Chapter Sixteen: The Small General From Russia

Thursday, July 29, 2100

The nuclear wars of 2045 and the ensuing economic collapse had devastated much of the world. A century of tsunami-like technological advance became a trickle. Hunger and disease became the norm for much of the world, including United Korea. Russia and Japan marched into the Korean Peninsula with humanitarian aid and helped rebuild the country.

They never left.

In 2091, after forty-six years of cold war, a surprise attack by Japan from the south caught Russian troops in the north off guard. The Japanese surged forward until the Russians made a stand near the Russian-Korean border. With the close proximity of Japan and Russia, the world held its breath as the two slugged it out for seven days.

The crisis seemed to end when Russian troops, faced with the better-armed and seemingly unstoppable Japanese army, retreated back into Russia to the north. Japanese troops pursued, cornering the Russians in the Khrebet Sikhote-alin Mountains. With the Japanese army on one side and the Japanese fleet on the other in the Sea of Japan, the Russian army of 200,000 looked doomed.

Nuclear weapons had been outlawed in 2051, yet most believed that the major world powers, including Russia, had secret reserves to be used as a last resort. If there ever was a time for their use, this was it.

Faced with an impossible situation, General Tarasov called a staff meeting, and announced they had no choice but to surrender their army. In a scene memorialized in the hit 2097 movie Never Surrender, General Feodora Zubkov shot and killed Tarasov as he sat at the head of the staff table. Though she was only fourth in command, she took Tarasov’s spot at the head of the table. No one protested.

Some thought she would order a nuclear attack. Instead, the diminutive Zubkov ordered an attack down the western side of the mountain against the Japanese army. Under cover of smoke, the troops crept down the mountainside, looking to catch the Japanese by surprise. However, the smoke was too thin, and the Japanese saw them coming. Troops from the south and north converged and devastated the 20,000 Russian troops.

The other 180,000 troops, undetected in the forested mountaintop, had marched north. They broke through thinner Japanese lines into neutral China, marched north around Lake Khanka and into the Changbai Mountains, and caught the Japanese from behind. Two weeks later they reached the 38th parallel, and Korea was once again split in two at the historic divide between North and South. The “Miracle at Khrebet” turned Feodora Zubkov into an international celebrity.

With the huge Russian and Japanese armies facing each other across the divide, with China furious about the Russian incursion on their territory and amassing its own huge army on the China-North Korea border—but not sure what to do with it—and with the Korean people angry at all their neighbors, Feodora thought it amazing that anyone was still alive after nine years.

Now Feodora sat at another conference table, this time with ambassadors and their aides from Russia, Japan and China, with that ignoramus Vice President Persson as mediator. She knew the Korean International Sovereignty Summit was futile, with the participants unlikely to “KISS” and make up. She chuckled at her joke at the summit’s acronym. And yet, she thought, there was some argument that talking was better than shooting. Or was it? At least the latter got things done.

A fist-width short of five feet tall, she had to crane her perpetually aching neck to look up at the towering Indian Swede as he spoke down to the representatives in pointless diplomatic talk in the west wing of the United Nations Building, The Bubble, home to the world’s executive branch and the Red Room. Two of her aides sat next to her.

Feodora secretly liked the nickname the Russians had for her: “Horse.” She knew she was ugly. Besides, it was better than what the Japanese called her, the “Mountain Monster.” Now a middle-aged 64 years-old with pure gray hair and matching eyes, every morning she still did her two-mile run and one hundred pushups and sit-ups. She’d gained a pound since her army years, and resented it.

Now an “elder stateswoman,” her job was to show that the talks were meaningful, even if they were not. As the Russian Ambassador and tactician, she understood that when faced with an intractable problem, her purpose wasn’t to find a meaningful solution, but to put off any resolution so that nobody started shooting. As a grubber’s online column had famously coined, “experiencialmismeaningfulness” at its best and worst.

She remained convinced the Japanese and Chinese had secret attack plans, which would make all this talk meaningless. She’d rather be in Russia, with the other generals, planning out endless counter-attack scenarios. She was certain it was just a matter of time before there’d be a simultaneous attack from China through the Korean Bay, and from Japan at Tongjoson-Man. Or perhaps the Japanese would surprise them with an attack through Haeju. She had plans in her mind for every Russian platoon for every conceivable attack. Unfortunately, she was no longer the general in charge; she’d been promoted to “ambassador.”

