The Propagandist

By John A. Tures

                “I think we outta lock up everyone who crosses the border from Mexico, and throw away the key,” the words emerged from the chatroom account RealRedStater.

          “I’d build that wall ten feet higher and ten feet thicker,” a reply flew in online a few seconds later.

          After several thumbs up and likes for the first two posts, another account stated, “Instead of a dumb ol wall, how ‘bout an electric fence?!!!” 

          “Fry ‘em all!” the chain continued.

          Something was boiling on this online pot. “It’s not immigration! It’s an invasion!!”

          “Hell…it’s an occupation!”

          Several cringeworthy suggestions continued, ranging from mining the border to posting machinegun nests with M-60s. Observing all of the chaos, the Russian hacker known in his country’s intel circles as The Propagandist was pleased at how easily the anger flowed across the computer screen. “That dinosaur would never have thought of this…” announced The Propagandist, known in this chat room as “RealRedStater,” to his pretty girlfriend, or at least toward where Valentina was supposed to be.

          “Very impressive,” grunted the short, swarthy supervisor, who replaced the leggy brunette at the chair next to him. His olive uniform was adorned with red stars with gold hammer-and-sickles on some and silver Lenin or Stalin profiles on the other. The aged general looked like fruit left out in the sun too long, the Russian hacker thought. Luckily, the old man was hard of hearing, as evidenced by that device in his ear that so many elderly wore, so he missed the Russian hacker’s insult.    

          The old military man watched the words dance across the screen crafted by “The Propagandist,” impressed with what his star employee at the St. Petersburg bot farm was accomplishing. “But what is the goal?” the old officer that others in the computer lab called “The Soviet” wondered aloud. “How does this help our country, our cause?”

          “We might get some hate crimes, maybe a mass shooting like the one in El Paso, Texas, a few years ago. But that’s not our real goal. This is.”

          After someone posted an anti-Hispanic meme, “RealRedStater” wrote “Texas Senator Paul Kerwin won’t support anything like this. He actually wants more legal immigration, if you can believe it!”

          A swarm of angry retorts, boos, unhappy face emojis, and thumbs-down symbols flashed across the screen. A minute later, he typed, “Let’s oust him in the GOP primary with Margaret Blackthorne!”

          Instantly, the mood switched from hate to adoration. Hearts, thumbs-up symbols and smiley faces bloomed like flowers on the computer.

          Seeing the Soviet’s quizzical expression, the Propagandist explained his plan. “Texas State Representative Blackthorne is a populist conservative we secretly fund, with contributions from American allies of our geopolitical plans. When she beats Kerwin in the primary later this year, she’ll introduce a bill to have the United States leave NATO.”

          Now the Soviet understood. “That is very clever of you, comrade.”

          The Propagandist internally chuckled. His supervisor was such a fossil. His kind spent decades pitching Pravda and meaningless Marxist manifestoes to a wealthy, decadent West that could care less about boring theories about sharing money and caring for the less fortunate. You were predators or prey, nothing more.

          This dumb, prehistoric creature failed all of those years. His regime spent billions on an inferior military and went bankrupt against a West who could spend trillions on the best equipment and soldier training, and never blink. His bot farm supervisor’s kind left over from the USSR would thankfully be ousted soon, just as the SVR had replaced the outdated KGB intelligence unit, though his organization was no less lethal to his country’s enemies.

          In just a few short years, The Propagandist and his team had turned every enemy from united to divided, with a cadre of leftist and right-wing populists prepared to do modern Russia’s bidding.

          “But what about those on the other side politically?” The Soviet inquired.

          The Propagandist clicked away on the keyboard. In a different chatroom, CaliProgressive140 began a thread questioning America’s cruel immigration policies, and other accounts took the bait. In thirty minutes, he had hard-core liberals calling for all border security to be taken down, and a recall effort against the Democratic governor of California because she wouldn’t support such a measure. He knew which buttons to push, and not just clicks on the keyboard.

          “Will she change her mind?” The Soviet asked.

          “A far-left state senator on our secret payroll will implement that policy if the governor loses the vote, and he will campaign among the Democratic Party to end America’s relationship with NATO, a ‘bipartisan’ effort with our new Senator Blackthorne from Texas,” The Propagandist explained. He couldn’t wait to replace this Soviet relic, who still didn’t always get it, still reading his words in the chatrooms with amazement.

          He remembered being a student, who was stunned when the USSR collapsed. Eager to meet the victors of that Cold War confrontation, he prowled around his country’s colleges, lurked about the museums, and even worked for awhile in McDonald’s, just to see what made the colossus from The West tick. How had the Americans prevailed, where Napoleon, Hitler, the Ottoman Empire, the British Empire and the German Kaiser failed?

          After several months, The Propagandist had his answer. There was nothing special about the country. They were born into a great position, with nearly boundless natural resources and geographic barriers like the two oceans that inhibited direct attacks. It was as if they started only ten yards before the finish line in a hundred-yard dash, believing themselves to be superior.

          They were simply Russians with money.

