by Albert Able
The Boss got awkwardly to his feet and with a surprisingly firm grip shook Alex’s hand. “Thank you. I’ll call you as soon as I have the information on that man Rive.”
He remained standing as Alex walked towards the door. “I think it must be the Syndicate leader,” the Boss called out “we were never really certain who he was or whether we had finished him off.”
Alex turned. “Funny I thought exactly the same thing. We never knew him but I was always convinced that he knew us?”
“Indeed my friend and that makes the current situation all the more dangerous!”
Alex gave a resigned shrug and left.
***
Igor Pulaski started his life in a fairly typical Russian way. The eldest son of an impoverished farmer, he was educated through his mother’s determined efforts to ensure that his future life style would be significantly better than hers had been.
The correspondence course had been difficult for his mother, mostly because of her-own very limited literary sills. Igor’s father on the other hand, although dedicated to endless toil battling with the land to provide a modest living for his family, he had little time for ‘all that book nonsense,’ as he so often called it. None the less, it was Igor’s mother and her stubborn tenacity which paid off when at the age of 16 Igor was accepted at the military training college in St Petersburg. It was to be a massive culture shock for the young man, but one that he revelled in.
The family had scrimped and saved a small amount of money, which they gave willingly to the eager young solider to be. Little did they realise that it would be the pubs and more seedy establishments of St Petersburg which would benefited from this modest legacy, which was quickly exhausted, leaving the penniless young man waiting impatiently for his first pay-day.
“There will be no pay, until you complete the first eight weeks of training.” The Captain smiled as he closed the file on his desk and looked understandingly at the young man. “So now, you can stay away from the local fleshpots and concentrate on becoming the soldier you have apparently always wanted to be.”
It was a familiar pattern for the host of young men from Russia’s wilderness, especially when introduced, as they were, to the awesome atmosphere of a major metropolis after the humble (though not always so virtuous) countryside.
In spite of this initial setback to his social life, Igor soon settled in and concentrated on the task of becoming a Russian hero. Most of the other cadets in his group were from the slums of the nation’s sprawling towns and cities where unemployment ‘does not exist’ - if only because almost all eligible teenage men were conscripted for compulsory military service. In this culture you either had a job or you were in the military. ‘Volunteers’ like Igor were rare and therefore the most likely recruits to receive promotion. His determination to succeed ensured that he was no exception and was rewarded by being promoted to corporal by the end of the initial basic training period.
Now, with eight weeks gruelling training behind them, Igor and his colleagues were fully-fledged soldiers - or at least they thought they were - and ready to be distributed to one of Mother Russia’s hungry infantry battalions.
Two years later, a tough young Lieutenant Igor Pulaski found himself, with his company of about two hundred infantry soldiers, disembarking from their huge troop transporters at Kabul airport Afghanistan. The situation in the country was becoming increasingly difficult with Russian casualties mounting at an alarming level and causing intense political embarrassment for the Russian Government. Yet their Afghan allies made ever-increasing demands for more men, arms and equipment. In short, the situation had developed into a complete mess, with all contenders, especially the Russians, desperately looking for a way to be extracted from the conflict.
Lieutenant Igor Pulaski and his men were sent to support a renewed offensive. The intention was that the Russians would support a Company of regular Afghans troops, who would spearhead an attack on a strategic rebel-held town several hundred miles south of Kabul. This joint action was, they had been told, designed to open up the way for more troops to occupy safely and to reinforce the area.
Igor and his men were told that they were essentially there to protect the flanks of the attack, and on completion, to assert their authority by policing the maverick town.
It all proceeded according to plan, until the commander of the regular Afghanistan soldiers approached Igor.
“We have a rather delicate situation which requires your cooperation,” he told Igor with a friendly pat on the shoulder.
The tough young Lieutenant had experienced these situations before and knew immediately that he and his men were about to be plunged into an even more risky position.
“So what do you need us to do exactly?” Igor looked directly into the dark brown eyes of the Afghan Commander.
“It’s very simple, really. We want you to stay back with your men, while we launch the final attack. We will push the enemy out of the town by what ever means possible. Your job will be to mop up any who escape going back through your line. You have no reason to take any risks here, okay?” He smiled. “Oh yes and you stay outside of the town afterwards. We have no need for you to act as policemen.”
Igor was no fool and realised that these men were planning a systematic massacre of the town’s population. It was a difficult situation; his two hundred men stood little chance of subduing almost five hundred blood-crazed Afghans should he try to oppose the plan.
“I understand exactly what you want,” Igor shook his head slowly, looking anxious, “but it gives me a really big headache with my superiors. They are going to work out what’s happening and then I’ll be for the high jump!” He looked up and returned the stare of the Commander.
The Commander smiled “You just leave them to me,” he replied confidently, “it will be worth you while, my friend, that I promise.” He raised his eyebrows and rubbed his finger and thumb together.
