Ruso

By William Dunne

Ruso is the story of Steponas Simutas (aka Ruso), a second-generation Soviet Lithuanian mercenary who finds himself caught between clashing ideologies in 1983 as communism begins its decline in Latin America. Moving from Peru to Cuba to the United States to the Soviet Union and other locales, Ruso's story runs parallel to that of Bob Winer, a handsome, bumbling television journalist, who stumbles into international incidents he doesn't understand. As events unfold, representatives of the European business community recognize that American involvement in Afghanistan and Nicaragua will lead to changes in the political landscape of Latin America and aim to take advantage of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Dunne
• Release date: Sep 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301802364

William Dunne

Author, family man, former Army cook, White Sox fan and pro football expert analyst

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Ruso

William Dunne

Smashwords Edition

PUBLISHED BY

William J. Dunne on Smashwords

Ruso

Copyright © 2013 William J. Dunne

All rights reserved

Cover photo copyright © 2010 Joyce A. Dunne

ISBN: 9781301802364

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

I’m grateful to everyone who helped, supported, and encouraged me as I wrote this book. In particular, I’d like to thank Jane Calayag, whose editorial eye and literary ear helped shape this story; Ed Avis, who opened my eyes to show, not tell; Kevin O’Connor; Howard Horwitz; and Sylvia Kidder.

And Joyce, the love of my life, you not only believed but got it on situations where I needed insight. This is the beginning of many great endeavors in this part of our life. You are the best and you get me. I love you and thanks.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Part I: Peru, 1983

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part II: Nicaragua, 1983

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

June 1981

Vaute Region, Tenerife, Canary Islands, Spain

The American tourists had just left the beautiful Vina Reyes. The giant Bienvenido tour bus seemed out of place in this Canary Island vineyard as its tires kicked up gravel along the small road. The sun was still warm for the later afternoon hours. The tan and sunburned faces could be seen through the bus windows, mesmerized once again by the large palm trees spaced evenly on both sides of the road. With their coarse, golden trunks the palm trees looked like giant pineapples with leaves.

One of the two burly vineyard employees remaining in the sampling room put on a rustic-looking tam, and then the two got up from their table and left the bar. Now there was only the chesty bartender and Steponas Simutas.

Steponas couldn’t face the bartender anymore, as she was looking at him in a flirtatious way. He looked around the fieldstone walls to see pictures of horses hung there. A painting of the vineyard owner sat behind the bar. The owner’s jet black hair did not suit the wrinkled face.

He wanted to do this.

Steponas stared at a wine barrel in the corner on which four different varietals of unopened wine sat with two wine glasses laid on their sides and crossed at the stem in an X. The bartender had thin hair and was herself rather short, making her look precariously top-heavy. She walked up to him and started talking.

There were a lot of people here. Now there is just us two, and you with such bright eyes, the bartender said as she tilted her head down and blushed. Steponas stood six-foot-six with cropped blond hair. His high cheekbones and chiseled physique gave him an intimidating look, but not to a lonely bartender.

Those two men, what do they do here? he asked.

Hmm, not much, but Gustavo feels safe with them around when tourists come in. Gustavo feels you can never be too safe, she concluded as she began washing the wine glasses littered across the bar.

What is there to be safe from?

The bartender’s exaggerated smile revealed her delight to be holding this handsome foreign man’s interest. Gustavo was close to the last president, Francisco Franco, and he was not liked, said the bartender. Looking down the bar she saw change left over from someone who had left on the tour bus. Picking up one of the coins, she remarked, Speaking of him, here is a coin of Francisco. Holding up the out-of-circulation coin with her thumb and index finger, she continued, Of course, tourists would get stuck with outdated currency!

Steponas took a sip of wine from his glass. The sour taste made him grimace while he swallowed. Finally the bartender finished washing all the glasses and came closer to where he was sitting. You are not American, no?

He eyed a corkscrew nearby with a cork still on it. He grabbed it and started unscrewing the cork. Not looking at the bartender, he asked, How can you tell?

