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Special Forces - Soldiers
Special Forces Military Gay Erotic Fiction
 
 
Special Forces Chapter XVIII: Flesh and Blood
 
 

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The following work of fiction contains graphic homosexual interaction, violence and non-consensual sex. With this work of fiction the authors do not condone in any way any form of intolerance and injustice, e.g. racism, sexual harassment, incitement of hatred, religious hatred nor persecution, xenophobia and misogyny. Neither do the authors through this work of fiction promote violence nor make light of such grave matters as genocide, any taking of human life, murder, execution, rape, torture, persecution of sexual orientation.

By accessing this work of fiction you hereby accept and agree that this is a work of fiction and does not reflect in any way the opinions of the authors. The authors do not necessarily endorse the views expressed by the fictional characters.

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All characters are fictional. Any similarities with living or deceased people are coincidental. In case of real life events, creative license has been applied. All stories are intellectual property of Marquesate and Vashtan. Copyright © 2006-2008. All rights reserved. Feedback is very much appreciated.

 
 

July 1988, Afghanistan

Dan lowered the dark shades and squinted against the blinding sun, trying to make sense of the dust cloud on the horizon. It was moving, but difficult to make out speed and direction while it was that far away. He swivelled slowly, making best use of his elevated position while checking the proceedings near the Médecins sans Frontières camp.

He'd advised the ambassador against visiting the camp, located in the low-sloping bed of a former lake, but she had been adamant. She'd refused to bow down to threats from insurgents, unwilling to listen, not even to Dan's professional advice.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes, scanned the desert once more, drawn to the dust cloud on the horizon. Damn. Definitely advancing. His sixth sense was coming back with full force, shouting danger! Heat pooled in the pit of his stomach while trying to get a better picture of the object, but the goddamned sweat was blurring his vision. Dan wiped the binoculars, dried his sweating hands and re-gripped the SA-80, before trying to focus again. Concentrating on the shape behind the dust, the moving and re-forming pattern of the yellow-reddish cloud and the dark line of the tracks that were left behind.

"Fuck." Muttered, the unknown object had just turned into a tangible threat. Vehicle, at high speed, racing towards the valley and the camp. He could make out from the trajectory of tracks and their angle that it had to be speeding in an almost direct line straight towards the Baroness' limousine.

Shit! He'd been right, the warnings and rumours of insurgents gone over to suicide killings were correct, and he had probably trained the goat herding fuckers himself, years ago. Dan activated his personal comm, staccato words while keeping the object in his focus. "Dangerous object approaching 15 degrees South East. Collision course towards the convoy. Get the target out of there. Immediately. Do you copy?"

Nothing. He tried again. "Do you hear me? Get her out! Get the target out, suspicious vehicle approaching at high speed. Get her out now!"

Checked the comm, still no answer, silence on the line. "Fuck!" Dan shouted, the bloody comm was fucked and the situation was rapidly turning to shit. The car racing closer, straight line across the horizon, heading towards the Baroness' car. Her two guards unaware, impossible to see the threat, down in the valley - the whole damned reason why he was on the elevated point as the coordinator! Dan could see the Baroness, her grey hair, standing in front of the camp, then walking back to her vehicle. It would never survive the impact of a car, presumably filled with explosives.

Cars. Ambassador. Buggered comm. Terrorist suspects. Half a mile distance. Fucked-up knees.

Baroness.

Shit!

"Get the fuck out of there!" Dan yelled into the useless comm, had to take the last chance in case it worked. Split-second decision. Threw the binoculars down, chucked the comm. Pushed the shades over his eyes, shielding against the glaring sun. Automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, safety catch off, he needed the weapon to be ready.

Dan guessed the time and distance. Five hundred yards. Speed of car approaching? 70 miles? Two minutes. Tops. How long since he'd been able to run a mile in under five minutes? Not since his knees got fucked.

Car versus human. No contest.

Dan started to run.

Sprinting against death, running for her life. Forced fucked-up knees and worn-out body to comply. Boots beating dust, desert air pulled into burning lungs; sweat running into his eyes. Breath panting, heat slicing red-hot fiery cuts into his lungs.

Run!

Muscles hurting, his body protested, but desperation and adrenaline pushing him further. Faster, harder, run you fucking piece of human scrapheap scum!

Snapshot images: Guard opened limousine. Baroness stepped inside. Rear door shut.

Dan reached the dip of the valley, felt rather than saw the deadly dust of the potential suicide car approaching.

He tried to shout while forcing his way through the crowds that were lingering in front of the camp gates. Voice breathless, croaked: "Out! Out!" Raising the rifle, set on automatic, he crossed the open space, the sight of the weapon scattered humans like panicking birds.

The dust cloud came suddenly out of nowhere, hell-bound on destruction, racing towards the limousine. Dan aimed while sprinting, the SA-80 firing a hail of bullets into the oncoming car. No hope to stop the vehicle's momentum, too close, too fast, saw it veer diagonally off its target under the onslaught of automatic fire.

The guards, one of them the driver, seemed to have finally caught on. Too late. There was still movement behind the blood splattered windshield in the four-wheeled bomb, which kept sliding towards them. Dan stopped the fire, reached the limousine, impact imminent. Tearing the rear door open, he grabbed her arm, anything, just pulled, yelling, "Out! Get out!" Dragged her out of the car, threw the slight body as far away from him as he could.

