The situation was desperate. Casualties mounted as the Sultan’s forces vigorously pushed Vlad Dracula’s army back towards his capital. Realizing that a bold move was needed to avert disaster, he planned a daring nighttime raid into the midst of Sultan Mehmed’s Turkish army.

Dividing his force of twenty-four thousand men between himself and the Boyar Gales, Dracula and his men silently infiltrated into the midst of the enemy camp before midnight on June 17, 1462. While Gales faltered, not attacking as he agreed, Dracula penetrated to the Sultan’s personal fortifications. Thwarted in his attempt to kill or capture the Sultan by the vigilance of his elite guard, the janissaries, Dracula turned his forces loose among the Turks. For the next six hours they unleashed havoc, killing thousands while suffering few casualties themselves. With daylight they withdrew and continued their withdrawal towards the capital.

Sultan Mehmed was shaken, the morale of his soldiers shattered after seeing the carnage left by Dracula. Rallying his forces, the Sultan continued the pursuit. When the advance guard of the Turkish army was one hundred kilometers from Tîrgoviste, the capital, they came upon a gruesome sight. There, in a semi-circle nearly two kilometers long, Dracula had prepared his most famous ‘horror scene’. The Turkish advance guard stopped—neither they nor their horses could move, their senses overwhelmed by the spectacle before them.

The smell assaulted the nostrils of man and beast; the sight caused the veteran cavalrymen to shudder and fear dominated their very being. Their discipline and the firmness of their commanders kept them from turning and running, but could not force them forward.

Before them were thousands of their comrades impaled on stakes, the remnants of their tattered uniforms fluttering in the breeze, their bodies rapidly decomposing in the heat of the summer. Ravens and vultures had attacked the eyes and other soft tissues, wolves and wild dogs had eaten the limbs of many of the corpses. It was a macabre sight, one designed to bring nightmares to the Sultan’s cavalrymen.

The cavalry commander rode back to advise the Sultan on the horror ahead. The Sultan did not doubt what he would see; he had known Vlad Dracula, the Prince of Wallachia, for many years and knew the cruelties he inflicted upon his enemies.

The Sultan barely hesitated at the edge of this gruesome scene before he rode directly to the two highest stakes. These, he knew, would be Hamza Pasha and the Greek, Catavolinos, his emissaries in a foiled plot to trap Dracula. He shuddered to think how they died before being impaled.

The Sultan turned back; he would meet with his commanders. Dracula had planned this well. The Turkish army, demoralized as it was, would not be subject to this final humiliation, thousands of its comrades impaled like common criminals. Dracula had won this battle.

The Sultan turned his army around and headed...

“Captain Zhukov, we’re approaching Phnom Penh. You must fasten your seat belt.”

He looked up from his book and smiled at her. As he reached for his seat belt he asked, “Are you staying in Phnom Penh tonight?”

Breaking Rule Number One of Aeroflot, she returned his smile. Looking directly into the dark brown eyes of the handsome Russian officer, she shook her head and said, “Sadly no, Captain, we end this flight in Hanoi.”

Breaking eye contact, he looked at her nametag before returning his gaze to her eyes, “Maybe next time, Svetlana. I’ll be at the embassy.”

“I’d like that; sometimes we stay here,” she said, smiling coyly.

Breaking Rule Number Two, the dowdy Aeroflot uniform couldn’t hide it. He looked appreciatively at her full figure. She blushed and moved on.

He watched her for several more seconds, imagining what he would do with her, given the opportunity.

Marking his place, he closed the book and looked down at it. It was an English translation of an old Romanian book about Vlad Tepes. The name, translated into English, was ‘Vlad the Impaler’, but he was better known as ‘Vlad Dracula’.

He studied the drawing on the cover, an artistic rendition of the Order of the Dragon. The symbol, a circular dragon with its tail coiled around its neck, a cross of St. George upon its back, was adopted when the order was established in 1408. Vlad Dracul, Dracula’s father, was one of the original members of the order.