          While in classes, and waiting tables, and watching satellite television, he stalked his quarry carefully. For a country that called itself the “United” States of America, it was surprisingly divided. Americans seemed to be looking for someone to hate. The melting pot of race and ethnicity wasn’t coming together as well as their commercials and television shows indicated. When it came to religion each zealot felt appointed as their god’s personal emissary to smite anyone not 100 percent in perfect agreement with them. They were smug with their victory over the Soviet Union, their arrogance blinding them to any real threat. They were easily offended if not treated like royalty. Grudges were nursed and cultivated until ready to bloom at the most dangerous times. And they marched in lock step to populists who showered them with flattery, even as such leaders took the very steps to loot their incomes, rob their jobs, and eliminate their benefits right under their noses.

          Getting people in this nation to turn on each other would prove only too easy.

          The only reason his country failed wasn’t just scarce natural resources and miserable climate. It was that joke of a communist system that shackled everyone to the false utopia of equality while the managers, or mis-managers from the party were rewarded for their incompetence. Fools like his boss, the Soviet, just didn’t get it, and never would.

          With the advent of the Internet, another Western tool, a treasure trove of information flooded to his fingertips. He could spy on the whole nation and never leave St. Petersburg. Through a series of online personalities, he could recruit Americans to do his dirty work, and they would never suspect who their anonymous friend was really working for, or what the endgame would be.

          “Could this be done in a Western European or East Asian country?” The Soviet asked.

“Comrade,” The Propagandist began, trying hard to avoid using the mocking tone he wished he could use…not just yet, he reminded himself. “It could be done in any country. I’ve already stirred up the extremes in several other countries around the world using this blueprint.”

As the Internet spread, The Propagandist discovered that despite the differing history and cultures around the world, there were some similarities about the human condition that could be exploited, no matter what the country code was on their international phone number. Just as America had a checkered history of division, inequality, and bitterness, their allies abroad had similar legacies of genocide, exploitation, and repression, all too easy to conjure back up again, with a modern twist.  Within a few weeks, he could reenact The Hundred Years War, the Taiping Rebellion, or similar conflicts that ravaged the world and they would never suspect who was profiting from their imminent coups d’etat, civil war, and collapse of their civilization.

          The Soviet nodded admiringly. Then, in a whisper, he added, “Let us go outside to talk some more. There are few secrets within this building.”

          “Of course,” The Propagandist agreed. Perhaps The Soviet would reveal he was ready for retirement, given that he was well past ninety. It would save the Russian hacker the unpleasant business of forcing him out. The old man wouldn’t live long without the job.

          They departed the facility after passing through a series of security posts with metal detectors and suspicious guards. The lush forest outside and walking path laden with wood chips for a softer surface beckoned them just as the clouds provided cover against the potential heat of an early autumn afternoon.

          “I wanted to ask this a few minutes ago,” the burly Soviet began, hesitantly. “But that building is bad for confidential conversations.”

The Propagandist nodded.

          “I hear you are planning to leave the SVR and start your own company, sowing all of this discord around the world.” The old man still barely spoke above a whisper.

          The Russian manipulator sighed. Valentina, his girlfriend, must have gabbed about it to a co-worker who leaked it to the supervisor after last Friday’s after-work vodka-laden party. She was attractive and fiercely loyal, but way too chatty with the other girls. He’d give her a stern talking-to after dinner that evening.

          “What makes you believe—”

“I just wanted to know…if I could join you?” The Soviet continued haltingly.

          The Propagandist started a derisive snort at the thought. Then he caught himself. “Sorry comrade, some dust got caught in my nostrils. What could you do for us, our company?”

          The Soviet’s short stubby legs struggled to keep pace with the taller Russian social media expert. “I could feed you intel from our government for your firm.”

He’s finally realizing the benefits of free market economics after all, the hacker thought.

          The Propagandist shrugged. “It’s a start. But you would need to give us some real inside information…” He noticed the Soviet was no longer by his side. Had he collapsed on the trail? The Propagandist whirled around to see the shorter man with the green military uniform aiming a very large pistol at him. “What--?”

          “Your girlfriend is very loyal. She held out for a long time before we broke her. Now our conversation confirms the threat you post to the West, as well as Mother Russia.”

          “I don’t have to leave the SVR. I could stay,” The Propagandist offered.

          “I am sorry, comrade, but that time has passed,” the cold reply followed.

          “I could make you rich…”

          “I am over ninety years old. What would I want with money? But the restoration of the USSR…that is this old man’s dream.”

          The Propagandist held out his hands, pleading. “But I’ve brought our enemies to their knees. I am the greatest asset you have. I could do so much more damage.”

          The Soviet considered his words. “Yes, you could. And that is why your employment with the SVR must be terminated.”

          The explosion caused birds to burst from the trees around them in panic. The Propagandist flew backward as if punched by Ivan Drago. Two uniformed men emerged from the trees, with shovels in hand, and began to drag the faceless man to the shallow grave they had dug earlier in the day a hundred yards into the forest. 

          The Soviet gave one final look at the corpse, off to its final resting place, confident that Valentina and her co-workers would be forced to continue the work of undermining America under tighter supervision. “You thought of me as a dinosaur,” he told the lifeless one once called The Propagandist. “But such creatures could still be deadly.”