Saw the Baroness stumble to the ground in a corner of his vision, the near head-on collision happened while he raised his weapon. He stood wide open, no cover, except his own body in front of hers. Soft fucking target. The second guard tried to escape, screaming, yelling, but the cars exploded into a firestorm of deafening sounds.

The impact of the explosion's blast wave threw Dan backwards into the air, lost in the flaming inferno, stumbling over something on the ground. He fell on top of the object, and then an unbearable pain tore into his guts.

Dan didn't know if he screamed, nor when he dropped the rifle, his hands pressing down on the pain by instinct. Fire, detonations, shrieking and horror, distanced wailing amidst black smoke, and pain. Just pain.

Something moved beneath him. He couldn't make out direction, meaning, sound nor senses. Only unbearable pain. Couldn't raise his arms, nor feel his hand amidst the unspeakable agony. Lay speared, crossed, nailed and damned.

Suddenly her face in his vision. Everything else gone. Blood running down her temple; the perfect coiffure dishevelled and dirt encrusted.

Dan stared at her face, uncomprehending, except that it was all wrong. Her lips moving. Shouting? Couldn't hear a sound, nothing made sense. Nothing but pain. Flaring from his guts through his body, brain, limbs, every fibre. His vision narrowed, blackness creeping in from the sides, the tunnel closing and his muscles locked.

Dan tried to speak, moved his lips. No sounds. No thoughts left. Nothing but pain.

He lost focus of her face. Just the mouth, still moving. No more strength.

Pain. Darkness.

Nothing.

* * * * * * *

"Dan!" She yelled, had managed to scramble from under him. He had been sprawled on top of her, shielding her body with his own. "Oh my God, no, Dan!"

Unconscious. His head had fallen to the side. Arms slipped off, revealing the true extend of horror. Blood. Gore. Torn guts and entrails spilling out of the terrible tear across drenched camo fabric.

"No!" As if her refusal could wrench him away from his fate. Pushing her own hands onto the wound, forcing intestines back into the body.

The doctors who came running from the MsF camp found her covered in his blood, shielding his body with her own.

Tit for tat.

* * * * * * *

How ironic that the attack had happened in front of this particular camp, if the Baroness had not been adamant to go through with the visit despite Dan's warnings, there wouldn't have been several doctors and nurses running out to the carnage, trying to save what they could. Two guards dead, and one dying. Dan. Unconscious, drenched in blood and with the Baroness' hands trying to stop the spillage of intestines and torn guts. Shrapnel embedded in the lower part of the stomach, and his left hand stapled to the wound - a sharp piece of metal from the blown-up car, gone through the hand and into the abdomen, right above the large wound.

Emergency treatment, racing against time while there was still life left in the body. Equipment brought from the camp, materials and expertise piling around him. The medevac plane was already on its way. The casualty needed intensive care and extensive surgery, within the shortest time possible, but even so, his chances were close to nil.

* * * * * * *

Dan couldn't think, stir, let alone wake. Dragged under by darkness, terrified. Existing in a plane less than alive and more than dead, his very own purgatory of treatment, movement, being lifted, transported. Torn apart by nightmarish monsters, flailing uselessly, limbs restrained by pain so great, he couldn't breathe nor scream. Powerless, weak, dying - alone in the darkness of his unconscious mind.

* * * * * * *

Margaret de Vilde was sitting at the edge of the scene, deafened by the explosion, forlorn. Lost for the first time in her life and staring at the frantic action in front of her, bloodied hands on her lap. She could not grasp what had happened, despite the warnings, the signs of danger, she had believed she was invincible. An old battle horse, never one to be afraid, but this time … her iron will had cost the lives of several others. Occupational hazard of overpaid worn-out soldiers, but two guards, dead. A third, the one who had saved her life against all odds and whose advice she should have trusted, that one was dying. Torn apart and limp like a rag doll, the pool of blood in the dust growing by the second. She should have listened to his professional concerns, but had gone with her own decision instead; arrogant belief in superiority of a lifetime of being in command - refusing to listen to another's counsel.

Fool!

She stood up, unsteady at first on her legs, felt the stickiness of drying blood on her hands, and looked down at herself. She was a mess, but like the wrong decision she had made that day, it couldn't be helped. She saw a shadow approaching, could hardly hear over the ringing in her ears the engines of the Falcon plane, about to land.

The Baroness shielded her eyes against the glaring sun, then ran past the medical team that came rushing out of the fairly small airplane, straight to the cockpit. Shouting at the pilot, even though she could hardly hear her own voice, "Take that man to the closest hospital. India, Kashmir, the Royal British Hospital. He is a private patient, no expenses spared. He is one of mine. See to that."

When the cars appeared on the top of the low valley, to take the ambassador back into the safety of the embassy, they were taking the stretcher with the unconscious man into the medevac plane. The Falcon was already taking off again before the Baroness' attaché had reached her, and she watched the dust cloud for a moment, that trailed behind the plane. Ignoring the concern around her, before turning away from the carnage.

She shook her head, gesturing to her ears when they tried to talk to her. She couldn't hear them, but she could talk, with the same vehemence as ever. "Dan McFadyen saved my life. See that everything possible is done to save his life in return. I will personally fund his treatment." She turned and walked to the waiting car, smelling the drying blood on her hands.

