- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,214
The cabin of the President’s Plane was dimly lit, with a quiet tension hanging in the air. President Boris Boris sat in his seat, reviewing briefing papers, while his daughters, Zhanna and Sofia Nemtsova, sat across from him, with Zhanna sipping tea as she gazed out the window and Sofia read a book. The steady hum of the engines permeated through the cabin as a stewardess placed a cup of mint tea in front of Boris.
"You know, it wasn’t always like this," Boris said quietly, without looking up from his papers as he read the latest news from the Washington Post.
Zhanna turned to him. "What wasn’t?"
"America," Boris replied, leaning back and folding his hands as he put the paper down. "The Cold War. Back then, the idea of a Russian president flying in for the inauguration of an American president would've been... unimaginable." He paused for a moment, his eyes distant. "I’m not sure if that makes me proud or worried."
"Can't it be both?" Zhanna asked, smirking.
"It usually is," Boris said, smiling faintly.
Zhanna studied her father for a moment, sensing the weight of the thoughts occupying his mind. "What's bothering you, Dad? Is it him? President-elect Sinclair?"
"No," Boris admitted, sighing. "It is the alternative vision that some Americans wanted. A former military officer, brilliant, fiercely nationalistic. Everyone’s touting his presidency as a new chapter for America, but I can’t shake the feeling that if he had won we wouldn’t be flying to America nor would we be celebrating."
He looked out the window, his voice becoming softer. "And there’s history. You know that the American public has never truly seen Russia as a friend. They’ve either seen it as an enemy or a backwards place. All that we are putting our faith in is President-elect Sinclair.
"And what do you say?" Zhanna asked
"Every man is the blacksmith of his own happiness," Boris answered, his gaze still fixed on Poland that was below them.
Zhanna leaned forward, speaking with a candor to her father. "Is that what is really bothering you? Or are you worried about something closer to home?” She asked while looking at the newspaper of her father’s declining approval ratings.
Boris thought about it for a long moment before turning to his daughter. "I trust that he’ll do what he thinks is right for America. What I don’t know is whether what’s right for America is going to be right for the world. Americans are not hard to read. He presents himself as the spirit of America, but the forces around him may try to guide him elsewhere.
Zhanna listened intently to her father’s voice. "I’ve spent my entire presidency trying to bring us closer to a world where we don’t have to wonder if our neighbors are preparing for war. But when I look at the world today... I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if all I’ve done is make Russia weak. A peaceful inauguration will be a good change of scenery. However the battle is yet to be fought for the future of the global order. I don’t know if I am the right person for that battle.”
"Father.” Sofia said interjecting her sister. “You made a promise to the Russian people. You’d fight for democracy and human rights and against corruption and the oligarchy. Our leaders have spent too long thinking about the world. I voted for you because you promised to think about the Russian people. To hell if that order falls apart. You’re the President of the Russian people.
Boris chuckled, rubbing his eyes. "I appreciate that Sofka, I do.
A brief silence passed between them all, filled with the soft hum of the engines. Zhanna shifted, her voice softening as she ventured into a more personal subject. "You know, Mom would've loved this trip."
"She would’ve hated the cold," Boris said, and they all laughed. ”But her duties called her elsewhere.” Boris continued, his voice tinged with a hint of respect. "She never forgot those vows. To her family, to me, or to her work."
Sofia looked at her father and sister before adding, “And you should not forget your father. To us, to mom, or to the Russian people. Even now. Forget those damn presstitutes and their liars in the media."
Boris turned his head slightly, meeting his daughter’s gaze. For a brief moment, the formidable president gave way to the father, touched by the reassurance in her words. "I’m trying," he said softly. "But sometimes I wonder if history’s already made its decisions, and I’ll just be swept aside."
Zhanna leaned back, considering his words. "Maybe. Or maybe it has yet to choose.” Boris smiled, as he took another sip from his tea. There was a knock on the door, Grigorij Mirov, the head of his security detail entered.
Grigorij stepped forward, "Forgive me, sir. Ma’ams” Grischa said with a nod to the two daughters of the President.
Nemtsov’s gaze flickered toward him. "Grischa not at all. Please come in. Come in.”
Grigorij took a seat in front of the President. “Thank you sir. I must ask to speak in private of course. If you don’t mind, sir."
"Not at all.” Boris said giving both his daughter a kiss on the forehead as they went to their own seats outside the plane. “What do you have for me, Grigorij?" Boris asked.
