Major Yuri Belenov bowed his head and averted his eyes in the general’s office in Kaliningrad. He didn’t need to look at the old man’s vodka-reddened face to know what was coming.
“You’re not happy with my orders?” The general, known by his codename, Strangelove, rose to his feet. “Your little banda is nothing but criminals. The others are full of soldiers. Real soldiers. Men who know how to follow orders and do what they’re told without having therapy every five minutes.”
Yuri interjected as Strangelove kept ranting. “I always respect and obey your orders, sir.”
“I warned you that bunch would never do anything important, and now you come to me begging for bigger assignments.”
Yuri longed to push his earbuds in and crank up the jazz on his phone, tune the old man out. “Respectfully, sir, my banda has proven itself. That is all I meant to say.”
“There are words we say, and there are messages within our words.” Strangelove shook a meaty finger at Yuri. “I know what you’re trying to say.”
Yuri bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from speaking. Long past retirement, the general was shaped like a pear with a ring of white hair around a shiny bald spot. He gave the impression there was little fire left in him.
“You are nothing, Yuri.” The old man waddled out from behind his desk. “There are many ambitious young men in the GRU. Men who work hard and ask nothing. You are not so special.”
“I understand, sir.” Yuri dipped his head.
“These message boards, they are a waste of time for time wasters.”
“Social media is not the same as message boards, sir.” When the general didn’t object, Yuri took a deep breath and charged ahead. “We kept Sweden out of NATO. We played an important role in Brexit.”
“So you say.” Strangelove pushed past him and crossed to the window. “Where are the hard facts? How many died? Who suffered? Does anyone live in fear of you?”
The old man clasped his hands behind his back and looked out of his top floor window in the Informatsionny Tsentr. The general reminded Yuri of a garage mechanic who never learned fuel injection, a man out of synch with his era.
“Minds have been swayed.” Yuri kept his cool. “Voters have gone to the polls. There are no numbers, but the results—”
“Your reports are empty, and you ask for more work?”
“I ask only how we can best serve our country.” Leaning to the side, Yuri tried to glimpse the old man’s face.
The boss kept staring out at Kaliningrad’s skyline without a reply.
Finally, Strangelove said, “What is it you think you deserve, Yuri? My job?”
Yuri fought the urge to say yes.
“There are powerful people close to the Kremlin who like your little project.” The general shrugged. “If it were up to me, I would shut it down, give your work to the other bandas. Why spend so much time and effort on these stupid little posts?”
“It is more powerful to control a mind than to kill it, sir.”
“Hate controls people. Fear controls people. We made them hate and fear Muslims by blowing up apartment buildings.” The old man turned and waved off Yuri’s objection. “Can you do the hard things? When your country calls on you, can you do whatever is necessary for the Motherland?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Even if it hurts your beloved America?”
“I only studied there,” Yuri said. “On the orders of my commander at the time. I gathered intelligence and—”
“You eat their greasy hamburgers. You listen to their jungle music. You’ve given up Tchaikovsky and Mussorgsky.”
Yuri bowed. It was true; American jazz called to him when he first set foot on Columbia’s campus. He never touched his oboe or listened to Russian composers again. When he returned to his military career, no one—except Strangelove—noticed the change. Isolated in Norway as he and his banda evaded detection from cybersecurity experts, he had become even more Westernized. Most of the men in his banda were the same, often leading him to forget the fierce pride and nationalism of his fellow Russians.
“I may have an assignment that will further your career.” The old man stepped close. “Something that might suit your hackers.”
Yuri could barely contain his swelling pride. Strangelove had always been a difficult commanding officer. There were no privileges, no favored officers, no easy assignments in his operation. Any failure could end a career. Being considered for a high-profile assignment was the closest Yuri had come to a nod of approval from the aging general.
“These will be difficult tasks.” Strangelove glared. “Risky, dangerous missions for bold men, not cowards. Does that bother you? Are you afraid?”
“Not with your guidance, sir.”
“Your English skills will help you.” The general sighed. “You know the USA fairly well.”
“Thank you, sir.” Yuri nodded and kept his gaze on the floor.
“When you get them, you will memorize my orders—then destroy them. No traces.” The old man looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Some Americans might die. That is my problem, not yours.” He turned and grabbed Yuri’s shoulders like a father. “My mother had a proverb: you need a sharp ax for a tough bough. You are my ax, Yuri. Are you sharp enough?”
Yuri’s mother also had a proverb: a fly will not get into a closed mouth. He nodded.
Strangelove stepped back to his chair. The spring creaked and the cushion whooshed and he turned to his computer screen. He glanced at Yuri once more before scanning his email. He leaned forward to read one and typed. “Something bothers you. What is it?”
“When angered, the Americans stop at nothing to destroy their enemies.” Yuri shrugged. “My team understands Georgia. We understand Sweden and Scotland, Europe and the Middle East. But why antagonize America?”
“Why do you think my orders will antagonize America?”
“You said some people might—”
“Your banda makes up these little—” Strangelove waved his hand in the air “—conspiracy theories. People have noticed your proficiency at getting Americans to believe them. The orders to keep generating those ridiculous ‘memes’ remain in place.” The old man paused for effect. “We have a new opportunity in American politics. We are going to help our friends there. Your new orders will come from Director Popov.”
Yuri tried and failed to contain his surprise. Victor Popov, Strangelove’s boss, was just the man Yuri wanted to impress. He noticed Strangelove’s knowing smirk.
“I will endeavor to achieve the greatest results.” Yuri saluted.
“I’m sure you will.” Strangelove batted away his words with intentional cynicism. “Popov is my kind of leader. We prefer the old ways: blow up bridges, shoot down airplanes, make accidents in factories. These bullshit social media campaigns are the ideas of strutting young peacocks like Yeschenko, Gazinski, and Shishkin.”
Yuri noted the name of the oligarch Yeschenko among the Kremlin’s SVR generals. He said, “Americans perceive deaths of their citizens as an attack on their country.”
“Americans.” Strangelove tsked. “They are so stupid they have to write ‘open here’ on their milk cartons.” Strangelove finished another email. He faced Yuri and scratched the nasty scar that ran from his ear to his collar.
“You’re worried they will destroy us like Iraq?” He laughed. “They do descend like the Baba Yaga.” He turned back to his screen. “Then you must work like the Viet Cong or the Mujahideen. Don’t let them find you.”
“You can count on me, sir.”
“This will be a highly sensitive assignment.” Strangelove did not look up. “You will be tested as the defenders of Stalingrad were tested in the Great Patriotic War. You will be responsible for making sure your banda does not get cold feet. No one will speak about the mission. Not even to their girlfriends. It takes only one man to destroy an important mission. Eliminate the weak before they infect the others. Now get back to your office, wherever it is, and play with your virals.”