The Russian Woman

Chapter 21

Anya sat unmoving at the kitchen table watching a wisp of steam rise from her cup of tea, getting ready to visit her mother in the hospital. She was thinking of Grigori and why he'd been sent to Syria in the first place. She'd spent a lot of time the last few days thinking about that. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. She didn't like where her thoughts were taking her.

The official explanation for the war was that Federation troops had gone into Syria at the request of the regime in Damascus. The public believed it, but Anya knew it was a lie. Operation EAGLE was only the opening move in a larger game. The generals were playing with fire. The risk of igniting a larger war was real.

The Russian operation had destabilized the region. The world was nervous. All of the Middle East had gone to high alert. She didn't believe the Americans would stand by and let Tarasov do whatever he wanted. They'd have to respond. Whatever the response was, it wouldn't be good.

She couldn't sleep at night, thinking about what war with the West would look like. The images were too horrible to contemplate. Nothing was worth starting World War III, certainly not Syria's oil. A major confrontation with America could go nuclear. If that happened, her homeland would be destroyed.

The Federation didn't need more oil. Russia had enough proven reserves to cover her needs for the next thirty years. The oil was an excuse. Why were troops in Syria? Why had her brother been there? It sure as hell wasn't to assist the corrupt regime of Khaleem al-Khali.

Tarasov was allied with a core group of senior generals who wanted to bring back the power Russia had wielded in the days of the Soviet Union. The election was coming soon. His popularity had taken a big jump because of the Syrian offensive. People saw it as a resurgence of Russian strength, something to make them feel proud of their country again.

Grigori died because Tarasov wanted to look good in the polls.

The realization triggered a sudden rush of adrenaline. Her heart began pounding. It felt like someone had grabbed her head and squeezed.

She took deep breaths, calming herself. Of course it wasn't that simple. Or was it? It didn't really matter. What mattered was that Grigori was dead for no good reason. Dead because of powerful men who wanted even more power. They had killed both her brothers, one through incompetence and one through an unnecessary war. Stupid men, putting her country and the world at risk.

It's wrong. Wrong. They have to be stopped.

I have to do something.

She drank some of her tea, then got up to go to the hospital.

They had put her mother in a private room, an unexpected luxury. The room was painted in soothing shades of blue, pleasant and quiet. The nurses and doctors were polite and respectful. They all knew what had brought on Yulia's heart attack.

Anya sat by her mother's bed, holding her hand.

"You're going to be all right, mother," Anya said. "I've talked with the doctors. You'll be going home tomorrow, but you'll have to take it easy for a while. I've arranged for someone to stay with you when I'm at work."

Yulia squeezed Anya's hand.

"You have always been a good daughter, Anya. I'm sorry I've been difficult these last years. Since..."

She stopped.

"I know," Anya said. "Since Mikhail died."

"Oh, Anya, why Grigori too?"

She couldn't tell her mother what she knew, that Grigori's death was meaningless. Yulia would never believe his death was useless. It was the only way she could accept the pain. It would be cruel to tell her the truth.

"I don't know, mother. I don't know why."

"At least he died fighting to keep our country safe. Sometimes sacrifice is necessary for the good of the Motherland. A hero, Anya. At least there's that. Your father would have been proud of him."

In spite of her determination not to say anything, something slipped out.

"His death wasn't necessary, mother."

"Of course it was, don't say that. Soldiers die in war, and Grigori was a soldier. Our leaders would never have sent him into harm's way if it wasn't necessary."

Anya said, "I was thinking..."

She stopped as two men entered the room. Both were in uniform, one a major, the other a senior sergeant. The sergeant carried a camera.

"Colonel Volkova?" He saluted. "I'm Major Nikitin, with Krasnya Zvezda. This is Senior Sergeant Lebedev. May I offer my condolences on the loss of your brother?"

Red Star was the official newspaper of the Ministry of Defense. It was widely read throughout the Russian military.

"Thank you, Major. Why are you here?"

"We're running a feature article about your brother's heroic actions on the battlefield. It will be part of an ongoing series featuring you and your family. Senior Sergeant, you may begin. Get pictures."

"Sir."

Lebedev began taking pictures of Anya and her mother.

Anya remembered the conversation with Stepanov at the party, when he'd told her she'd been chosen to become the face of women in the military. They were using Grigori's death to kick off their campaign.

She felt her face flush with anger.

"Ma'am, would you look at the camera please?" Lebedev said to Yulia.

Bastards, Anya thought.