Lieutenant Igor Pulaski not only understood the gesture but immediately recognised a way of avoiding the snipers and the dreaded roadside bombs they always had to deal with in these circumstances. So although Igor’s conscience screamed at him, any chance to avoid the horrors of death or worse mutilation at the time made it easy for him to comply with the Afghan Commander’s plan. And so Igor was inaugurated into the world of profit and practicality.
Over the next few months he and the wild-eyed fanatic Commander, were deployed on several similar support details, and although Lieutenant Igor Pulaski’s conscience constantly confronted him, he declined to take any kind of action to stop the horrors being perpetrated by the Afghan Commander and his men. The opportunity for him and his men to survive was even stronger than his deep rooted conscience, and so he reluctantly turned his back on the situation.
To Igor’s further embarrassment he earned himself the reputation of being a first rate tactical officer with the lowest casualty rate in the Corps.
Other soldiers would ask his men: ‘Is he a tactical genius or just plain lucky?’
Lieutenant Igor Pulaski’s men didn’t know, nor did they care. They just knew it was a smart thing to be one of ‘Pulaski’s Dogs’ as they soon came to be known.
It all came to an abrupt end when Igor received a minor shrapnel wound in the abdomen. The injury was not life threatening but was serious enough for him to be shipped back to Moscow for specialised treatment.
The damage to Igor’s internal organs was negligible but with a little persuasion and the promise to share a luxury holiday at one of the Black Sea’s most glamorous resorts, the attractive female doctor adjusted Igor’s notes sufficiently to ensure that he would be officially ‘invalided out of’ further active duty but Igor’s luck continued when two weeks later the Russians suddenly announced their intention finally to extricate themselves from Afghanistan.
Soon after his release from hospital, Lieutenant Igor
Pulaski’s war record came under the spotlight. This time, he was listed to be decorated for his gallantry and proclaimed to be a ‘National Hero’, promoted to Captain and given what was described as ‘the prestigious appointment’ of Commandant of a special security unit.
The actual job of commanding his company of about one hundred men was in itself a rather boring routine. The men, like Igor, were all ex-Afghanistan or some other theatre of war personnel who had been moved away from active service for one reason or another to be formed into a ‘special security group’, with the specific role to patrol and guard the numerous Government establishments throughout the country.
Captain Igor Pulaski and his men were posted to guard one of Mother Russia’s ‘Technical Development’ plants. The men had no idea what the term implied, nor did they really care. It was just a job to them, nothing more.
The plant, situated about two hundred and fifty kilometres north of Moscow, was built mostly underground, hiding itself from the ever-watchful eyes of the United States reconnaissance satellites. The surface buildings appeared like a standard army training camp with neat rows of huts to accommodate the ‘Security Unit’ as well as the civilians from the plant.
Igor soon discovered that there was more to the base than he was given to understand, especially with the presence of a squad of twelve armed KGB men and their officer, who subsequently barred Igor’s way to the lowest level of the plant, which only served to arouse his curiosity even further.
The KGB Commander was a hard, dedicated officer and resisted Igor’s initial attempts to make friends.
As with many sections of the Russian military and civil services at that time, paying their personnel on a regular basis was not the norm. Igor, his men and their families waited several months before receiving their first pay cheques; the KGB men fared little better.
Eventually it was the ever-resourceful Igor Pulaski who intervened by adding a highly profitable sideline to his role, which was to provide much need support for the families of his men, as well as make a significant improvement in the living standards of everyone at the plant.
The source of his new enterprise happened quite by chance when he discovered that twenty-five thousand litres of diesel fuel, both for heating and for generating electricity at the plant, was being delivered weekly.
In reality one delivery each month would have been sufficient in the spring and summer but through a bit of typical bureaucratic tunnel vision, the winter requirement of one delivery each week became the annual norm and somehow that massive surplus had never been discovered by the central authority. Consequently, every Friday afternoon and with monotonous regularity throughout summer and winter, one fully loaded fifty thousand-litre tanker ground laboriously into the camp with its cargo of diesel oil.
Igor discovered that the driver would simply top-up the huge oil storage tank and return with the surplus, frequently more than three-quarters of the load.
Igor was bluffing of course when one morning, hands on hips he abrasively challenged the tanker driver. “Comrade, I have been watching you for some time now and as a result of my other enquiries know that you are not returning the ‘surplus’ to the depot, but selling it for your own reward!”
The tanker driver almost fainted with fright, as he stood facing the tall young ‘Commander of Security’.
There was a terrible silence as the totally confused driver tried to gather his thoughts; he was at a complete loss, he had always been so certain that his little scam was fool proof and now...
In fact in order to keep his records more or less correct, he had only ever personally sold small quantities to a selected number of friends on his return route, faithfully returning the majority to the depot.
