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December 1985,
Afghanistan
Almost
six months in those goddamned mountains, and as much as Dan
had become a part of their vast majesty, that half year of
living constantly on the edge had taken its toll on him. Physically
and psychologically worn down to the bones, he'd lost weight
and was constantly exhausted. He'd never had to work on his
own for quite so long, and no relief was in sight, nor the
chance to ever let on how drained he really was. Always another
path, a new group, and yet more 'what do you have us do, Daan.
How do we operate next?'
He felt
almost sorry for the Soviets who had been fighting this war
since 1980, trying to develop a strategy to win this godforsaken
squabble that cost them thousands of lives and millions of
roubles. There could never be a strategy, fighting against
at least six major Mujahideen groups, with several smaller
ones that Dan knew of, and an uncountable number of minor
private armies, there was no coordination of operations of
any kind. No system to battle against, no intelligence to
garner.
And in
the middle of it all, him. Working on organising sabotage
that was too alien to the Afghan fighters and had to be left
to the Western soldier and his ever-changing troop of men
that he kept training and re-training and mostly utterly despairing
over.
They
had been walking for hours, keeping close to a pass but always
in cover after an ambush the night before, where they had
lost two of their men. They had delivered the third one, who
had been wounded, to one of the camps on route and left to
be treated. To live or probably die, who knew in these conditions
where gangrene was the cruellest killer - right after the
Mujas' own sense of revenge.
Dan was
wary, despite the exhaustion that caused his senses to blunt
,and a light-headedness from lack of food, he still had an
unnerving sense of foreboding. Trudging along, despite his
worries they were making good progress down the track, since
the weather was for once playing its part. Concentrating on
map and compass, to get them as quick as he could do the next
camp while avoiding any more unpleasant surprises, Dan stopped
dead when he spotted boot tracks. Could be some of the Mujahideen,
but unlikely. Heavy treads, and a whole group of them, he
was betting on a Soviet patrol.
Calling
the leader of his troop, they discussed their options, deciding
to divert their path and to make their way to a close by camp
instead. Intending to wait out the next day, and whatever
the Soviets might have planned since the latest offensives.
Widespread, and solely aimed against the insurgents.
They
carried on for a few more hours, the day turning into afternoon,
remaining as quiet and devoid of any enemy as Dan could have
wished. Nothing, except for some signs of boot treads and
the occasional disturbance of the ground. They were getting
close to the camp when the sound of rotor blades came into
earshot. Dan hissed in anger, it seemed that every bloody
thing that could go wrong was going up shit creek without
a paddle, and they dove into cover. Staying hidden for at
least twenty minutes, and well until after the helicopter
had taken off again, directly overhead but without detecting
the concealed insurgents. It became so quiet Dan was wondering
if they shouldn't start up a brew when his fellow men asked
if they could pray. It seemed safe enough, and he moved slightly
away to allow them some privacy, while he chucked a handful
of tea leaves in his mess tin, boiling water behind a larger
piece of rock.
Dusk
began to surround them, and after they'd shared some of the
meagre provision of naan bread and dried fruit, washed down
with tea, they set off once more, this time walking into the
moon rise. Steel blue light soon gave the mountains the eerie
vision of a deserted moon crater, yet Dan knew they were finally
close to the camp, where they could replenish their depleted
stocks.
No luck,
though. They'd only managed to march for another half hour
when Dan heard the sound of movements, rocks tumbling below.
"Holy fucking mother of god," Dan muttered under
his breath, too late to find any other shelter than some more
of those goddamned rocks that would dig into ribs and freeze
their bollocks off during the night. No choice, the Soviet
patrol came closer with no intention to walk past, setting
up camp in earshot. One wrong step, and one small stone to
crumble, and Dan's Mujas would be minced meat. Communicating
with his men by sign language, Dan got them to understand
they had to stay where they were overnight, and they wrapped
themselves into blankets. No longer than a couple of seconds
and even the two that were meant to stay awake and share stakeout
had fallen asleep, dead to the world despite Dan's attempts
to shake those bastards out of their exhausted sleep. Keeping
guard on his own. It wasn't the first goddamned time and it
would be the last one.
It was
well past midnight, after hours of silence, when Dan managed
to wake the leader of his troop to get him to take over the
watch. He didn't care for the silent squabble that went on
between the others when they detected that none had stayed
awake with him. Before his head had even hit his arm, curled
up on the side with his rifle clutched in cold fingers, Dan
was asleep.
He was
woken far too soon, felt woozy and as if he could sleep for
a lifetime longer, but the ice cold air revived him sufficiently
to get going once more. Increasingly desperate for a cigarette,
but the Soviets would catch a whiff and that would be the
end of them. The patrol close by was breaking their camp as
well, leaving into the opposite direction, which caused Dan
to mutter a relieved "thank fuck". They waited,
hidden behind the rocks, until the soldiers were long out
of sight and the road was clear. Setting off slowly along
the trail, Dan reckoned it would take them another hour before
they reached the camp, if that.
He was
concerned about being so far behind schedule, but it couldn't
be helped and speeding up, now that the men were cold and
starving, was not going to get them anywhere, except into
a state of carelessness. Dan's feet felt dreadful, he couldn't
even remember when last he'd got his boots off, let alone
given the rest of his body a clean. It was like walking in
a swamp of discomfort, but he couldn't have dared to dry feet,
socks, and boots the night before. One thing to get caught
out and having to fight and run for their lives, another to
be barefoot.
They
reached the entrance to the camp that was shielded by several
large boulders in good time, but Dan frowned at the silence,
and so did the leader. Not a sound nor anyone coming to greet
or challenge them. Worse, there was a smell about the place
that made Dan's stomach churn, reminding him of a nightmare
he'd been trying to forget since it happened. No guards that
they could make out, and a stench that increased with every
step.
Keeping
his eyes out for tripwires or signs of butterfly mines and
other booby traps, Dan picked his way inside, despite the
urgent sense that kept telling him to turn the fuck back and
get away from the smell that became overpowering. The leader
and everyone close behind him, Dan could hardly hold back
the retching, hearing telltale sounds in his back, even before
they reached the position where the guard should have been.
He'd expected the sight, but when the heap of torn rags, smashed
bones and putrefying flesh came into view, torn into shreds
by scavengers, it still hit him with the full force of horror.
Bodies, dead, rotting, the memory was hard to fight.
Forcing
himself to go further, Dan was the first one to come across
the small opening, where over a dozen of bodies were lying,
rotting in a pile. Men, women, ripped apart by carrions from
sky and land that had searched for food. Each corpse had been
killed close to where they were lying, then left to rot. Dan
felt bile in the back of his throat, wanted to vomit, but
he forced himself to hold it together. Wouldn't do to show
the Mujas what they'd perceive as weakness.
Checking
the area and the opening of the cave, it soon turned out that
all the supplies were gone. Nor could they dare to drink the
water, possibly poisoned by the Soviets who'd wiped out the
camp. When Dan took a closer look at the corpses, even though
he wanted nothing but run away, it became obvious they had
been rounded up and massacred. Shot at close range, a mass
execution and war crime like victorious soldiers, guerrillas
and any kind of fighters had been committing since time began.
Dan frowned, but knew their worst concern was the lack of
provisions for the living. The dead were gone, nothing anyone
could do for them anymore.
Dan was
still looking around for shells, with the other men back out
of the enclave of rotting stench, when he suddenly heard shooting
and the far too familiar sound of Kalashnikovs firing their
rounds. "Shit!" He ducked, ran as fast as he could,
his SA-80 ready. The sight that was greeting him was a mess:
his Mujas and a small patrol of Soviet soldiers firing wildly.
Some of his men had already fallen, but the patrol was at
a disadvantage, without the shelter of the rocks.
