by Bart Gauvin
“And who do you propose should make these decisions, Pasha?” Oleg asked significantly, his piercing blue Slavic eyes looking into Medvedev’s through his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Are you implying that I should make the decisions for us? That the others would let me?” Medvedev asked, surprised.
Drugov remained silent.
Medvedev shook his head in wonder. “I came here expecting to be arrested, even executed for what I just did. It seems the lethargy of the committee is working for me in this instance,” he said wryly. “I’ve forced their hand by doing something none of them would have agreed to. I had hoped that the KGB chairman, at least, would be more decisive. He was bold to place the president under surveillance several weeks ago, but he seems to have lost his nerve. I thought I was too junior, too unknown to take charge of this coup, but…but you are right, my friend. I am beginning to think otherwise. If the others can be convinced to give me a free hand, I know I can hold our nation together. I am willing to do what is necessary. Much damage has been done, and it will take force to undo it, but I can see it undone!” He punched a meaty fist into a bear-like palm to emphasize his determination. Then he said more quietly, “The rest of them certainly don’t seem to have a plan.”
“I think they will defer to you, so long as you succeed,” Drugov warned. “They are afraid right now. If you fail, they will abandon you to save themselves.”
“We cannot fail, Oleg. Failure means chaos. Not just for our country, but for the world. This new Union Treaty will pave the way for the breakup of the USSR. If that happens, any attempt to repair our economy will fall apart as well. Can you imagine what the impact will be if we lose the shipyards of Ukraine? The oil of the Caucasus? The Central Asian republics? Minsk? Kiev?” Medvedev went on, “We won’t control half the population or industry we have today if the country continues down the path we’re on.”
“I know Pasha, I know. That is why the Emergency Committee is doing this,” said Drugov quietly.
“No, Oleg, they don’t know. They don’t see,” Medvedev’s annoyance was returning now. “None of you see that if Russia is relegated to the place of a third-rate power, even for a short time, that the doors will be opened for international chaos. The world needs us to counterbalance the United States, even if the world doesn’t realize it.”
“You really think the United States is such a threat to world peace?” asked Oleg.
“You know I admire that country, my friend,” Medvedev answered, calming himself. “But they are a young country. They are idealistic like the leaders of our revolution were sixty-five years ago. They think that the constraints of history, of geography, don’t apply to them. They think they are the pinnacle of human progress. One of their scholars even penned an essay titled ‘The End of History!’ Can you imagine the arrogance? As if their society is the culmination of all history and the rest of the world should bow to their inevitable supremacy.”
Drugov shook his head in amusement. Medvedev continued.
“I can see it, Oleg Sergeyevich. Without us to restrain them, the well-meaning Americans will run rampant through the world, encouraging people to cast off the ‘repressive’ governments that have kept peace between rabid groups of fanatics for so long. After their adventure earlier this year in Iraq they will think that they can control the forces that they unleash without ever getting their hands dirty. By the time they realize their mistake it will be too late, and our detached republics, the Arab states, Africa, maybe even Asia will all be plunged into violence and chaos. Yes Oleg, as much as I like and admire the Americans, I do think that they are a threat to world stability. And the most dangerous thing? Once they have led the world into chaos they will blame us for everything and work tirelessly to keep us weak.”
Medvedev was breathing hard now. He was unused to the heat and was becoming excited. “We cannot allow ourselves to become weak.” Medvedev continued, “Right now, the Americans think they are invincible because they just destroyed a third-rate army of a crackpot Arab dictator in the desert. If they are allowed to think that we are so impotent, if they strip away our republics and co-opt our former allies, there is no telling how far they will push the frontiers of their alliances. Where will it stop? The Vistula? The Don?”
“You know I agree, Pasha,” said Drugov quietly, “but can we undo the damage that has already been done?”
“We must try,” said Medvedev through gritted teeth.
Both men turned as the CPSU Secretary called to them from the dacha’s entrance, “Comrades! Our aircraft is ready whenever we wish to depart.”
Medvedev gave Drugov a knowing look.
“Let’s go. The fate of our country is decided in Moscow.”
CHAPTER 2
1400 MSK, Monday 19 August 1991
1100 Zulu
Outside the Supreme Soviet of Russia Building (the ‘White House’), Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
WITH HIS ONE good eye Pavel Ivanovich Medvedev stared up in frustration at his country’s legislatie building. Dubbed the “White House,” the fifteen-story white structure with its broad square base and wide-faced central tower with rounded ends was a model of Soviet-era architecture, lacking both the graceful lines of older Russian buildings and the raw engineered strength of Western skyscrapers. It was a metaphor for the dysfunction in his country, which could never seem to reach the same accomplishments as its distrustful opponents in the world. The humid, gray, summer overcast accentuated the milieu. Architectural dysfunction, however, was not the object of Medvedev’s frustration today; the current occupants of the building, the resistance to his coup, held that glorious position.
