NationStates Jolt Archive


A New Day...

Rhadia
08-06-2004, 10:18
Communist Party Central Committee

St. Petersburg, Rhadia, USSR



"Minister Grishkov, please present your report."

Mikhal Grishkov stood, and took measure of his situation. The other members of the Politburo, men he had known all his adult life, sat in the Central Committee's meeting room as they did every week, discusing how to lead the USSR to glory. But to prosper, a nation needed money; a comodity on short supply these days, and as Minister of Finance, a fact he knew all too well. His report would please no one.

"Comrades, our situation is. . . difficult. As I have said before, our nation needs fresh capital. Our economy is stagnating; exports are down, and at the same time we are forced to rely more and more heavily on other nations to meet our needs. As Minister of Finance, I propose to..."

The Politburo Chairman raised his hand, cutting off the younger man. Yes, we have all heard your speeches before, Mikhal Sergeovich, he thought. Open our markets, invite the capitalists into our beds, and so on. In another time, Grishkov would have been removed from his office for such ideas, but Rhadia had since fallen on hard times; the worst had been avoided by the skills of their Finance Minister, and so the Chairman forgave him of such trivial things. Perhaps the Chairman might even have considered some of Grishkov's ideas; certainly, they would have brought new life to the economy.

But we have seen the results, haven't we, he thought. We have seen that socialism and capitalism can never be married into a working system.

"Minister, we have all heard these arguments before, and the answer is still no. Our people have food and homes; if they must live without the trivial conveniencies of the West, then that is a small price to pay. I know some of you...(Here he paused, giving the Minister of Information a hard look), would have us embrace the West with open arms. But the truth is this; the system that has provided life to the people would never survive. Here, unlike the capitalist nations of the world, there are no homeless, no poor, no starving. It is capitalism that breeds these evils; would you wish those on the people, just to bring them satelite TV and the Internet?"

"Besides, we have other ways of generating the money we need."

The Chairman turned to General Alexi Romanov, Minister of Defense for the United Socialist States of Rhadia. The gruff old soldier stood, his medals flashing in the light, and directed his withering gaze at each of the Ministers before clearing his throat to speak.

"Our nation has, in storage, a rather large quantity of small arms, vehicles, and other equipment that is, to put it kindly, obsolete. My comrades within the Politburo have often suggested that we sell these to serve better purposes, as we have little use for them. I believe that the best time to do so is now. The money that these arms will bring can be used to fund the various projects you all talk about so passionitely."

Not suprisingly, Gen. Romanov's words sparked a fury of quiet comments around the table. For his part, Grishkov was silent, speaking his own thoughts to no one.

Romanov argued for so long against letting those old reserve stocks go; why change his mind now? The things we want would matter little to the Ministry of Defense, at least for now... Grishkov shook his head. Perhaps the General simply sees now that they serve no useful puropse. Most of that equipment was given to us by the Soviets, and dates back to their Great Patriotic War. Or, could it be something else; some pressure being applied to him by..... who?

One voice finally cut through the commotion.

"Who do you plan to sell these to, Comrade General? You speak as though there were buyers waiting in the wings. And what reaction would the UN have to the sudden influx of weapons onto the international market? I cannot imagine it would be... favorable."

All eyes turned to the speaker; Vasha Petyarova, the young Information Minister, who often made it a point to speak what the older, more conservative members of the Politburo would not. Gen. Romanov's eyes narrowed slightly; it was no secret he despised Vasha and the other young members of the Central Committee, whom he regarded as "upstarts".

"The Ministry of Defense has been making inquiries for some time, Vasha Ivanovich. We have identified those buyers most likely to accept our stocks... and our price. As for the international response, let us say that the world will care little if we sell outdated arms to buyers within our soverign territory."

Petyarova leaned forward slowly, his eyes sharp. Clearly, something the General had said caught his attention. Mikhal's own thoughts were running together quickly; Sell to someone within the Union? Who would need those kinds of arms here?

