Consequences Unforeseen

Crimea, June 12th 1991 - Journey to Moscow

Crimea, June 12th 1991 – Journey to Moscow

The fire in the fireplace built into the rear bulkhead wall, crackled and hissed as though wet wood had been used in its kindling. Even sealed behind glass it forced warm air out into the cabin and made Bill Douglas give a shiver of appreciation as his body reacted to the welcome change in temperature from the outside chill.

It was all he could do not to walk over to it, turn full circle and stick his backside as close to the heat as he could stand. Déjà vu sent a further shiver down his spine as thoughts of his childhood forced themselves into his consciousness. He was a sucker for a real wood fire.

More difficult still was to conceal his absolute surprise, since his mind was shouting “What the fuck is this? A wood fire on board a fucking plane! You have to be kidding me.”

The thought of smoke rising from a chimney in the fuselage tickled at his subconscious and formed a cartoon image that would stay with him for a long time.

Gorbachev observed his posture and the slight shake of a disbelieving head and said, “It always gives me pleasure to see the effect my little home from home has on visiting guests. But your reaction has gone beyond my expectations. You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” And he walked over from the doorway and gave Douglas a playful slap on his back.

He continued, “Make yourself at home Bill, tell them what you’d like to drink, a snack too perhaps to settle those nerves of yours. The sight of flames in such a place as this has obviously unsettled your delicate academic nature,” and he laughed good naturedly and beckoned his wife also to be seated in the uncluttered lounge area. She shook her head silently and headed through beyond the fireplace into what Douglas assumed to be the sleeping area beyond.

The President turned back to the entrance and shouted in much firmer tones for the pilot to “Get the fucking show on the road and stop fucking about!”

They had entered the aircraft mid section just forward of the wings and Douglas had only the briefest moment to take a glance forward into the space towards the cockpit. It reminded him of his journey on Regan’s Air Force One a couple of years before but with additional opulence and indulgence for the normal horde of accompanying staff and dignitaries. Now he found himself in the piece de resistance, the private quarters of the President of the Soviet Union. He afforded himself a secret smile at this turn of events.

A female crew member motioned for him to take a seat in a soft leather Chesterfield armchair and she continued to buckle him in without a word being said.

Gorbachev was already seated and sorted and he shouted on his wife to join them. She was further back in the aircraft and re-appeared at the doors saying, “Mikhail, I am going back to sleep. You two dogs continue your drinking and conversation and educate our guest on as much as you deem proper about our fucked up country and what you are going to do about it. Maybe an uninformed and outside opinion will help calm you down.”

To Bill, she smiled and quipped, “God help you young man. If I hear you snoring I will completely understand,” and closed the doors quietly behind her.

Gorbachev motioned for the stewardess to pour coffee for them both and asked for vodka to be added liberally to both. Copious brown sugar added to make sure the blend slipped down without burn on the throat.

They both avoided the question they had in common for each other until the plane had leveled off at 30,000 feet or so, but the President could contain himself no longer and asked abruptly, “So what is so fucking important in Moscow that you failed to mention it last night and forced you to make your way to the airport before the alcohol had properly cleared your system?”