January 22, 1991, 11:03 AM
The second veteran lived on a houseboat.
Not the romantic kind with polished wood and cheerful curtains, but a rusted-out river barge moored in a forgotten bend of the Neva, where the ice had formed in jagged sheets and the wind cut like a knife. The boat listed to one side, its hull scarred with decades of neglect, its deck piled with scrap metal and salvaged wood. A thin plume of smoke rose from a makeshift stovepipe, the only sign of life in the frozen landscape.
Ivan stood on the crumbling concrete embankment, watching the boat for five minutes before moving. Old habits. In Afghanistan, you watched a village for hours before approaching. You noted the patterns, the movements, the absence of movements. You learned to read silence.
This silence said: Go away.
He went anyway.
The gangplank was a single warped board that bowed under his weight. He crossed quickly, his boots finding purchase on the icy deck. Up close, the boat smelled of diesel, damp wood, and unwashed man. A heavy tarpaulin covered the stern, weighted down with bricks. From beneath it came the sound of metal on metal—steady, rhythmic, focused.
Ivan pulled back the tarp.
Nikolai "Kolya" Semyonov was hunched over an engine block, a wrench in his hand, his face smeared with grease. He was big—not tall, but wide, built like a bear, with shoulders that strained the fabric of his stained work coat. His left ear was missing, taken off by shrapnel in the Kunar Province. The scar tissue was pale and shiny in the grey light.
He didn't look up. "If you're from the port authority, the barge isn't for sale. If you're from the mafia, I already paid this month. If you're lost, turn around."
"I'm from the captain," Ivan said.
The wrench stopped mid-turn. Kolya's head came up slowly. His eyes were the color of river ice, and they held no warmth. "Captain's dead."
"His son isn't."
Kolya set the wrench down carefully. He wiped his hands on a rag that was already black with grease. "Alyosha?"
"Alyosha is sixteen. And he's putting together a team."
"For what?"
"Business. In Kazakhstan."
Kolya stared at him for a long moment, then grunted and turned back to the engine. "I'm not a soldier anymore, Ivan. Look at me. I fix boat engines for fishermen who can't pay. I live on a barge that sinks a little more every winter. The war's over."
"The war never ends," Ivan said quietly. "It just changes uniforms."
"Poetic. Did you learn that in the mountains?"
"I learned that watching men like us come home to nothing." Ivan stepped closer, his boots crunching on frozen grease. "The captain saved your life at Khost. Carried you three kilometers with a bullet in your leg. You said you owed him."
Kolya's hands tightened on the wrench. "I paid that debt. I served my time. I came home broken. What more does he want?"
"He's dead, Kolya. He can't want anything. But his son needs men. Men who can handle themselves. Men who won't talk."
"What kind of business in Kazakhstan needs soldiers?"
"The kind that moves things from places they shouldn't be to places they can be sold."
Kolya turned slowly. His expression was unreadable. "He's starting young."
"He doesn't have a choice." Ivan reached into his coat and took out a bundle of rubles—thicker than the one he'd given Vasiliev. "Five hundred dollars. American. For one job. Maybe two weeks' work."
The money lay between them on the engine block. Kolya didn't look at it. "What's the job?"
"Drive a truck to Kazakhstan. Load it. Drive it back. Keep it safe."
"Safe from what?"
"From anyone who wants what's in it."
Kolya picked up the money, counted it slowly, then tucked it into his coat. "When?"
"Soon. I'll send word."
"I'll need to fix the truck. Whatever you've got, it'll break down halfway."
"We'll have mechanics."
"Good mechanics or army mechanics?"
"Army mechanics."
Kolya snorted. "Then I'll fix it myself. Tell the captain's boy I'm in."
"He's not a captain."
"He's Dmitri's son. That's enough."
Ivan nodded, pulled the tarp back into place, and retreated across the gangplank. When he reached the embankment, he looked back. Kolya had already returned to the engine, the money already out of sight, already spent in his mind on boat repairs that wouldn't matter when spring came and the barge finally sank.
Two down. Thirty-five to go.
2:15 PM
The warehouse was in the industrial district, a crumbling brick building that had once housed a textile factory before the machines were shipped to East Germany in the 1970s as part of a trade deal nobody remembered. The windows were boarded up, the roof sagged in the middle, and the loading dock doors were rusted shut. But it had two things Alexei needed: space and privacy.
He stood in the cavernous main room, his breath frosting in the cold air. The floor was concrete, stained with oil and decades of dirt. The walls were bare brick, weeping with damp. Light filtered through cracks in the boarded windows, creating bars of pale winter sun across the floor.
Ivan had found it through one of the veterans—a man named Victor who worked for the city housing department and could make paperwork disappear for a bottle of vodka. The rent was five hundred rubles a month, paid in cash, no questions asked.
Alexei walked the perimeter, making notes in a small notebook. They'd need to clear the debris. Install a wood stove for heat. Repair the smaller side door for access. Set up a sleeping area for the men. A workshop for truck repairs. Storage for equipment.
