In the MVD headquarters at Zhitny Square the senior officer on duty was the commander of the OMON regiment, General Ivan Koslovsky, who was in his office in the barracks of his three thousand sullen men whose leave he had earlier that day canceled against his better judgment. The man who had persuaded him to do this, speaking from four hundred yards away in Shabolovka Street, was on the phone again and Koslovsky was shouting at him.
“Bloody rubbish. I’m watching the fucking TV right now. Well, who says? What do you mean, you have been informed? Hold on, hold on...
His other phone was blinking. He snatched the receiver and shouted, “Yes?”
A nervous operator came on the line.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, General, but you seem to be the most senior officer in the building. There’s a man on the phone who says he lives at Ostankino and there is shooting in the streets. A bullet smashed his window.”
General Koslovsky’s tone changed. He spoke clearly and calmly.
“Get every detail from him and call me back.”
To the other phone he said:
“Valentin, you could be right. A citizen just phoned that there is shooting out there. I’m going to red alert.”
“Me too. By the way, I phoned General Korin earlier. He agreed to keep some presidentials on standby.”
“Good thinking. I’ll call him.”
Eight more calls came through from the Ostankino area concerning firing in the streets, then a more lucid call from an engineer living in a top-floor apartment across the boulevard from the TV center. He was patched through to General Koslovsky.
“I can see it all from here,” said the engineer, who like every Russian male had done his military service. “About a thousand men, all armed, a convoy of over twenty trucks. Two APCs facing outward from the parking lot in front. BTR Eighty A’s, I think.”
Thank God, thought Koslovsky, for an ex-military man. If he had any doubts, they were dispelled. The BTR 80 A is an eight-wheeled armored personnel carrier mounting a 30mm cannon and carrying a commander, driver, gunner, and six-man dismount squad.
If the attackers were dressed in black, they were not army. His OMON teams dressed in black, but they were downstairs. He called his own unit commanders down below.
“Truck up and move out,” he ordered. “I want two thousand men out on the streets and a thousand to stay and defend this place.”
If any coup d’état was taking place, the attackers would have to neutralize the Interior Ministry and its barracks. Happily the latter was built like a fortress.
Outside, other troops were already on the move, but they were not commanded by Koslovsky. The Alpha Group strike force was closing on the ministry.
Grishin’s problem had been timing. Without breaking radio silence until the last minute, he needed to coordinate his attacks. To attack too early could mean the defenders were not well enough into their celebrations; too late and he would lose some of the hours of darkness. He had ordered the Alpha Group to strike at 9:00 P.M.
At 8:30 two thousand OMON commandos left their barracks in trucks and APCs. As soon as they were gone the remainder sealed their fortress and took up defensive positions. At nine they came under fire but for the attackers all element of surprise was gone.
Counter-fire raked the streets around the ministry and ripped across Zhitny Square. The Alpha Group soldiers had to take cover and wish they had artillery. But they did not.
“American?”
“Here.”
“Where are you now?”
“Trying to stay alive. Heading south from the TV center, avoiding Prospekt Mira.”
“There are troops on their way. A thousand of mine and two thousand OMONs.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“If you must.”
“Ostankino is only part of it. If you were Grishin, what would you target?”
“MVD, Lubyanka.”