The book, a gift from his military history professor at the Third Faculty of the Military-Diplomatic Academy, better known as the Academy of the Soviet Union, was given to him because of his interest in late medieval military campaigns and his academic accomplishments while a student.

The captain shook his head. The Englishman, Stoker, had done a great disservice to a brilliant military commander. Dracula’s battlefield genius was far overshadowed by the caricature of him as a vampire. The Russian knew the battle well, having read accounts from that period in Russian, German, Romanian and English journals. Dracula, with an army of thirty thousand stopped three hundred thousand Muslims, forcing them to turn back. He did it with bold tactics—and fear. They were afraid to continue.

Stories by his enemies, particularly the Saxons, portrayed Vlad the Impaler as a cruel and vicious tyrant. This too, Zhukov knew, was not the case. He was no different than his contemporaries. Their methods of dealing with criminals and enemies seemed barbaric by today’s standards, but that was how they maintained discipline and power. He shook his head. History had not treated Vlad the Impaler fairly. Normally, the victors write history, but in his case, it was his enemies.

He chuckled at himself and his situation. Here he was, a captain in the Soviet Army, being posted as an assistant military attaché to the Soviet embassy in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. His exploits as a Spetsnaz officer, although of some minor note, paled in comparison to Vlad Dracula.

Dejected now, he watched as the Il-62 descended in preparation for landing at Pochentong Airport.

The plane taxied to the terminal and the ramp was pushed into position. He was taking his overcoat from the overhead compartment when the door was opened. A rush of hot air entered the craft. He looked at his overcoat and shook his head. It was already uncomfortable in his wool uniform; the overcoat looked as out of place as a pair of skis.

As he stepped from the plane, the heat and humidity enveloped him like a warm, wet blanket; sweat quickly formed and trickled down his body, soaking his uniform. He glanced down at the two hundred pounds he carried on his six-foot frame, wondering how much weight he would lose in all the heat.

Entering the terminal brought no relief; there was no air conditioning. He heard a voice calling him in Russian. A smiling Russian officer, dressed in a lightweight summer uniform, introduced himself as Captain Vassily Tutushkin. He held out his hand and said, “Welcome, Comrade Zhukov.”

Zhukov shook his hand, noticing it was dry.

“It was minus eight in Moscow. What is it here, forty degrees Celsius?”

Tutushkin laughed. “I also came here in the winter. I understand your distress. Come, let’s get through customs and into the car, it’s air-conditioned.”

Tutushkin guided his compatriot to the immigration line for accredited diplomats. In a few minutes they were on their way out of the terminal. After loading his suitcase in the trunk, they headed towards the center of Phnom Penh and the Soviet Embassy.

He offered the newcomer a Marlboro cigarette. The two of them smoked and made small talk about the flight and Moscow for the duration of the trip.

Once in the embassy compound they headed to their quarters on the second floor. Zhukov tossed his overcoat on the bed and then took off his uniform jacket and placed it on the bed.

Tutushkin sat down in the overstuffed chair and lit another cigarette. Zhukov looked at him and asked, “How is Colonel Znamenka?”

Exhaling a plume of smoke, he replied, “Our commander’s an old Spetsnaz, a frog-eater. He was a Brigade commander before being posted here.”

“A Soviet Special Forces commander? Why would he be sent here?” Zhukov asked

“I don’t know. Perhaps you can ask him at dinner tonight?”

Looking at his watch, Zhukov asked, “What time’s dinner?”

“Seven, in the main dining room downstairs. It’ll only be the military staff, six of us. He uses these dinners as staff meetings. Sometimes the Ambassador joins us, but today he’s in Moscow.”

Zhukov removed his overcoat and jacket and sat down on the bed to take off his shoes.

Tutushkin got up to leave and said, “You’ve got a few hours to rest up.” As he headed to the door he turned, smiled and said, “Summer uniform.”