He took
cover where he could, bent on organising his men while shooting
at the soldiers, when he felt himself under attack. Throwing
himself to the side and behind a boulder, Dan yelled in pain
when he hit the ground. Heart racing, the heated metal of
his rifle against his skin and his knee in so much goddamned
agony, he had to bite his lip to stop himself from screaming.
As if hitting that bloody rock was his biggest problem.
He was
counting the seconds, on the ground and too close to the butchered
cam, barely able to bear the stench, but even worse were the
screams that started the moment the fire exchange quietened.
Fuck! He was pulling himself onto his knees when the shooting
had stopped, the pain bringing water to his eyes. Crawling
forward, he peered across the low rocks onto the carnage.
"Fuck!" Again, this time hissed between his teeth.
Mujas, Soviets, dead and dying, but when he stopped, his weight
off the right knee, leg trembling and his rifle at the ready,
he could see the bunch of survivors coming out from behind
their rocks. Crying "Allah-u Akhbar" God is greater
and all that shit.
Dan saw
uniforms on the ground, Soviet special forces and their light,
sand-coloured camo turning into rusty dark as blood drenched
the cloth. Pulling himself up to stand, still favouring the
left while cursing the goddamned umpteenth time he had smashed
onto that particular knee, he immediately searched the corpses.
Some of them still wearing those odd bush hats with upturned
side that reminded him of Australian troops. Probably not
even Russians, but those hapless men from Poland, East Germany
and Czechoslovakia, that had been drawn into this godforsaken
war by their Big Brother. Dan searched swiftly amongst the
bodies for the telltale sight that he dreaded unlike anything
else: blond hair, tall man, broad shoulders, eyes that would
be closed never to open again, and body, hands, smell, and
… no. He remembered to breathe when none of them was
the one sight he had feared to encounter for more years than
he dared to remember. No Vadim. Dan counted the corpses. Five
... six ... no, seven. Seven in all and he frowned. Odd number.
The surviving
insurgents were swarming over the soldiers' corpses like big-arsed
flies that hung like grapes on legs of mutton, down in Kabul,
and before Dan could hobble closer, an onslaught of fresh
blood hit his senses. Hearing angry cries and torn-out words
that he hardly understood in their rapid succession, he made
out 'revenge' and 'enemies', but when he got close enough
he recoiled at the sight. Nothing had prepared him for that,
not in all those years, and he should have known better. Knives
tearing into uniforms, slashing bellies open so that hands
dove into blood to tear out the guts, while others gauged
out the eyes of the dead. Not his world. No, fuck, no! Not
his goddamned world and not his men and neither his culture
and least of all his religion. No gods, no beliefs, and Allah
is greater, let's rip open some Soviet corpses, scattering
their remains in revenge, to obliterate their existence.
"Shit,"
Dan muttered, what the fuck was he going to do, try and stop
these frenzied guys? He could understand their hatred, caused
by the equivalent of his mates rotting away in a heap, but
fuck, he wouldn't have torn out the guts of those who'd shot
them. Did that make him any better? Probably just … different.
Fuck. Limping along, clenching his teeth and avoiding the
sight, Dan spotted an arm, lying closer to an outcrop of rocks
furthest away from the frenzy. The eighth one? He'd better
check, could be a trap, and he ignored the agony in his knee,
crouching to move closer, rifle at the ready.
The moment
Dan reached the soldier he knew the guy was not dead. Eyes
twitching, moaning, blood on the uniform and the arm at an
unnatural angle where the bullet had shattered bones. "Oh
fuck." Dan groaned, getting himself down to the ground,
kneeling beside the guy and patting him down. Weapons out
of reach, he took the chin and turned the face towards him.
A kid. No more. Cursing this fucking war and its hapless conscripts.
The wounded
arm twitched, fingers moving without intention, as the patting
down registered, and the good hand reached for the ground,
touching dust and stone, seemingly looking for the rifle.
A cough awoke the soldier further, tore him back to the surface
as the cough became dry and painful. Eyes opened, a light,
indefinite colour like a greyish green, blood shot and reddened
from too much dust and wind.
"Shit."
Dan murmured, glanced backwards to where the cries of revenge
were ringing across the mountain and into the sky. "Why
the fuck aren't you dead." In Russian.
The coughing
didn't stop, and with superior effort, the young man turned
onto his side to spit dust out, reaching for the canteen at
his belt, then paused.
"Fuck,
fuck, fuck." Dan murmured, a litany of desperate swear
words, glancing backwards again. They hadn't been detected
yet, his bulk shielding the kid soldier from what was going
on with the corpses of his comrades.
The soldier's
eyes returned to Dan's frame, travelled up to his eyes, not
comprehending. Then widened as some kind of realization hit
him. He looked towards the canteen, but didn't move a muscle,
trying hard to suppress the coughing reflex, as if the slightest
sound, the slightest movement could kill him.
That
look of realisation was all Dan needed, it told him that if
the kid survived he'd be fucked and the Soviets would have
their proof that a Brit was operating in the region: training
and guiding the insurgents. If the kid lived … but there
was no other choice. Was there? "Wait," Dan continued
to speak Russian, went for the canteen on the belt, rifle
across his protesting knees, unscrewed the bottle to let water
pour past the chapped lips. That arm looked nasty, but nothing
a fairly healthy young man couldn't survive. Survive. Live.
Fuck.
"Why
the hell did you lot come back here?"
The young
soldier forced himself up on an elbow as he drank the water,
reaching for the canteen to hold it himself, drank, deeply,
and only stopped to fight that cough. Another twitch of the
wounded arm, and the soldier looked at it, only now realizing
that, indeed, he was wounded. He dropped on the ground again,
hand going towards his pockets to find bandages. Well-drilled
responses, and paused again, looking at Dan, checking his
hands for weapons, then decided that Dan didn't mean to cut
his throat right away. "I need to cover that wound."
The Adam's apple jumped with a forced swallow. The Russian
was accented.
Dan nodded,
acted on instinct, but fuck, where was the point. What was
he going to do with him? Reaching into the pockets he pulled
out a bandage, applying the shell dressing as fast and efficiently
as any medic would. At first, the Soviet soldier watched,
then he relaxed and turned his eyes back on Dan's face, like
the patient reading the diagnosis from his doctor's eyes.
"Thank you." A faint smile, common courtesy for
basic help. "Where's my unit?"
Dan hadn't
quite finished yet when one of the Mujas, hands dripping in
blood, came up behind him, staring wild-eyed and in the fury
of bloodied aggression down at the Soviet soldier, whose head
jerked up, eyes widened at the sudden appearance. The Muja
shouted to the others in Pushtu that there was another one,
a last one, and the final one to become nothing but dust.
On instinct, the Soviet soldier reached for the AK that was
too far away to reach. "Oh scheisse."
"No!"
Dan had just about finished off the bandage and raised his
arm to shield the kid. "He's alive." As if that
mattered, fuck! As if, indeed. He'd be better off dead.
"Not
dead yet." The man growled, and others of Dan's small
surviving group of insurgents came up behind him. "Dead
soon. Go out of way, Daan. Is ours."
"No
fucking way." Snarling, Dan reached for his rifle, knew
damn well that threatening all of them would just end in blood
- his own one, but he drew his upper body up and his shoulders
back, to be as imposing as possible. He'd worked with a few
of them for a while, but most of the guys were new and he
hadn't connected yet, his position of authority still shaky.
"What the fuck do you want him for anyway?" He knew,
hell, he knew. The knives in their hands spoke volumes.
"That
guy's still alive, you are not going to cut him open and gut
him!" Dan's left hand on the soldier's chest, pressing
down on the body, as if holding him back or reassuring. Dan
didn't know, because what did he reassure him of? To live?
He couldn't. The soldier held his hand strongly, as if to
push it away or hold onto it, eyes on the rifle, eager to
defend himself.