Unspoken at the conference was the growing movement in Russia to declare the entire Russian Federation—made up of Russia and fourteen countries near its borders, plus Cuba—as one united country, like the old USSR that had fallen 109 years before. There were even a few supercentenarians still alive from that era. If only the USSR had governed well, who knows what they might have been? There was also the call to add North Korea to the Federation, which she knew went over in China and Japan like a rotting kangaroo carcass in this world of pansy vegetarians.

The conference was turning into the dreariest part of her life, with no end in sight.

“So,” Persson said, “in principle, Russia would agree to pull out if Japan pulls out?”

“Only if Japan pull out of the northwest Sea of Japan,” Feodora said, as she’d been instructed to do in this subtly planned choreography. “A Japan-free Sea of Japan would be a happy Sea of Japan,” she added, unchoreographed. The Japanese ambassador sat up, an angry look on his face, but didn’t respond.

“China cannot allow that,” said the Chinese Ambassador. “If Japan pulls its fleet, what’s to stop the Russians from moving in?”

“We have no interest in Sea of Japan,” said Feodora, “but need to keep our options open. Is always better to defend against attack that never come than leave one open to attack that does.” It was bad enough defending North Korea from attack, but they also needed to keep a presence to avoid a direct attack on Russia, probably at Vladivostok.

“Japan is willing to relinquish the northwest Sea of Japan,” said the Japanese Ambassador, “but only if we are allowed to keep bases at Pohang and Yosu.”

“That would be violation of Korean sovereignty,” said Feodora, trying not to chuckle outwardly at the irony of holding talks about Korean sovereignty without Korean representatives. “No one wants to violate Korean sovereignty, this is correct?”

Talk about irony, she thought, here we have an actual alien ambassador landing outside this very building, and we’re squabbling about something halfway across the globe that’ll never be resolved in our lifetime unless one side does something unilaterally stupid. She’d spent every waking moment watching the TC newscasts on the alien since the landing two days before. Idiots like Dubois and Duffy made everyone look bad; maybe someday she’d meet Twenty-two and show that not all humans were that stupid. For that audience, she’d even wear her real medals, as heavy and noisy as they were when they jangled about, instead of the holographic version she currently wore over her uniform.

Of course, she also looked forward to finally looking down on a fellow ambassador. She rubbed her aching neck as the towering Persson droned on.

“I will ask President Dubois,” Persson said, “to appoint a sub-committee to look into the issues of Pohang, Yosu, and Korean sovereignty. We will reconvene those specific discussions upon receipt of their report. We will now take a lunch, and reconvene in ninety minutes to discuss the reported ceasefire violations on the island of Paengnyong-do, as reported by the Japanese Ambassador.”

Feodora fled the room, leaving her Russian aides behind. What a waste of time all this was, she thought. She headed for the Meatie-Veg Cafeteria for lunch, wondering if she’d ever get to make another trip to Australia for some real meat.

To get her mind off the silly talks, she contemplated a new strategy for a theoretical invasion of Japan, involving a northern landing at Aomori, followed by a rapid march southward. Of course, it was theoretical only until the day came when Japan and China played their hand. When that happened, she was determined Russia would be ready to play theirs.

Incoming call from Toby Platt.

What could that be about? She’d met Platt in 2095 when he was campaigning with Dubois in Moscow. She’d heard he’d just quit the Dubois campaign. What could he want with her?

“Accept,” she whispered to her TC. Platt’s image appeared on her TC.

After brief introductions, Platt got to the point. “How’d you like to be vice president?”

“Strange you ask,” she said. “The Russian Conservatives try recruit me to run for president of Russian Federation last year, but I turn them down.”

“I’m not talking about Russia. I’m talking about Earth.”

Earth? “Mr. Persson might have something to say about that, and so would whoever is running with Ajala.”

“Emi Katsuko of Japan.”