You seem too reserved. Americans come in and—

Before she could finish her sentence, Steponas stuck the corkscrew through her left eye, pushing the utensil as far as it could go. Cradling her head with his big hands, he rolled over the bar, knocking over his half-empty red wine glass, and eased her down to the floor. Taking his standard Makarov PM out from under his pant leg, he went through the door he had seen Gustavo Reyes take earlier. He found that it led to a restricted area with a staircase to the second floor. With his left hand moving along the wall, he stepped slowly, on the balls of his feet. With his long legs he was able to skip several steps at a time.

He finally reached the top to find a hallway with many doors. He opened the first door. Looking in, finger on the trigger, he saw there were only wine boxes, with a lone empty bottle nestled next to one of the boxes. He opened up the next door, and there was Gustavo, lying naked on a bed with two American girls from the tour bus. His big belly was still round even while he lay on his back. His horribly dyed hair was now accompanied by a horribly dyed mustache. The two girls, wearing nothing but their underwear, sprung up on their knees on the bed.

Silence hit the room. After a tiny delay, Steponas fired five times. One of the American girls, a petite brunette, flew into the wall and then slid to the ground, her feathered hair still in place, looking at him blankly. Her leopard-print thong was covered with blood. The other girl had blood covering her bleach-blonde perm. Her right leg had split from the shooting, the broken bone puncturing her skin. Steponas scanned the room and focused on the splashes of blood all over the walls.

He went running, stumbling downstairs, this time holding the railing, nearly breaking it away from the wall. As he went through the door into the tasting room, one of the husky bodyguards returned. Looking over at the bar, the bodyguard’s face darkened when he saw no one was there. The two looked eye to eye, and Steponas shot the man in the head. As he fell back against the door, his blood spattered on the glass. Steponas tried to wipe the blood off the glass, with no luck. In a panic, he dragged the bodyguard behind the bar, leaving him lying head to foot next to the bartender, then ran out of the bar.

Reaching his seasoned Triumph motorcycle, Steponas kicked it into gear and rode through the gravel road. Take your time, he kept saying to himself, but with his big frame on the old bike he couldn’t get over 35 anyway. His pistol had a silencer, but he still was panicking. Should I have taken money to make it look like a robbery? he thought. He had just killed for the first time, and five people at that. The brightness of the late sun made it nearly impossible for him to see where he was going as he entered the town of Buena Vista. The journey was frightful. Along the way he saw red, almost fluorescent, flowers growing from log-type frames, some shooting up to about 3 meters in height. The long columns of these Tower of Jewels plants looked like a line of people staring at him.

He was ready to pull his pistol out every time a car went by. Finally arriving at the dock, he saw the wave-rocked 30-foot cruiser. It was facing out to sea, and he could see the boat’s name—Pulpo del Mar. He boarded the boat, alone on the vessel, and set his course back to La Gomera, the next island, his safe haven. As the boat slipped further into the ocean, his nerves began to settle. He would have to leave fewer innocent victims next time.

Part I: Peru, 1983

CHAPTER 1

June 7

Chimbote, Peru

The smell of fish was everywhere at night in Chimbote; the tops of the palm trees rocked back and forth as the wind blew. With a small population and little traffic, the distant screeching of the monkeys in the jungle was amplified. This Peruvian fishing town would be a safer place to pick up the missile than Lima, the big city.

Octovio Paredes and Jesus Trinidad pulled up in a jeep and got out.

This is a great missile that we’re getting, Jesus, said Octovio.

"No, I am getting the missile. You are a spoiled rich kid. I am Muerte Silencio!" Jesus pronounced.

It is the money I got from my grandfather that’s buying—

Yes, Muerte Silencio replied, biting his lower lip. Your rich grandfather is the one who runs the television shows. You are too stupid to do any of that. Muerte Silencio slapped Octovio in the face.

As they waited for the colonel to bring the stolen missile, Octovio, belittled and stung by the slap, thought of the time he went to the set of one of his grandfather’s shows, Eternamente Locos. Octovio was there to ask his grandfather for money, although his grandfather didn’t know what for. The audience sang and clapped along to the theme song: "Hay musica, hay baile, hay canciones, chistes y risas por eso somos . . . Eternamente Locos!"

