Free Shattered Bone by Chris Stewart Page A

... this meeting will be very brief,” he began.
    â€œThirty days ago, Sakarovek was killed, leaving me with the responsibility of leading our nation at a time of its deepest despair.
    â€œNow, for those of you who don’t already know, President Sakarovek was nothing but a coward. He brought more misery and suffering to our people than any leader since the Czars. Minister Sklyarov was a thief. And Secretary Moykola....” Fedotov’s eyes blazed. “How can I even explain? He was a stooge for the West. A traitor and nothing more. It was my duty to send them to hell.”
    The Deputy Prime Minister’s face remained passive and without emotion. Fedotov’s candor didn’t surprise him. Everyone in the room knew what was going on. For the past several years they had seen the train coming. All they wanted was to get out of the way.
    Fedotov cleared his throat and continued. “Some of you sitting here today were friends of these cowardly men. You know who you are. I know who you are. And while loyalty is an admirable trait, it doesn’t change the truth. And each of you ... if you examine your hearts ... if you look at the facts ... you will see what I have told you is true.”
    Fedotov paused. Absolute silence. No one looked away. “Now, I have called this meeting to make one simple point, and I want to be perfectly clear.” A screen behind Fedotov’s seat suddenly flickered to life, and the lights in the room slowly dimmed. Fedotov studied the reaction of the men as a picture emerged on the eight-foot screen that was positioned behind him.
    It was a picture of a little girl. She was dirty and horribly small. A hollow and frightened face looked up at the camera in hunger and desperation and a terror so real it leapt from her eyes. Tiny arms extended out from underneath a burlap sack of a dress. Her legs, no larger than her bony arms, huddled beneath her bloated stomach. She was reaching out. Reaching out to her mother. Her mother who lay dead and crumpled beside her.
    â€œHer name is Tasha,” Fedotov said without turning around. “She is five years old tomorrow.” The ministers and generals sat motionless, barely able to breathe.
    â€œFive years old, comrades!” Fedotov cried as he stood and turned toward the screen. “Look at her! She is only a child, and already she has lived through more horror and pain than all of our miserable lives put together!
    â€œShe lives in Voroshilovgrad, along the Ukrainian border. Look at her bloated stomach and the horrible rash, the results of the scarlet fever from which she suffers. She has no medicine. She has never even seen a doctor. Every day, like millions of our children, she gets but a few ounces of food. Her life is but hunger and horror. Though living, she is already dead.
    â€œAs a nation, we have come to the point where our children are raised in a world of such hopelessness and gloom that it seems they are left with only three choices. Die of starvation. Die of disease. Or live in a world of despair.
    â€œAnd this ... ,” Fedotov continued, pointing to the mutilated corpse in the picture, “this is Tasha’s mother. She and twenty-three of her villagers were killed early this evening in an attack by Kazakhaki bandits. For the past five years, the bandits have been free to roam across our border and plunder our people, all the time knowing they can find protection to the south. The Ukrainian government claims they are powerless to stop them. They claim to have exhausted all available means.
    â€œI, for one, don’t believe them. And I think that the time for action has come.
    â€œIf there could be a last straw, if there could be one final insult, or one single incident so rending that it changes our lives, then look at this photo and tell me, where will we draw the line?”
    Fedotov fell silent. It was as if a massive weight had pressed down on the assembled audience. The room