Chapter 564: Legacy of the Empire
Grigori’s voice was not loud, but as Morozov listened, his gaze gradually settled on the residential blueprint.
“And schools, Comrade Major. The affiliated school for children in the port area has ample heating and provides two free nutritious meals a day, including butter, steak, and milk.”
“The people will still remain on Russian soil, but their housing, medical care, schooling, heating, and even the bread and butter on their dining tables every day—will be fully covered and taken care of by a Japanese company.”
Grigori paused briefly after speaking.
“I know you don’t care much about how much salary you can get, Comrade Major.”
He glanced at the military dependents resettlement registration form on the desk.
“But the officers and soldiers under your command have wives and children too. I think you should at least seriously consider these terms on their behalf.”
Having said this, Grigori stopped.
In the entire crude regiment headquarters office, only the howling of the wind and snow outside the window and the intermittent coughing of a child next door remained.
Morozov stared blankly at the blueprint on the desk.
He could disregard his dignity, refuse money, and even die in any trench wearing this tattered overcoat.
But what about his family?
His wife’s hands, red, swollen, and cracked from the cold, having lined up in the snow for four hours only to return empty-handed; his son’s burning, frail body lying on the camp cot…
Morozov looked down at the residential blueprint, remaining silent for a long time.
If all the other party had brought out was that US currency, he could have returned the money right now and had the sentries kick this man out of the camp.
But those apartments, hospitals, and schools where children could get hot meals…
He thought of the military dependents resettlement registration form on the desk.
He knew better than anyone how many people on that list were waiting for housing allocation, and how many of their wives and children were still crammed into the drafty old barracks.
Moreover, since the other party was willing to offer so much, the return they wanted would probably not be simple.
Morozov looked up again and faced Grigori, who was sitting opposite him.
“You offer such good terms, surely it can’t just be for charity?”
“Of course.”
Grigori nodded frankly.
“My employer is a businessman, and when a businessman does things, they must always consider the return.”
“So, what exactly do you want me to do?”
“It’s very simple. We would like to invite you to join a security company that is about to be established in Russia.”
“A security company?”
Morozov frowned.
“Exactly. It will mainly be responsible for guarding key facilities, escorting personnel, and handling some special security matters,” Grigori explained. “The company needs a group of experienced professional soldiers to form the initial operations department.”
“An officer like you, who has participated in the Soviet-Afghan War and has years of command experience, is exactly the kind of talent we most hope to recruit.”
Having said this, he glanced at the military dependents resettlement registration form on the desk again.
“Of course, if you are willing to recommend some trustworthy subordinates, we would also be very welcome. Especially those officers and non-commissioned officers who are about to retire or have already lost faith in the military.”
Morozov did not answer immediately.
He had already roughly understood the other party’s plan.
A security company funded by foreign capital was preparing to recruit professional soldiers who were about to lose their jobs while the Soviet military was in chaos.
And judging by the terms Grigori offered, the other party was clearly prepared to invest a very substantial amount of money.
“You certainly know how to pick your timing.”
“After all, it’s a rare opportunity, Comrade Major.”
Grigori did not deny it.
“Ukraine’s referendum has already ended. How much longer Moscow can hold out, I think you know better than I do.”
He paused briefly.
“Once that Red Empire truly becomes history, what will happen to the millions of soldiers left behind by the Soviet Union? The new Russian government can’t even solve its own financial problems, so it will probably be very difficult for them to continue feeding such a massive military.”
“And you and your subordinates happen to have the experience we need.”
Grigori spread his hands.
“In that case, why not consider it?”
Morozov closed his eyes.
Of course, he knew what the military was going through; the unit’s supply lines were cut, and only endless lies and evasions came from Moscow.
He truly did not want to believe that his former faith was about to collapse, but facts were facts—Moscow might not survive the winter.
But for a Soviet officer who had served for many years to suddenly consider working for a foreign company, it was ultimately not so easy to accept.
“So…” After a long time, the Major reopened his eyes, “What are the conditions for joining?”
“The first thing is also a test.”
