed dogs and rubber bullets on the crowd. Three students would die from injuries. Six others, who had been considered leaders of the event, were last seen being pulled into unmarked vans. They’d be discovered by a garbage-truck driver in a secluded alley, all shot from behind at close range as they knelt before a wall. An additional four bodies were present--Bronislav Cheban, Oksana Makschak-Kyryenko, Roman Kyryenko, and Vasyl Zhanolsky. Totally unaffiliated with any communist organizations, it seemed they were either picked up by mistake or simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When interviewed, the Donetsk Police Chief was rather disinterested. “We’re working on it,” he said. He repeatedly turned the focus of the press conference towards a supposed development in the Night Stalker case. “We have uncovered new information. While I cannot yet reveal our evidence, I can say without a doubt the killer is an ethnic-Russian man, most likely with communist sympathies. We know the Night Stalker will kill again if he is not caught, so we will be turning the majority of our focus towards this case.” In other words, away from the pile of dead students. “The Militsiya will not rest until this Russian murderer and rapist is caught and the beautiful women of Ukraine are safe. On that you have my word.” Some journalists would note that no killings had been attributed to the Night Stalker in two years, and the Militsiya had never explicitly mentioned rape when discussing the case before.

Meanwhile, in Sieverodonetsk and Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine’s army officers spoke in low tones regarding the MoD’s address. Though full of right-wing nationalists, the ground forces seemed to be digging their heels in, stalling to make a decision. So far, no order was issued at either base to begin mobilization for Kyiv.


Day 2, 10:25
Kyiv

Lyudmila, the Defense Minister's cockatoo, was having an industrious day shredding a paper pinata. Upon entering his office, Kuzmuk would stop at the cage to release the bird and remind her what a pretty girl she was.

"Crimea is Ukraine," she squawked, bobbing her head in a little dance.

"A very pretty, very smart girl," the minister doted.

​

The shrill ring of his office phone would interrupt the further praise he had intended to shower upon his darling little creature. Kuzmuk sighed. The only thing he loved as much as Lyudmila was Ukraine, and there was plenty he would have to do to ensure the country's future now that he was Acting Head of State.

"Minister Kuzmuk," said the actual Head of State. Yushchenko would not waste time questioning the security of the line, knowing that both his and the MoD’s phones were encrypted.

"President Yushchenko, I'm surprised to be hearing from you. You should be resting." He could hear the painkillers in the President's drowsy voice. This was not a man fit to be making decisions.

What Yushchenko wanted to say was what the fuck do you think you’re doing? He wasn't sure if it would be more dangerous to allow the MoD to remain in his position or to attempt to force a resignation. "I wanted to thank you,” he slowly began. “I’m pleased with how swiftly your ministry has stepped into action in order to protect Ukraine."

Kuzmuk would take a seat in his plush, leather office chair. Lyudmila had perched on his shoulder and was preening her feathers. “I’m simply following my oath to the nation, as any good Ukrainian should.”

“Yes, I understand. That is why I’m calling. It is not just the MoD’s duty to protect Ukraine, it’s the responsibility of every ministry. The Ministry of Defense shouldn’t shoulder it all. Of course you’re capable of doing so but--”

“You aren’t very pleased with us then?”

Yushchenko would glance across the hospital room at his chief of staff, who had alerted him to Minister Kuzmuk’s recent announcement. “I’m very pleased with your eagerness to address recent unrest. I am not as happy with the lack of communication between our offices.”

“You’ve been unconscious.”

That was true...

"If you would like to appoint someone to temporarily act as president while you recover then by all means do so," continued Kuzmuk. "If not, the Ministry of Defense will elect itself because there is no one else.”

“I can’t appoint an acting president. The Constitution gives that power to the Rada alone-”

“The Rada will appoint a communist. The MoD will not permit a Russian-boot licker like Kuchma to seize power away from the people."

Yushchenko pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired and still couldn't breathe in without a dull pain in his chest. He had his scruples about letting Kuchma take the helm, but he wouldn't call the man a communist--and he wasn't the one taking a piss on the Constitution. "We have written laws, this is how it is done."

"I agree we should follow the Constitution, but the results of the vote wouldn't be fair. I'm sure you've heard the news about the Neo-Soviets outside the Rada intimidating and out-right assaulting representatives?"

He kept calling them communists, but according to People's Deputies who had witnessed the attack on Yulia Tymoshenko it was the red and black flag of the UPA that the Militsiya had been wearing.

Yushchenko wouldn't contradict him. "I see how that could be a problem," He sighed. "Maybe you're right. Kuchma was rather high up in the Soviet regime... I want to entrust Ukraine to people like you while I recover. I know you will protect it, but it's incredibly important that the public remain calm while this transition takes place. We need to discuss how to best assure the people this is in the interest of republicanism. Can we discuss this in person?"

"Of course," the Minister nodded and smiled. "If you are feeling well enough I can be there in an hour." The men then would say their goodbyes.

"Absolute lunatic," muttered Yushchenko as soon as he hung up the phone. "Horbulin, get me Director Radchenko or anyone from the SSU."

At the Ministry of Defence Kuzmuk would lean back in his chair. He could tell the President wasn't taking the communist threat as seriously as he should. "What are we to do with him, Lyudmila? What are we to do with him..."

The bird bobbed her head.