Zhukov chuckled. “I don’t expect to see this winter uniform again, as least not until I leave here.”

* * * *

The staff was seated at the table when Colonel Dmitri Znamenka walked into the dining room. They all stood and remained standing until he took his seat. He looked at the newest member of his staff, a hint of a smile on his face. “Captain Yuri Zhukov, grandson of the great Soviet Marshal Georgi Konstantinovich Zhukov. Is that true?”

“No, sir.” It would have been easier for him if it was true, but it wasn’t. They were related; the Marshal and his father were second cousins. He had never met the man.

“Oh? I had heard you were related.”

“There’s a distant relationship, sir. Mainly I have the Zhukov name and am expected to live up to the impossible standards set by the marshal.”

The colonel’s smile widened, “Well then, Captain Zhukov, I expect great things from you.”

“Yes sir,” he replied, a slight frown on his face.

“Have you met my staff, Captain?”

“No sir, only Captain Tutushkin.”

Indicating around the table, the colonel pointed out Major Nikolai Grachev, his Communications Security Officer; Major Viktor Suvorov, Liaison with the Cambodian Army; and Lieutenant Anastasia Gribovsky, his secretary. After explaining that Captain Tutushkin was an assistant attaché, he spent several minutes on each, explaining their functions within his staff.

Zhukov looked at each officer and nodded as the colonel made the introductions. He didn’t stop and admire the Lieutenant with her blond hair and ample chest, as was his instinct. That’s why he wasn’t a Spetsnaz officer any longer. His fondness for females, regardless of their status, put him here.

“You, Captain Zhukov, will work with Captain Tutushkin overseeing the delivery of supplies from Sihanoukville to our comrades fighting against the American Imperialists and their lackeys in Saigon. Captain Tutushkin has taken one convoy to the border area. Another one is to go next week.”

Zhukov looked puzzled and asked, “Why are we moving supplies to the border, sir? Why not the Vietnamese?”

The colonel looked at Captain Tutushkin and said, “Explain the situation to him.”

Tutushkin turned to the new staff member and said, “The first shipments were to be trucks. Our trucks, which were to be used to haul the material from the docks to their main supply depot, arrived on time. However, the ship carrying the trucks for the Vietnamese was delayed in port for more than a week because of mechanical difficulties. Then, two weeks ago, it sailed. But when they were three days at sea, another mechanical problem caused them to return to port. In the meantime the first shipload of supplies arrived—that material was moved last week. The ship containing their trucks is still in Vladivostok; we don’t know when it sails. The next shipment of material is due later this week”

“I understand,” Zhukov said. “We deliver to the main supply depot, they deliver to the border—when they get trucks.”

The colonel looked at him and said, “Exactly, Captain. Any other questions?”

“No sir,” he replied.

“Good, now the formalities are over. Let’s drink a toast to our newest staff member.”

A bottle of Stolichnaya vodka was opened and passed around until each glass was filled. Holding his glass up, the colonel said, “To Captain Zhukov.”

The staff members repeated the toast and then downed the vodka. The colonel nodded at his orderly, who went to the kitchen; dinner was served shortly thereafter.

After dinner there was more vodka. Marlboros seemed to be everyone’s favorite cigarette; there were several packs on the table. The colonel dominated the conversation, mainly telling war stories about his time as a young Spetsnaz Company Commander in Operation Whirlwind, the invasion of Hungary in 1956 to put down the uprising.

Zhukov gazed at Lieutenant Gribovsky whenever the colonel had everyone’s undivided attention. Several times she returned his glance. Once, he thought he saw a quick smile cross her face.

The colonel signaled the end of the evening by offering one final toast to the Soviet Union and communism.

As the Lieutenant followed the colonel out of the dining room towards his ground floor quarters she turned and looked at Zhukov for a second, and again produced the fleeting smile.

Captain Tutushkin came up behind him and slapped him on the back. “Yuri, come, let’s go drink more.”

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