"No!
There is no fucking way I'll let you do that." Dan's
hand curled tightly around his SA-80. "It might be your
custom but it isn't mine and you'll have to fight me for it."
"Wait!"
Dan held up the rifle, despite the determination and glaring
anger that stared into his face. No way he could overwhelm
all of them, but he'd make a damn good shot of it if he had
to. "He might have information. I'll get it out of him.
I speak the language."
The young
soldier kept staring at his AK, as if force of will alone
could move it. Clearly only picking up on the aggression in
the air, not what was being said, still holding Dan's hand.
"Let me get the rifle", he murmured, as if not doubting
for a moment Dan didn't mean any harm.
Dan stared
at the young man for a second, before realisation dawned on
him that the kid believed he was there to defend him. That
thought tore deeper into his own guts than the knives of the
Mujas could. "No." He shook his head, then turned
his attention back to the men who seemed to wager the chances
of getting any information out of the soldier.
In the
end they nodded. "For now. Give you half hour, Daan,
no more."
Dan nodded.
Half an hour. What the fuck would it matter anyway, and he
didn't even know what he was trying to do, but he couldn't
allow the kid to be tortured and torn apart alive. No one
deserved that, least of all a kid.
"OK,"
he returned to the soldier when the others went away to deal
with the corpses in ways Dan didn't want to know. "I
got a reprieve." All in Russian, before he raised a bow,
"but you're not Soviet."
"No,
no I'm not. Heavens, no." The soldier glanced past Dan,
then looked up to him again. "And you aren't Pashtun."
He paused, then shook his head. "It's alright. No question.
I don't want to know. Nicht wirklich. Can I have more water?
I'm … German."
Dan nodded,
reached for the water. What did it matter that he shouldn't
give him water after the blood loss. What the fuck did any
of that matter? Not his war. Not his people. Not his problem?
Still, he handed the canteen to the young man, the rifle all
the time trained onto him. "I need information. It's
the only way." He remembered some words of German, one
of the many languages that floated in his brain. "Wichtig.
Information. Muss haben. Soviet troops, where and what? I
need to know something, you understand?"
The soldier
took the water and took another swallow, only coughing now
and again. He seemed genuinely surprised to hear his own mother
tongue, but the rifle brought the point home that this, after
all, was not a friend, and the beginning smile faltered. "Yes,
I understand. You are to interrogate me? What happened to
my unit?" He took another swallow of water, eyes kept
on the rifle.
"Your
unit is dead." Dan shuffled to the side, cutting off
the young man's view best he could.
"Dead."
The soldier dropped his arm with the canteen and shook his
head, not believing it could go that fast, last he remembered,
they'd been alive. "I … will talk. Of course I will.
I'm no hero."
"I
need to know about plans, about landmines, troop movements.
Anything you know."
"Plans
… mines …" the soldier was repeating it to
memorize the question, struggling to keep up.
Glancing
over his shoulder, what Dan saw turned his stomach, but his
face remained expressionless. "I can't promise you anything
except the one thing, I will not let you fall into the Pashtun's
hands." He wondered if the kid knew what that actually
meant.
"Oh
Gott." Toneless. Another, desperate glance at the rifle,
as his eyes suddenly darkened with the realization. Interrogation,
then death. "Can I have … a hand grenade?"
Lots of Soviet troops pulled the ring on their own hand grenades
to evade capture. He didn't have any on his gear, obviously.
"Don't …" Stalling again, confused.
"Fuck,
I'm trying to keep you from them, OK?" Dan felt a creeping
desperation that was eating into his bones, travelling through
his blood. "Forget the shit about hand grenades, just
show me on the map." He'd seen the glance to the rifle
and kept it safely out of reach while fishing for the map
then spreading it out. Trying to keep the kid from the rage
of the Mujahideen, yet he couldn't keep the young man from
himself. He suddenly felt so goddamned tired.
"OK.
Map. Yes." Now there was fear in the young man's eyes,
fear that would make him obey, and fear that chased away the
pain at least for the moment. "I'll show you. You don't
need to torture me, okay? I'll tell you the truth. All I know.
I do everything you say."
The soldier
forced his body onto the side and stared at the map, concentrated,
trying to find the pass, the exact location of the village.
It took him a while, fear and blood loss and pain making an
ordinary task challenging. "Give me a moment … it
should be here somewhere." Speaking, as if to appease
Dan, to prevent blows or, worse, torture. "There. This
is it." A dusty finger pointed at a place close to the
village. "This is where we were set down. And this is
…" The finger slowly tracing a somewhat haphazard
line. "… where we were going. We didn't expect to
encounter anybody here. We're just a patrol. We thought you'd
long gone. We radioed for the Hinds, but I don't think they
got a clear signal." He glanced at Dan. "We were
to keep taps on movement in this area, but we didn't expect
you to be still here. But with the Russkies, one hand doesn't
know what the other is doing." Bitterness at the obvious
mistake.
Dan's
eyes narrowed at the mentioning of Hinds. If they did get
a signal they'd be really up shit creek. This just made the
situation even worse. A fucked-up situation that was already
nothing but a pile of shit. "I'm not here to torture
you, you understand me?" The information, though, was
useful.
"Yes.
Yes, of course." Eagerness to appease the captor, definitely
not going to protest or give as much as a word of protest.
"I'm
trying to …" fuck, what? "do something. I'm
not your friend, hell no, but I'm not one of them either."
He glanced back at the Mujas who had dragged the disembowelled
corpses onto a pile, and he smelled the first signs of burning.
Smoke beginning to curl up above the all empowering stench
of blood.
"Okay.
Whatever you say. I'm just … rattled." In the same
tone as if he'd say 'don't worry, I'll be alright.' Justifying,
apologizing.
"Oh
shit." Dan murmured to himself. Shit and derision. That
kid was going to get tortured and killed just like all of
the Soviet POWs, and there was nothing he could do about it,
and since when did he even want to do something about
it? He'd been dragged in far deeper than he ever wanted to
be. Six years and he just couldn't stand it anymore.
"Listen
to me, whatever happens, you stay dead quiet." Pushing
the soldier's body back down. "Verstanden? Only chance
to play dead."
"Ja,
verstanden." The body protesting the push, but then he
lay down, still looking at Dan, now with a hopeful expression.
Forced his body to relax, and kept his eyes open, not trusting
enough.
"Hey!"
Dan called over in Pushtu, the corpses burning, catching onto
the flames. "We have to get going, I found out they signalled
the Hinds and your damned fire is going to show them exactly
where we are." Dan didn't even blink, hoping they'd swallow
his bluff. "Get your stuff together, we have to get moving,
there's nothing left here. The soldier's dead."
They
were looking up, a couple coming closer and all Dan could
do was turn his head and hiss to the enemy soldier, "I
try to leave you here. I try. Trust me. I won't let them get
you." Whatever happens, and he'd promised it before.
Almost six years ago, to a man he'd tortured and who had been
running for his life.
"What's
… your name? Won't tell. I won't." Another long
glance, but the soldier was young enough to trust, and his
words were just a toneless whisper.
Dan shook
his head, "No. Can't." No way, no names, and thus
no meaning. If he gave his name things would become too real.
"Then
let us have the body." The Mujas protested. Their hatred
had not abated, not even with the corpses alit, but Dan shook
his head, answering in rapid Pushtu, "There is no time.
No need. Come." He stood up, wanted to scream when his
knee protested, instead picked up map, rifle and the soldier's
AK. "We have to get going. Come!" Standing in front
of the kid, shielding best he could. This was insane and he
knew. If the Soviets had proof that all they'd ever guessed
was nothing but the truth, he'd be hunted like a rabid dog.
