Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

“I don’t believe it,” Director Nian said. “You are the Secret Service chairman, you wield one of the greatest powers in this country! If you wanted to be corrupt, no one could find you. But you live in a house like this, wear clothes like this, and drink Georgian tea instead of French wine. What are you insisting on?”

Andropov remained silent for a long time.

“Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen too much,” he concluded. “I’ve seen too many people fall into depravity, too many people betray their ideals. I don’t want to be one of them.”

He walked to the window and looked at the night outside.

“When I was younger, I also believed that the league could be better. I worked hard and climbed the ladder step by step, but the higher I climbed, the more problems I saw. Corruption, deception, bureaucracy... these things spread like cancer in the body of the league.”

He turned around.

"Do you know what's most terrifying? It's not the corrupt officials! It's the ordinary people—the ordinary cadres who go to work on time every day, leave on time, and never embezzle a single penny. They see the problems, but they say nothing. They know there's corruption, but they pretend not to see it. They've gotten used to it all, and they've come to believe it's normal!"

There was a deep weariness in his voice.

“Sometimes I wonder, what has been the point of all my efforts over the years? I’ve caught so many corrupt officials, but new ones keep emerging. I’ve rectified so many departments, but they all revert to the same old ways after a few years!”

"Then why do you continue?" Slava asked.

Andropov looked at him, a complex light in his eyes.

“Because I haven’t given up,” he said. “Because I still believe the league can get better. Maybe I won’t see that day, but at least I can do something for it—even if it’s just a little bit.”

He walked up to Slava.

"That's why I wanted to see you. Your ideas may be wishful thinking, or even delusions, but at least you're thinking about them, and at least you haven't given up."

Before Slava traveled through time, he heard a saying: "Martyrdom can help you prove that your crimes stemmed from a failure of methodology, not a mistake in values."

He knew that Andropov's efforts were misguided, and he even felt that Andropov himself might have known deep down that the direction was wrong, but he also had his own limitations. He couldn't see different paths, and he was unwilling to admit that the current system of the alliance was flawed—because that would prove that his cause, and that of countless revolutionary predecessors who had sacrificed their lives, was wrong.

President An knew there was no turning back, but he was still willing to give those bright young people a chance to save the alliance he believed in.

He stretched out his hand.

"Go to Uzbekistan, see the real face of this country, and then tell me what you've seen."

Slava stood up and took his hand.

“Okay,” he said.

------

It was nearly midnight when we left the villa.

Sherov saw them into the car and sat in the passenger seat himself.

"You should start preparing tomorrow and depart within a week. I will arrange your identification, letters of introduction, and travel expenses."

"What about your contact information?" Director Nian asked.

"Someone will come to find you after you arrive in Tashkent."

The car started and drove into the night. Slava leaned back in his seat, watching the shadows of the trees rushing past the window.

Director Nian whispered from the side, "Do you know what you just promised?"

"know."

“You might die in Uzbekistan. Your investigation has offended not just one or two corrupt officials, but the entire interest group of the constituent republics.”

"That's only a possibility."

Director Nian remained silent for a while.

"Then why did you still go?"

Slava thought for a moment and said, "Because he's right, I can't just talk the talk. I need to see what this country is really like. You and I both know that Andropov worked himself to death in office. To be honest, I was impulsive just now. At that moment, I really felt that the world shouldn't be like this, so I agreed to President Andropov's request."

Do you regret it now?

"All I know is that I'll regret it if I do nothing."

Director Nian looked at him, his eyes holding an indescribable expression.

“You know what, buddy,” she said, “sometimes I feel like you’re not like a typical time traveler. A typical time traveler would be thinking about how to use their precognitive advantage to make a fortune, or find a safe place to hide and wait for history to unfold on its own. But you’re not like that. You seem to really want to do something.”

"The worst thing I've ever smelled in my life is my rotten and stinking dream, Director Nian, but just now, I felt that the dead me came back to life."

Outside the car window, the lights of Moscow gradually came on. The city appeared calm and peaceful in the night, as if nothing was wrong. But he knew that beneath this calm surface, countless problems were brewing and countless conflicts were accumulating.

This country will disintegrate in eleven years unless someone does something.

Then go ahead and do it.

---————

The car stopped downstairs at the apartment building. Slava and Nian got out of the car, and Serov rolled down the window.

“Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll come to you tomorrow morning to explain the specifics.”

He paused, then said, "Comrade Yuri Vladimirovich rarely meets people in person, so your performance today... was acceptable."

After saying that, he rolled up the car window and the car disappeared into the night. Slava and Director Nian went upstairs to their apartment. The moment they closed the door, Slava immediately lay down on the sofa.

