The Propaganda Front

"Everyone here is an elite who once helped counter Soviet propaganda. Your efforts during the Gorbachev era were recognized and celebrated. You deserve praise from all Americans."

Robert Gates' voice was cold—colder even than the Virginia sleet tapping against the windowpanes of CIA headquarters. Around the polished oak table, men in tailored suits sat stiffly, swallowing their fear like pills. They all sensed something was coming.

And they were right.

Gates slammed a folder onto the table.

"So tell me—what the hell is this?"

Silence.

He held up the printed transcript of a proposed American counter-propaganda response. Pages fluttered slightly in the recycled air.

"Is this what you bring me after the Soviets dropped that bomb of a video? A rambling lecture about democracy and factory conditions? That Soviet piece hit deeper than a cruise missile, and this is your reply?"

He flung it onto the table again. No one dared reach for it.

Robert Gates had endured a tongue-lashing from President Bush over the now-viral Soviet video, "I Am a Soviet Invader." The administration hadn't reacted fast enough. The media ran with it. And now, America's domestic and international audiences were talking about Russian pride, not American virtue.

It wasn't that the content itself was damaging. It was the tone—raw, audacious, unapologetic. The Soviets had spoken not with diplomacy, but with conviction. And worse yet—style.

What infuriated Gates was that his own team, veterans of the Cold War info-front, had no answer.

"You have three days," he growled. "Rewrite everything. I want something that will put those smug bastards in Moscow back on their heels. Or you can all go mop floors in Langley's basement."

The room emptied like a storm drain after a flash flood.

When the room was quiet again, Owen, Director of Propaganda Operations, walked in. Unlike the others, Owen wasn't rattled. He and Robert had been through this rodeo before.

He picked up the crumpled paper and casually smoothed it out.

"You know, Rob, for a man who managed nuclear briefings with a poker face, you've really let a YouTube video get under your skin."

"Don't start with me, Owen."

"I'm not. I'm just saying—this is what the Soviets have that we don't. Rage. Wound-licking, teeth-baring, frothing-at-the-mouth conviction. They've dropped the old monotone. Their propaganda hurts. Ours… reads like a college admissions essay."

Owen lit a cigarette, ignoring the building's non-smoking policy as usual.

"You know what we need?" he said between puffs. "We need America, Rob. Not the institution. The myth. The lawn-mowing, barbecue-grilling, pickup-truck-driving middle class who watch football and think freedom is something you drink, not debate."

Robert leaned back in his chair, exhausted.

"Even if we made something like that… the Soviets have closed the door. No more Glasnost. No more democratic presses. No one's going to see it."

Owen smiled.

"You still don't get it. The point isn't to reach them. The point is to make ourselves feel like we're winning."

He flicked ash into a styrofoam cup.

"This is for Congress. For Wall Street. For every columnist and couch-warrior wondering if the Reds are getting their groove back."

Meanwhile, across the ocean in Moscow, Surkov had gathered his own team of propagandists—young, sarcastic, brutal, and brilliant. Far from the grey apparatchiks of the past, these were children of decline who had learned how to fight back with stories, not slogans.

Surkov walked in smiling, holding up a printed article from The New York Times.

"Comrades," he said, tapping the headline. "They're scared. This article calls us 'a threat to liberal values.' That means we've done our job."

He paused, letting it sink in.

"Well done. You've made the pigs in Washington feel like they're choking on their own bacon."

Laughter erupted across the conference room.

"And now," Surkov continued, "I want more. Keep the fire burning. I want the rednecks in Texas to feel intellectually naked in front of our work. I want CNN to mispronounce your names in frustration."

He raised his glass of Armenian brandy.

"To Soviet surprises. And to the idiots across the ocean, who still think this is just a cold war."

Unlike the tense and heavy atmosphere at the CIA, Surkov had a knack for keeping his team energized. He wasn't the typical grim, buttoned-up bureaucrat. Instead, he was a dynamic, even charismatic leader of the Soviet Propaganda Department.

"American imperialism will soon feel the iron fist of communism's sanctions again," Surkov declared, snapping his fingers for emphasis. "Now, let's figure out how to make Uncle Sam angry—really angry."

He paced around the room, eyes bright with excitement.

"And mark my words, after this propaganda offensive, the Americans will strike back. But we're not going to target our own people. We control all media here, news censorship is back in full force."

He turned to his think tank team, all young and eager minds clustered around the table.

"The real battleground is in the American mind. They will tell their citizens: 'Don't be fooled. America is the land of freedom. No human rights violations here.'"

A thin young man adjusted his oversized glasses nervously and shook his head. "Every country has its problems with human rights. America's no exception. If we magnify their flaws, turn small stains into a mountain of black ink, we can make their democratic ideals look like a joke."

He muttered under his breath, "Besides, they always call us totalitarian. It's a cliché by now."

His companion elbowed him softly, signaling to keep quiet. But when he glanced at Surkov and saw the man's relaxed smile, he visibly relaxed.

Surkov shrugged, unconcerned.

Since Gorbachev, the KGB had softened its grip on free speech, but under Yanaev, it had become a ruthless sword—monitoring liberals and corrupt bureaucrats alike, reporting every misstep directly to the chairman's desk.

Yanaev, who Surkov privately called one of the "murderers who destroyed socialist construction," would never let the Soviet Union slip back into past mistakes.

"Okay comrades," Surkov said, clapping his hands, "go back and gather every crime, every scandal, every dirty secret from America. These greedy capitalists will have nowhere left to hide. I want a polished final draft in seven days."

A chorus of polite protests rose.

"Seven days is too short.""It might take three days just to gather material.""Can we have more time?"

Surkov shook his head firmly.

"I have a feeling the Americans will launch their next propaganda offensive next week. When they strike, we hit back—hard, fast, and right in their faces."