But Dan was exhausted and so goddamned motherfucking tired
of all of this shit, the only thing that suddenly seemed to
matter was to save one measly life amongst the hundreds that
had died around him.
"No."
They refused to agree, and Dan drew himself up even taller,
standing with shoulders squared, towering over most of the
other men. But he was hungry, just like them, and he'd lost
too much of his bulk. Weary and his bravado worn thin.
"Dou
you want to be gunned down by Hinds? Don't be stupid."
Gesturing to the pile of burning corpses. "You got what
you wanted: revenge."
Nothing,
though, could sway them, their comrades had died, turned into
festering corpses in the camp nearby. All of Dan's remaining
men were standing in front of him and he could feel their
anger. One false move and it was him who'd have a knife through
his bowels.
"Will
you get the fuck going, now?" Angry, scowling at them
and taking a couple of threatening steps forward. "If
not, you can do what you want and I'll leave on my own. I
don't give a fuck if you survive."
"We
don't need you, Daan. Not anymore." The first one tried
to push Dan away, but he stood, legs braced, and despite the
knee his balance was solid.
"Don't
be stupid. Leave the soldier's corpse alone. You've had enough
blood, haven't you?" He barely finished his words when
another man shouted, "Death to the infidels!"
No one
had listened to a word Dan said, pushing against him, too
many of them, and they forced him out of the way. Short of
starting to shoot, Dan didn't have a chance. He stumbled and
despite shouldering into a couple of the Mujas, they barged
past, and he crashed into the rocks, cursing loudly.
He saw
knives flicking, blades catching a glimpse of light, and hands
tearing at the soldier's blood drenched uniform.
"No!"
Dan shouted.
The soldier
fought, one handed, kicking where he could, kicking with all
the strength he had left, fighting like an animal, biting,
the pure stress of combat and the pain wiping the fear away,
wiping everything away until he was only struggling flesh,
breath going ragged, and fast, fighting on his back for all
he was worth, not even cursing, not screaming.
"Fuck
you!" Dan yelled, "fuck you and your fucking world!"
His rifle butt came crashing down on first man, then a second,
in rapid succession, knocking them out of the way to make
himself a clear space within the ring of rags. Drab coloured
deadly carrion, tearing at their prize, devouring the still-living
flesh.
He heard
a scream, the flurry of motion, saw one of the knives flashing
downwards and towards the soldier's guts. Before the blade
entered, Dan had his pistol out of the holster and in his
hand, aiming at the kid's head. "I'm sorry." In
Russian, and he caught a glance from those panicking eyes,
pulling the trigger. Once. Twice, and a third time. Three
clean shots where one would have been sufficient, straight
through the skull, smashing the young face with hardly any
beard yet, and splattering the brains the moment the blade
sliced into flesh. Too late for pain. The soldier was dead.
Dan stood
for no more than a second. Shocked to the core and unable
to understand why the fuck this one life and death had rattled
him, but he had no more time to dwell when the angry cries
turned against him. Fists pummelled into his body, face, and
blades flying towards him. Heartbeats before his training
kicked in, and he defended the attack. Felt knives cut in
his back, warmth and pain on his arm, and he fought and kicked,
punched, until he managed to get his rifle back up. Shooting
into the air, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "You
want to fight for Allah or die for him? You choose!"
They
stopped. Thank fuck they had enough sense to stop trying to
tear him apart, and Dan managed to get out of there and away.
Unhindered, as if something had suddenly turned them back
towards the corpse itself, and like hyenas they tore into
the young man's body. Dan turned, couldn't watch, felt sick
and didn't understand why. He'd seen worse, done much worse,
oh yes, much worse, but that kid's face, the greed to survive,
and the sheer insanity of it all, it was getting to him. Just
like the stench of burning flesh curled into his nostrils.
He went
back to his bergan, fairly safe in the knowledge they were
not going to attack him again. Yet the atmosphere had changed
and they wouldn't trust 'Daan' like they used to. Finding
the bandages, Dan wrapped himself up best he could. Crouching
as far away from corpses and Mujas, one hand pressed against
his knee and another holding his face. His head felt heavy
and just as weary as the tiredness that had crept into the
rest of his body and finally into his mind.
Six months,
and how much longer before he could get back to wherever and
who and what and why, and …
He'd
forgotten.
*
* * * * * *
March 1986,
Afghanistan
The wind
was even colder than the freezing ground, howling day after
day, while he was still stuck in this mountainous hell. This
winter, his goat herders said, was far harsher than any they
could remember. It should be spring right now. Yeah, right,
as if he gave a flying fuck anymore, each day was just about
survival. Surviving and killing - killing to survive.
Dan had
done more of his fair share in both, and the last nine months
had taken their toll. Physical, and mental. He felt bone-weary
for the first time in his life. Day in, night out; the extremes
of weather, the hardship of the terrain. The death, and the
dying. Scraping for food and water, sleeping in caves, no
more than holes hewn into earth and rock, and, if lucky, the
luxury of a flee infested tent. All he could dream of sometimes
was a bed, a proper, soft, big feather bed. If he ever got
out of the mountains he would buy himself one. Queen size,
at least. Just for himself. Then again, what did it matter,
where would he want to go.
Afghanistan
had swallowed him whole, perhaps she would never spit him
out again.
Dan was
tired from the constant cold that was freezing a man's brain
and sapping his strength, aggravated by climbing for hours
and walking for days, just to reach that cave. The cave they'd
stayed in, two years ago, after the massacre. Dan snorted
to himself, trudging on. He didn't even know if he hadn't
misunderstood the encrypted message and there might be no
one and nothing waiting for him.
He cursed
the rocks beneath his feet, making his steps unsteady. His
right knee hurt constantly these days. Arthritis from wear
and tear or too much cold. Deterioration sped up by injuries
like that night in Kabul: explosions, insurgents, and a fall
from a collapsing building. It didn't matter. He'd laugh about
his own failing body if he had any breath left in this motherfucking
altitude that robbed his air and dulled the senses. He felt
like he was aging fast and his body was getting ready for
the scrap-heap. Funny, really, at the ripe old age of thirty-seven.
It had
taken Dan longer than it should have, forced to trek the long
way round, too many possible traps on the shorter, straightforward
path. Couldn't touch the main road if he wanted to stay alive.
He'd be a prize to behold if a Soviet patrol should catch
him, or a merc, for that matter, anyone who had an interest
in his head, and that would be quite a few by now.
He was
finally getting closer to the cave, felt being watched, but
sensed no danger. Wondered tiredly to himself if he even really
cared anymore. Life. Death. The latter meant no pain and no
toil, and finally sleeping.
Up in
the cave, Vadim pulled back inside, secured the Dragunov rifle,
and tossed some tea leaves into the metal mugs. Lemon was
hard to come by in this country.
Dan made
it to the plateau at last, saw the entrance, walked right
towards it. Took less care than he used to, too weary. If
he was going to be ambushed from anywhere, then so fucking
be it. Ducking his head to step inside, he spotted the Russian
immediately and grunted something akin to a greeting, watching
the tall shape move in the low light. Funny, how the roles
had changed. Nine months ago he had provided a bergan, full
of everything the Glorious Red Army could not get, now it
was he who was left with nothing. Dan shrugged the rifle strap
off his shoulder, then worked his arms out of the heavy backpack
that contained all of his worldly possessions. Had retained
his sleeping back, blanket, clothes on his body, ammo, rifle,
pistol, knives, but not much else.
Vadim
pulled the fur hat off and tossed it onto his kit. Dan made
a few noises - shuffling, mostly. Welcome home. He smirked.
A fine housewife he made, tea and beef jerky, and a cold cave
with a small lantern. Technically, he didn't need more. He
was reasonably sure this place was no longer used as storage.
The dushmans had stopped using the path down around the mountain.
