AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (1) Socialism Supported (Essays) I, as a regular citizen of the United States, believe that socialism is a good idea (in theory). Read this controversial essay before you judge me. [551 words]
Dosvidanya WigginP
Lt. Vladimir Ivanov rushed down the hall of the K-159 nuclear submarine, a PPK in his right hand. The gun was a British handgun, and Ivanov had bought it in Novosibirsk. He was not exactly sure such a gun was legal by Russian laws, but it would not matter for much longer.
The Lieutenant stopped right before he reached the navigational control room. He fired two blind shots around the corner, and knew from the grunt of pain that at least one of them had hit. He bolted from his hiding spot, seeking refuge behind a trash bin in the room. He fired four more shots, and heard three more grunts. There were only two left in the room, and only one of them needed to die. Ivanov took a deep breath and launched himself horizontally, firing wildly as he went.
The mutineer skidded to a halt, straightened up, and loaded another magazine in to the gun. He pointed the weapon at the remaining officer, and said, in Russian, “Change the course to the Mediterranean.” The man hesitated. “Do it!” commanded Ivanov.
Reluctantly, the man reached out his hand toward the keypad. But he did not touch the keys. Instead, he slammed his fist on to a red button labeled “Alert.”
Infuriated, the traitor shot the man in the neck. The officer looked at the man who had fired at him and said, “Dos vi dan ya.” It was a Russian phrase meaning “good bye,” but the officer had used as a taunt, implying that soon security would arrive, and the Lieutenant would be dead.
Ivanov sprinted from the room, turned left, and ran down the corridor. After several minutes, he encountered a team of five security guards, rushing to the navigation room. Vladimir, however, had worked out a plan for just such an eventuality. “Thank god I found you,” said the traitor. “I was just in the navigation room and Commander Zaitzev went berserk. I managed to reach the alarm button and escape, but I fear that-“
“Why have you got a gun, then?” asked a security guard.
“I- what?” Ivanov had completely forgotten the British weapon held loosely in his left hand.
“I asked why you had a weapon” said the officer, reaching for his own gun.
“I uh, I uh” Bang! Ivanov had fired the weapon in question at the inquisitive guard. Five bangs later, the Lieutenant was limping down the hall with a bullet lodged in his leg. He had shot the four remaining security guards, but not before one of them had returned fire and landed a bullet painfully in his right leg. Ivanov winced as he loaded another magazine in to his gun. He would have to spare his bullets now; there was only one arsenal left apart from the one in his weapon.
But did he want to continue? Three of the officers he had killed so far had been his friend. The guilt was gathering in him now. He could not go on. He placed the barrel of the gun to his temple…
No. Ivanov could not abandon this plan. He had to get a nuclear weapon to Rome. Well, not Rome as much as the Vatican, the Lieutenant corrected himself. The destruction of the most powerful Catholic religious figures would cause a major shift in power, moreover, a shift to the Islamic religion. Then and then alone could the Palestinians victor over the Israelis, and only then would the Sacred City of Jerusalem belong to the Islamic religion, as it truly is meant to.
Despite the pain, Ivanov’s eyes narrowed upon remembering the fact that over ninety percent of the Islamic religion thought that this dispute could be settled by peace. When would they see that violence was indeed the answer? “The fools” thought the traitor to himself as he continued to limp.
He would go straight to get the nuclear launch codes from Captain Putin. Then he would fire. Vatican City was only a few kilometers out of range, and with a favorable tailwind, tactical nuke might make it there.
They were already at the surface, so Ivanov did not have to worry about getting there. He walked as quickly as he could given the ball of metal lodged in his leg to the captain’s quarters. He was pleased to see that the security had abandoned watch to aid the situation in the navigational room. He walked to the captain’s bed and pointed his weapon at the head of it.
“Captain,” said the mutineer in a loud whisper. Putin sat up to see the PPK pointed right at his forehead. “Dos vi dan ya.” Ivanov pulled the trigger.
He then walked over to a locked cabinet, shot the lock, and removed a piece of paper from it. Pocketing it, he walked away with a slight limp. Ivanov was a weapons and defense officer. He knew how the nuclear mortar worked, and how to fire through it.
Ivanov had four bullets left in his gun, and another magazine in his pocket. He could shoot perhaps three people before having to reload, and would do so very quickly.
When the mutineer arrived in the nuclear weapons room, he saw only three people: Commander Zaitzev, Lieutenant Vladimirivich, and an Ensign, whose name, Ivanov neither knew nor cared. Because the traitor worked in this room, he could walk in as though he was merely returning from getting a cup of coffee.
“Hey Vlad,” said the Commander. “Where’s the coffee?”
Ivanov didn’t need to respond, for at that moment, he shot four bullets. Three of them hit; two hits were fatal. The Ensign was lying in a corner, moaning over his leg, which had been shot.
The murderer walked over to the anonymous officer, pointed the gun at him, and said “Dos vi dan ya.” He pulled the trigger. A small click came out of his gun. There were no more bullets in it. Ivanov plunged his hand in to his pocket, hoping to remove a magazine, but came back out empty handed. He must have dropped the spare arsenal.
It did not matter. Ivanov walked to the station labeled “Nuclear Weapons” and sat down. He began to enter the code which he had stolen from the Captain’s room. He stopped half way through. A rustling noise behind him made him look up.
Ivanov turned to see the Ensign fumbling with the discarded PPK, pushing a magazine in to it. Horrified, Ivanov realized that the magazine he dropped had been dropped in this very room.
The Ensign looked up at the traitor, his nose bleeding and his lips crimson. And through his bloodstained mouth came one phrase. The cruel, ironic phrase which Ivanov had used to taunt the doomed, announce his betrayal, and even to herald the death of this very officer: “Dos vi dan ya”
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