It wasn't much. But it was a start.
The main doors rattled, then groaned open. Ivan stepped inside, followed by two men. The first was Vasiliev—cleaner now, wearing a heavy coat that looked newly purchased, his eyes clear and alert. The second was Kolya, who filled the doorway with his bulk, his gaze sweeping the warehouse with professional assessment.
"Alexei Dmitrievich," Ivan said. "This is Pyotr Vasiliev. Sniper. And Nikolai Semyonov. Mechanic and driver."
Alexei nodded to each man. "Thank you for coming."
Vasiliev saluted, a crisp, automatic gesture. Kolya just grunted.
"You know why you're here?" Alexei asked.
"Kazakhstan," Vasiliev said. "Copper wire."
"And whatever else we can carry," Kolya added. "If we're driving six thousand kilometers, we're not coming back empty."
Alexei allowed himself a small smile. "Correct. But the copper comes first. It's the proof of concept."
"Concept of what?" Vasiliev asked.
"That we can do this. That we can move goods from point A to point B across collapsing borders. That we can make money doing it." Alexei folded his arms against the cold. "If this works, there are a hundred more bases closing. A thousand more opportunities."
Kolya walked to the center of the room, his boots echoing. "You're talking about building a business."
"I'm talking about building an empire. Starting with trucks."
The mechanic turned to face him. "You're sixteen."
"I'm also the only one here with a plan. And access to capital. And connections." Alexei met his gaze evenly. "The question isn't my age. The question is whether you want to spend the rest of your life fixing boat engines for fishermen, or whether you want to build something that matters."
Kolya held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded once. "What do you need?"
"Trucks. Three of them. Heavy-duty. Soviet-made, so we can find parts. ZILs or Urals. They need to be able to carry twenty tons each, and they need to be reliable."
"I can find them. But they'll need work."
"How much work?"
"Depends on what I find. A week, maybe two. If I have help."
"You'll have help." Alexei turned to Vasiliev. "You know weapons?"
"I know how to use them."
"I need you to acquire them. Legally if possible. Illegally if necessary. AKs. Pistols. Ammunition. For defense only."
Vasiliev's expression didn't change. "How many?"
"Enough for ten men. And I need you to train the others. Basic firearms safety. Rules of engagement."
"Rules of engagement for what? We're not soldiers anymore."
"We're not. But we'll be moving valuable cargo through areas where the rule of law has broken down. I need everyone to know when to shoot and—more importantly—when not to."
Vasiliev nodded slowly. "I can do that."
"Good." Alexei looked at Ivan. "How many more can you find by the end of the week?"
"Five, maybe six. Good men. Reliable."
"Find them. Offer the same terms. Five hundred dollars for the job. A share of future profits if they stay on."
Ivan raised an eyebrow. "Future profits?"
"This isn't a one-time job, Ivan. This is the beginning. The men who come with us now, who prove themselves—they'll be the core. The foundation." Alexei's voice was calm, certain. "In a year, we'll have a security company. A transport company. A logistics network. But it starts here. With copper wire and three trucks."
The warehouse was silent except for the distant sound of traffic from the street. The three veterans looked at him—this boy with his father's eyes and his grandfather's bearing, standing in a freezing warehouse talking about empires.
Vasiliev spoke first. "The captain always said you were smart. Even as a kid. He said you asked questions other children didn't think to ask."
Alexei felt a pang—a memory of his father, home on leave, watching him with that mixture of pride and sadness. "What else did he say?"
"That you saw the world differently. That you understood systems." Vasiliev's gaze was sharp, assessing. "He was right."
Kolya grunted again. "When do we start?"
"Today. Ivan will give you money for the trucks. Vasiliev, you'll get a list of weapons and a budget. I want both handled quietly. No attention."
"And you?" Ivan asked.
"I'm meeting with our banker. And working on the paperwork for Kazakhstan. And finding a buyer for the copper."
"You have a buyer?" Kolya asked, surprised.
"I will by the end of the day."
The men exchanged glances. There was something in Alexei's certainty that was contagious, even to hardened veterans who had seen plans go to hell in the mountains of Afghanistan.
Ivan saluted, an instinctive gesture he immediately seemed to regret. Alexei returned it anyway, the way his grandfather had taught him—sharp, precise, acknowledging the chain of command.
The three men turned and left, their footsteps echoing in the empty warehouse. The door groaned shut behind them.
Alexei stood alone in the fading light. He took out his notebook and made more notes:
Trucks - 3 (Kolya)
Weapons - 10 sets (Vasiliev)
Men - 8-10 total (Ivan)
Fuel - calculate for 6,000km
Food/supplies
Border paperwork
Bribe budget
The list grew. The details multiplied. The margin for error shrank.
He thought of his mother's face in the hospital bed. Be better than this world.
He thought of his father's grave. Died for nothing.
He thought of his grandfather's notebook. Build something worth the cost.