"And exactly who would be buying up such a quantity of arms within our own borders? Considering their age, it would have to be some...."

Vasha trailed off into silence, his face growing pale with dawning understanding.... and horror. Grishkov turned from Petyarova to Gen. Romanov, then back. He too could feel his face growing cold. Certainly he can't mean...

"No.... no, no, no." Vasha shook his head. "Never. I will never..."

"You will agree, Vasha Ivanovich. The preparations are already made."

All now turned to the Chairman. He had risen from his seat, and now began to slowly circle the table. As he passed behind the Information Minister, he stopped, resting his hands on the back of Vasha's chair.

"Our agents have no ties that can be traced back to us. As far as the mujhadeen know, they are local arms merchants sympathetic to their cause. And we have also planned to release some of the arms onto the world market; not enough to spark international curiousity, but enough that the rebels won't suspect that their new rifles are coming from federal arsenals."

Vasha swallowed audibly, speaking to the Chairman without turning.

"What happens when the mujhadeen decide that, with their new weapons, they should start fighting again? My God, General, your sons are..."

"My sons are soldiers of the Union, Information Minister. They will do their duty, as we all must."

The Chairman finished his trip around the table, coming back to his seat. He gave the assembly a final look before calling for a vote. The Ministers of Agriculture, Energy, and Internal Affairs raised their hands immediately. Ah, thought Mikhal. You have been planning this for some time, Mr. Chairman. The other Ministers cast their votes after some hesitation, and no doubt deep personal conflict.

Finally, only the Ministries of Finance and Information remained. Mikhal understood that to refuse to follow the will of the majority (Which is no more than the will of the Chairman, he thought) would end his future with the Communist Party. He could not work to better the country without a position in the Central Committee, and there were other, far less capable men who would be all too eager to take his place. Mikhal closed his eyes, offered up a brief prayer, and raised his hand.

Vasha, sitting alone now, slowly took it all in. He looked into the eyes of each man sitting around him; one by one, they met his gaze, then quickly glanced away. At last he came to the Chairman. He looked into his eyes a long time, and it was Vasha who had to look away. A single tear slid down his cheek, but he raised his hand. The Chairman smiled, but his eyes remained cold. He turned to Gen. Romanov.

"Do it."
Rhadia
08-06-2004, 16:09
Later...

Mikhal stood outside the Communist Party building in Red Square, trying to light a cigarette with hands that would not stop shaking. The chill autumn air couldn't penetrate his heavy winter coat, but he was cold none the less. He was so engrossed with the task, he didn't notice the Minister of Agriculture stop beside him.

"Here, permit me, Comrade."

Mikhal dragged deeply on the cigarette, which did little to calm his nerves. The two men stood in silence for a long time, watching the few people still out on the street. Grishkov studied the much older man beside him. Nicola Simonyova had been Minister of Agriculture for over a decade, and was coming to the end of his tenure on the Politburo. Strange that he should side with Gen. Romanov and the Chairman, Grishkov thought. What do you have to gain, old man? You cannot sit another term in the Politburo, so what is it?

"You wonder what I stand to gain from all this, don't you, Mikhal Sergeovich? I know why you agreed to all this, even if you disagree with it so strongly. Vasha, too; you're both young, and have your entire lives ahead of you. But what can an old man like me, whose fire is going out, what can I possibly rationalize such a choice with?"

Grishkov couldn't help but smile; he sometimes wondered if old Nicola couldn't hear his thoughts. Or is it, he thought, that he understands you so well? Nicola reached down, removing the cigarette from Mikhal's hand with dexterity well hidden by his gnarled fingers. He inhaled deeply, then let the smoke out in a cloud that momentarily hid his face.

"Let's just say that there are other things that could be taken from me... I half believed they would never go through with such a plan; it's insane, no? To supply rebels within our own border with weapons, when it might encourage them to rise up against us again? Just.... insane."

Nicola shook his head, making a disgusted sound as he tossed the spent butt away.