One wrong decision, and now a man was dying. A man who had come as close to being a friend as she could afford to allow him.

The limousine doors closed quietly behind her.

* * * * * * *

Machines all around the still figure on the bed. Hooked up to keep track of heart rate, blood pressure and oxygen saturation through intravenous catheters. Others, that transported and monitored waste back out of the body. Lifelines curling from torso and limbs to bags with nutritional solutions. The chorus of bleeping sounds echoed along the hallway. Every vital stat transmitted from the machines into a central computer, displaying the patient's live graphs.

A large window span the width of the room, allowing full vision of the patient, a puppet on strings which kept his vital functions alive. Alarms would go off at the slightest disturbance, causing frantic movement and the change from hushed tones to hectic shouts, before they calmed again and the quiet voices returned to the hallway. The constant bleeping and whistling interrupted by the regular suctioning of the breathing tube that removed secretion from the patient's throat and mouth.

Arterial lines and probes measured temperature, blood pressure, heart rate and respiration every fifteen minutes, part automated invasion of the body, part nurses touching, checking. The abdominal wounds were dressed frequently, packed with sterile gauze and disinfected religiously to keep the wounds clean.

The patient could not see nor hear the surgeon at his bedside, changing bandages, cleaning and caring, assisted by a handful of nurses, rotating shifts through days and nights. His shattered left hand thickly dressed and held into position, the bones realigned to heal. A secondary infection weakened the body, battling against death with high doses of antibiotics and the patient's lucky star: his toughness and physical fitness.

Dan was fighting a fight most others would not have survived.

* * * * * * *

Vadim came in from an exercise, his body burning with pain, mouth, mind, soul parched, he couldn't remember what water tasted like, but he grinned. The Colonel called this state "gun-fucked", blasting the countryside and the mocked-up Mujahideen convoy with everything they had, excellent work by the pilots, fucking Hinds worked like a charm, and he was happy in a clearly malicious, gun-fucked way.

"Get cleaned up, Vadim Petrovich", said the Colonel and headed to the debriefing, while Vadim went to the quarters. A bunch of lieutenants hung out, and there was cheering at something that had just been said on the radio.

"Fuck them, they finally got a taste of their own medicine!" said a young guy who'd come with the latest shipment of kids from Moscow. Had seen no combat, but bragged about how tough he was. Vadim expected the other officers would show him just what exactly they thought of that type. Taste of medicine, indeed. If that didn't help, Vadim would make sure the guy got his head tucked in a shitter. For a minute, or two.

"Who would that be, comrade?"

The LT turned around, eyes glowing, face so young, so polished. "The foreign mercenaries. A bunch of the turkeys had it a couple hours ago."

Amazing, only two weeks here and the LT already spoke the lingo like he was a grandfather. Vadim stepped closer, reached for the half-empty bottle of vodka on the table, poured himself a glass. Civilisation. Not drink from the bottle. Not when he came in like this. This took force of will to not go wild and keep doing what he'd been doing. Kill. Even if only in his mind, only dummies.

The lieutenant grinned. "Fucking bandits blew up some ambassador-bitch, and her guards had it. Three men down. Saves us bullets." He laughed.

Dan.

The thought was like vodka so cold it had become cloudy. Cold. Then hot. The next thing Vadim knew was that the vodka in his glass travelled through the air, blinding the lieutenant, and the glass hit the braggart in the teeth. Then Vadim was on top of him, he took the man by his collar, lifted him up the chair, didn't feel his weight at all, heard a growl fill the room, a sound like a tiger hunting, then followed, rammed the man against the wall, dazing him, driving the air from his lungs, then let him go so he could punch him with both hands.

When the other collapsed, Vadim kneed him in the face, and then kicked him in the chest. Could hear again, heard the panic, curses, but nobody dared to stop him. The lieutenants knew better than to interfere. He was an officer, and a granddaddy by all rights, and he could fuck this bastard and nobody would be able to touch him for it.

He stopped because he was tired. Because one thought burned its way through the red haze that was about killing and maiming and inflicting pain. Dan. Dead. He was breathing hard, looked around, quick glances, but the other lieutenants were just staring at him like girls. You don't fuck with spetsnaz. Vadim heard the other whimper through the smashed-up face.

Still needed a reason to have done this.

"Mind your fucking language", he growled. "Bitch." A final kick, was itching to kill the man, but held back. Dan. He wasn't worth it. Wasn't worth killing.

Everything else paled. Dan.

He left the room, headed towards his bunk, was amazed he could find it. He could see nothing. Blind fighting. Night fighting. His mind wasn't clear, seemed his body could work by itself. The same flesh and blood that had held Dan.

He stripped out of his kit, his knuckles hurt. A quick wash. Felt himself pause in mid-motion, forced himself on, forced to wash with what little water there was, rationed, never enough.

Dan. The way he had touched him. All the ways he had touched him. The pain was so bad it ate him alive, chewed on him, there was nothing, nothing that could make it stop, he changed, got the kit all in the right order, like it should be.

Think, Vadim. Leaned his forehead against the wall, forced himself to think, fight the wave of pain and despair that was coming, threatening to crash. He didn't know it was Dan. Explosion. They might not even be able to find enough to identify.

That could take some time. He should stay put and wait for the next contact.

Like fuck he would.