Outside, a truck rumbled past, its engine coughing in the cold. Somewhere in the city, Boris Lebedev was filling out banking license applications. Somewhere in Kazakhstan, Colonel Markov was counting the days until his base closed. Somewhere on the road, the future was approaching, fast and cold and hungry.
Alexei closed his notebook. He had work to do.
5:48 PM
The factory director's office was a monument to Soviet industrial decay.
The desk was massive, scarred wood, piled with paperwork that hadn't been touched in months. The walls were lined with faded production charts showing quotas met and exceeded in 1985, 1986, 1987—then nothing after that. The air smelled of stale tobacco, cheap coffee, and despair.
Director Anatoly Borisov was a heavy man in his fifties, with thinning hair and eyes that had lost their ambition. He looked at Alexei across the desk with a mixture of curiosity and resignation.
"General Volkov's grandson," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I heard about your grandfather. A great man. A loss."
"Thank you," Alexei said. He didn't sit. Standing gave him a psychological advantage—made him seem taller, more imposing. "I'm here about copper."
Borisov's eyebrows rose. "Copper?"
"A thousand tons of it. High quality. Military grade. Available in three weeks."
The director leaned back in his chair, which groaned under his weight. "A thousand tons is a lot of copper. And military grade... that suggests it's not entirely legal."
"It suggests it's available at a discount. Thirty percent below market."
"Black market price."
"Call it a private sale. From one state enterprise to another."
Borisov laughed, a short, bitter sound. "State enterprise. Look around, boy. We haven't produced anything in six months. The workers haven't been paid in three. The state doesn't send materials anymore. The state doesn't send orders anymore. The state is... elsewhere."
"Then this is an opportunity," Alexei said, unperturbed. "You get copper at thirty percent below market. You use it to fulfill what orders you have. Or you sell it to other factories. Or you sit on it until prices rise."
"And how do I pay for it? With promises? With rubles that are worth less every day?"
"With hard currency. Dollars."
The director's eyes sharpened. "You have dollars?"
"I will. And I'll take them for the copper. But I need a buyer commitment now. A contract. A price."
Borisov studied him for a long moment. "You're serious."
"Deadly."
The director stood and walked to the window. Outside, the factory yard was empty except for a few listless workers huddled around a barrel fire. The great chimneys stood silent against the grey sky.
"A thousand tons at thirty percent below black market..." He did the calculation in his head. "That's over a million dollars."
"One point four, to be exact. I'll deliver it to your loading dock. You pay on delivery."
"And if the quality isn't as promised?"
"You reject it. No cost."
Borisov turned from the window. "Why me? Why not take it to Moscow? To the big players?"
"Because you're here. Because you need it. And because my grandfather wrote that you were an honest man in a dishonest system."
The director's face softened slightly. "Your grandfather wrote that?"
"He wrote many things. He also wrote about your production quota issues in the late eighties. How you covered for your foreman when the numbers didn't add up."
Borisov's expression tightened. "That was—"
"Loyalty," Alexei finished. "A rare quality. One I value."
The room was silent. Somewhere in the factory, a pipe clanged, then was still.
"I'll take it," Borisov said finally. "All of it. At your price. But I need it by February twentieth. We have a shipment to Poland that's been delayed six months for lack of materials. If I can deliver, they'll pay in dollars."
"February twentieth," Alexei repeated. "Done."
He took a contract from his briefcase—one he'd drafted with help from a law student he'd found through the university, paid with the last of his rubles. It was simple, clear, and in both Russian and English. He laid it on the desk.
Borisov read it slowly, his lips moving slightly. Then he took a pen from his pocket—a cheap ballpoint with a chewed end—and signed.
Alexei signed beside him. The pen felt heavy in his hand. This was his first contract. His first real business deal. The first step from theory to practice.
He shook the director's hand. The grip was firm, calloused, a working man's hand.
"Your grandfather would be proud," Borisov said quietly.
"Or horrified," Alexei replied. "I'm not sure which yet."
He left the factory, the signed contract in his briefcase. The winter night had fallen completely, the sky black and starless. The streetlights cast pools of yellow light on the dirty snow.
He stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the cold air. A buyer secured. A price agreed. A deadline set.
Now all he had to do was get the copper.
He thought of the three trucks Kolya would find. The weapons Vasiliev would acquire. The men Ivan would recruit. The long road to Kazakhstan. The colonel waiting there. The border guards. The thieves. The thousand things that could go wrong.
For a moment, the weight of it all pressed down on him—the responsibility, the risk, the sheer audacity of what he was attempting. He was sixteen years old, orchestrating a cross-continental heist with veterans of a lost war as his crew.
Then he thought of the hospital room. The smell of antiseptic and decay. His mother's hand growing cold in his.
Never be powerless again.
He straightened his shoulders, turned up his collar against the wind, and began walking toward the tram stop. There were more calls to make. More plans to finalize. More details to manage.
The empire wouldn't build itself.