"Are you tired?" Director Nian asked.

"A little."

"Go to sleep, you have a lot to do tomorrow."

Slava nodded and turned to walk towards the bedroom.

"Brother."

He stopped and looked back. Director Nian was standing in the living room, moonlight streaming in through the window, casting a soft halo over her silvery-white hair.

“But no matter what happens next,” she said, “I will be by your side, that’s the promise I can make.”

“You can always trust me.” She blinked.

Slava looked at her, unsure of what to say.

"It's nothing, go to sleep," Director Nian smiled. "Don't think too much about it, we'll talk about tomorrow tomorrow."

Slava nodded, went into the bedroom, closed the door, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. The sound of the night wind drifted in from outside the window, along with the occasional distant rumble of a car engine.

Uzbekistan, cotton, rot.

Everything has just begun.

He closed his eyes and slowly fell asleep. In his dream, he saw an endless cotton field, the white cotton fibers shimmering in the sunlight, but when he got closer, he found that the cotton was all fake.

They began to burn in the sunlight, and the flames spread until they reduced the beautiful house built on the ruins to ashes.

Chapter 5: The Prelude to the Dramatic Changes in Eastern Europe

Sherov arrived on July 9th, carrying a briefcase containing Slava and Director Nian's new identities.

“All-Union Academy of Agricultural Sciences, Institute of Agricultural Irrigation Technology,” he placed his credentials and letter of introduction on the coffee table. “You are a researcher, and she is your assistant. Your trip to Uzbekistan is to study the irrigation efficiency in cotton-growing areas.”

Slava flipped through his identification documents. The photo was taken a couple of days ago; he looked a little nervous in it, but still resembled a researcher.

"What levels can we access?" Director Nian asked.

“Collective farms, cotton processing plants, state-level agricultural departments,” Sherov said. “This letter of introduction was issued by the Union’s Ministry of Agriculture, and it carries enough weight—but don’t expect either of you to meet directly with leaders at the republic level; that’s absurd.”

He took another envelope out of his bag and handed it to Slava.

“This is for travel and living expenses. Once you get to Tashkent, go to this address—” He pointed to a line of text written on the back of the envelope, “someone will come to find you, code name Alim.”

Who is he?

“You can—no, you ‘should’ trust him,” Sherov said after thinking for a moment. “This man will arrange your accommodations and itinerary, and you can contact us through him in case of any emergency, but I must tell you—”

You are now part of the KGB. As members of this organization, you should understand how precious trust is and not easily entrust it to others.

Slava nodded and put the envelope away. He understood that the words were not only directed at Alim, but also a warning to the two of them.

Sherov stood up and straightened his clothes: "As a training exercise for the two of you, write a briefing every week using the code sheet we provide and hand it to Alim. Do not use the telephone or telegram. Since neither of you has received firearms training yet, we will not issue you firearms for now. We will discuss it again after you have finished investigating the case."

He walked to the door and then stopped. "There's one more thing."

"?" Slava and Director Nian tilted their heads at the same time.

"Your train tickets are for tomorrow morning, from Moscow to Tashkent, a three-day, three-night journey. Take good care of yourself on the way; once you get to Uzbekistan, you won't have much of a chance to rest."

The door closed. Director Nian picked up the train ticket and looked at it: "Wow! A four-person soft sleeper carriage, not bad, not too crowded."

“Three days and three nights,” Slava calculated the distance, “more than three thousand kilometers?”

Director Nian put the ticket down: "That's about it. Don't expect the green train to be fast. Let's go and pack our things quickly. We have to leave first thing tomorrow morning."

PS: The green trains that run between East and West Rome still exist and are still in operation. When I came to Jiangsu for university during the pandemic, my hometown of XJ was still under lockdown. I took the green train, which took me more than 40 hours and covered more than 2000 kilometers.

------

July 10, 1980, 6:00 AM, Kazan Railway Station.

The platform was crowded with people carrying large and small bags, much like the Spring Festival travel rush that Slava had seen when he was a child—after all, the Olympics were just a few days away, and people from all over the league were rushing here. Some were running, some were shouting, and some were squatting in a corner eating bread; the air was thick with the smell of coal smoke and sweat.

Slava carried an old leather suitcase, while Director Nian carried a canvas bag; her silver-white hair made her stand out in the crowd.

They made their way through the crowd and found their carriage, where two other people were already inside.

One was a bald man in his fifties, wearing glasses, reading a thick book. The other was a woman in her thirties, of Uzbek appearance, with a seven or eight-year-old boy sitting next to her, stuffing candy into his mouth.

"Good day," Slava greeted.

