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chairs that the servants had brought at Killov’s bidding, along with trays of food. They looked nervously at one another, declining refreshment, and seated themselves at the conference table. They knew food disgusted Killov. It was probably a diabolical test of their understanding of him and the KGB.
    Killov looked them over, his black rat-like eyes darting from face to face. The thin one, Mishkin, had to be watched. He was always questioning things. They were all Air Force, Army, and Death Squad vets—the three branches of the KGB in America. Killov wished he had a navy that could shell Washington from the sea. But Zhabnov would capitulate soon. Then he would have a navy. Zhabnov had many fine vessels, and with those he could push outward, across the oceans, taking the far-flung parts of Vassily’s empire. And when the Grandfather was destroyed, Killov would skin Rahallah alive and feed him to the lions at Moscow’s Coliseum.
    On that pleasant note, Killov looked up and managed a razor-like smile. “Ah, gentlemen, it is good to see your faces—so much enthusiasm. I trust you are happy with your promotions?”
    “Yes, your Excellency,” they replied as one.
    “And remember that when I expand my power in the world, you will each be given charge of a continent—and then you can have your fun. But there is no time for speeches. I have waited until now to reveal my exact plans, because there are traitors everywhere—even in this room. We start in six days. Activate all fifth columnists, saboteurs, and death squads to attack the following Red Army command centers.”
    Killov handed out the briefing folders filled with plans, maps, and attack strategies. Within a few minutes the officers had each read enough to realize that Killov was finally going to do it. He was planning an all-out attack on Washington, D.C., and the fifty regional Red fortresses spread out across America. They knew that they didn’t have a sufficient number of forces to accomplish the task, but there was no disagreement.
    They looked at one another. Every face was as white as chalk. Killov seemed to have lost himself in some sort of reverie while they had been reading the battle plans. Suddenly his eyes gleamed again. He smiled, showing the rotted gums and teeth of a dead man. The sight chilled the officers. With his hollow corpse-like cheeks, eyes sunken into their sockets, and paper-thin flesh, Killov’s face truly did look like a skull.
    “Yakov—you approve?” barked Killov suddenly, with the violence of a rabid dog.
    “Yes! Excellent strategy! The loss of all our shock troops in a suicide attack, after sappers destroy what they can—a Night of Blood. A poetic, brilliant, wonderful idea!”
    “I applaud you, Excellency,” Mishkin exclaimed.
    “It is genius,” Titov laughed, clapping his hands.
    “Yes, pure genius!” the others chimed in, each trying to laud the homicidal drug-crazed leader louder and better than the next. On and on they went as Killov’s face contorted in a macabre grin.
    “Good, I thought you would like my plan. Now I have some graphics and maps to go over. I wish to show you the plan in greater detail.”
    “Colonel Killov,” said Mishkin a little nervously, “Isn’t there an agreement among you, the Premier, and President Zhabnov to stop attacking one another? Mightn’t we be violating the Lawrence, Kansas, Summit agreement by attacking Zhabnov’s forces and inviting a nuclear missile attack from Mother Russia?”
    The colonel smiled. “I’m so glad you brought that up,” he said sarcastically. “Fortunately, the missile control complex in Moscow was destroyed by the late Ted Rockson.” The others gasped at the news that the Doomsday Warrior was dead.
    “I-I didn’t . . .” Mishkin stuttered, “mean to . . .”
    “Mean to imply that I don’t know what I’m doing?” Killov asked, his voice turning hard. “On the contrary, every bit of this takeover strategy has been worked out to the most