He needed to verify the dead men's identities. Better, see the bodies. He'd only be able to believe it if he saw Dan torn open, torn apart, or this would haunt him forever. He didn't trust the Brits to give him the truth. Needed to see the body. Touch it.

He shuddered at the thought. Touch what was left of Dan. Fuck. He'd handled bits of humans before. Had found shot down pilots in the mountains and brought them back. And those were already festering and swollen. Dan's body would be worse, much worse, but he needed, needed to know it was him.

"Vadim Petrovich." The Colonel.

Fuck. Vadim straightened, turned around, saluted, but the Colonel shook his head. "Good work out there." He remained rooted to the ground, hands folded on his back, a wiry incarnation of death. Eyes were narrow, and Vadim felt his pulse beat up against the top of his head, from the inside. He didn't meet the man's eyes, couldn't allow himself to think of Dan and what touching his torn body would do to him. But he knew. He would know what it would feel like, what it would smell like. His face twitched.

"There will be wars after this", said the Colonel, like that was thanks to him. Well, if the Colonel was sent to kill some head of state, who could say it wouldn't be? "I'll want you for the next one."

Vadim stared, felt nothing but Dan in his mind. The Colonel made no sense. Nothing at all. Dan. "I beg your pardon?"

The Colonel smirked, an absolutely frightful expression. "You understood me." Like that was some kind of joke. Sickening. He was out of his depth, didn't get it, knew he was ruining what he'd been building with this man, who decided on his career, judged solely by his performance, nothing else. "You were not much of an athlete, Vadim Petrovich, but you're one hell of a killer."

A compliment. Vadim blinked, killing and killer, Dan, explosion, and this man wanting him in the next war to kill more people. It didn't end. It would go on like this until the sniper's bullet hit true. Until he pulled the trigger on himself. Until he rose so far up or grew so old that all he could do was come up with plans and strategies to kill and to train killers. He nodded, numb, hoped it would be mistaken for humility. Krasnorada and humble. Couldn't speak. Felt like the Colonel had taken his hand and forced it down into a steaming pile of guts.

* * * * * * *

Dan had been in the ICU for over fourteen days, when it was decided to try wake the patient from the artificial coma.

Darkness. Fear. Dull throbbing discomfort. Constant sound of whirring, beeping; rustle of fabrics and voices holding unknown conversations in nothing but whispers. Dan was floating blindly in intangible blackness, unable to move, to think.

Half-waking, growing more aware of his surroundings and the increasing onslaught of pain. Worst of all that thing, the obstruction in his throat. He tried to swallow, couldn't, it hurt, he tried to make a sound, impossible. Discomfort grew and his drugged mind didn't know what he was doing, only the overwhelming need to fight whatever was causing the intrusion into his throat.

Enemy. Pain. Fight. Didn't know where he was, nor what nor why, nor even who, managed to raise one hand, the other too heavy, unwieldy, wouldn't budge. Dan gripped the 'thing' that was causing the pain in his throat, tried to rip the breathing tube out, fighting, starting to panic.

The machines exploded into a cacophony of noise, bleeping, screeching for attention, his hand got torn away, voices shouting at him, but he couldn't understand what they were saying, just the need to fight, frantically trying to breathe and move, pain shooting through his body, the bleeping got faster and louder and then his hand was forced down and fixed into position.

Something warm flowed into his veins, taking him back down and away, dragging him beneath the blanket of sleep once more.

Night and day had no meaning, he was lost in confusion and paranoia. Whose hushed tones was he hearing? Who was touching his skin? Who was working on his body - or tried to steal his mind.

The doctors decided they needed to lower the morphine dose and they kept him strapped down. Adding to the growing paranoia and the pain of withdrawal. Who was there, what were they doing, who came in? He could never find the answer.

Sedatives kept the mind dragged under and the body still, allowing the wounds to heal and the infection to subside. He suffered from amnesia induced by sedation, remembered scraps of reality like nightmares; those touches, sounds, the inability to move, and the underlying dulled-down pain.

He hardly reacted to the punctual regularity of nurses coming every two hours, changing his position to prevent infection from bedsores. Taking pressure off one side, cleaning the skin, massaging to stimulate circulation, and keeping him moisturised. Lying with lamb's wool skin protectors under the hip, lower spine, heels and elbows. Like a doll in its cot, limp in the care of his handlers.

* * * * * * *

Two days passed for Vadim and no news. No names. Nothing. The Brits didn't give up the men's identities. They remained a number in a news item. That was it. It made sense, that way, nobody cared. Vadim tried to pull strings, asked questions, never directly. But he was too subtle. Without going straight for the truth, there would be no truth.

He went to one of the safe houses, after duty, gathered himself up enough to change. He would never pass for Afghan, but at least nobody had to see a Soviet soldier go into the British embassy. The promise gnawed on him, the promise to bring back Dan's body from the mountains, given in a dingy hotel on the edge of desperation.

Civilian clothes. Hadn't worn them in Kabul forever. Wrapped his head in a rag, red-faced Caucasian in nondescript clothing. His accent would give him away. The pride was the worst, but he felt so nauseous he couldn't sleep. Dan's death was like a rotting tooth, it hurt, it hurt so bad nothing could stop this apart from pulling it out, and that would take a bullet.

