The Retirement, Chapter 1
It was too early in the morning. As a matter of fact, it would have been too early any time during the day after last night's drinking. He had drunk enough to make even himself sick as a dog. Snapping the sweatband of his cap, the tall, muscular, blond man stared at the gargantuan furnace tower. He placed the cap on smartly and frowned to himself.
He hated coming here for retirements more than anything. It was always one more comrade gone (usually something he was thankful for), one less competitor, and one giant cloud of black smoke, gently billowing away into the sky. He opened the doors slowly, and stepped inside of the gloomy dank halls of GRU headquarters.
The walls had needed paint since he had first started with GRU over 30 years ago, the tiles were peeling off the floor in some places, and somehow, despite all efforts to the contrary, the building still retained some semblance of fearsome glory. Volgin had never understood why. The building just did.
He continued down the ill groomed hallway, receiving salutes as he passed some of his staff and other junior officers. They looked concerned. They usually did when "Thunderbolt" wore a worried look. He strode up to the elevator, pushed the down button, and entered his pass code. He thought worriedly to himself. What if I am next? What would I do?
And, what would he do? The disgraced, the aged, the senile, all of them were sent there for their retirement. And no one ever came back from it the same. Those who retired, the people attending the retirement, and the families of the retirees. Those who had served honorably, gotten out, or decided on another kind of retirement escaped this fate. But the furnace consumed everything once it was in your mind. Be it the image of the doors closing, the sound proofed walls echoing the machinery in the room, or the piles of documents awaiting the all-consuming flames. He had never considered that fate. He hadn't wanted to. But after the second retirement in two months, he had been forced to. Especially with what he had been planning to do.
With in the GRU, there had always been a small minority who involved themselves in the running of the government outside of their usual duties. Volgin was a member of this elite minority. After all, his heritage, his loyalties, his impressive past and future entitled him to such frivolities. His father had always encouraged him to take an interest in the politics of the time, and to devote attention to the inner workings of the politburo. He had followed that piece of advice like a starving dog after a piece of bacon. And it, for all intents and purposes, had served him well enough to afford him a comfortable life style, a colonel's rank and a small army to himself.
But what he wanted to do now was a far different thing from political backstabbing, pointless informing, and shadowy maneuvering. He was going to go against Premier Khrushchev, who he saw as a pathetic dog who hung his tail between his legs every time the Americans made a racket. He would force, via GRU, the change of this policy, and of the Premier. And he knew it would be both difficult and dangerous. If he failed, he would either have to defect, flee, or most likely die.
As the elevator doors opened, Volgin stepped out into the lobby of the furnace room and looked at the crowd gathered quietly there. They saluted him, and stood at attention until he had eased his considerable bulk into a chair. They too sat down. He watched the major who was retiring, now an old man, aged and weak, and ready to die. He shook internally; he would never be ready to go…not even like this. The man's comrades delivered a genius series of speeches , and then stepped away from the furnace doors. Two youthful and sprightly looking soldiers pulled the doors open, and allowed the man to step in.
The shot fired by the major's second in command landed straight where it had meant to go, straight through his head. The man fell onto the floor, and the doors were quickly closed and the furnace started. After twenty minutes, all that would be left of that man were the memories of his friends, his family, and the cloud of smoke that would billow over Russia until it too died away into a memory.
And all Volgin could think of as he left the building was, if it were really better to go out in flames or in battle.