You Choose

Moscow, Kremlin – December 1991

Chairman Leonid Kravchuk of Ukraine arrived under gray winter skies, the snow on his coat barely melting before he was hurried through the endless corridors of the Kremlin. No explanation, no pause to rest. Aides with expressionless faces guided him swiftly, wordlessly, as if urgency itself had a body and was dragging them along by the collar.

As they neared the central wing, Kravchuk saw someone familiar ahead—broad back, slightly stooped shoulders, a gait he'd recognize anywhere.

"Shushkevich," he called out. "My friend."

The Belarusian chairman turned, forcing a wan smile that barely reached his eyes. He looked pale, wrung out, like a man returning from a funeral. That look stirred unease deep in Kravchuk's gut.

They fell into step.

"Do you have any idea why we're being summoned?" Kravchuk whispered.

Shushkevich glanced around, wary of listening ears. "Can you guess the mind of Yanaev? He keeps the mask of peace but plots like a general. Ever since Gorbachev fell, he's ruled with iron gloves hidden beneath diplomatic sleeves."

Kravchuk frowned. "Some say he's Stalin reborn."

"Stalin was a butcher," Shushkevich muttered. "Yanaev is colder. He'll kill a state with laws instead of bullets. But the result is the same—silence, fear, obedience."

They halted before the large double doors of the presidential office. A muffled conversation leaked through the thick oak panels. Clearly, Yanaev was not alone.

Moments later, the door creaked open. Pavlov emerged, looking like a man who'd aged five years in five minutes. His eyes didn't meet theirs. He offered a hollow nod and moved on.

Then came a second man. Kravchuk froze.

General Rodionov.

The last time Kravchuk had seen him was during the fallout from the Tbilisi crisis in 1989. At that time, Rodionov had stood trial, painted by the press and Party as the villain behind the deaths of Georgian demonstrators.

Rodionov's eyes met Kravchuk's—and narrowed.

"Well, Chairman Kravchuk," he said slowly. "Three years. I remember the People's Congress. You stood tall, wagged your finger, and called us butchers. Said we beat innocents in the streets."

Kravchuk opened his mouth, but Rodionov raised a finger.

"I remember everything. You said I was responsible for the deaths of eighteen patriots. But here's the problem with rewriting history: eventually, the old script comes back. You know the proverb—he who sows the wind shall reap the storm."

Rodionov leaned close, his breath visible in the winter chill of the hallway. "The storm's here, Leonid. And you helped make it."

Kravchuk said nothing. The smile on his face was frozen, brittle. When Rodionov brushed past him, it felt like a final warning.

Inside, President Yanaev rose to greet them. His face bore the polished expression of a practiced statesman, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed something colder—less human.

"Comrades," he said warmly, "thank you for coming. Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

Kravchuk and Shushkevich obeyed.

"Tell me," Yanaev began, folding his hands, "do you remember Estonia's 1988 sovereignty declaration?"

They nodded.

"Good. Because what followed was a parade of declarations—sovereignty this, independence that. Not just from union republics. Autonomous oblasts, border regions, even places that didn't exist on a real map began demanding flags and embassies. And then, the Russian Federation itself declared its own sovereignty in 1990. Imagine that—Russia saying it was above the federal constitution."

Yanaev's voice was calm, but it carried like thunder beneath the surface.

"Do you understand what that means?"

Kravchuk hesitated. "That… regional autonomy was expanding?"

"No," Yanaev snapped, slamming a palm on the table. "It means the very idea of a unified Soviet Union was being gutted from the inside. When the parts claim to override the whole, what's left? A corpse of a country, being pulled apart by hyenas."

He stood, pacing now.

"And you, both of you, stood by. You championed your own flags, printed your own currencies, held hands with Westerners who saw your republics as stepping stones—not partners."

Kravchuk swallowed. "The people—"

"Screw your people!" Yanaev shouted. "Democracy isn't a suicide pact! Sovereignty isn't a license to dismantle the state!"

Shushkevich opened his mouth to protest, but Yanaev turned on him too.

"You think I don't know what you're planning? You've been positioning Belarus for neutrality, for trade with NATO, playing both sides while smiling at me with that academic smirk."

He returned to his desk, leaned in, and for the first time, spoke without anger.

"I brought you here for one reason: I am revoking the United Nations seats of Ukraine and Belarus. From this point forward, all foreign representation of this country will come from Moscow. One voice. One government. One flag."

The silence was crushing.

"You… you can't do that," Kravchuk stammered.

"I just did."

"You'll trigger outrage. Revolt. Even civil war," Shushkevich whispered.

"Then let it come," Yanaev replied. "Better a brief war than a slow disintegration."

Kravchuk stared at the floor. His hands were clenched beneath the table. Shushkevich stared at the wall, avoiding eye contact.

"You'll isolate the republics," Kravchuk warned. "You'll drive them into the arms of the West."

Yanaev nodded. "Perhaps. Or perhaps they'll remember what happens when you stand against Moscow. Do you want to test it?"

The two chairmen remained silent.

Yanaev exhaled slowly, his voice quieter but no less firm.

"Leave your personal ambitions at the door, gentlemen. The Soviet Union is not a retirement home for republics seeking independence. It is a fortress. And I am the gatekeeper."

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"As for you… you have a choice: Obey. Or perish."