Vadim headed towards the embassy. He got in with a mix of sheer bravado, begging, and the hint he might have something that would be of interest to the Brits. A bald-faced lie, or maybe not, he'd say and do anything to get in. Was searched, spread-eagled against the guard house, at gun point. A member of staff took his name. He gave Platon's name, his rank as lieutenant. Officer, but only junior. Not one true word.

Asked to see the lady ambassador, only her, said he couldn't trust anybody else. Expected to be kicked out, but the Brits seemed more civilised than that. He was so tired he felt like death on his feet. Sat down, was handed a water bottle, rested his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. Tried to catch a moment of sleep, strangely intimidated by the place and the shit he had jumped into. He was in trouble.

He waited less than half an hour, left undisturbed but never alone, when a quiet but authoritative voice was heard behind the doors, which opened. Then the tack-tack of sensible heels before the sound stopped.

"Lieutenant Ivanov, you wished to see me?"

Vadim stood, felt ill at ease, then put his hands on his back to stop them from giving away how nervous he was. "Yes." Platon's name would fit badly, the kid posthumously promoted, Vadim had the feeling he wouldn't be happy. If he was in a place where he could even care. Two dead men he'd held. Don't think about it.

"I am aware it's unconventional procedure, Ma'am", he wasn't sure about her title, or how to address her, hoped that was alright, and it wasn't Miss or Mrs or Lady or whatever, he was too tired for decorum. "Dan. Daniel McFadyen. He was part of your security detail?"

The ambassador's brows rose, her expression even more guarded than before. "Please do sit, Lieutenant. We do not often get such illustrious visitors." Ignoring the question for now, while she sat down opposite, studying him.

Vadim sat, reached for the water bottle to keep his hands calm. Illustrious. Like: important. Grand. What a word to use. He felt nothing like it, not grand, not important, not even self-possessed. He was completely out of his depth, helpless, reduced to begging. If she played it right, she'd ask him for things he couldn't tell her. Maybe she wouldn't.

She finally spoke again. "Why, Lieutenant, why do you wish to know about Mr McFadyen?"

"I need to confirm whether he's dead." I need to touch his body. I need to smell his blood. I need to do all that before you send him back in a metal tin, back home. He drew a long breath. "Not … in official capacity."

"I assumed that." She immediately answered. As prim, precise and proper as her whole appearance. "It does not seem appropriate for a soldier of the Soviet occupying forces to enter the British embassy in any kind of official business that I am not aware of."

Soviet occupying forces. Vadim inhaled. He didn't have the strength to argue his point. He didn't even know what kind of war it was, only knew it was a war and too many people had died. One too many. Bit back the party line, couldn't have spoken it without starting to laugh or break into tears, or both. Didn't trust himself not to.

She arranged her finely manicured hands on her lap, the grey hair coiffed as impenetrably as her non-committal expression. The stitches at her temple hidden by lacquered hair. "I repeat my question. Why do you wish to know?"

Vadim stared at the bottle, thought, needed a good answer, but couldn't come up with anything better than what had been his first idea, yesterday. "McFadyen and I have history." He looked up, hoped he still appeared somewhat dignified, herded the stoicism into his face, gathered his resolve. "We had tea together. You might call it unlikely, but we have grown to respect each other."

"And that is all?" She queried, sitting with legs perfectly slanted to one side. The epitome of British upper class. "Why should this give you such an unparalleled interest in the life and death of Daniel McFadyen?"

Vadim forced his face to not show anything, stared at a place too far to see, far beyond the walls, saw her in the corner of his eye. Her way of speaking much different from Dan's. Odd vowels. Unparalleled. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

"I know he worked for ambassador. And I know there was attack on female ambassador. If I understood that wrong, I'm sorry to have wasted your time." He looked at her, remained sitting, though, knew he couldn't bait her that easily. He needed more than that. "I do not want to compromise him. It's bad enough I compromise myself." Put on a show of reluctance, needed to satisfy curiosity, needed to make it appear real. "I know I have nothing to bargain. I ask for kindness, Ma'am. I know that is not something I can expect from West." Kept his eyes on the floor, now. "I should not be here, but I am. I owe that man lot. I need to know whether he's dead."

"What do you owe him." Unaffected by his performance. "I repeat, Lieutenant. Why do you wish to know." Like a bulldog, once bitten into flesh, she did not let go. Teeth lodged and jaws locked. She held the key to the knowledge, and that key was dear to her heart.

He nodded and gave a smile. She had given herself away by forcing his hand. "He did guard you. He does that to people. Gets best out of them." And the worst. "He spared my life. He did not kill me, when he should have. I asked for mercy, and he gave me my life. My wife and children did not lose me on that day, because he did not pull trigger on me." Looked up, used Katya again, but that should do it. Had shown his open side, lured her to commit into an attack, now would bind her blade.

She said nothing for a moment, seemed to ponder. Her eyes steadfast on him. "If he were dead, then there would be nothing for you to do. No wreath to send, no flowers to wilt." Nothing in her bearing nor her voice showed even the slightest hint of emotion.

Vadim frowned. "I do not understand, I'm sorry. I believe my English doesn't reach that far. What do you mean?" Didn't get it. Of course he had to do something. She sounded metaphorical, but he didn't get it. Had never spoken with somebody like her, only knew he couldn't bind the blade, slipped out in a compound attack, circular motion that made the next angle of attack very hard to predict. Insecurity.

