“It pains me to think that we only have to go through this because of the illiterate madman Khrushchev, and Yeltsin who finished off the deed.”
For any Russian President, no triumph compared to the possible reunification. The Caspian Sea would return to Russia’s control. Reclaiming a land mass five times the size of France would put Alexandrov’s name in the history books on par with the greatest Russian rulers. But for President Kasymov, it was something else.
“I also want to rectify the mistakes of the past, Nikolai. But I feel that from now on, it’s a question of the country’s survival. All sights are set on Kazakhstan now. Only together we can withstand the military threat. Without Russia, the Chinese will crush us. The increased terrorist activity is just the first phase of their strategy. Next, they will attempt a coup d’etat, by which time it will be too late for Russia to intervene. After the Chinese troops flood in, imagine what is going to happen. In many ways we are a single country in all but the paperwork. We share 6,500 kilometers of a completely unprotected, non-existent border. Empty steppes that leave Russia exposed. Before it’s too late, the Russian Army must return to defend Kazakhstan. If we combine our resources, we can save the region from chaos. I see no other way but to push the procedure through.”
“Of course, it will be up to the people of Kazakhstan to decide if they want to take this course," Alexandrov said carefully.
“I’m sure they’ll make the right choice. I need not tell you that Kazakhstan’s population is forty percent Russian.”
Alexandrov nodded.
“They were the first to suffer from the division, entire families separated. We have always felt a historic duty to support their bond with the homeland.”
“And I can tell you that the Kazakh people share a connection with Russia as strongly as they ever did, economically and culturally. Russian is one of our official languages, after all. I am confident about the referendum’s outcome.”
“If that happens, then nothing can prevent Kazakhstan from joining the Russian Federation,” Alexandrov said.
They raised their drinks, toasting the endeavor that would make them immortal.
3
If his calculations were correct, the Isebek would be passing the Olympia at a point where the two ships would be closest to each other. Oleg Radchuk could not yet see the Presidential yacht. Sticking to its designated course, the Isebek was travelling far enough away so as to avoid attention from the Coast Guard.
As he stood propped against the rail, wind tried to pick at his long blond hair tied in a ponytail. He had an angular, Slavic face, the nose bent slightly, broken in a fight. Radchuk’s arms had the thickness of tree trunks, developed early from his teenage years as a dockworker in Odessa.
He peered over the rail to examine the water beneath his feet. The Black Sea, it could be so different. Scorched limestone near his home, and unrestrained glory of life where it met the mountains. The Germans could never tackle that ridge, and he himself had found shelter in the Caucasus. But he had lived on the other end of the Black Sea, and the other end of the mountains, two worlds apart.
He had made the transition to manhood when he left Odessa and arrived to Grozny, feeling a call of blood when he had enlisted as a volunteer during Russia’s first Chechen War in January of 1995.
Oleg Radchuk’s grandfather had served in the Ukrainian Waffen-SS battalion, being one of the only three Ukrainians who had earned an Iron Cross. Of all of Hitler’s collaborators in World War Two, no one could match the sadistic barbarity of the Ukrainians. The senior Radchuk got his medal by helping out in the mass execution of over 100,000 Jews at the Babi Yar ravine. The grandson, too, had made a prolific career, killing the damned Russians, proud of his part in the death toll that matched the Yar.
Now, Radchuk couldn’t help but smile at the irony of fate. For a short span, his former-life aspiration of seagoing had fulfilled through the lethal skills acquired in the forested mountains. And now, both of his worlds, the Black Sea and the Caucasus, surrounded him in one spot, awaiting his decision.
The Isebek was a small ship by tanker standards, measuring 99.9 meters in length, with a capacity of 5,797 deadweight tons. Deadweight. More irony. Loaded to the brim, the Isebek had a purpose that differed from transporting petrochemical products.
Radchuk raised a radio to his lips.
“Dump it.”
The Isebek disgorged her water ballast into the sea.
4
Asiyah could not bring herself to face the First Lady in strained small talk, so no sooner than she was up on the deck, she had proceeded wordlessly to her private cabin in a display of unprecedented insolence. The First Lady attempted to be outraged by such manners, but Asiyah ignored her. Throughout the evening, she could smell the bile churning inside that old woman, and thinly-veiled contempt directed at her. Asiyah didn’t care.
She slammed the door shut behind her and pressed the lock, letting out a sigh. More so than getting rid of the First Lady’s company, she was relieved to have escaped the disgusting attention of the President himself. The playful comments. The lust in his piglet eyes. He was as repulsive as a mud worm; she loathed him unconsciously, on a basic level.
And, too, she was glad to be away from her father.
Days ago, she had asked him whyhe was taking her with him to Sochi.
“I want you and Nikolai to pass the time together.”
With humiliating bluntness, Timur Kasymov had explained every detail of what he meant by that.
Shocked, she had cursed him.
“All you do is use me!”
She had paced the room in utter fury, yelling something at him. He had pleaded. He’d said he needed her help, that he was doing it for both their sakes.
“No — please — don’t make me do it! I can’t. I won’t!”
“I need your help, child. Imagine that it’s a game. Like in the old days.”
“I don’t want the old days to return!”
“The President likes you. Give in just once. Then I will set you free. I will be gone from your life forever.”
After she had gone hysterical, he had stroked her hair, telling her through her sobs how much he loved her, and that everything would be fine, and she needed to trust him. He had vowed to forget the whole thing. By that time her resolve had broken, mainly from the knowledge that she had no choice at all.
But she knew her father too well. He would never set her free. He hated to part with property. She felt like a fly trapped in a web of deceit.
For once in her life, she had rebelled against her father’s will, locking herself up in the cabin. Perhaps Alexandrov might make further advances back at the residence, but she would have to deal with it later. For now, she had done what she felt was right.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her gaze fixed on the setting sun. The blue of the sky would have been impossible to tell from the blue of the sea, if not for the disc the color of flaming strawberry. It didn’t move at all, and yet crept closer to the horizon. Then it touched the sea, immersing in water, dissolving in it. The flaming disc diminished at a staggering rate. The less was left of it, the quicker it disappeared, like the last years of life, until only a sliver was left, and then, where the sliver should have been, there was a shrinking dot — and that was it.
It had taken fifteen minutes. So little of her life, and so much time for the sun to be gone, and for life itself to seep away just like the burning pink shape.