How could the KGB chairman have been so negligent, moved so slowly on his promise to round up dissidents? he raged, clenching his jaw in anger. This should never have been allowed to happen. He calmed himself, forcing his fists to unclench and his mind to work through the assets and liabilities. At least the Russian president is in custody. Better if he’d been eliminated. I’ll need to see to that later. Our opponents know what is going on, but they have concentrated themselves in one place…I can make this work to Russia’s advantage.
Several dozen liberal members of the RSFSR legislative body had arrived at the building in the early morning hours and were now actively barricading themselves inside while trying to summon popular support through word of mouth. How they had learned about the coup was another outrage. Vladimir Alexandrovich, against Medvedev’s advice, had broadcast a statement by the Emergency Committee over state radio earlier in the morning. Now their opponents at least had an idea of what was occurring.
There was very real danger here. In front of Medvedev a cordon of low slung tanks surrounded the building, separating the dissidents from a group of civilians who were beginning to gather in the wide streets around the White House. Medvedev had exited his Zil limousine on the Novoarbatksky Bridge, which spanned the Moscow River, and looking north he could see soldiers and blue-uniformed militzia officers moving about aimlessly between the armored vehicles, unsure of what to do. If the traitors inside are able to gather support from the people, all could be lost.
Medvedev started walking briskly towards the nearest tank, surprising Oleg Drugov and the two plain-clothed KGB bodyguards who accompanied him. The others hurried to keep up with his determined pace as he passed through a thin crowd of milling civilians.
At least shutting down the Metro and trams has limited the numbers here, he thought.
He approached the nearest soldier, a young man who had forgotten to shave before duty this morning. Medvedev spoke in a firm but friendly voice, “Soldier, good day. Where is your commanding officer? I must speak with him.”
The young man hadn’t noticed Medvedev but quickly collected himself, looking relieved to be asked a question that he could answer. He pointed up the street towards the tank in front of the main entrance.
> “The major is over there, tovarich. At the command tank.”
Medvedev thanked him, gave the young soldier’s shoulder a fatherly squeeze, and continued, the black metal perimeter fence on their right and the concrete embankment of the Moscow River on their left. As he drew closer Medvedev made out a major with black tanker epaulettes standing behind one of the hulking vehicles, conferring with a pair of younger officers. The man looked up as Medvedev approached, Oleg and the bodyguards trailing behind.
“Tovarich Major,” Medvedev said in the same fatherly voice he had used with the soldier earlier, “may I ask what’s going on here?”
The man looked unsure, unwilling to divulge his thoughts to this unknown newcomer. He decided on a safe response. “Sir, my orders are to isolate this building. I’ve arrayed my sub-units to accomplish this task.”
“Good, good,” responded Medvedev warmly, “I have just come from the Ministry of Defense, and I can tell you that this task is vital to the security of the state. I thank you. The marshal sent me over to assess the situation,” he lied. “Do you know why you are here, young man?”
Now the officer looked uncomfortable. He glanced at his lieutenants before speaking. “Someone from in there,” he indicated the White House, “came out a few minutes ago and told us that there is a coup underway.”
Medvedev allowed his face to show weary sadness before responding.
“He was correct, my young patriotic friend. There is grave danger facing our nation,” Medvedev said. Then leaning in conspiratorially and lowering his voice, he continued, “It is not public knowledge yet, but the president is dead.”
A look of shock passed over the major’s face.
Medvedev went on, “Counter-revolutionary elements are trying to take advantage of this tragic event to illegally seize power for themselves. Those in there,” he looked to the legislative building, imposing behind its black fence, “are part of a plot to enrich themselves at the expense of the people. Fortunately, the State Emergency Committee sniffed out their plans before they could do great damage and ordered you here just in time.”
The soldier looked unconvinced. Medvedev was impressed, the man was clearly more intelligent than he’d thought. A professional. I’ll have to try a different tactic. No more asking, time to command. He looked back at the growing numbers of civilians gathering near the bridge and on the far side of the boulevard.
Medvedev changed his tone, speaking sharply now but still in a low voice, “Now pay attention. The President of the USSR is dead. The vice-president is in control at the Kremlin. Those people in there want to circumvent the lawful constitutional power of the government, a government elected by the people of the Soviet Union, and one you are sworn and ordered to protect.”
Medvedev looked over and saw a staff truck parked in the street with a megaphone on the hood.
“I know you will do your duty, as any good Red Army soldier would,” Medvedev said. “The enemies of the state have gathered inside the building here. You will keep them there and prevent them from receiving any more support from dissidents on the outside. Are my orders clear?”
The man nodded slowly.
Compliance, at least, Medvedev thought.
“Right now, I require your loud speaker to address the citizens gathering here. I promise it will only make your job easier,” he assured the soldier and, without waiting for a reply, he walked over to the truck, retrieved the megaphone and then returned to the tank.
“With your permission,” Medvedev addressed the tank officer, “I will address the people now.” When the man didn’t object, Medvedev continued, “I wish to stand on your tank so they may see me.”
The man looked startled but again didn’t protest.