Dan let
the pack slip off his back, where it came to the ground with
a thud, while continuing to watch Vadim. The movements, sight
and sounds. Couldn't grasp how it could all be so familiar,
yet seemed a lifetime away.
Vadim
turned, and Dan's gaze fell onto the Russian's boots and their
unmistakable 'M' stamped into the ankle. 'M' for 'Matterhorn',
just like his own. Seemed he had chosen the right size, after
all. Back in Blighty, in a place he could hardly remember
and which had finally lost all connection to himself. Nothing
left. Empty.
"Got
some hot water?" Stretching up to full height, Dan felt
every bone protest in his long abused body. It was good to
move the muscles, though, easing off from the long trek. He
was insane to have made this journey; insane or … he
wasn't sure. "Haven't shaved in days."
Vadim
placed one mug on the ground near Dan, then placed his own
not too far away. "No cream." It was a private joke.
Lemon, cream, sugar … a semblance of civilization. He
nodded towards the kettle. "There's more. I found water."
It was amazing how much water actually did exist in Afghanistan
without making even the faintest appearance. He had developed
a sense for the water, the hidden streams running underground
from the glaciers to the lowlands.
Dan nodded
then bent down, groaned, but soon replaced with a guttural,
low sound of pleasure as the heat warmed up his hands and
the hot tea slowly rolled over his tongue and down his throat.
"Good stuff." A compliment from a Brit. "Even
without the cream." Grinning tiredly.
It was
almost comfortable in the cave. Sheltered sufficiently from
the cold and the constantly howling winds, the small fire
had been able to warm up the air. Dan tried to estimate how
long his Russkie had been here, waiting. The time it would
have taken a small fire to warm the cubic metres of air, and
if Vadim would still have been here had Dan not managed to
get there in slightly under three days.
Vadim
sat down, held the mug carefully on the rim, watched. "Rough
going", he commented to nothing in particular. His gaze
fell onto the rifles, and with a scowl, he placed the desert
scarf over them. A bundle of death. He shook his head, then
concentrated on the heat and the occasional sip. Allowing
the other man time to arrive, every now and then glancing
at him. He didn't want to stare, had to get used to Dan once
more. Especially after his enemy had sent off another
dozen tin caskets with comrades in them.
Dan moved
his fingers after warming them on the mug. They were getting
stiff lately and he couldn't wait for summer. Overuse, the
medic had said last time he had managed to see one, wear and
tear. Fair enough. Overuse of body and mind - the Afghan mountains
could do that to a man.
He unwrapped
the obligatory rag around his head and face, revealing not
only the thick stubble, but also a new scar. It hadn't been
there nine month ago, in the grimy and overheated hotel room
in Kabul. Running from his left cheekbone to the corner of
his mouth, he had been lucky, the knife hadn't cut deeper,
the perfect curve of his lips was still the same. Dan didn't
seem aware of the scar, hadn't seen himself in a proper mirror
for too long. Forgotten about the angry cut, unless it itched.
The wild
dark hair had grown long, reaching beyond his neck, but it
didn't bother him. He'd chop some of it off if it started
to annoy him, that's what knives were for, after all. That,
and killing - and sometimes cutting flesh into scars that
formed meaning.
Dan took
the parka off, then the second scarf around his neck, followed
by the three layers of jumper, vest, then shirt. Thick flannel,
it didn't matter what it was nor what it looked like, as long
as it kept him warm. He was down to the t-shirt, before searching
for the soap bag in his bergan. All of his clothes were stained,
but they didn't smell of anything other than wood smoke and
he didn't seem dirty, knowing the secret of keeping clean
with a handful of water, vital for survival and health.
Rummaging
in the almost empty soap bag, he found a small piece of soap
to lather and use for makeshift shaving foam, and his last,
blunt razor. It would have to do, he'd get new kit eventually.
Maybe. Or he'd end up with a beard like the goat fuckers.
The t-shirt,
now, discarding it on the pile. Dan's body had changed. He
had lost some of his bulk, replaced by longer muscles, betraying
the strength of a runner. He had become leaner, built for
defence, even though he'd been behind some of the worst of
the attacks. A grubby bandage was wound around his right biceps,
and a couple new scars had found their way to the back of
his shoulders. It could have been anything: shrapnel, grenades,
splinters and rubble, even a fall on the rocks themselves.
Who knew, who cared.
Crouching
down in front of the fire and the tin pot with its warm water,
Dan seemed oblivious to Vadim, solely intent on trying to
see his face in the back of the mess tin since his mirror
had broken two months ago. He washed his face before lathering
and rubbing the soap into the dark stubble, then swished the
razor in the water, about to start the laborious task of shaving
in the buckled metal of his eating utensil.
Vadim
set the empty mug down, and came over in a crouch, placing
his fingers around Dan's hands, and pulled them down, away
from that face that had seen more than enough abuse already.
The scar. It changed that face, made it look far more sinister.
Character. He took the razor like from a child's hand, then
cupped Dan's chin in his hand. "You look like walking
tree", he said, disapproving. His own head was still
mostly shaved, he found it practical that way, and he hated
not being shaved. More hygienic anyway. He raised Dan's chin,
placing the razor to the side of his throat, smirking as he
could see the moment of tension. He'd use a much sharper knife
to cut him. With this thing, it was impossible. Nothing more
than surface cuts - and that was something Dan had managed
completely on his own.
Crouched
close, Dan felt claustrophobic for a moment, yet they'd been
much closer - impossibly close when inside the other's body
- but nine months in the mountains had gotten him used to
more personal space than he had ever wanted.
When
Vadim finished and put the razor down, Dan looked at the face
before him, unsure at what stage in the last six years he
had stopped wanting to smash it in with fists and boots, or
bloodying the features with blades and punches, to destroy
that goddamned perfection. Familiarity. Interesting, an idle
part of his mind was musing, perfection. That was it. His
eyes got drawn to Vadim's lips, he'd split them but never
kissed them, and he simply leaned forward. His own lips touched
the other's before Vadim could react. Dan parted his own,
a fraction, needed to taste, feel, invite in return.
Vadim
felt his breath catch in his throat. The touch as normal,
as sane as he had thought it could be, possibly.
Dan's
voice was rough and low, murmuring against the other's lips.
"I hate you, Russkie." No. He didn't, but he couldn't
find the right word for this. This feeling. Hatred was the
closest he could get. The alternative was still unthinkable.
Vadim
inhaled, exhaled, deeply, to clear his mind. Too many strange
thoughts. Too much thought what this pledge meant. If anything.
Dan hadn't
kissed anyone in so many years, he couldn't remember. Had
forgotten the intense sensation of heat flooding from Vadim's
mouth, the simple pleasure of lips touching-moving against
lips, and the new sensation of stubble. He'd never kissed
a man; never in his whole life. Except … a kiss of death
six years ago. Another first and last and always for Vadim.
A rape - a kiss. And wasn't it ironic.
Kissing.
He'd forgotten. Fuck, how much he wanted to remember.
Vadim
placed a hand against Dan's chest. Not just some guy. Not
the handsome Hungarian fencer that kissed him despite the
fact Vadim had defeated his team member that very day. He
had still just kissed him, the rest was history, as they said.
This
was Dan, Dan who seemed like a skittish horse when the silence
moved away from a silence between men who didn't speak much
to a silence that did hold words. He expected Dan to laugh
or hit him, maybe, some kind of joke. He narrowed his eyes,
looked at him, and saw the weariness. Dan was defenceless
today. No armour. No knife. Dan would still fight, but he
had nothing to expend, nothing to give. No extra round, no
spare magazine. Dan was spent in a way that felt unnatural.
He wanted to say something, something about not minding, not
caring, not worrying. He thought Dan might think it was reluctance.