When Rudolpho Loco, the masked character responsible for the outrageous comedy on the show, appeared, the audience laughed and hollered. Octovio thought Rudolpho’s purple Zoot suit with its thick black stripes made him look angular and his feathered Oktoberfest hat looked stylish tilted to the right. In the episode being filmed, Rudolpho was having a beautiful girl dance for him, twirling in a circle like a toy ballerina. With her little dress flying up, Rudolpho’s head nodded deviously. When the girl twirled off stage, an overweight woman entered the scene and hit Rudolpho with her purse. The audience squealed and howled, and so did Octovio.

Octovio! Muerte Silencio snapped and pushed him out of his daydream.

A truck with Russian Embassy plates pulled up past them and stopped. They heard the spitting sound of the diesel engine shutting off.

Two men were in the front. From the back, Colonel Andrey Ivanov jumped out and approached. Both Octovio and Muerte Silencio were surprised by the gray-haired Ivanov’s spunky leap from the back of the deuce-and-a-half.

Octovio! Ivanov called, waiving his big, burly hand to beckon him. Ivanov stood six-foot-three, towering over the barely five-foot-six Muerte Silencio and Octovio. There was a wooden, five-foot-long crate in the truck. It had Russian letters stenciled on its side and rope handles. Ivanov gripped the sides of the crate and moved it with ease, laying it softly on the ground. Muerte Silencio wondered if moving the crate would be that easy for him.

Ivanov pried the crate open, exposing a 9K32M Strela-2 land-to-air missile package lying on a pile of straw. The package included two white missiles, each about three feet in length, and a green canister used to shoot them off.

Muerte Silencio looked at the canister closely. This is not the Strela-3. This is no use to me!

Ivanov looked at Muerte Silencio, but Muerte Silencio just kept staring at the obsolete weapon.

This is a highly effective package for your needs, said Ivanov.

I think this is adequate, said Octovio.

Shut up, Muerte Silencio said, now glaring at Octovio.

Because of the war in Afghanistan it is almost impossible for us to get a Strela-3 missile here in South America, proclaimed a now angry Ivanov.

This missile, it has problems, argued Muerte Silencio, shaking his head.

Indeed, Ivanov recalled an incident when a Strela-2 exploded in its canister, killing the person firing it and burning the man next to him, who ran in circles, his clothes flaming out of control. Eventually, that man, too, had died.

Who are you, anyway? Ivanov asked with a skeptical sneer.

Muerte Silencio! he roared, finally making eye contact with the colonel.

Ivanov realized he wasn’t dealing with third-rate terrorists. So, you know something about this missile?

Muerte Silencio nodded.

As long as you are not shooting at a plane, this will be adequate, Ivanov explained.

Unappeased, Muerte Silencio’s little hands clenched into fists and his voice raised its pitch. You are trying to steal from me!

Two soldiers got out of the truck, each holding an AK-47.

Yes, Muerte Silencio, the Strela-3 is a great missile. I helped design it. But it would be too costly to bring you one. The deal was two thousand American dollars for this missile, and I want the money.

Pay him, Muerte Silencio ordered Octovio, looking away from Ivanov.

I will see you again at the embassy, Octovio. Ivanov jumped nimbly up into the back of the truck. The soldiers kept their weapons trained on Octovio and Muerte Silencio as they backed toward the truck, and then drove off noisily.

What were you doing? asked Octovio.

You stupid rich kid, we are paying him for this! It took both of them to carry the wooden box and load it in the back of the jeep. Octovio drove in the direction of Muerte Silencio’s hiding place in the jungle.

Octovio grew angry. You know, if you want to be a big terrorist, you will need to speak better English.

Muerte Silencio put a knife against Octovio’s cheek. I can cut you up and leave you in the Maranon River. Drive slow, I don’t want this piece-of-shit missile to explode.

Octovio drove on in silence. To feel better, he thought of Maria Conchita Alonso, former runner-up for Miss Universe. She was on the set of Eternamente Locos the day of his visit to sing Vamos a Bailar. He remembered her dark eyes and wide hips.

Stop! Here we are! We can go no further. Muerte Silencio barked. He jumped from the jeep, and as he slammed the door said, If you tell anyone where I am, I will kill you.

Muerte Silencio struggled to pull the crate out. He started dragging it by the rope handles down a narrow, potholed gravel path. The veins in his short, stick arms bulged as he pulled. Octovio sighed as Muerte Silencio disappeared from sight. He hoped to never see him again.