She got up, took one step closer, no more. Stood and looked down at him. "Lieutenant - if that is what and who you are - if Dan McFadyen were dead, what difference would it be to you? Dead, a corpse, and gone. I asked a simple question that demands a simple answer." She stepped to the side. "I ask you an even simpler question. If he were alive, what would you do?"

He nodded, signalling understanding. "If he is dead …" I'd go insane. I'd scream and kick and shout and finally cry, maybe, if I get tired enough. "I need to see him. I've seen … so many bodies that were not identified, or wrongly identified. This war taught me to not trust anything but my own eyes. I need to see body and confirm he's dead." Giving away an unhealthy fixation on the dead body, hoped it would pass. "If he is alive, I need to know where, and find him."

She, too, nodded. "And if he were alive, and if you were to know where, then why would you find him?"

Vadim pressed his teeth together. Why. Why indeed. Owing a life - was that enough to brave hell and military prison to see a wounded man? He couldn't say. Everything was blown out of proportion, everything skewed, the world had lost coherence. "To tell him how I feel." Now, that was the naked truth. The words hurt him, he was getting too close, embarrassed himself, embarrassed her, opened up again to get her to do the same. Risky manoeuvre, and not even a feint. "Does that satisfy, Ma'am?" Couldn't help but ruin it, lashed out.

She stood and watched for a long time. Studied and considered. Patience. "Daniel McFadyen is alive. At least he was when I last checked. This morning. Royal British Hospital, Kashmir, India."

Alive. Vadim felt tears well up, fucking eyes, closed them quickly to not give it away, breathed, until he could trust himself. He was too tired, should not have come here this tired, shouldn't have exposed himself like this. Dan alive. Kashmir. He only had to cross half of Afghanistan and all of Pakistan to get there. Enemy territory, all of it.

Last I checked. Dan was wounded badly. On the brink of death. He wanted to break into a run and start on his way there, right away. Go AWOL, try and find him, try and see him before he died.

"Is he stable?" Any limbs torn off? He'd seen bad shit, massive burns, lost pieces, bodies that were nothing but minced meat and still breathed. Could feel his chest tighten. He needed to see him, visit him. Whatever the cost. No other thought in his mind, just that. Dan alive. And he was on his way, had to be.

She paused, silence in the room, longer than comfortable.

"Mr McFadyen sustained considerable injuries in the blast and in the course of his duty. Extensive shrapnel wounds to the abdominal cavity." And a hand, but who needed a left hand. "He has been receiving all humanely possible care in the private hospital." Her hands folded behind her back, standing straight.

Vadim nodded. Abdomen. Hospital. They could deal with the infections there. Still. India. A fucking long way. And it meant Dan might still die. He needed to be on his way. Needed to see him. Before he died. Vadim stared at the ground near his feet, the carpet had a pattern, and he studied it, eyes not really seeing. "I will go and see him", he said, softly, gathered himself up, squared his shoulders.

He stood, took the rag from his shoulders, formed a ball, a tight ball of it with his hands that wanted to strangle and punch, the country, fate, destiny, wanted to force to not feel so fucking helpless.

"Thank you for your time. I am grateful." And it means nothing, because I am an enemy, and you don't even know what or who I am. They might work it out, Dan had identified him, after all, many years ago. He had changed, but he didn't exactly have an everyday face. She could work it out. They might be working on it already. She had implied she didn't believe him.

She nodded. "My secretary will see you out." Raising her hand, she all but pointed to the door. "Godspeed, Lieutenant."

Godspeed. Another strange word, sounded like some kind of blessing. He nodded, deeply, bowed almost to keep his eyes from meeting hers, and left. Nobody called on his hints he might have something to trade. Had come here as a potential traitor, left with a gift.

But it made it worse. He had imagined Dan's body, dead, and him seeing it, finding it, touching it. Here, in Kabul. Kashmir, too far away. Too fucking far away. Still, started to work on his plan, desperate measures. Get a mission in the south, be sent away. Maybe kill somebody in Pakistan. Strike out against the fucking secret service. No. He was in no state to fight. His mind was elsewhere. Applying for some volunteer stuff would get him killed, definitely if it was an operation. The Pakistanis weren't beginners, they were good, and they'd get him if he made a mistake. He couldn't trust himself, now.

* * * * * * *

Dan's condition was finally getting more stable. The healing process had been slowed down by the secondary infection, but he was improving at last. Sedation was slowly decreased until he was weaned off completely. They kept the patient's good hand restrained, even when the breathing tube was removed at last, replaced with less invasive oxygen. The nose drip had to be kept, to feed nutrients directly into the stomach, and with Dan's signs of aggression they could not risk the danger of him trying to tear any probes and sounds out of his body, while still disoriented.

Dan was aware of dull throbbing pain throughout his body despite the morphine, but at least he was feeling something at last. Something other than being dragged into nightmares that had no name and made no sense. He tried to move his hands a few times, but one was in too great pain, the other wouldn't budge, and he gave up.

Couldn't open his eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness, dozed off only to be yelled at within thirty seconds. "Breathe! If you don't breathe we can't give you anymore pain medication!" The foreign accent strong, somewhat familiar from a long time ago. It was just so difficult to remember the reflex of pulling in air and expelling on his own. Still lost in darkness and dulled-down terror.