It wasn't. He just couldn't breathe. He put a hand against
Dan's neck and pulled him forward, tilted his head, rested
his forehead against the other man's. He needed to find words,
fall back into breathing properly, but it was like he was
diving and still hadn't broken the surface. He wanted to offer
food, warmth, more tea, then realized he was stalling. Didn't
find any smart words, not in English, not in Russian. It didn't
disturb him. He had accepted it long ago. "You're one
brave man, coming into lion's den", he murmured, and
meant something entirely different.
"No."
Dan shook his head, not much of a motion, reluctant to move
away from the close proximity and the simple but deeply profound
gesture of foreheads touching. "You don't understand."
Murmured, too close to see those ice blue eyes, his sight
blurry. "I can't remember." He knew how to kill
and how to fuck. He couldn't remember tenderness.
Vadim
bared his teeth, kept Dan in exactly that position, hand tensing.
Soldiers that suddenly went strange, that suddenly had this
'What the fuck am I doing here?' thing written all over their
faces. It happened. Stress. Doubts. Sometimes, they were just
homesick, if judging from his own experience. He could deal
with the stress. It meant breaking people, but he could. And
homesickness was an interesting concept.
Two weeks
when his mother died, her legs swollen and inflamed, then
she just went from bad to much worse and was dead. He barely
made it to the funeral. And stood there as the family mingled,
kisses, hugs, the wailing. They found it hard to kiss him
in that full dress uniform, the formality. He struggled to
shed it once they were all together, cooking, talking about
things, never anything political. His father had been somewhat
critical, in private, always only in private, and Vadim had
always felt that could destroy his career. Luckily, his father
never tried to organize anything, and kept silent, unless
with people he trusted. Now that Vadim wore the uniform, the
sardonic comments and puns stopped. His father knew how to
use language. But he kept silent during the uncomfortable
week they spent together. He tried to help the old man back
on track, but he had the feeling he didn't actually need somebody
to carry out the old wardrobe and fix the massive bookshelf,
but somebody to talk to. Only, you didn't talk to KGB. And
his father was everything but stupid.
After
this, he had felt numb, put it down to the fact his mother
was dead. The practical, down to earth woman he owed his looks
to. He had changed sides, that was the feeling. Somehow, somewhere,
he had become 'one of them', the hero turned spy, intelligence
officer, fighting a war nobody understood in a country that
nobody cared about.
"Tell
me, what do you remember?" Get him to talk, Vadim thought.
"I
don't want to talk." Suddenly resistance against Vadim's
hand. Dan's neck muscles tensing. He didn't know the words
and he didn't want to search for them. "I just want to
feel." But no, not right, that wasn't it. "I want
to feel human."
Anybody
else, and Vadim would have taken the mug, pushed it into his
hand and told him to drink his fucking tea. Human. Two arms,
two legs, one head. Capable of speech. An animal that changed
its surroundings and adapted.
He let
go of Dan's neck, then, without thinking much, took his face
into both hands and kissed him. Just like that, like the Hungarian
fencer. No fear, or misgivings, body to body. Fairly chaste,
as the thought of passion seemed far away, of teasing and
arousing. Smelling the soap, the damp skin from the shave,
and the long hair. Tasting what amounted to bitterness, he
thought, like tears.
That
was it. Simple. Profound. Dan's own humanity lost and shot
to pieces in a war that wasn't his own. All he ever had been
was a killer, but right now he was more than that. Dan remembered
to be human at the kiss, and the Russian's tenderness hurt
like a motherfucker.
He didn't
touch Vadim at first. Did nothing but part his lips. A rare
moment of passivity in a man who would still fight and kill
within the next heartbeat, if he had to. Parting his lips,
he closed his eyes, just for a moment. Couldn't stop that
odd, bitterly lost sound that escaped from somewhere deep
inside.
Reacted,
at last. Dan opened his eyes, despite being that close, tilted
his head and breathed, moved, demanded to taste. Vadim's stubble
rasping against his lips when the kiss turned real; sensing
scars on the other's lips, his own somewhat chapped in places,
in others smooth and warm.
He'd
dehumanised the Soviets, their allies, even the Mujahideen
he was supposed to be organising against the invaders. He'd
taken humanity from the corpses - and in return those dead
eyes, maimed bodies and rotting flesh had stolen his own.
This
man though, those eyes, lips, hands and body, this man was
alive, causing an onslaught of sensations when tongue met
tongue, entering the body without force - unlike their cocks.
Vadim
tasted of tea, vodka, survival and strength.
Vadim
parted his lips, almost surprised at the tongue. It seemed
unlike Dan, somehow, to kiss him like that. He ran his hands
down Dan's face, to his shoulders, enjoyed how the muscles
shifted, how the man breathed, and felt himself press into
the kiss. Demanding more, much more as it struck an inner
cord, somewhere down there, and reminded him of lust and greed.
He thought he shouldn't be wanting this, but the kiss was
sensuous, tender, and after all the months it was impossible
to pretend that he didn't want this, this and more, because
they both could have been dead, and not met here.
He pulled
away for a moment, breathing hard. "You need to rest
up", Vadim said, softly, in Russian, and nodded over
to the improvised bed. It would be pretty damn tight, he had
done what he could, but there was only so much possible. He
was here as a sniper, not as a hotelier, after all.
Dan let
out a strange sound when the connection was severed. Anger,
frustration, the dark-coiling fear of something he refused
to acknowledge: rejection.
"What?"
He felt abandoned. He'd kissed, he wanted more. Wanted something
he couldn't understand and was told he wouldn't get it. Felt
like a fool. "I don't fucking need to rest up."
His body tensed.
Vadim
turned back to face the other. Studied him in the gloom of
the cave. Like the two first men on earth, or the last, and
it was fucking insanity they were enemies. When they weren't.
Dan had shed his camo. He opened the shirt, eyes on Dan's,
the undershirt, and then, almost in an afterthought, but it
wasn't, it was reluctance, the dog tags. He felt tension,
wasn't entirely sure about the rules right now.
Dan's
eyes widened suddenly. That one movement he'd never seen,
never expected. The dog tags. That one last piece of identity
that Vadim wouldn't shed - unlike himself, who had been forced
to lose his a long time ago.
"You
fucking well do need rest." Vadim stood and went to the
cave opening, crouched to set up the tripwire and the caltrops
on the way in, then returned. "We have time." For
once. Maybe a day or two. Hoped the offer made more sense
to Dan now. That he understood what he was offering.
Not the
reaction Dan had expected, but he had no energy to query.
Just sat, watching the other. Studying the uniform that should
make him shoot Vadim on sight, instead he was as familiar
with it as he was with his own - more so. Hadn't worn the
British camo for too long, had touched and smelled the Russian's
far more often.
His own
attire, for too long, had been rags and dirt, hardship and
weariness. He wasn't fighting for Queen and Country, he was
doing a job that had lost all connection to himself during
the last nine months.
Dan couldn't
suppress the wince when he moved out of the crouch. His knees
hurt more than he could deal with, but no chance to give in
to the pain. Undoing the laces of his well-worn Matterhorn
boots, he shed the socks as well but not the trousers. Not
yet. "I'm fucking tired." Not just 'been a long
trek', or any such shit. Only the bare bones of truth. He
was tired. He had lost his way.
Dan stood
up, forlorn in the cave and looked at nothing.
Vadim
undressed completely, got rid of every last shred of Red Army.
Sharing warmth, yeah right, meant skin to skin. He stepped
up to Dan, and took a handful of his far too long hair - fucking
disgrace to any army in the world. Pulling him close, to look
him in the eye, before Vadim moved towards the makeshift bunk,
nothing more but the mat and a couple of blankets, his bergan
serving as part insulation, part pillow.
"Get
your ass down there."
Dan raised
his brows, said nothing. Exhausted. "Bossy Russian cunt."
