Grozny, Chechnya
December 1994
“This one’s still alive.”
“Hurry up and get him in the truck before the Chechens come back.”
“Help me with him. Got to save this guy. I saw him blow up a Chechen tank with a single grenade…like at Stalingrad or something!”
The two Russian medics placed the young paratrooper on a stretcher and carried him to the troop transport truck. He was unconscious and his uniform was soaked with blood. They laid him carefully in the back along with the other dead and wounded soldiers. One of the medics stayed with the wounded in the back of the mud-covered truck. The other jumped out and waved his arm at the driver.
“Yezhay!” he shouted, and the truck rumbled off through the thick mud in a cloud of black diesel smoke past a road sign that read simply,‘Khankala.’
The medic looked down at the face of the wounded soldier, who had regained consciousness. “Welcome back. You had us worried. Looks like a bad concussion from the grenade you threw, and you took a couple of AK-74 rounds from the Chechen fighters. Won’t kill you, but you’ve lost a lot of blood. You were pretty damn close to that tank when the grenade exploded. You probably have one hell of a headache.”
“Did the Chechens break through? asked the wounded paratrooper weakly.
“Not here. We still hold the airfield, but they’re kicking our asses everywhere else. You saved the battalion commander’s life, by the way. I imagine the war’s over for you. Probably be evacuated as soon as our leaders get their heads out of their asses and bring in reinforcements...there, I’ve stopped the bleeding.”
“Still got my balls?” the wounded soldier looked up at the medic hopefully.
“Yep, missed them by a couple of inches. Missed the femoral artery, too. Or else you’d be dead. You lay out there for about 45 minutes. Nobody knew you were alive. What’s your name?”
“Vasiliy...what’s yours?”
“Dima. I shouldn’t even be here. Had 30 days left on my enlistment until that fool Yeltsin ordered us to take Grozny. Most of the soldiers haven’t had any training, and most of them don’t even know why we’re here. The officers are drunk most of the time, and nobody knows where anyone else is. It’s a goat-fuck, Vasiliy. The boeviki will probably get me and cut my throat before it all ends. You’re lucky. You’re going home. On top of that, you’re a hero. Probably get a medal and be interviewed on television. Might even get to shake Yeltsin’s hand. If you do, tell the old fart to kiss my ass.”
“I’ll be sure to pass on your regards,” Vasiliy smiled despite the nausea and the shooting pain in his head. He’d heard a lot of criticism leveled at his great uncle lately. Unfortunately, it appeared the old man deserved it. Even Vasiliy’s father had tried to talk Boris Nikolayevich out of invading Chechnya. The Russian army had disintegrated along with the Soviet Union and was in shambles, but the president of Russia didn’t seem to realize it.
Vasiliy knew it, though. He saw it daily in the poor training and equipment, low morale, and lack of discipline. His decision to enlist in the army and volunteer for airborne training did not go over well with either his great uncle or mother. Even his father had been against the decision but stayed out of the debate. Nothing Nastya or Boris Nikolayevich could say or even threaten swayed Vasiliy from his decision, and he shipped out shortly after his eighteenth birthday. He wanted nothing more to do with the pampered life of the Russian elite and his friends at the boarding school in Switzerland. He wanted to make his own way in life without the obsequiousness and ass-kissing that came when people found out who his great uncle was.
The Battle of Khankala was the only bright spot in a disastrous and humiliating military campaign for the Russians in Chechnya. It was only natural that a hero from that battle be coddled and pampered by the Russian media and military authorities. Vasiliy was a rare commodity.
During his recovery in a Moscow hospital, Vasiliy was bombarded by requests for interviews and was subjected to innumerable visits by government and military dignitaries. Ironically, the privilege and entitlement that had come to him in the past solely by virtue of his last name were now his by right. He had earned the adulation of a grateful nation. Politicians vied for the opportunity to be photographed at Vasiliy’s bedside.