Grischa clasped his hands in front of him. "Your itinerary has been cleared with the Secret Service. The visit to Boston will go as planned. Security around the campus has been doubled—our current intelligence suggests no immediate threat there. We’ve spoken with the Secret Service and they’ve also conducted an intelligence analysis on the threat. Rest assured we’re taking this very seriously."
"I’m sure the biggest threat will be a few college students who think Russia is the harbinger of death and destruction," Boris said as a joke chuckling to himself. “A few anti-Russian protestors here and there.”
"All the threats are being monitored, of course," Grigorij cut in, his tone steely. "The Secret Service has put a few people on our radar but our advance team has not produced any results of concern. We do not believe they are planning something, however I wanted to keep you in the loop on something.”
The President’s eyes darkened. "What sort of 'something'?"
Grigorij gave a slight tilt of his head. "There are some Chechen radicals in America that have found sympathizers in the United States. We believe they have been given refuge, and are leveraging the freedoms afforded by American soil to rebuild their networks. There is no concern at the moment and I don’t want you to stress out. Of course
The President sat up straight, his hands pressing into the desk. "And what does Washington know?"
"Officially? They’ve said that there are semi-credible threats and they are watching something," Grigorij said. "Unofficially, I suspect they are aware but hesitant to act. It’ll look bad if the Secret Service arrests a bunch of Chechens and it looks like they’re doing it at our behest.
Boris nodded as he took in what Grischa was saying. "And your recommendation?"
"We are remaining vigilant. However I do ask you to stick with our adjustments. We’d rather not leave you exposed. The Ku Klux Klan and neo-Nazis are an active threat. People may be armed in public and gun violence is a daily reality. New England is rather safer but it’ll be important to maintain tight security in Florida." Grigorij replied, his voice low but firm.
Boris stared at Grigorij for a long moment, before nodding his voice heavy with finality. "I trust you Grischa. Keep me in the loop. I’ll deal with my daughters.”
Grigorij bowed his head slightly. "Yes sir.” Before he left he turned his head and handed him a file. “I thought you’d find this funny sir." He said handing him a secured secret service file. Boris looked at the paper and laughed.
Alex Jones, American political commentator, wrote: “President Nemstov is actually an intergalactic space reptile and he shouldn't be allowed into the United States”.
After what felt like only a few hours there was a knock on the door. Dimitry Smirnoff, Nemtsov’s Chief of Staff, entered the room with a clipboard in hand.
"Mr. President, we’re about 40 minutes out. The Ambassador will be waiting on the tarmac," Dimitry informed him.
"Thank you, Dima," Boris said with a nod as he wiped his face with a towel. As Dima turned to leave, Boris called after him. "Dima, you’ve read up on Sinclair. What are your thoughts?"
Dima paused, considering the question before responding in his usual straightforward manner. "He’s smart. He Is disciplined. But he’s got a lot of people pulling at him. It’ll be difficult to unite the American people in this climate. An assassination attempt on his predecessor, both the left and right angry that they got a watered down alternative, and more importantly congress." Dima said before adding on to his thoughts. “He has a tough battle ahead of him. That is for sure. But, he is smart on his feet, he stepped up to a national challenge, and he's a career politician. He’s better than the alternative even if others think otherwise." Dimitry said remembering what Mili had told him back in the Kremlin.
Boris nodded. "That’s what worries me."
Dima stepped closer, lowering his voice. "He’s not an ideologue. That’s a good thing. He doesn’t want chaos, but he’ll do whatever puts America first. Sometimes that’ll conflict with what we want. He's going to do whatever keeps the country stable in his view. That might not always align with our goals."
Boris looked at Dima seeking an answer. "So where do you think this is going?"
Dima shrugged slightly, "Hard to say. It is a good opportunity to get a feel of him and set a good interpersonal relationship. If we’re ever on a collision course that relationship will be important.”
"I don’t like guessing," Boris said, his voice edged with frustration.
Dima smiled faintly, his tone softening. "That’s why you brought me, sir. I do the guessing so you don’t have to."
"Do we have a strategy?" Boris asked, more out of habit than necessity wanting to know how to deal with the Americans.
"We keep it simple," Dima replied. "Respectful but firm. Acknowledge the importance of the moment but remind him that the world’s watching. Subtle pressure. Let him know we’re here to be partners but there is a cost to continued American exceptionalism."
Boris rubbed his eyes, the weight of the presidency pressing heavily on him. "Sometimes I feel like a man walking a tightrope between the past and the future. And all I can do is hope I won’t fall."