Medvedev’s frame suffered from the same thickening at the waist common to most Russians of his age, but he’d been athletic with the build of a shot-putter or heavy-weight wrestler in his youth. With Drugov’s help he put his feet into one of the loops on the tank’s armored skirt and pulled himself onto the front glacis, then stood and accepted the megaphone from his friend. Drugov and the two KGB guards scrambled up after him as Medvedev put a foot up on the tank’s turret and reached down to offer a hand of greeting to the two surprised crewman. In his friendly, fatherly manner he shook their hands, asked them where they were from and thanked them for their service to the state.
Medvedev turned and looked out over the crowd stretching away from him up and down Krasnopresnenskaya Street. Some were looking up at him now. A television crew from the Vremia state broadcasting service pointed a camera up at him. Behind him was the mass of the Russian Soviet Republic’s legislative building, occupied by men who would see this country dismantled. In front of him was the Moscow River, lifeblood of the Russian heartland, always under siege but never conquered. With his thick white hair tousled by the warm summer breeze, Medvedev raised the megaphone to his lips and began to address his countrymen in a deep, level voice, his words tumbling out at the rapid rhythm favored by Russians.
“Russians! Hear me, you have come here because you wish to know what is happening to our great country. I thank you for your concern. Allow me to inform you about the threat that has developed against our nation.” The low mutterings from the crowd that had been rampant before settled slightly, he was gaining their interest.
Several people shouted queries up at him, while others attempted to quiet the throng with calls of “Tischa! Hush! Listen to the man, friends.” Medvedev put his hands out, palms down, and waved them in a calming motion. With the noise quieted to a manageable level, Medvedev seized his moment. In a booming voice, aided by the megaphone he announced, “The President of the Soviet Union has died.” Gasps exploded up from the crowd at this piece of news. That’ll get them to listen, thought Medvedev, but without a pause he continued, “The people in the building behind me,” he said, pointing at the White House, “are eager to exploit our great president’s passing to enrich themselves and take power away from the government, from the leaders that you have elected!”
There were shouts of anger mingled with cries, but mostly the crowd waited for the man on the tank to continue.
“Those traitors in there think that if they break apart the Soviet Union they will be able to control the pieces, to carve out their own little capitalist kingdoms where they can reign as oligarchs,” Medvedev accused, warming to his narrative. “The government is responding to their challenge. The brave soldiers in front of you are evidence of that. But we need your support so we may resolve this crisis without bloodshed, if those inside will allow us to do so,” he added in a tone that indicated that he thought that outcome to be doubtful.
Medvedev was talking without notes, speaking from the heart and carefully balancing his passion with his willingness to bend the facts to his purposes. The Vremia camera crew was filming. He went on, feeling his rhythm, balancing his indignation at the dissidents inside the White House with respect and admiration for the crowds in front of him, juxtaposing the chaos of a disintegrating USSR with the order and prosperity that a rejuvenated Union would provide. He saw heads nodding in the crowd, though some skeptical looks remained. After several animated minutes Medvedev concluded his address with a delicate deception in which he artfully blended truths, half-truths, and lies: “Russians, the traitors in there are trying to destroy the reforms that have put more responsibility in the hands of you, the Soviet people. They would have you believe that they are the reformers, but they lie! They would have you believe that they are championing your rights, but they are only here for their own enrichment. They think that by overturning the government they will be able to control you better, but we know differently, do we not friends? You are not so easily manipulated.”
Here he smiled inwardly at his own deception, then continued with a promise. “Do not support them! Allow the legitimate government to restore order and I swear to you, the Soviet people will keep t
heir place at the forefront of human progress. The Soviet Union, supported by you, citizens, will be a model of strength, stability, and prosperity for the world to follow!”
Medvedev ended his speech with a flourish of his arm. Some of the people below shouted questions amid scattered applause as he climbed down from the tank, coming face to face again with the major.
“Tovarich Major,” Medvedev ordered, “I leave things in your capable hands. Allow no contact between the traitors inside the building and those out here. I will return as soon as I can.”
The man nodded. Medvedev could tell that he was still not completely convinced, but uncertain enough to comply. Medvedev made his way back to his car, the driver quickly opening his door. Drugov and the security detail were still in tow. They got in, as Medvedev hurriedly barked “Ministry of Defense!”
Armored vehicles and soldiers clogged Arbat Street on the way to the ministry building. Medvedev led his small entourage through a side entrance, navigating the massive bureaucratic building until they arrived at the office suite of the minister of defense. Medvedev announced himself to the secretary, who went in and conferred with the marshal before beckoning him in.
The marshal, thick framed like Medvedev, but older, was sitting at a massive desk, his olive drab uniform resplendent with row upon row of ribbons. The man looked worried, weary, unsure of what to do.
“Pavel Ivanovich, what brings you here?” The old soldier looked up.
“Tovarich Marshal,” Medvedev said without salutation, “our endeavor to save this nation rests on a knife’s edge. Our opponents are gathering at the White House. I was just there, and the situation is critical. The officer in charge is too junior and he is not clear about where his loyalties lie. You should replace him immediately.”
