“Many things have changed,” Voshchanka said. “In many ways this Commonwealth is worse than the old Soviet Union. It seems the government has no control. Why have a government if it will not assume control?” He looked at Gabovich warily. He had to remember that this man was … KGB. Even if he was no longer working for a Soviet government, the old KGB ways were undoubtedly still in him. “So, the scientists in Fisikous are your principals?”
“They offer a solution to the problems we face,” Gabovich said. “An opportunity for us to break out of the stagnant cesspool we find ourselves being dragged into.”
“Indeed? And what sort of things are your… ‘principals’ working on in Fisikous?” Voshchanka asked.
“The future,” Gabovich said. “The state of the art in Soviet aerospace weapons. Antimissile and aircraft systems unlike anything in the Commonwealth’s inventory. Cruise missiles that rival anything in the West, let alone the Commonwealth.” He paused to make sure that the old fart Voshchanka was following him.
“But the best thing of all,” Gabovich continued, “is that we have an operating breeder reactor — a facsimile of an efficient German model, not a Soviet one — capable of producing small amounts of weapons-grade plutonium. Once we return to full production, we can produce three hundred thermonuclear warheads per year, all with a yield of over one hundred kilotons.”
The old general’s eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth dropped open. “Three… hundred… nuclear warheads?”
Gabovich knew that the Byelorussian general would be impressed. “They are only very small nuclear warheads, weighing perhaps… oh, sixteen or seventeen kilos.” He knew that was about the size of a 100-millimeter artillery shell-small, easy to transport, easy to store, and adaptable to almost every kind of delivery system-which, Gabovich calculated, should make Voshchanka’s mouth water even more. “Electronically adjustable yield and detonation triggers, a quite soldier-proof design. As I said, it is state-of-the-art. But when Fisikous is closed, all those weapons and all that technology will be either destroyed or sold- by the Commonwealth. They keep the money or the weapons. I doubt if Belarus will see one kopek.”
Voshchanka sat staring at General Gabovich, a slow, sly smile spreading across his face. The implications hung in the air like a thick, heavy fog. A twinkle sparkled in Voshchanka’s eyes, his mind casting about the possibilities, all exciting, all dangerous… “What is it you want to do, Comrade Gabovich? My government does not have the money to buy the Fisikous Institute, and I seriously doubt if we will be permitted to buy any of these weapons ourselves. We probably couldn’t even afford one of your scientists.”
Gabovich nodded sympathetically, but shrugged. He was going to let out a bit more line before reeling this one in. “Yes, funds are scarce everywhere, General Voshchanka. The price of reform, no? Belarus is spending billions of rubles on building its own military-why, you must be knee-deep in requisitions for boots and socks alone … forget any modern weapons of war.”
Voshchanka’s eyes flared at Gabovich, his cheeks a flash of red. “How dare—”
Gabovich held up a hand. “No offense intended, General. After all, I don’t have all the answers. Only … more questions. For example, I’ve often wondered what the arrangement will be between Belarus, the Commonwealth, and Lithuania when all Belarus forces depart Lithuania. When the treaty concludes, all of your forces go home-but where does that leave Kalinin? Will Belarus be separated from Kalinin forever? Will your troops be granted access to its industrial centers and ports? Or will you have to pay tolls and duties to … Lithuania just to get wheat and oil from the ports that you built and protected? Will a television set or farm tractor cost double the normal price because of transit and excise fees imposed by Vilnius?”
Gabovich had hit another nerve.
Kalinin.
Located between Poland, Lithuania, and Byelorussia, the tiny industrial territory of Kalinin, with its large year-round Baltic Sea port city of Kaliningrad, its extensive air and rail transportation network facilities, and its very high standard of living, was the best-kept secret of the old Soviet Union. Temperate climate, lush forests, and arable, well-drained farmland, beautiful beyond compare, Kalinin oblast was an ideal place for both a military assignment and a permanent residence, despite its industrial pollution and the hectic life-style of its affluent citizens. Kalinin was officially part of the Russian Federation, but the rail lines and superhighways from Kaliningrad through Vilnius to Minsk were the life’s blood of the people of Belarus. As long as the rail lines and highways were open, Belarus did not have to depend on Moscow for anything. Belarus, without any other outlet to the sea, was landlocked without Kaliningrad…
… and Lithuania could close the railroad and the highways. According to the treaty between it and the Commonwealth, independent Lithuania was expected to maintain the highways and rails inside its own country, a multibillion-lith challenge. Lithuania, in an act seen by many in Belarus as economic retaliation against the Commonwealth (Voshchanka had at once called it “war” against Belarus), immediately set tolls and tariffs on imported goods brought in by rail or by truck. Since the railroads and highways were still the best way to get large amounts of food and supplies from Kaliningrad to Minsk, the price of using those facilities had now nearly doubled.
Financially strapped Belarus was beginning to feel the pinch.
“We are in negotiations with Lithuania on their schedule of tariffs and restrictions on transportation,” Voshchanka said irritably. “Those negotiations… umm, will be resolved soon…”
“Resolved, yes.” Gabovich chuckled. “But in Belarus’s favor? I think not, unless you want to help the Lithuanians build new highways and railroads. No, Belarus will suffer.”
“Never,” Voshchanka growled. “My troops still maintain a presence along the railroads and in Kaliningrad. We have unrestricted access.”
Gabovich noted Voshchanka’s proprietary use of “my troops.” Voshchanka had tipped his hand. He disliked and distrusted the Commonwealth as much as Gabovich. “What will happen when Russia takes control away from your forces of the port facilities at Kaliningrad?” Gabovich asked. “Belarus will be at the mercy of other countries for its very existence. You will have to deal with Ukraine, with Russia, with Poland, with Lithuania… Belarus will become the whore of Europe.”
“Never!” Voshchanka declared angrily, rising to his feet, his face beet red. “We will take orders from no country, do you hear me? We will determine our own destiny.”
“What about the Commonwealth? Do you serve the Commonwealth, General? Don’t you believe the Commonwealth will protect Belarus, as the Soviet Union did? Where does your loyalty lie? Who is your principal, General — the Commonwealth of Independent States or Belarus?”
“Belarus!” Voshchanka raged, spittle flying. “The fucking Commonwealth is a joke! It is an attempt by Russia to impose its will on all of Europe and the Transcaucasus once again!”
“I agree, General,” Gabovich said, nodding sympathetically. “But why is the headquarters of the Commonwealth located in Minsk? Why not Moscow? Kiev? Tblisi? Riga? Because Belarus is the key to solidarity. It is the most powerful, wealthy, industrialized city in the Commonwealth besides Moscow. Minsk leads the way. Subdue Minsk, and Belarus is forfeit. Subdue Belarus, and the rest are automatically held prisoner. And with Commonwealth troops swarming into Minsk, they can handcuff you rather effectively, can’t they?”