Murmured, with a surprising sense of fondness. Trust Vadim
to set the anchor and hold onto the lost frigate. He sat down
on the makeshift bed, his movements stiffer than they used
to be. The mountains took a lot out of a man and it was a
miracle he had survived - his scars and the fairly fresh wound
told the story.
"We'll
see who's the cunt", said Vadim. He'd get what space
Dan didn't use. Which meant precious little, unless they both
rested on their side.
Seeing
Dan move, there were thoughts of infection, disease, broken
bones, things only old people got, but then, the knees, that
was a para thing. He knew the future held that in store for
him as well. Athletes and soldiers asked more of their bodies
than those could deliver forever. He crouched, waited for
Dan to lean back, then lay down as well, half covering the
other with his body, and the blanket.
Dan couldn't
remember when he had been able to settle down and seek sleep
without being alert in some parts of his mind. Shuffling back
in an attempt to leave enough space for the equally large
body, face to face. It felt warm. Smelled familiar.
"You'd
make a bloody great wife for someone." Dan chuckled tonelessly.
Wife.
Vadim peered at Dan. At least nothing like devochka. He really
didn't like that word. His hands found the belt buckles, opened
it, the metallic sounds were odd in the cave, opened the buttons
and slid the trousers down the still body, lips brushing Dan's
pec, the warm strength that rested within. He moved down,
pulling the trousers with him, undressing him like he should
have done that first time.
It struck
deep, that word, somehow. Wives waited at home and reared
children. Sometimes, they sent letters, and received letters
in return. "Don't get your hopes up, I'm on top."
Dan frowned,
didn't understand Vadim's reaction. "Holy fuck, Russkie,
take it a notch down." Wife, to him, was someone who
stood for stability, for coming home, for dealing with all
the shit he was not able to deal with. For providing a Real
Life and not this insanity. Wife - an unattainable idea that
only existed in men's imagination. Mother and whore, yeah,
fuck that.
"You
can fuck me all you like, I'm too exhausted to fight."
Dan had never been that honest. Rarely been that acidic, either.
"Does that make you happy?" Shit choice of words,
knew it the moment they were out. Fuck, he'd forgotten to
be himself.
Vadim
tossed the trousers away, paused. When, how, and why had the
rules all changed?
Dan -
weak, irritated, sounded as if he was hurt, worse, far worse
than the scratches. He was tempted to fuck him only to check
whether he could reach Dan's strength, fan it into something
to keep him going. There was no answer to that. Happiness
was far away, relief was the most he could do.
He lay
down, looking at Dan, saw the bandage stand out against the
dark skin. His fault, maybe. With the new set of rules, banter
turned serious too soon. Only too aware English didn't quite
carry what he wanted to say. Or not say, by saying something
else. He found it hard to look at Dan's face in the gloom.
He wanted to turn him over, rest on top, maybe lie side by
side and put an arm around him. Just to share warmth. And
say things neither language allowed.
Dan closed
his eyes, listened to the silence. Lying on his side, tense
at first, until it slowly dissipated, along with thoughts
that swirled in slow, lazy circles through his mind. "I
haven't suddenly turned into a whiny bitch, Russkie."
Voice dark and low, "I guess I simply came too close
to the grim reaper a few times too many, even for my own liking."
Vadim
placed a hand on Dan's hip and moved closer, touching him
all the way, not looking at him, but at the dark hollow between
Dan's head and the ground. He understood the body, he didn't
always understand the man that lived inside.
Tension
smoothed itself out of overused muscles as Dan shuffled closer,
a simple task in the confinement of their two bodies. Silence
tried to settle, but his tired chuckle chased it away. "I
remember my first kiss. It was a fucking disaster."
Vadim's
fingers moved up the side, a slow, deliberate movement. He
tried to remember his first kiss. Ah, yes, a cousin who had
been smitten with him. They had sworn to marry. Nothing disastrous
about it, only that he hadn't kept the promise.
"I'm
here", he said, tonelessly. Hoped it held as much as
it should. Talk, no talk, kissing, heart baring, warmth, rest.
Maybe Dan had meant that with the whole wife thing.
"So
you are." Dan answered, forgotten that oh-so hilarious
story of his first kiss. Didn't matter. Not any longer. Silence,
then, amidst the quiet sounds of two men's calm breathing.
"Funny,"
Dan murmured at long last, "it's another first today."
He paused, "You seem to be the one for firsts,"
his breath caught, "and lasts and always."
Vadim
stopped breathing. He reached out, on instinct, needed to
say something and had no words for it. Instead, he kissed
Dan again, nestled the man's head against his shoulder. Fuck
decorum.
"I
have few bad habits", he murmured. "I'm not good
man, Daniel. But I get by."
"Only
my mother called me Daniel." Small smile against Vadim's
lips, "when I was in the dog house." Dan was tired,
yet he kissed. Taste and smell familiar - comforting - home.
Not the
time for jokes, they'd long passed the need for them. Bare
bones and laid open, bleeding.
Enemy
mine amidst friendly fire.
*
* * * * * *
It was
dark in the cave, pitch-black before his closed eyes. Dan
couldn't remember why he had woken, no dream to disturb his
sleep, no sound, no fears nor danger. He felt warm, unfamiliarly
comfortable, and it took him a moment to understand where
the heat was coming from. The faint sound of regular breathing
close to his ear, and a body pressed to his. Skin on skin,
the memory of the kisses lingering.
He smiled,
to no one or nothing in particular, while opening his eyes.
Picking out Vadim's shadow and shape in the faraway glow of
the dying fire. Home. His only home. An 'enemy' in a wilderness
of insanity. He'd become a friend across the trenches.
Slowly
running his hand from where it rested on Vadim's hip up the
ribcage, and around to the back. Calloused palm and scraped
fingers meeting muscles on their way. Damn good. Familiar,
yet he would never tire of discovering this man.
Wherever
he was, it was a good place. Vadim stretched under the touches,
knew they were good, welcome, the rasp of a hand he knew.
Strong and rough. Lapushka. Wolf's paws. Cat's paws. Paws.
Dan smiled
again, his lips touching the other's, and he parted them with
his tongue. "Hey, Russkie," Murmured, invading-inviting,
"wake up or you'll miss the show."
Vadim
kept his eyes closed, opened his lips, teeth, welcoming the
tongue, tasting Dan, that taste of sleep and early morning.
Hand ventured out to bring Dan closer, front to front, one
leg hooked over the other man's thighs as if he was going
to roll on top.
"Show?"
He repeated. Whatever Dan was talking about. Not quite that
awake yet.
Dan chuckled
against Vadim's lips. "Forget it, I'm talking bullshit."
Pouring all of his attention back into another kiss. An intimacy
not only re-learned but never mastered to start with. He'd
never get enough, now that he had tasted the addiction. Another
one, and he'd never again be free of his Russian.
Dan finally
pushed the leg off, hooked his own around Vadim's instead.
Rolled him over and came on top, pulling himself up to sit
and straddle. As he looked down at the face in the shadows,
Dan could only see the gleam of pale eyes.
On his
back. Vadim grinned, liked the way Dan did something unexpected.
No protest, no sir. Inhaled deeply as he felt the weight in
the right place, hardened right there, placed his hands on
Dan's thighs, stroking them, not truly sleepy now, more lazy.
"Tell
me, Russkie, have you ever 'made love' in your long fuck-career?
You know, the kind women like." Dan's fingers and palms
stroked across Vadim's chest.
Vadim
looked up. "You mean the kind that hurts like bitch?"
He nodded. "Yes. First one. First man, first …"
Love.
Oh shit. The slow, deliberate fucking, the kind that made
him crazy, touched his soul, his mind, purified and elated,
cleansed him. Not that there had been much to cleanse, not
back then.