June 10

Washington, D.C., USA

Secretary of Agriculture Jack Lane stood at the podium for a brief press conference. The Midwest is not the breadbasket of just this country but of the world. Because of the recent good harvests, we can help other countries in need. The Soviet Union is facing hard times right now, and while none of us believes in their ideology, there is now starvation in parts of the Soviet bloc that we cannot ignore. We are putting together a plan that will send affordable grain to the Soviet Union. Children, the elderly, mothers, and fathers, just like yours, are counting on our great country to send needed help, and you’re making that happen.

Secretary Lane took some questions from reporters after he laid out the framework of the plan. A local reporter raised her hand. Secretary Lane, this plan will offer the Soviet Union grain at the same price that we charge an allied country like Australia. How do you think the rest of the free world will react to this deal with the Soviet Union?

With a southern Indiana drawl, the secretary answered, If we don’t get this grain to a region like Belarus by January, people will die. Secretary Lane waited before going on. I can’t speak for free countries like Australia, but I’m certain they are thankful they are not in the same dire situation as the people of the Soviet Union. Let me reiterate that this is not a political negotiation on America’s part; this is a humanitarian outreach. Just because the Russian ideology is different from our democracy doesn’t mean we can turn our backs on them. There has to be a bond made between us and them, and if we have to be the ones to take the first step, this is what we are going to do. Now we just have to get some of those fellas to go to the Popcorn Festival in Valparaiso, am I right? Some reporters started chuckling.

As expected, most of the free world was enraged as the news from the press conference emerged. In a dark-paneled room, the Australian government agreed to meet with Chinese officials to discuss enhancing trade between the two countries.

June 12

Soviet Embassy, Lima, Peru

Taking deep drags off his unfiltered cigarette, the Russian ambassador to Peru, Dmitri Balyuev, blew a huge hit out of the side of his mouth. With his lips stretched tight against his teeth, he now pushed his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. Balyuev pushed the cigarette so hard that tobacco came out of the wrapping. Colonel Ivanov, how did you think you could get away with this? His piercing sky-blue eyes ran through Ivanov, who remained silent.

The West loves smearing us with assistance. Howard Hughes pulled up our sunken K-129 submarine nine years ago and gave the dead sailors a memorial, a proper burial, Balyuev continued. They didn’t care about them; it was Western propaganda attacking our ideology! He glared at Ivanov, who was looking away from the others.

They are giving us a deal on grain, which we need, of course. said Deputy Aleksandr.

We have to retrieve the missile package that Ivanov sold them. The Peruvian authorities cannot know of this. Who do we have to take care of this? Balyuev asked Aleksandr, his eyes still trained on Ivanov, whose own eyes couldn’t look at the other two men in the room.

Ambassador, we have someone working down here. Lt. Steponas Simutas. He is from Lithuania, but he’s known as Ruso. His father worked with Castro in the Bay of Pigs. Raimundis Simutas was killed in action in Nicaragua six years ago. Ruso assassinated Gustavo Reyes in the Canary Islands two years ago. Now he is here in Latin America training soldiers, said Aleksandr.

Who was Gustavo Reyes? asked Balyuev, shifting his jaw back and forth as if he had ill-fitting dentures.

He was in Spain’s People’s Party. The Canary Islands were forming their own parliament, like the other regions of Spain at the time, and we thought the Socialist Party would have a better chance of winning the elections with him gone. Reyes was also an ally of Franco. As for Simutas, Aleksandr continued. Unfortunately, he killed four other people in the Reyes assassination, including two American girls. But he gets the job done.

Can we trust him? asked Balyuev, finally taking his eyes off Ivanov.

Yes, we can trust him, especially here. We think the person with the missiles is hiding in the jungle. We are not sure of the exact location, but there will be no unnecessary casualties.

Octovio Paredes was the one involved in the exchange, yes?

That’s right, Ambassador, Aleksandr acknowledged.

Balyuev again turned to Ivanov. If Paredes gives us good intelligence, Colonel, you will only receive a reprimand for your treasonous act. In these times, the Soviet arsenal is being compromised by temptations. Now Balyuev crouched in front of Ivanov, forcing the colonel to stare at him. To sell weaponry, this deal is not unusual.

I will serve the Soviet Union, Ambassador Balyuev. I made a mistake, Ivanov said,