diseases made the pool of viable draft-age manpower shrink even more, causing constant problems for Meredov as throughout Russian national defense.
“What’s your regiment’s operational availability?”
“Sixty percent, sir. Unlikely to improve.”
“That’s quite excellent, under the circumstances you so aptly describe, especially with the weather we’ve been having.” A strong gale had blown through, leaving clear skies in its wake, but disrupting air and ground operations at more than just the base from which this subordinate’s maritime patrol bombers flew. As regiment commander, he was telling Meredov that sixty percent of his bombers were airworthy on short notice—meaning the other forty percent were not. By some standards, forty percent out of action would be dreadful, but this was Russia.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Was there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then send me your end-of-June forms filled out as soon as you reasonably can. If Vladivostok complains about timeliness, which I seriously doubt, I’ll handle those supreme bureaucrats my way.” Meredov’s double meaning, supreme bureaucrats, was intentional. The commanders at Pacific Fleet headquarters in Vladivostok were very senior, and maddeningly hidebound to go with their exalted ranks and advanced ages. Meredov was grateful that his immediate boss spent all his time down there, fifteen hundred kilometers away. “You just keep your airplanes ready, Aleksei, and your pilots sober . . . and the rest of the aircrews more-or-less sober.” Meredov chuckled.
“Easier said than done, sir. It’s tough on them, being stationed here.”
“Remind them there’s a war on. They’re supposed to be protecting the sacred Motherland!” He lowered his voice. “Even if we are in theory neutral in this one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell them, if you have to, that they should be grateful the risks they face come from storms and their own carelessness, not combat with the Americans.” At least, not yet.
“Understood, sir.”
“And inform me at once if your July aviation fuel allocations aren’t delivered when due.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Very well, Aleksei.” Meredov hung up.
For a moment he listened to the steady hiss of the ancient steam radiators, from which the dirty white paint was peeling in scabs. He wore his winter formal uniform, dark navy-blue wool with a double-breasted jacket, mostly to help stay warm—the temperature outside was well above freezing, but his office was drafty with the winter shutters taken down. The windows were double-glazed, but their frames were warped and loose. His jacket cuff edges were shiny from wear, and so was the seat of his pants, which he thought, as with the radiator and the ragged carpet, was symbolic: threadbare, not pretty, but effective enough to get by, like Russia herself. The numerous medals on his jacket swayed and clinked whenever he moved. These seemed symbolic, too, since he’d never been in battle, never had to fight a shooting war. Even so, Meredov was proud of the medals and ribbons. He’d earned them for various outstanding achievements, including vital peacetime ballistic missile submarine deterrent patrols. Yet he also felt the decorations emblematic of a wider national culture based on puffery and bluff, deception and disinformation, as much as on any true substance. He glanced at the photos, models, and other memorabilia decorating his office walls and desk; the experiences and relationships behind these were quite genuine.
Twenty-five years of service to my country. My sad, despairing, tormented country.
He went to the windows, taking in the view of the snowcapped Cherskiy Mountain Range on his left, southwest, and the uninterrupted vista to his right, northward, as the land fell away toward boggy lowlands and the desolate permafrost tundra. In the foreground, silver birches soared, hardy shrubs clung to the moist and mossy taiga soil, and wildflowers bloomed in
“What’s your regiment’s operational availability?”
“Sixty percent, sir. Unlikely to improve.”
“That’s quite excellent, under the circumstances you so aptly describe, especially with the weather we’ve been having.” A strong gale had blown through, leaving clear skies in its wake, but disrupting air and ground operations at more than just the base from which this subordinate’s maritime patrol bombers flew. As regiment commander, he was telling Meredov that sixty percent of his bombers were airworthy on short notice—meaning the other forty percent were not. By some standards, forty percent out of action would be dreadful, but this was Russia.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Was there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then send me your end-of-June forms filled out as soon as you reasonably can. If Vladivostok complains about timeliness, which I seriously doubt, I’ll handle those supreme bureaucrats my way.” Meredov’s double meaning, supreme bureaucrats, was intentional. The commanders at Pacific Fleet headquarters in Vladivostok were very senior, and maddeningly hidebound to go with their exalted ranks and advanced ages. Meredov was grateful that his immediate boss spent all his time down there, fifteen hundred kilometers away. “You just keep your airplanes ready, Aleksei, and your pilots sober . . . and the rest of the aircrews more-or-less sober.” Meredov chuckled.
“Easier said than done, sir. It’s tough on them, being stationed here.”
“Remind them there’s a war on. They’re supposed to be protecting the sacred Motherland!” He lowered his voice. “Even if we are in theory neutral in this one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell them, if you have to, that they should be grateful the risks they face come from storms and their own carelessness, not combat with the Americans.” At least, not yet.
“Understood, sir.”
“And inform me at once if your July aviation fuel allocations aren’t delivered when due.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Very well, Aleksei.” Meredov hung up.
For a moment he listened to the steady hiss of the ancient steam radiators, from which the dirty white paint was peeling in scabs. He wore his winter formal uniform, dark navy-blue wool with a double-breasted jacket, mostly to help stay warm—the temperature outside was well above freezing, but his office was drafty with the winter shutters taken down. The windows were double-glazed, but their frames were warped and loose. His jacket cuff edges were shiny from wear, and so was the seat of his pants, which he thought, as with the radiator and the ragged carpet, was symbolic: threadbare, not pretty, but effective enough to get by, like Russia herself. The numerous medals on his jacket swayed and clinked whenever he moved. These seemed symbolic, too, since he’d never been in battle, never had to fight a shooting war. Even so, Meredov was proud of the medals and ribbons. He’d earned them for various outstanding achievements, including vital peacetime ballistic missile submarine deterrent patrols. Yet he also felt the decorations emblematic of a wider national culture based on puffery and bluff, deception and disinformation, as much as on any true substance. He glanced at the photos, models, and other memorabilia decorating his office walls and desk; the experiences and relationships behind these were quite genuine.
Twenty-five years of service to my country. My sad, despairing, tormented country.
He went to the windows, taking in the view of the snowcapped Cherskiy Mountain Range on his left, southwest, and the uninterrupted vista to his right, northward, as the land fell away toward boggy lowlands and the desolate permafrost tundra. In the foreground, silver birches soared, hardy shrubs clung to the moist and mossy taiga soil, and wildflowers bloomed in
Similar Books