Dima gave him a reassuring look. "And we’ll be there to catch you if you do."
Boris met his gaze, appreciating Dima’s steady hand at his side. "For now, that’s the best we can hope for."
The cold Boston air whipped across the tarmac at Logan International Airport as a convoy of black SUVs, escorted by local police, positioned themselves near the arrival terminal. The sun was just beginning to rise when the radio crackled: “Russian Air Force One, approaching.” Security had been in place for hours; the U.S. Secret Service had coordinated extensively with the Russian Federal Protective Service (FSO) to secure the area, closing off roads and establishing a tight perimeter around the airport. Snipers were stationed on nearby rooftops, scanning the horizon, while tactical units patrolled discreetly, ready to respond to any threat. Boston police, alongside FBI agents, stood at key positions to ensure no unauthorized personnel approached the restricted zones.
Moments later, the sleek silhouette of the Russian Il-96 aircraft appeared in the distance, escorted by air support, as the FAA had temporarily restricted airspace over Boston. As the plane taxied to a halt, a team of Secret Service agents moved into position, checking for potential threats. Russian embassy staff stood ready, and a senior State Department official were already walking toward the aircraft door, waiting to greet President Nemtsov.
Once the Russian President descended the steps, his armored motorcade, previously flown in on An-124 Ruslan cargo planes, awaited him. The vehicles were equipped with advanced countermeasures, the President’s blood type, and other necessary equipment for the President’s trip. Local law enforcement had shut down the motorcade route, and all traffic was rerouted to ensure a smooth journey to the President’s accommodations at the Prentiss House.
President Nemtsov and his family descended the stairs of Air Force One and greeted the American and Russian officials waiting on the tarmac. After a few brief moments captured by television crews the Russian President and his family entered their vehicles. Helicopters hovered overhead, providing real-time surveillance, while officers on the ground cleared the path.
As the motorcade sped through Boston’s empty streets, all eyes were on the sky and the streets below. Tactical units, trained for rapid response, were positioned at key points along the route. U.S. and Russian security agents remained in constant communication, coordinating movements and ensuring everything was proceeding as planned.
By the time the convoy reached Prentiss House, Secret Service agents stood watch alongside FSO operatives with the entire neighborhood block under watch. Evacuation routes had been pre-planned, with contingencies for medical emergencies and sudden threats in place. The city was calm, but for those in the know, the layers of security were as dense and impenetrable as they could be, ensuring the Russian President’s safety during his visit.
"You know, it wasn’t always like this," Boris said quietly, without looking up from his papers as he read the latest news from the Washington Post.
Zhanna turned to him. "What wasn’t?"
"America," Boris replied, leaning back and folding his hands as he put the paper down. "The Cold War. Back then, the idea of a Russian president flying in for the inauguration of an American president would've been... unimaginable." He paused for a moment, his eyes distant. "I’m not sure if that makes me proud or worried."
"Can't it be both?" Zhanna asked, smirking.
"It usually is," Boris said, smiling faintly.
Zhanna studied her father for a moment, sensing the weight of the thoughts occupying his mind. "What's bothering you, Dad? Is it him? President-elect Sinclair?"
"No," Boris admitted, sighing. "It is the alternative vision that some Americans wanted. A former military officer, brilliant, fiercely nationalistic. Everyone’s touting his presidency as a new chapter for America, but I can’t shake the feeling that if he had won we wouldn’t be flying to America nor would we be celebrating."
He looked out the window, his voice becoming softer. "And there’s history. You know that the American public has never truly seen Russia as a friend. They’ve either seen it as an enemy or a backwards place. All that we are putting our faith in is President-elect Sinclair.
"And what do you say?" Zhanna asked
"Every man is the blacksmith of his own happiness," Boris answered, his gaze still fixed on Poland that was below them.
Zhanna leaned forward, speaking with a candor to her father. "Is that what is really bothering you? Or are you worried about something closer to home?” She asked while looking at the newspaper of her father’s declining approval ratings.
Boris thought about it for a long moment before turning to his daughter. "I trust that he’ll do what he thinks is right for America. What I don’t know is whether what’s right for America is going to be right for the world. Americans are not hard to read. He presents himself as the spirit of America, but the forces around him may try to guide him elsewhere.
Zhanna listened intently to her father’s voice. "I’ve spent my entire presidency trying to bring us closer to a world where we don’t have to wonder if our neighbors are preparing for war. But when I look at the world today... I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if all I’ve done is make Russia weak. A peaceful inauguration will be a good change of scenery. However the battle is yet to be fought for the future of the global order. I don’t know if I am the right person for that battle.”