The bald man glanced up at them, nodded, and continued reading. The Uzbek woman smiled, moved her child further inside to make room for them.

The train departed on time. Outside the window, Moscow slowly receded, first the city buildings, then the suburban factories, and finally vast stretches of farmland—the Russian plains stretched as far as the eye could see in July.

Slava leaned against the window, staring blankly at the scenery outside. Director Nian sat opposite him, took out a bag of peanuts from his bag, peeled one, and threw it into his mouth.

"Want a couple of bites?" She handed the bag over.

"all!"

Slava took a few and peeled them. Director Nian casually grabbed a few from his hand and popped them into his mouth. The peanuts were a bit salty, but the taste was not bad.

The carriage was quiet, with only the sound of wheels rolling over the rails. A bald man was reading a book, and an Uzbek woman was telling a story to her child in Uzbek, her voice soft.

When lunch was served in the dining car, Slava and Director Nian went there and ate something—the classic black bread with sausage. After finishing their meal and returning to their carriage, they found the bald man had put down his book and was chatting with a passenger from another carriage who had come to visit. The man was in his forties, wearing a wrinkled shirt, and had a very dark tan; he clearly worked outdoors year-round.

“...The Olympics,” the dark-skinned man said, “I heard it cost a lot of money.”

“Of course,” the bald man pushed up his glasses. “How much did the renovation of the main stadium alone cost? And then there’s the athletes’ village, the new hotel, the subway extension…”

Indeed, the already struggling league has spent approximately $90 billion on this, a record figure in Olympic history. To host the Olympics, the number of large stadiums increased from over 50 to nearly 70, artificial swimming pools from over 30 to over 60, and gymnasiums from over 1300 to over 1600.

“We ordinary people will continue to live our lives as usual,” the dark-faced man shook his head. “The lines at the stores are still so long, and meat is still so hard to buy.”

“You can’t say that,” the bald man waved his hand. “Hosting the Olympics is about the nation’s prestige. Besides, spending money to host the Olympics is better than spending money to build missiles, right?”

The dark-faced man paused for a moment, then laughed: "That's true, not fighting is better than anything else."

Slava and Director Nian were sitting facing each other, shelling peanuts. Upon hearing this, Director Nian popped one into his mouth, chewed it, and lowered his voice to say, "Actually, NATO already held a meeting about this six months ago, and both the NATO foreign and defense ministers attended."

"What meeting?"

"They said it was some kind of dual-track decision." Director Nian peeled another peanut and stuffed it into Slava's mouth. "In March 1976, the Allied forces deployed intermediate-range ballistic missiles in Eastern Europe, with a range of 4700-5000 kilometers. Because of this, those Europeans were very nervous and sought help from the United States. They decided that if negotiations with the Allied forces failed, starting in December 1983, they would deploy land-based cruise missiles to our borders with Britain and Italy. I heard they were also going to deploy Pershing II missiles in West Germany."

Slava frowned. The Pershing II, as a medium-range ballistic missile of the United States, has a range of 1,800 kilometers, and theoretically could reach the capital in ten minutes if launched from the west.

Well, that's certainly a powerful and reciprocal response. If he were making the decision, he wouldn't deploy something with such a long range—

As long as they can intimidate the Western barbarians, there's no need to intimidate the United States. In any case, both the United States and the Allies know that the Allied steel torrent can only threaten the West; if the two sides go to war, no matter who wins, that place will be reduced to ruins.

“The situation in the West is getting increasingly tense,” Director Nian said, “even more so than at the beginning of the Cold War.”

"The bigger ones are yet to come." Slava nodded and peeled another peanut for Director Nian.

"really."

The nuclear war panic in the early 1980s almost reached its peak since the Cold War. The Zapad-81 exercise in 1981 and the Elite Shooter-83 exercise in 1983—that exercise almost triggered a real nuclear war... These things are history for him, but for people of this era, they are the reality that is happening now.

He stood up and walked a few steps down the corridor, stopping in front of a small cart selling newspapers and magazines. The train conductor was tidying up the newspapers and magazines, including Pravda, Izvestia, and Labour, as well as several magazines.

"Do you have yesterday's newspaper?" he asked.

The train conductor flipped through the papers, pulled out a copy of the newspaper "Izvestia," and handed it to him: "July 9th, it's still fresh."

Slava paid the bill and returned to his carriage with the newspaper. He turned to the international section, his gaze lingering on a short news item:

"Poland: Factory strike in Lublin region"

The report was brief, just a few lines long, stating that worker strikes had occurred in some factories in the Lublin region due to "dissatisfaction with canteen price adjustments," and that officials said they were handling the situation properly. But Slava knew the actual situation was far more serious.