In short order, Vasiliy was decorated with the Hero of the Russian Federation medal, the highest honor presented to anyone in the country, civilian or military. President Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin himself presented his great nephew Vasiliy the award in an emotional ceremony broadcast from the hospital recovery room on all Russian television and radio stations. Vasiliy had caught the imagination of a country badly in need of heroes. They couldn’t get enough.
Among the visitors who streamed into Vasiliy’s hospital room during his recovery was Vladimir Putin, who had left the KGB in 1991, begun a rapid rise in the Saint Petersburg city government, and become involved in politics. He had stayed close to Boris Nikolayevich over the years and still consulted with him on a number of sensitive projects he had inherited from his days in the KGB. Quite apart from a little necessary ass-kissing with the president, Putin genuinely liked Vasiliy Yeltsin and took the young hero under his wing. They spent hours talking about different education and career scenarios for Vasiliy.
In fact, it was at Putin’s suggestion that Vasiliy later entered the prestigious Moscow State Institute of International Relations and subsequently joined the ranks of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR). Vasiliy’s fluency in English and foreign language aptitude in combination with his heroic military record made him a shoo-in candidate for either the diplomatic service or intelligence work. He chose the latter purely out of a sense of adventure. Naturally, he never mentioned in the stacks of forms he filled out that his father was American. In fact, Vasiliy did not even know his father’s real name or affiliation, something both his great uncle and mother had concealed from him for his own protection. He had guessed the truth, of course. Some things in Russia are better kept unspoken, and Vasiliy was as smart as they come.
Vasiliy Yeltsin would have excelled in whatever career he chose, and he took to the business of gathering intelligence like a fish to water. He was charismatic, intelligent, and devilishly handsome. The Russian Federation could not have wanted a better representative for its missions abroad, and the SVR was delighted with his performance. They had great hopes for the career of their illustrious young recruit.
Putin kept in close contact with Vasiliy during the young man’s first tour abroad under diplomatic cover in the Russian embassy in Canberra, Australia. Putin’s own career was taking off, and his close relationship with the Yeltsin family certainly wasn’t hurting. By the time Vasiliy finished his two-year assignment in Australia and returned to Moscow, Vladimir Putin had been appointed head of the Russian Federal Security Service, one of the successor organizations to the old KGB, a rough equivalent of the American FBI. He was right at home and right where he wanted to be.
When Vasiliy’s Boeing 737 taxied up to its gate at Sheremetyevo II in late August 1998 upon his return to Moscow, he wasn’t surprised that a government car was waiting for him, or that two immaculately dressed military guards from the presidential staff boarded the aircraft and escorted him to the limousine ostentatiously parked on the tarmac. Vasiliy’s escorts had already dispensed with passport and customs formalities and whisked the former third secretary of the Russian Embassy in Canberra down Leningradskoye Shosse toward downtown Moscow and the Kremlin.
Visiting the Kremlin, naturally, was nothing new for the president’s great nephew. Over the years, Vasiliy had visited Boris Nikolayevich at work numerous times, but he had never been escorted into his great uncle’s office as a VIP dignitary. The opulence of the Kremlin had always seemed oppressive to Vasiliy in the past. Today, the massive chandelier, thick hand woven carpets, and ornate ceiling in the president’s office seemed reassuring and spoke of Russia’s resurgence after almost a decade of chaos, decay, and neglect.
Boris Nikolayevich was over six feet tall, and he towered over the diminutive Vladimir Putin, who stood beside him. Both men were beaming as they welcomed Vasiliy back into the fold. The president embraced Vasiliy and planted three sloppy kisses on his face: Russian style. Putin was more reserved and limited himself to a warm embrace and handshake. Vasiliy smelled vodka on both men.
Boris Nikolayevich preferred to shoot the shit over talking business, especially when he was drinking, but Vladimir Putin was more single-minded. After a welcome home toast Putin got right to the point.
“Vasiliy, I want you to come to work for me.” No preamble, no introduction or explanation. No room for discussion, really. More like receiving your marching orders. Vasiliy was going to work for the Federal Security Service.