"Father.” Sofia said interjecting her sister. “You made a promise to the Russian people. You’d fight for democracy and human rights and against corruption and the oligarchy. Our leaders have spent too long thinking about the world. I voted for you because you promised to think about the Russian people. To hell if that order falls apart. You’re the President of the Russian people.
Boris chuckled, rubbing his eyes. "I appreciate that Sofka, I do.
A brief silence passed between them all, filled with the soft hum of the engines. Zhanna shifted, her voice softening as she ventured into a more personal subject. "You know, Mom would've loved this trip."
"She would’ve hated the cold," Boris said, and they all laughed. ”But her duties called her elsewhere.” Boris continued, his voice tinged with a hint of respect. "She never forgot those vows. To her family, to me, or to her work."
Sofia looked at her father and sister before adding, “And you should not forget your father. To us, to mom, or to the Russian people. Even now. Forget those damn presstitutes and their liars in the media."
Boris turned his head slightly, meeting his daughter’s gaze. For a brief moment, the formidable president gave way to the father, touched by the reassurance in her words. "I’m trying," he said softly. "But sometimes I wonder if history’s already made its decisions, and I’ll just be swept aside."
Zhanna leaned back, considering his words. "Maybe. Or maybe it has yet to choose.” Boris smiled, as he took another sip from his tea. There was a knock on the door, Grigorij Mirov, the head of his security detail entered.
Grigorij stepped forward, "Forgive me, sir. Ma’ams” Grischa said with a nod to the two daughters of the President.
Nemtsov’s gaze flickered toward him. "Grischa not at all. Please come in. Come in.”
Grigorij took a seat in front of the President. “Thank you sir. I must ask to speak in private of course. If you don’t mind, sir."
"Not at all.” Boris said giving both his daughter a kiss on the forehead as they went to their own seats outside the plane. “What do you have for me, Grigorij?" Boris asked.
Grischa clasped his hands in front of him. "Your itinerary has been cleared with the Secret Service. The visit to Boston will go as planned. Security around the campus has been doubled—our current intelligence suggests no immediate threat there. We’ve spoken with the Secret Service and they’ve also conducted an intelligence analysis on the threat. Rest assured we’re taking this very seriously."
"I’m sure the biggest threat will be a few college students who think Russia is the harbinger of death and destruction," Boris said as a joke chuckling to himself. “A few anti-Russian protestors here and there.”
"All the threats are being monitored, of course," Grigorij cut in, his tone steely. "The Secret Service has put a few people on our radar but our advance team has not produced any results of concern. We do not believe they are planning something, however I wanted to keep you in the loop on something.”
The President’s eyes darkened. "What sort of 'something'?"
Grigorij gave a slight tilt of his head. "There are some Chechen radicals in America that have found sympathizers in the United States. We believe they have been given refuge, and are leveraging the freedoms afforded by American soil to rebuild their networks. There is no concern at the moment and I don’t want you to stress out. Of course
The President sat up straight, his hands pressing into the desk. "And what does Washington know?"
"Officially? They’ve said that there are semi-credible threats and they are watching something," Grigorij said. "Unofficially, I suspect they are aware but hesitant to act. It’ll look bad if the Secret Service arrests a bunch of Chechens and it looks like they’re doing it at our behest.
Boris nodded as he took in what Grischa was saying. "And your recommendation?"
"We are remaining vigilant. However I do ask you to stick with our adjustments. We’d rather not leave you exposed. The Ku Klux Klan and neo-Nazis are an active threat. People may be armed in public and gun violence is a daily reality. New England is rather safer but it’ll be important to maintain tight security in Florida." Grigorij replied, his voice low but firm.
Boris stared at Grigorij for a long moment, before nodding his voice heavy with finality. "I trust you Grischa. Keep me in the loop. I’ll deal with my daughters.”
Grigorij bowed his head slightly. "Yes sir.” Before he left he turned his head and handed him a file. “I thought you’d find this funny sir." He said handing him a secured secret service file. Boris looked at the paper and laughed.
Alex Jones, American political commentator, wrote: “President Nemstov is actually an intergalactic space reptile and he shouldn't be allowed into the United States”.
After what felt like only a few hours there was a knock on the door. Dimitry Smirnoff, Nemtsov’s Chief of Staff, entered the room with a clipboard in hand.
"Mr. President, we’re about 40 minutes out. The Ambassador will be waiting on the tarmac," Dimitry informed him.