"Did I ever tell you, Mikhal Sergeovich, that my father was a Hero of the Soviet Union? He was an officer in the Soviet Army, during their Great Patriotic War. And my son, and my two grandsons, serve with distinction in our own Army? His youngest, Valentin Dimetrovich, is an officer in the Air Rifle Division; a very hansome young man. His mother says he looks like me." Nicola smiled. "He will, of course, be one of the first to go if the mujhadeen renew their war against us. And he will go, and possibly die, never knowing that I, I sent him there. Oh Mikhal, I wish I had never lived to see such days..."

Grishkov was speechless. He'd never known these things about the man next to him. What could have persuaded you to chose what you did, with so much at stake? He rested his hand on Nicola's shoulder, and was not really suprised to feel it trembling. He let the old man weep silently for a moment, then squeezed his shoulder and walked slowly down the steps. He knew his life would never be the same again...
Iansisle
08-06-2004, 18:25
Iansisle
08-06-2004, 18:25
(([/tag] - you haven't lost your touch at all!))
Rhadia
09-06-2004, 07:51
OOC: Thanks for the vote of confidence! It's been a while.

Kaitout, Republic of Tirjkia
Two weeks later...

Omar smiled as the first T-54 rolled off the train. He had spent nearly two hours in prayer that morning, thanking God that he had seen fit to bless him with these new weapons. His old friend Mishari had always impressed him with his ability to deliver rare and much-needed items to the mujhadeen, but he had truly outdone himself with this. Two... three.... four new tanks emerged from the rail car and started off down the street. Further up the line, crates of Soviet SKS rifles, hand grenades, and ammunition were being carried out and distributed to his countrymen. A few weeks ago, most had been armed with old French Lebel rifles, nearly 70 years old. Truly, God is with us, he thought.
Omar walked down the long line of cars, waving to the men working to unload them. Everyone was smiling today, where before there had been little to be glad for. With these, and the grace of God, we can throw off the yoke of the infidels and be truly free. Omar had been fighting the Communists all his life, had been brought up on stories of the Kingdom of Tirjkia, and how the Rhadians had come, deposing the Sultan and crushing their army. Now, he and the men who still fought hid, striking quickly and fleeing into the hills and mountains, where the Communists and their fearsome armored regiments couldn't follow.
Omar smiled broadly; yes, today was a good day, indeed...
Nova Hope
09-06-2004, 09:04
tag, may I'll contribute later. We'll see
The O Faolains
09-06-2004, 09:49
OOC: its a great storyline, but I can't see where the rest of us fit in.
Rhadia
09-06-2004, 11:24
[Click]

[Voice 1]: Thank you for calling Tirjik Air Freight. How may I help you?

[Voice 2]: I have a shipment of orchids I need delivered to a buyer in St. Petersburg. Can you help me?

[Voice 1]: One moment, please.

[Silence....]

[Voice 3]: Good evening, Mishari. I trust everything went as planned.

[Voice 2]: Indeed it did, Comrade. Omar couldn't wait to get his hands on those rifles.

[Voice 3]: Good, good. And the money?

[Voice 2]: Wired to the accounts you specified, minus a small fee for myself, of course.

[Voice 3]: Of course, Comrade. It's only fair that you be rewarded for a job well done. You can also tell your buyers that more weapons will be available in the near future, if they want them.

[Voice 2]: They will want them, Comrade. The mujhadeen are desparate for arms, and have plenty of money from their Arab supporters. They will pay. [Pause] They will also wonder where these arms are coming from. Omar and his friends have asked for much of this equipment before; they will be curious how I am able to supply it now.

[Voice 3]: Tell them it is surplus Soviet equipment from bases in Central Asia. That should satisfy their curiousity.

[Voice 2]: Indeed, Comrade.

[Voice 3]: And Mishari, be sure and contact me as soon as the mujhadeen move out; they will be anxious to test their newfound strength.

[Click]