He watched as a short, gray-hired general climbed out of the Chaika, followed by a major and the driver. Three lower ranking men approached from the truck. All carried holstered sidearms.
"Captain Shumakov," he said cautiously, popping a snappy salute. "May I inquire as to the purpose of this visit?"
"You may, Comrade Captain. I am General Valentin Malmudov from Moscow." The general pulled an envelope from an inside pocket and unfolded two sheets of paper, which he handed to Shumakov. "Somewhat belatedly, it seems, our leaders have become concerned about the security of chemical and biological weapons. I have been directed to take possession of all such weapons in Ukraine. I understand you have custody of those temporarily assigned to your battalion."
Shumakov stared at the papers. One was signed by President Mikhail Gorbachev, the other by Vadim Bakatin, the new reformist chief of the KGB. Impressive. And it was just what he had wanted. A chance to get rid of these demonic weapons. But why wasn't there something from the General Staff, or at least the 48th Division? Surely the military brass would have been consulted. What about the spetsnaz team due tomorrow? Something about all of this didn't quite add up. In any event, after all the problems he had faced lately, Shumakov was not about to make a decision of this consequence without assurance from his own headquarters. He glanced at the general, his face clouded with uncertainty.
"Sir, this is a bit irregular. I trust you won't object if I consult with my commander?" He might not have been so bold in the past without more troops to back him up, but Shumakov was aware that the KGB had had its wings clipped. He had heard from his brother, a criminal investigator on the staff of the Minsk prosecutor, that many of the worst tormentors had already been suspended pending investigation.
The General's eyes narrowed. "Are you questioning the authority of the president of the Soviet Union?"
"No, sir. I'm only questioning the procedure."
"What is your question, Captain?"
"This is a military matter. It should be handled by military commanders."
General Malmudov was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Very well, Captain. Call your commander. What is his name?"
"Colonel Kalin."
"Perhaps I should speak to Colonel Kalin myself." He glanced up at the sign on the building, then back at Shumakov. "Is this where the materials are stored?"
"Yes, sir. We would have preferred a better facility, but this is all that was available. Come with me. We can call Colonel Kalin from inside." Captain Shumakov turned toward the doorway and the KGB delegation followed. All except the General's driver, who remained outside with the guard at the entrance.
In the month that had followed the abortive coup by the communist hardliners, the Soviet Union's derelict economy had continued to unravel at a startling pace. The commercial and industrial base floundered in uncertainty while the main organs of government struggled in disarray. Despite this, many of the bureaucracies curiously muddled right along as though nothing had happened.
This was the case with the military garrison in the southern Ukraine. Army commanders had become concerned during the Persian Gulf War about their troops' proficiency in countering a chemical or biological attack. Regardless of treaties or diplomatic niceties, if the Soviet army was provoked, it would be prepared to retaliate in kind. For training purposes, non-lethal tear gas would be used to simulate conditions under an attack. The chemical troops would demonstrate their ability to decontaminate an area, and the spetsnaz detachment would demonstrate handling of highly toxic weapons.
Apparently all that had suddenly changed, Captain Shumakov reflected as he stepped inside the building. Still, he wanted confirmation from somewhere along his own chain of command.
The front section of the structure was outfitted as a small office, normally used for the collective farm's records. A stocky sergeant seated at the desk jumped to his feet at sight of the General. Beyond him, a wooden counter had been hastily built across the width of the building. Two soldiers with AK-47s slung over their shoulders stood behind the counter. Everyone carried gas masks. The place was neat, orderly, organized, the mark of an exacting commander.
Cases of ammunition were stacked along the walls, including assault rifle magazines, machinegun drums and belts, 82mm rounds for mortars and recoilless guns, and grenades. A separate heavy wire mesh fenced enclosure stood along one wall with a padlocked gate.
"Get Battalion Headquarters on the phone," Shumakov told the Sergeant.
"Sorry, Captain, the phone line is dead again. Some idiot must have run over the wire. I'll use the radio."
The radio had a telephone-style handset. He spoke into it, then listened. His forehead rumpled with a puzzled expression.
"What's the problem?" Shumakov asked.
"I can't hear a damned thing but static. I talked to one of the companies a short while ago and it worked fine. I don't understand."
The Captain reached out and took the handset. He shook his head as he listened to the noise. He tried calling Battalion Headquarters but heard only the hapless crackle of static.
The General frowned impatiently. "I suggest we take a look at your storage area. You can try calling Colonel Kalin again in a few minutes."
The Captain shrugged his broad shoulders, took a key ring from his pocket and led the way back to the fenced enclosure. He failed to notice that one of the lower ranking KGB men remained near the Sergeant and the other two positioned themselves adjacent to the soldiers behind the counter.
Shumakov unlocked the wire mesh gate and stepped inside. He looked down at the cases stenciled boldly: "Warning! Chemical Agents! Handle With Extreme Caution!"
"Four mortar shells," he noted. "Five canisters." He understood the canisters contained neurotoxins. What that meant, he wasn't sure, but it had a grim sound to it. The mortar rounds were loaded with deadly nerve agents. Those he knew only too well. A minute amount would kill a man within minutes.
To Anatoli Schumakov, anything that required the intervention of the KGB had no business in the military. The Committee for State Security meant politics at its ugliest. He no longer had any desire to be involved in anything political, including the mandatory sessions led by the unit's political officer. It had not always been that way. When they were growing up, Anatoli and his older brother, Yuri, had been guided through the tortuous landscape of Soviet society by their father, a garrulous ironworker from Minsk who eventually died in a building collapse, a victim of faulty Soviet engineering. He had pushed his sons to take an active role in the Pioneers, then the Komsomol, and finally the Party. The elder Shumakov was determined that they should become something more than simple blue collar workers. At that, he had succeeded.
Yuri chose a legal career. His interest in law enforcement had steered him into the position of investigator for the Minsk city prosecutor, the prokuratura. Party membership was a prerequisite for such a job, but as the years passed, obvious mismanagement and deplorable incompetence had gradually eroded his faith in the Party and, consequently, in the integrity of the whole Soviet system. But that did not affect his commitment to the concept of law and order. He had doggedly followed his own instincts, pursuing diligently the belief that what he did was vital to the welfare of the ordinary citizen.