"Thank you, Dima," Boris said with a nod as he wiped his face with a towel. As Dima turned to leave, Boris called after him. "Dima, you’ve read up on Sinclair. What are your thoughts?"
Dima paused, considering the question before responding in his usual straightforward manner. "He’s smart. He Is disciplined. But he’s got a lot of people pulling at him. It’ll be difficult to unite the American people in this climate. An assassination attempt on his predecessor, both the left and right angry that they got a watered down alternative, and more importantly congress." Dima said before adding on to his thoughts. “He has a tough battle ahead of him. That is for sure. But, he is smart on his feet, he stepped up to a national challenge, and he's a career politician. He’s better than the alternative even if others think otherwise." Dimitry said remembering what Mili had told him back in the Kremlin.
Boris nodded. "That’s what worries me."
Dima stepped closer, lowering his voice. "He’s not an ideologue. That’s a good thing. He doesn’t want chaos, but he’ll do whatever puts America first. Sometimes that’ll conflict with what we want. He's going to do whatever keeps the country stable in his view. That might not always align with our goals."
Boris looked at Dima seeking an answer. "So where do you think this is going?"
Dima shrugged slightly, "Hard to say. It is a good opportunity to get a feel of him and set a good interpersonal relationship. If we’re ever on a collision course that relationship will be important.”
"I don’t like guessing," Boris said, his voice edged with frustration.
Dima smiled faintly, his tone softening. "That’s why you brought me, sir. I do the guessing so you don’t have to."
"Do we have a strategy?" Boris asked, more out of habit than necessity wanting to know how to deal with the Americans.
"We keep it simple," Dima replied. "Respectful but firm. Acknowledge the importance of the moment but remind him that the world’s watching. Subtle pressure. Let him know we’re here to be partners but there is a cost to continued American exceptionalism."
Boris rubbed his eyes, the weight of the presidency pressing heavily on him. "Sometimes I feel like a man walking a tightrope between the past and the future. And all I can do is hope I won’t fall."
Dima gave him a reassuring look. "And we’ll be there to catch you if you do."
Boris met his gaze, appreciating Dima’s steady hand at his side. "For now, that’s the best we can hope for."
The cold Boston air whipped across the tarmac at Logan International Airport as a convoy of black SUVs, escorted by local police, positioned themselves near the arrival terminal. The sun was just beginning to rise when the radio crackled: “Russian Air Force One, approaching.” Security had been in place for hours; the U.S. Secret Service had coordinated extensively with the Russian Federal Protective Service (FSO) to secure the area, closing off roads and establishing a tight perimeter around the airport. Snipers were stationed on nearby rooftops, scanning the horizon, while tactical units patrolled discreetly, ready to respond to any threat. Boston police, alongside FBI agents, stood at key positions to ensure no unauthorized personnel approached the restricted zones.
Moments later, the sleek silhouette of the Russian Il-96 aircraft appeared in the distance, escorted by air support, as the FAA had temporarily restricted airspace over Boston. As the plane taxied to a halt, a team of Secret Service agents moved into position, checking for potential threats. Russian embassy staff stood ready, and a senior State Department official were already walking toward the aircraft door, waiting to greet President Nemtsov.
Once the Russian President descended the steps, his armored motorcade, previously flown in on An-124 Ruslan cargo planes, awaited him. The vehicles were equipped with advanced countermeasures, the President’s blood type, and other necessary equipment for the President’s trip. Local law enforcement had shut down the motorcade route, and all traffic was rerouted to ensure a smooth journey to the President’s accommodations at the Prentiss House.
President Nemtsov and his family descended the stairs of Air Force One and greeted the American and Russian officials waiting on the tarmac. After a few brief moments captured by television crews the Russian President and his family entered their vehicles. Helicopters hovered overhead, providing real-time surveillance, while officers on the ground cleared the path.
As the motorcade sped through Boston’s empty streets, all eyes were on the sky and the streets below. Tactical units, trained for rapid response, were positioned at key points along the route. U.S. and Russian security agents remained in constant communication, coordinating movements and ensuring everything was proceeding as planned.
By the time the convoy reached Prentiss House, Secret Service agents stood watch alongside FSO operatives with the entire neighborhood block under watch. Evacuation routes had been pre-planned, with contingencies for medical emergencies and sudden threats in place. The city was calm, but for those in the know, the layers of security were as dense and impenetrable as they could be, ensuring the Russian President’s safety during his visit.