The poor man capitulated immediately. “Comrade, it’s not all my fault, someone at the depot is making the real profit. I only sell a little to a couple of friends.” He pleaded nervously.
Igor smiled and patted the man on the shoulder. “I believe you my friend,” he told the man in a conciliatory tone. “It certainly looks as though someone back there is making a mint and trying to make it look as though you are responsible eh?”
The man hung his head. “They pay me precious little Comrade, I only took enough to make my family a little more comfortable.” The driver looked up. “The dispatcher at the depot, I suspect he’s the one who makes the most!”
Igor looked at the man with understanding. “I can’t blame you for looking after your family.” He said shaking his head from side to side. “Now let’s see, what do you know about this dispatcher?”
Relieved by Igor’s friendly tone and understanding the driver quickly explained that each time he returned with the ‘surplus’ he had to leave the tanker at the cleaning depot. The dispatcher took over and gave him a few Roubles each time. “He isn’t very generous.”
Igor nodded understanding adding. “What would you say if I could make sure that you are cleared of all responsibility and still make a little bit extra for the family?”
The man’s face lit up. “Just what do I have to do?” he whispered with obvious gratitude.
No more than an hour later the tanker, followed by a rather tired looking military truck, drove out of the security gate at the plant and started on the six-hour trek back to the fuel depot just outside of Moscow.
They stopped at several small villages on the way and dispensed varying quantities of their ‘black market’ diesel. On each occasion Igor, who was riding in the tanker negotiated with the buyer, offering a commission for every additional customer they could produce for the next run. In particular, he agreed a system of ‘barter’ knowing full well that many of these remote settlements were starved of cash yet had access not only to produce such as to fresh meat and vegetables, but also a plentiful source of illicitly distilled Vodka.
When they eventually arrived at the fuel depot, the agitated dispatcher approached the tanker. “What’s the problem, you’re supposed to be at the cleaning tanks, not down here,” he growled up to the driver.
The cleaning tank was in fact the disused fuel bunker, which had been commandeered by the Moscow crime syndicate and was now used to store and facilitate their illegal scheme.
The dispatcher it turned out was, like the driver, a simple pawn in the scheme and had little choice but to cooperate, especially when at the outset he had been confronted by a couple of large leather coated men, one explaining with a smile: “We need it for the storage and distribution of our surplus product!” He added as he passed over a small bundle of Rubbles: “A little something for your trouble.”
The other man had interjected: “That is just to show a little good will. There will of course be much more from where that comes from.”
Then, with an artificial smile on his craggy face: “Always assuming everything runs smoothly at this end, in which case....?”
The man didn’t finish, the dispatcher shuddered. He’d come across these kind of people before and had no intention of causing any problems.
After that it had been easy - until now, that is.
The driver looked down from his cab and then opened the door. “I think you better meet this guy.” He indicated Igor with his thumb as he jumped to the ground.
Igor appeared with a cheerful smile. “Hi there, I’ve been hearing all about you.” He also dropped nimbly from the cab and held out his hand.
“And who the fuck are you?” snapped the startled dispatcher, ignoring the offered hand.
“Let’s put it this way Comrade, I’m the guy who’s going to change your life - for better or for worse? Of course, that part’s up to you!”
The man quickly recovered his composure. “I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with here. So my advice to you is to fuck off, before you get your balls removed and stuffed down your throat!”
Igor gave a signal to the military tru
ck, which had parked just a short distance away. Two large uniformed men each wearing leather holsters around their waist, alighted and moved to the group of men.
“You’re right, we do need to understand just who we are dealing with, and so I think you had better start by talking to me,” Igor smiled, indicating his silent uniformed men, each standing menacingly with a hand resting lightly on their leather holsters.
Although the dispatcher was tough and quite capable of defending himself, he was nobody’s fool either and quickly recognised an impossible situation. “Okay, you’ve got my attention, but not out here, come into my office.”
He smiled weakly, trying to make light of the situation and led the little group to a scruffy old hut a few metres away.
At Igor’s request the armed men returned to their vehicle. “Don’t want you to be intimidated by those guys - they can get out of hand sometimes.” He smiled. “I’m sure we can sort everything out amicably.”
“Listen, I think you had better understand. I am only a middle man in this business and the people from Moscow are not going to be amused by your interference.”
“Tell me more about these men from Moscow?” Igor leaned back in his chair.
“I only know that they are a bunch of violent, no nonsense crooks and somehow they found out about the surplus oil being returned from the government plant. Originally we simply returned the balance to the silo and issued a credited note. I suspect someone higher up spotted the situation and told the Moscow people. Anyway, each time the ‘cleaning tank’ is full; a couple of tankers arrive and remove the ‘sludge’ for recycling. Simple really. Of course, there is no sludge - just pure diesel oil.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I get paid, the driver gets paid and everyone is happy.”