“Thank you for reminding me…that our good friends from across 38th parallel might be brainwave away from presidency.” She’d been a Rooster all her life, and yet could barely believe that her party had nominated an idiot like Dubois as president, or that he’d won. Yet who else could she support? The previous president, Jing Xu, wasn’t so bad, but he was Chinese, and now a Japanese was running for vice president. They were Russia’s mortal enemies, which made them her mortal enemies. Plus, they were liberals, and she really didn’t like squishy types. Yet after a few years of Dubois, she’d realized she didn’t like conservatives either.

“Since you are no longer with Dubois campaign,” she said, “and since you are talking about vice presidency, I’m guessing you now work for Ajala, and he’s thinking of replacing Katsuko? It would be great move, but—”

“Nope, that’s not it, but you are close. I’m standing outside The Bubble. Can we meet for lunch?”

* * *

Bruce had outlined the night before what they needed in a vice president. “The ideal candidate would have a ‘tough guy’ image, a minimal legislative record that could be used against us, and should be from one of the early regions.”

The first election would be in Oceania, Toby had said, so a candidate from there could be ideal. “Oceania’s only seven electoral votes,” Bruce pointed out. “Even if you get a candidate from Australia and get their four votes, we’d probably lose New Guinea and New Zealand and their votes, since they don’t like Australia. Besides, I’d rather a bigger wallop.”

The second election would be North America, but they already had Toby for that. Next came Russia and its 40 electoral votes.

“It’s not a lot,” Bruce said, “but winning there could give momentum in other regions. China’s next, with their 159 votes, then United Europe’s 63.” They decided they needed someone from Russia, China, or Europe.

“How about General Feodora Zubkov?” Toby said, and Bruce smacked his forehead with his ping-pong paddle.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” he exclaimed. “The Mountain Monster! Talk about your ‘tough-guy’ image—she once called Dubois ‘a cold chill in a cold Russian winter.’ And she compared liberals to jellyfish but without the jellybone. She’ll hurt us in China and Japan, but should help everywhere else.”

Toby nodded. “Sounds like a common-sense moderate to me.”

They’d taken a floater to New York City that morning to meet with potential staff recruits for the new Moderate Party. They had been delighted to hear that their first pick for vice president was also in town, though that was probably true of many of their choices, since it was capital of the world.

Now they sat at an outside table at the Meatie-Veg Cafeteria, across from what the Japanese called “The Mountain Monster,” the legendary Feodora Zubkov, all eighty pounds of her, in full military uniform and holographic medals. Most Russian women appended an “a” to the end of their last name, but not Feodora—“Why not make us wear yellow stars as well?” From somewhere, mists of fake forest air blew over them. Bruce had discarded the faded yellow warm-ups for a sharper red ones with gold trim. Toby had replaced his green suit with a more conservative gray one—in the fashion sense.

“Hello, dahlings,” she said in her deep, almost comical Russian accent when they met. Russia was one of the few places left in the world where English wasn’t the first language.

“How go the Korean non-destruction talks?” Toby asked after he’d introduced her to Bruce.

“Like igloo in a room full of hot air,” she said. “Did you know Persson more idiot than Dubois? Make president seem like scholar. Hard to believe.”

“I know,” Toby said. “I’ve worked with them for five years. Actually, Dubois is smart at some things.”

“Why not shoot him?”

Toby wasn’t sure if she was serious.

“What makes you think we haven’t tried?” Bruce asked.

“You aren’t going to hurt him much with that ping-pong ball in your hand,” she said.

Feodora ordered the brandied corn cabbage, and Toby and Bruce ordered the same out of diplomatic courtesy.

“Ah, the mark of leadership,” she said, “following the people to stay in front.”

“We figured that if you ordered it, it must be good,” Toby said. He’d just noticed the sound of the air vent that blew the mists of forest air over them, and now he couldn’t get the sound out of his head.

“I hate brandied corn cabbage,” she said. “Tastes like rotting tomatoes. But rest of menu taste like wet dog. I’ve eaten here before. I think they do it to me on purpose.” She stopped and rubbed her neck as her holographic medals silently jangled about.

“Now dahlings, why don’t we talk about what you came here to talk about? You’re not here to talk about food or Korea or Dubois. You mention vice presidency, yet not for Donkeys or Roosters. What would great Toby Platt and brilliant Bruce Sims want with small general from Russia? Can only mean one thing. Third-party challenge. Doomed, of course. Who in mind for presidency? Someone handsome, I hope?”

