A Writing Excerpt

The following is a sample from my first novel, the quite forgettable Transylvania Connection. 

Kursk, Russia / March 2

Someone, Gennadi Yazov thought, should write a book about the history of the hangover in Russian history. Even he, with his moderate education, could think of many turning points whose pivot was the harsh reality of the morning after. The most important, he mused, was of course the Decembrist Revolt of 1825, when many of the key officers plotting the overthrow of the new Tsar Nicholas I “overslept” and left their colleagues to be overwhelmed. Overslept? All the students had smiled when the teacher said this. In Russia, happy spirits of vodka ruled the night and the evil spirits of its sister, the hangover, dominated the morning. Such was certainly the situ­ation in this rough building, for the bloodshot eyes and pasty com­plexions of the men around him showed that they had appreciated the three bottles of Stoli that Yazov had “found” yesterday afternoon.

Yazov watched carefully as the small truck made its way to the checkpoint. From where he stood, by the front window of the rather large guard hut, the truck appeared somewhat mystical, its lower parts enveloped in the kind of wispy ground fog that appeared early on Spring mornings.

Yazov was confident. The papers were good, and the security detail was not enthusiastic about doing more than moping in their warm building and drinking sugary tea. The appearance of the truck had caused an audible groan, synchronized almost like a chorus, from the half dozen men on duty. A sergeant had gone out to get the papers and was now examining them with a minimum of attention. But he did fax the documents and make the necessary phone calls to verify the signatures. The fact that the voices on the other end were unfamiliar occasioned no surprise—after all, it was only 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday. Perhaps only the cleaning lady was on duty at such a god-awful time, the sergeant had observed sullenly.

Close, Yazov thought, as he heard the calls go successfully. The low-level officers covering the phones at the two command centers were honest—they did find the matching documentation in their systems. But they weren’t experienced enough—or alert enough—to question the questionable details. Yazov smiled to himself. It would have been foolish to try to bribe them; the money had been better placed elsewhere.

The sergeant, moving slowly as he stood up from putting the phone down and complaining of a headache as he did so, told his commanding officer, Yazov, that the paperwork was in order.

The next step in the process was inspection. It was one thing for the papers to say what was inside, and the validity of the documents to be confirmed elsewhere, it was quite another to make sure the de­scription matched the contents. Yazov barked an order, and the entire crew moved outside.

The first step was the radiation test, designed to be very, very sure that nothing nuclear was inside. To do this, the team removed panels on the two devices that exposed the interior and carefully put their high-tech American-made probes inside. Given the small size of the area inside the warheads, and the sensitivity of the probes, there was no chance of having enough shielding to mask a nuclear device.

The sergeant holding the device spoke loudly, “negative, no ra­diation,” and handed the device to a second sergeant, who repeated the check and announced the same conclusion. Yazov knew that there would be two more such double checks down the road before the truck was cleared. After some years of rather loose supervision, the leaders in the Kremlin had realized that, if a nuclear device went astray, it was just as likely to be used against them as in the West somewhere. Nuclear security was very tight.

But the concern about other weapons was less serious, and this checkpoint was the only one that would actually examine the ship­ment to see if it matched the description. The devices were supposed to be dummy warheads of a particular model number—ones they hadn’t seen here before—and the security team had been given de­tailed internal drawings that showed the difference between the pho­ny and the real warheads. It was obvious that the difference wasn’t obvious. The warheads would have to be lifted out of the truck and carried inside for inspection.

Yazov spoke briskly, “All right. I guess we have to bring these in. They look heavy and the forklift doesn’t seem to be working. Best for all six of us to carry them. Ready now.”

As he spoke, Yazov gave a swift glance to the officer next to him. The rules required that two officers from different units sign off on each inspection, and although Yazov was the superior, his every ac­tion could be countermanded. Conflict meant that a team from headquarters had to be summoned.

No one moved for a long moment, waiting to see what Yazov’s fellow officer would say. Their bloodshot eyes implored him.

The Major nodded his head as if in agreement with Yazov then moved his hands to grasp the dark metal of the first missile. He gave it a tug, and muttered, “All right,” then, under his breath. “Let’s take a look.”

Yazov stiffened, his breath slowing as his body began to prepare for fight or flight. Actually, he didn’t know which. The backup plan was none too good—at least from his point of view. The bosses’ idea of Plan B was to say, “What a shame! And Yazov seemed so capable. Who shall we get to replace him?”

Two of the soldiers moved forward and placed their hands on the missile, waiting for others to come and help. Faced with the need for physical action, the Major, looking down at his trembling hands, seemed to reconsider. Finally, pale and sweating slightly even in the cold, the man spoke unsteadily. “No. I can see that this is the dum­my.” He pretended to look at the plans. “There’s no doubt.” The voice was now a bit stronger.

Yazov, after a pause to replenish his oxygen supply, used a quieter voice. “Well, the Major is more expert than I in these matters. I will sign.”

Quietly, the two senior officers worked through the paperwork, then Yazov used his radio to call the commander of the twenty or so heavily armed men who guarded the gate and the neighboring area of fence. “Let them proceed.” The gate opened smartly, but the driver, seemingly frozen by the long wait, didn’t move for many seconds and Yazov felt the tension again build inside. The man was a regular and obviously had expected to be here much longer. Was he going to call headquarters to complain there had been no inspection?

But the driver’s fog lifted, perhaps he too had spent the evening with the siren in a bottle, and the truck noisily went into gear and through the gate.

Two more inspections, Yazov thought, but only for radiation. The missiles will be in Tiraspol tonight and on the Black Sea tomor­row. He smiled. Another victory for the hangover.