Grigori pulled another thin sheet of typewriter-printed paper from his briefcase and laid it flat on top of the stack of US dollars.
“Comrade Major, in the next few weeks, I’m afraid an event significant enough to change history is about to happen in this country.”
Grigori lowered his voice slightly.
“By then, Moscow itself will be plunged into chaos, governments at all levels will be busy redistributing power, and the military won’t even know whose orders to follow.”
He extended his finger and tapped twice gently on the list on the desk.
“And what we want is precisely this opportunity.”
“During those few days when this city’s administrative system is completely paralyzed and no one knows who to listen to, mobilize your elite forces, use your military vehicles and closed compartments, and go ‘receive’ a group of people.”
“Receive whom?”
“The names are all on there.”
Grigori did not elaborate, simply withdrawing his hand.
“There are old people, scholars, and their wives and children.”
“They won’t resist; they’ll even thank you for coming. What you need to do is bypass those lengthy, chaotic, and troublesome local bureaucratic procedures, and escort them completely, safely, and on time to the designated location before the wind and snow block the roads.”
Morozov lowered his head, his gaze falling on the white sheet of paper.
On the paper were lines of names and addresses printed in Cyrillic, with several special unit abbreviations noted in parentheses at the end of the list:
…Leningrad Optical-Mechanical Precision Instrument Research Institute…
…Second Branch of the State Institute of Applied Chemistry…
…Seventh Special Engineering Office of the Red Banner Shipyard…
Morozov’s eyes suddenly narrowed.
As a special operations officer who had served in the Baltic Military District for many years, he was naturally familiar with those names.
It was no exaggeration to say that those were the most core R&D sites for optics, remote sensing, and precision instruments in the entire Soviet Union.
So that was it.
They wanted the people.
“They… are also the country’s wealth,” Morozov murmured.
“If they are left to starve or freeze to death in empty apartments, or picked over like garbage and bought by some American foundation with a couple of green cards, that would be a true waste of wealth.”
Grigori stood up, buttoned his overcoat, and put on his mink hat.
“Our convoy is parked by the edge of the woods five kilometers outside the camp. The first batch of heating fuel, two hundred boxes of high-calorie field rations of US military specification, and the special medicine for your son are already loaded onto the trucks.”
Grigori looked at Morozov with a calm gaze:
“Whether to sign this or not is up to you, Comrade Major. You can continue to be a martyr loyal to thin air, or you can give your freezing child next door a way to survive.”
Having finished, the man did not waste another word. He nodded slightly, opened the door, and stepped back out into the swirling wind and snow.
Morozov was left alone in the room once again.
The stack of green US dollars lay quietly on the desk, right next to the list of names from the optical institute and the design bureau.
Two more coughs came from next door, followed by his wife’s low, coaxing sobs to the child.
Morozov stood in front of the desk, standing perfectly straight.
He looked down at his own calloused, frostbitten hands.
Then he looked up and glanced at the map of the Soviet Union hanging on the wall, which was already covered in a layer of dust.
A few minutes later.
The Major reached out and folded the list on the desk twice, his movements extremely slow yet incredibly forceful.
Without touching the stack of brand-new US bills, he stuffed the folded list into the innermost pocket of his heavy wool overcoat, pressing it tightly against his wildly beating heart through the thick wool.
Click.
Expressionless, Morozov drew the Type 54 Tokarev pistol from his waist, removed the magazine, checked the brass-cased bullets packed tightly inside, and then cleanly chambered a round and engaged the safety.
He pulled down the earflaps of his military cap, fastened the strap under his chin, turned around, and strode out of the regiment headquarters.
On the camp training ground, the wind and snow were violently sweeping over everything.
The snow had already risen past his ankles, and the watchtower a few hundred meters away was reduced to a faint outline in the white chaos.
Braving the biting white wind, the Major stepped onto the frozen snow, his feet making a dull, solid crunching sound.
He no longer looked back at the crumbling, dark barracks behind him.
He simply walked straight toward the garage at the end of the training ground, one step at a time, through the howling blizzard.