 

[GingeOrCringe]

Day 2, 10:20
Security Service of Ukraine HQ,
Kyiv

“Director Radchenko, I’m hurt you never called.”

The SSU Director stared at the phone receiver. He had six landlines on his desk, all secure. The third line (the one he had just picked up) was only available to three people--the President, the Prime Minister, and the unaccounted for Chairman of the Verkhovna Rada. “Where are you?” He asked, genuinely surprised but never losing the cool tone he was so well known for.

“The UkrSSR’s most luxurious bunker.” Chairman Kuchma said as he glanced around the vault like chambers. Dogfood-grade rations, leaky pipes, and a few naked but functioning light bulbs. Something had gnawed up the phone chords, but they'd managed to repair them after several hours. “I was in my office when the power went out around 2:30 AM. Given recent events we decided to hunker down in the Rada’s bomb shelter. Quite cozy.”

“Your staff are all with you then?”

“All six of us who were working. Now,” he paused. “Does Ukraine still boast a legitimate President?”

The Director would briefly explain the morning’s events but assure him of Yushchenko’s slowly improving condition. “I advise you to stay where you are. We’ll have a Spetsnaz unit retrieve you, but it’s going to take some time. They’ll radio us once they’ve reached the door and then we’ll call you.”

Kuchma would give him the proper phone number, which was written just above the dial pad. “Oh, I’m a patient man. I don’t mind the wait,” he lied. The nation was on fire and he was stuck in a glorified basement, unable to even observe. He felt like a flame beneath a candlesnuff. Kuchma stared at the husk of a Soviet gas mask in his hand. It was cold below the chamber of their Republic.

---

Day 2, 10:53
Olyksander Hospital,
Kyiv

“Director, I was just about to call,” said President Yushchenko. Both men were using secure lines.

“I thought you might be pleased to know the Chairman is in a secure enough location. We’re also about to release new info on the shooting suspect. I wanted to discuss the investigation further in person. We’re rather disturbed by what the evidence is pointing towards, but if you’ve heard Minister Kuzmuk’s address I’m sure you’ve come to the same conclusion.”

“I have a meeting with him in about half an hour. I would like him arrested as soon as he sets foot in this building.”

Radchenko nodded. “I think that would be for the best. All of our Spetsnaz are in Kyiv, I'll send them to help detain him. We also have agents speaking with officers in Operation Command East. It seems they’ve made no preparations for mobilization as the Minister has ordered, but I can’t say they’re enthusiastically against him either.”

“Do we have any information on the threat Svoboda poses? Right now they’re my next greatest concern.” The far right party had been gaining traction in local elections since the Symonenko coup of ‘95. They’d made a splash in the press for themselves vandalizing synagogues and sucker-punching immigrants on evening subway rides. In the group’s own words they were ‘not fascist but radical.’

“one of the suspects we arrested at the Maidan has connections to them, among other nationalist groups.” The director would allow him a moment to process this new information.

“If we--” the President would be interrupted by a knock on the hospital door. Horbulin would enter, a clunky laptop in hand. His short, gray hair was a mess--it looked as if he might have been pulling on it due to stress. On his face was a look of extreme irritation, the kind old men often get when waiting in line to pay a parking ticket.

Yushchenko sighed. “One second,” he said into the phone before turning his attention to his ruffled-up Chief of Staff. “What seems to be the issue?”

“He’s not coming! We received an email two minutes after you got off the phone. Kuzmuk is apparently too busy to discuss the state of the Republic with his President. He’s sending a proxy--one of the deputy ministers is my guess, but the point is he’s not coming.”

Yushchenko would click the speakerphone button. “I assume you heard that?”

Director Radshenko paused. “We could post a sniper...”

“No, no killing.” Like a moth dancing on a web or a drop of blood diffused into the ocean, Ukraine’s distress had the potential to attract all sorts of sharp-toothed creatures. “I don’t want this escalating any further than it already has. We shouldn’t give other countries an excuse to launch a ‘peace keeping mission’ within our borders.”

“Mr. President, I’m very proud of my Spetsnaz and intelligence agents, but... we may need some outside assistance.”

“The Ministry of Foreign Affairs tells me Poland is willing to provide a helping hand. That’s actually where Yanukovych is heading right now,” pipped Horbulin.

There was another knock before the President could respond. A nurse entered the room, lifting a tray of coffee, cream, and sugar. With red eyes and makeup half rubbed off she still managed to give them a small smile. It took a moment for Yushenko to recognize her as the same nurse who had checked his vitals earlier. She had told him she’d voted for him. “I was told you needed coffee?”

“Yes, thank you Nurse Volkova,” he offered her a slight smile in return. Hospital shifts were long, losing patients was hard, there was no need to harass her for not skipping around like a beam of sunshine. She would set the tray on a side table and, after confirming that there was nothing else the President needed, continue on to the next patient.

“Can’t be an easy job,” he mumbled.

“Neither is ours,” said Horbulin, pouring a cup of brew for the president and then himself. It was an exceptionally bitter pot. Yushchenko usually preferred the sharp black taste, but even he opted for a dash of cream.

The conversation with Radchenko would continue until the President’s second phone went off. Like many Ukrainian politicians, he kept two on hand--one for everyday and one for emergencies. Horbulin would take the lesser phone into the hallway and answer for the President. America was calling.