A day later and he finally managed to open his eyes for a minute at a time. Began to take interest in his surroundings, eventually tried to understand the regime and the rigmarole of the machinery. Nurses, doctors, a constant flow of endless people that touched him, tested him, checked him, turned him. The oxygen mask began to itch and he became aware of the discomfort of the catheters. He didn't manage to count the IV's, gave up at the tangle of tubes and wires, but felt the oxygenation clamp on one finger and the electrodes that monitored his heart. Incredibly irritated by the blood pressure meter, that automatically, every fifteen minutes, filled up the plastic sleeve around his arm.

He couldn't speak, his throat sore from the breathing tube and the mask closing off his face. Even when they changed the mask to the twin-lines that streamed oxygen straight into his nostrils, he wasn't able to utter a sound. Too much effort, and he didn't have the strength. They did not him ask to communicate either, except for regular checks on his alertness, and then he blinked when spoken to.

Dan felt numb, empty inside, the morphine turning his mind into a flat plane of nothing, until he had forgotten his name. Was of no great matter, he was just a puppet, strung up on machinery and kept alive.

He couldn't remember why he was kept alive, and no one ever came to remind him.

* * * * * * *

Vadim began to work, began to pull strings, to get into a southern province. He could call in a favour there. Old debts and old friendship. Hopefully. He needed a good story, a reason why he'd been gone, but he could find one.

One week later, he was on a truck south. Managed to keep up a semblance of sanity, got into smoking weed, so he could laugh and joke with the others.

The spetsnaz mystique unblemished.

Several days - and one aborted attempt at an ambush - later, Vadim's boots made contact with the ground again, and he rolled his shoulders while the kids behind him bustled to get the trucks unloaded.

The commander of this garrison cum mountain fortress crossed the space in front of the main building, looking prim and proper as if Vadim were a visitor from Moscow. Full Christmas tree, and, Vadim noted somewhat taken aback, medals, a whole bar of them. Major Alexei Petkov had been wounded. Courage under fire.

"Vadim! Fuck, seeing you is great!" Vadim was suddenly embraced and kissed, one comrade to the other, too stunned to even tense at the sudden touch. Lesha. Shaved meticulously, smelling of soap, like he'd shaved just five minutes ago. "Come. You must be hungry. And …" Lesha gave him a wink. "Thirsty, I assume."

It was an evening for memories, tall tales, catching up and boasting. But they didn't speak about one thing.

Vadim was putting the AK back together. Off duty. Dark outside, sitting on the bunk, hands working blindly. He just wasn't fast enough. Of course, no bullets, no magazine, but he was still slotting dark greased steel together, not nearly natural, still took concentration, feeling for the mechanical grooves and places, and he had his teeth gritted. One of the skills the officers kept repeating would save his worthless life one day. Like belly crawling under life fire, the roar deafening, making his body respond, too threatened to just lock up while moving forward. The sound of bullets froze his blood, shortened every tendon, and what his body really wanted to do was curl up and wait till it was over. Like some cowardly cocksucker, as the officers called it.

We'll make you a soldier, suka. Wait and see. Even if we have to drag you kicking and screaming. You will become a soldier, or the nearest excuse for one, you useless piece of shit.

Not fast enough to be a swimmer, they sent him off to do his military service before they decided whether to let him join the Pentathlon team. He wasn't good enough to compete with the top swimmers, but he might still win points in modern pentathlon. Basic training would give him some shooting practice, too.

The last two pieces. Vadim forced the metal in, cursing the design under his breath, even if it was, by all standards, a fine weapon, superior for its time, arguably the weapon that had won a good part of the Great Patriotic War. Still a bitch to put together when every muscle burnt from the last few days' 'exercise'. And he wasn't fast enough assembling it. The irony of his life. His hands were shaking with the cold and exhaustion and he could hardly think straight. All he wanted to do was collapse and sleep, but he just knew that there would be another drill, in a few hours, when most other recruits would just have dropped and were comatose with exhaustion, and he figured he could spend the time waiting for it to happen.

He jammed the last piece in, checked the AK, and it worked, well oiled, then began, mechanically, to take it apart again. He'd have to do this blindly, under fire, on his belly, on his back, in any fucking position including a handstand or both legs torn off. The AK was the reason why he existed. Why he was around at all.

The door burst open, a comrade came in, another of the young ones, same platoon. Misha. He was drenched in the rain, face glowing, which looked unhealthy with the haggard features. "He's killing Lesha!"

The pieces of the AK scattered across the floor as Vadim was on his feet, following, before the comrade had even mentioned it, running at full speed where the other was leading. They were beginning to function, Vadim realized. They didn't need that many words anymore - and Misha didn't have the breath left in him to explain. He didn't have to. 'He' was the officer that hated Lesha's guts, a meatgrinder of a man as vicious as frontal fire from an MG, and Lesha was a comrade.

Out into the freezing rain, gusts of wind whipped Vadim's face, almost skidding on the cracked concrete, but Vadim ran on, could see commotion up front, out in the light of one of the guard towers.

Saw naked flesh on the ground. He sank up to his ankles into the freezing mud while running, thought it can't be this, it must not be Lesha getting the shit kicked out of him.

Vadim's steps lengthened, pulling his body together once more, racing ahead of Misha like it was a race and all he had to do was overtake him. Seeing the officer's boot hit Lesha's legs, ass, groin, ribs, ass again, mostly ass and back of the thighs. Hamstrings. That hurt like a motherfucker. Never mind the hail, ice rain and Lesha being completely naked.