Uncomprehending,
Dan lowered his head, trying to make out details in the gloom.
"Hurt like a bitch? Why? Never had that one." He
shrugged, remembered sex with bodies that he had told himself
he wanted, could still get off on, if he had to pay a whore
for a blowjob. But those bodies had never fulfilled the deepest
desire that sat at his very core. Not for thirty-one years.
"First
love? Who was he?" Dan pulled the blanket up over him
and Vadim both, a tent in the darkness, its sturdy poles two
men.
Vadim
struggled for words. Who? His occupation. His name. He knew
almost nothing, apart from the things the man had said to
him, nothing about his past. He should try and find him, ask
questions he hadn't had a mind to ask. "He was team masseur."
It sounded stupid, he thought. "Knew me better than I
did myself. He … ah." Exhaled. "He seduced
me. Not … not in bad way. I wanted … wanted him."
Or maybe
he made you want him. Entered you and fucked you with his
fingers until you wanted more, and more, and took his cock.
Vadim flushed, growing harder, breath going harder, too.
Dan could
not read the thoughts but felt their physical reactions. "Interesting
memory, you seem to enjoy it. Here I was, thinking young Soviet
athletes didn't engage in such filthy activities." He
grinned, baring his teeth. "No offence meant."
"I'm
not offended." Vadim grinned. "He was good at what
he did." Oh yes.
"I
envy you." Dan confessed, "I got pissed, I fucked
holes and usually those two went together." Leaning down,
he gave into the sudden urge to suck on the spot he had marked,
six years ago. The scar of the cigarette burn, in the hollow
of the throat.
Vadim
moved his head to the side. "I was kid. Never knew what
hit me. To be 'degenerated' and 'pride of Soviet Union' makes
for some … interesting things."
Dan lifted
his head once more, faces so close, his vision was blurred
as he grinned. The mention of degenerate and Soviet
Union in one breath was an evil temptation to laugh, but
he didn't, holding it inside.
Vadim
was stroking the hips, the stomach, tracing the lines as Dan
tensed. "I was just damn lucky." Reached up to lay
his hand flat on the sternum, let it mould itself to the slight
curve. "Never … been in love, then?"
The hands
on Dan's body, fingers that traced muscles, sinews and bones,
were simultaneously welcome and distracting. "No, never
been in love." Never thought about it, either. "Never
had the time, the space, the understanding." Tilted his
head, wasn't quite sure what he had actually said. "It's
… strange." What, to be in love? How do you know,
Dan, how do you know? He dove back down to the neck, burrowed
teeth and lips into the spot where shoulder and throat met,
could not bear to dwell further on the question.
Groaning,
Vadim closed his eyes, felt the teeth go right to his groin,
the shifting of the other man was good, intense, and he dug
his fingers into Dan's neck, free hand sliding between their
bodies to lightly touch his cock. He wanted more, wanted it
all the way, but was perfectly willing to go as slow as Dan
wanted. He had been seduced. It was good, one of the best
memories he had. But when he compared the masseur and Dan,
then Dan was more intense. Different, very different. He had
felt small and strange with the masseur. With Dan, he felt
strong, powerful, at peace.
"Yes,
it's very strange." Loving you. He had known. For a long
time. Somebody who could reduce him to reckless need, somebody
who matched him stride for stride, knife for knife. Blow for
fucking blow.
Dan didn't
want to think, least of all examine, this 'thing' that he
used to call hatred. Couldn't dwell upon it, he had to go
back into the mountains, killing, hunting, planning, destroying.
Too soon, always too fucking soon. Another night, another
day, and off once more. No time to try and understand.
Or perhaps
he was just a coward?
His body
moved down along Vadim's, up once more, sliding muscle against
muscle and hardness against hardness. Nothing soft between
them, nothing gentle and sweet. None, until now. Tenderness.
Dan's
quiet voice was close to Vadim's ear. "Do you have any
of the lube left that was in the bergan? I lost the Vaseline
and almost everything else that day I gained the scar."
Lube, Vaseline, anything, didn't matter. "I could do
with something," Dan grinned in the dimness of the cave,
"for you."
Vadim
paused, then felt his heart race at that grin. Shouldn't be
so fucking needy, shouldn't look forward so much to getting
fucked. It didn't matter. "Sure …" He stretched
to find the opening of the bergan, dug a hand in (no, you
didn't plan this, didn't plan any of this at all) and found
the lube.
He dropped
the lube on the ground beside them, turned his head to face
it, then looked at Dan from the corner of his eye, grinning.
"I guess you are making assumptions." That assumption
is you enjoy getting fucked, Vadim, and that is a fact.
"Maybe,"
Dan smirked, reached for the lube, "or maybe I'm just
an ever hopeful bastard." Lying on his side, he stuck
the tube under his arm, felt the strange need to warm it,
had never bothered before. "It's cold, don't want to
freeze my bollocks off. Turn round?"
Odd up-tilt
at the end of his sentence, not a demand but a request. Kept
the other in the confinement of warmth underneath the blankets,
hands on Vadim's hips, urging him to turn around. Wasn't quite
sure what he was doing, didn't know where he was going, just
followed his instincts for once.
Vadim
arched an eyebrow in a mock 'Oh yeah?', then, as if he was
royalty, lazily, moved, facial expression as if he was doing
Dan a massive favour. Wanted to feel him inside, without appearing
too fucking eager. Then again, what did it matter? He could
be needy. No witnesses, and Dan wouldn't mock him for it.
Or maybe he would. But he'd keep his mouth shut. No reputation
to be lost. He pulled one knee up, to make things easier.
"Not rocket science", he murmured.
"No."
Dan's hand slapped the knee back down. "You got it halfway
right but not quite." No, Dan? And how would you know?
When had you ever tried this position? A lifetime ago, in
a soft bed with pink plush hearts and a stack of teddies.
He couldn't remember the girl, but had memories of the sensations.
Slow, deliberate, intimate in ways he hadn't used to engage
in, but she'd caught him out in the morning with pert buttocks
and a face he thankfully could not see.
"I
want to take my time. Too wrecked, still, to be vigorous."
He pulled
close, moulded his body against Vadim's back. Groin against
arse, thighs touching back of thighs, knees in the crook of
knees and chest along the length of the scarred back. Embracing
the other, holding tight, Dan's fingers fanned across Vadim's
pecs.
Vadim
gave a surprised snort of laughter, but then lay back, feeling
Dan shift and move and get close like that, like an extension
of his own body, warmth kept between them.
"Better."
Dan murmured, lips and tongue tracing lazy patterns across
Vadim's shaved neck. He felt himself grow hard, but he had
time. For once, and he would cherish it.
Vadim
sighed at the touch in his neck, the breath against the side
of his neck, and pushed slightly back as if to close a distance
that wasn't there. One arm to rest his head on, the other
hand took Dan's hand and lazily moved it across his chest,
tensed the muscles to show off if anything, slowly moved that
hand down to his stomach. "What if I say please?"
He asked in Russian.
"It
wouldn't have any effect." Dan chuckled in his softly
accented Russian. Allowed his hand to be moved, then took
over once more, splayed his fingers across the abs. Tried
to shift and squirm to get his cock between Vadim's thighs
without the help of his hand, laughing quietly at his useless
attempts.
"Could
either do with a little help or my hand back." He couldn't
remember if they'd ever laughed or joked during sex.
Vadim
laughed, raised a leg and let go of the hand to reach behind
him for Dan's cock, stroking it a few times, good size, good,
heavy, hot cock, moved back, back arched, placed it between
his legs, trapped it between his thighs. "You finally
making me your bitch, soldier?" The coarse military slang
slipped from his tongue too easily, but then, Dan would understand
the meaning if not the exact words. He glanced over his shoulder,
smirking.
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