Toby and Bruce exchanged glances. “That would be me,” Toby said.

“Sorry about the handsome part,” Bruce said. “At least you still get the ‘brilliant Bruce’ part.”

“Yes, handsome part missing, and brilliant part suspect,” Feodora said. “But Toby still dahling. Maybe you have contacts so I can meet alien ambassador? He’s handsome.”

“I might be able to arrange a meeting. Actually, he’s a she, at least for now. Apparently they go back and forth.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Dahling, that’s perfect! A woman who become short, handsome man when needed, then back to woman for girl talk. Ah, we’ll discuss more later. And now, what is your party? Must be something different from conservatives or liberals. Can’t go more right or left, so must be between. So party name either Moderate or Independent Party, or maybe some silly animal name. And you want tough gal like me to bring attention and Russia.”

Bruce was smiling. “You figure things out pretty quickly.”

“I am general; it is my job to figure out things. You notice medals? They not come from cheap trinket store. Next time I bring real ones and double my weight. Now, why don’t you explain to me how you win, and why I should be passenger on your small boat.”

Over the next few hours they discussed the election, with Bruce sending detailed maps and plans to their TCs. They had about a month to prepare for eleven consecutive regional elections from all parts of the world, one every week, starting with “First in the World” Oceania. Seventy-seven days of non-stop campaigning.

“We’ll travel around the world in eighty days,” Bruce said, “with three to spare.”

By the time they were through going over Bruce’s detailed plans for each continental region, even Toby was convinced they could win. Of course, he knew that all candidates convince themselves they can win, even those that have no chance. The Conservative and Liberal Parties had long ago had their primaries and conventions and chosen their candidates. They had been campaigning all over the world for seemingly forever, and already met in a series of debates. A third-party challenge such as theirs should have been started long ago.

Judging by the familiar irritated look that came over her several times, Toby figured Feodora was ignoring TC calls. When a pair of uniformed men appeared and told her in thick Russian accents that she was needed in the conference at the United Nationals Building, she told them to “be real men” and represent Russia for the afternoon.

“Two of my better aides,” she said when they left. “They are very good at not talking.”

She had many questions, like a staff sergeant drilling her troops, but Bruce had answers for all, though Toby knew many of their plans were far better on paper than in reality.

“Now, my maybe running mate and campaign director,” she finally asked, “what are our actual chances?”

“Some candidates prefer not to know,” Bruce said.

“The small general wants to know,” she said. “Give nice, round figure.”

“Well, if you round off, our chances of winning are about zero,” Bruce said.

“That’s an increase since yesterday,” Toby said. “I like our chances.”

“We have zero chance?” she said.

“It’ll be like shooting at invisible windmills,” Bruce said. “Searching for that favorite speck of sand from your childhood. Trying to win an argument with a sister. Convincing Dubois that the hundred people on the Moon colony should vote. Trying to—”

“I have aide like you,” Feodora said. “I almost have him shot, but instead give raise. Okay, I run, but I must explain something first. I do this only for fun, until you prove to me it is real. When you do that, I will campaign for you. Until then, I go back to being small general in Russia and big-shot ambassador in New York.”

“Agreed,” Toby said, “on one condition. That you will campaign for us in Russia, no matter what the polls say.”

“When Japanese asked for conditions in Korea, I blew up one of their battalions,” she said. “But for you, I agree. As long as you aren’t embarrassment, I will try to win you Russia. In return, you arrange meeting for me with alien ambassador.”

“Agreed,” Toby said.

“One more thing,” she said. “You have staff?”

“We have two,” Bruce said.

Feodora looked at him and tilted her head slightly. “I see. You have yourself and Toby. Maybe you should stop trying to fool small general?”

“We’re hiring some people this week,” Toby said.

“I have two aides that can help you,” she said. “They are Russian staff.”

“How can they join a political campaign if they work for the Russian government?” Toby asked.

“The people the Russian government would pay for couldn’t find haystack sitting on needle,” she said. “I pay for these two, so they work for me.”

“Do they have any political experience?” Bruce asked.

Feodora leaned back and smiled. “Everyone in Russia is politician.”