The officer didn't stop, cursing at the man on the ground, and Vadim didn't know what he was doing, or what he would do next. Too tired to think to be scared. He couldn't remember an hour or a minute in this place that he hadn't been scared in some part of his mind. He couldn't touch an officer. A superior. They had every right to punish him - deserved or not. Was part of the hazing, was part of getting discipline into the worthless maggots.

Vadim, however, saw another kick coming, the man off balance for a moment, and he knew about balance. Shoulder charging into the bastard, throwing him off and making him stumble over his victim's body. Vadim's weight came crashing down on him, hat went off flying into the mud, the whole bastard sank deep into the freezing shit, and Vadim pinned him down, taking the bastard's face and pushed it into the mud, covering his face. Feeling nothing but horror and a bizarre moment of elation even though he was in deep shit, worse than he'd ever been. This was not real, not happening, he had the tail of a tiger who'd kill him if he let him go. Worse. He was in a tiger cage full of tigers while doing this.

A quick glance betrayed Misha finally arriving, looking down at Lesha. "Bring him inside!" shouted Vadim, while the officer struggled against him, and Vadim let him come up for air, heard curses that seemed just as threatening as if the officer was overseeing their training, ignored him, only kept him down, had no idea what to do with him apart from keeping him from hurting Lesha.

"Get the fuck moving!", he shouted when Misha paused, staring at him on top of the officer, an image and a story that would make it through the barracks, but that didn't matter. What mattered was Lesha.

Other recruits appeared from the darkness, ghosts that wouldn't have moved a finger while seeing one of their own killed for the pleasure of cruelty. All witnesses. All cattle.

"I'll rip your heart out, Vadim Petrov…" Down the head went again, Vadim using all of his weight and strength to control the bastard, who was trying to throw him off. The man was powerful, but in a bad position, and Vadim saw Misha gather Lesha up, who gave a weak sound of pain. Alive.

And they trotted away, leaving Vadim who gritted his teeth, hating the bastard's guts, but couldn't just kill him. As much as he'd love to, as much as he wanted to, because he'd never killed a man, and didn't want to, because killing was something they'd talked about as if it was a kind of sport, something that men did, and especially soldiers, but this, this was a superior. He had no idea what would happen to him if he did, so, once seeing the others and Lesha vanish into the darkness, he let the bastard go, stepped back and felt, no, knew he was making a mistake.

Breathing heavily, the officer pushed himself up, grunting. Vadim noticed Lesha's uniform, even his boots, on the ground, a pile. This bastard did that. Forced recruits to undress - in this kind of weather, at this time of year senseless and nothing short of cruel. Amid the wanton violence, the casual, sickening cruelty, this bastard stood out because his humiliating games so very often had a different edge to them. A different flavour. A taste of male flesh.

"You just enjoy this", murmured Vadim suddenly. He knew he was dead meat, but that actually set him free. The 'thing' nobody talked about. He himself had liked looking at Lesha, he was good looking, dark hair, which, on a photo from before he'd become a recruit, had looked thick and rich like fur, expressive dark, curved eyebrows that made Vadim feel strange when he looked at them for too long. A short, strong nose, greyish green eyes, long lashes of the same dark type as his eyebrows, and the lips that opened too easily, shapes that made Vadim want to kiss him. Impossible. He'd never kissed a man. Never slipped a tongue inside a mouth, never tasted, never felt the hardness of teeth, but couldn't help imagining.

"You are the fucking faggot", hissed Vadim. "And if you touch any recruit ever again, I'll report you."

The officer stared at him, mud running down his front, whipped off by the icy rain, lashing at them in gusts. No witnesses, not in this weather. A mortal insult, the beginning and the end of something. Vadim had no idea if that threat registered, but the very fact that the bastard didn't attack him gave him an inkling of hope. He was condemned, but he didn't go down without biting at least. He took Lesha's uniform and boots, and headed back, running through the abysmal weather, not challenged, not shouted back.

But he didn't believe for a moment that that was the end of it.

Lesha had been covered in blankets, was shuddering violently, and the other recruits looked like they were about to bolt and run. When they noticed Vadim they looked up at him, and, as Vadim and Lesha were known to be close friends, they figured Vadim would take care of him. Misha lingered for a moment longer, offering to bring more hot tea, and Vadim was glad for that.

Vadim ran his hand over Lesha's skull, felt the shorn hair against his skin, and felt yet another of those strange, odd, stabs of something. They were friends, Lesha thought him some kind of brother, and Vadim was happy with that. Most of the time. But sometimes, he just thought of that body and it was nothing a brother should or could think, Vadim figured, confused, because he had no brother or sister and didn't know what it felt like.

Misha helped him clean Lesha up and wrap him up warm, getting hot tea into him, while the bruises began to form and darken on his skin. Misha didn't mention the officer and Vadim pushed the thought away. He was dead anyway and the fear hardened and crystallized in his stomach.

Just a few hours later, the officers came back, made them scurry like rats, out into the rain again, which hadn't let up, like there was just no other weather but rain and hail and snow. Half-dressed, only trousers and boots, their breath misting in front of their faces, torn away by the fierce wind. Officers shouting, cursing, kicking, hitting.

Lesha was swaying on his feet, his skin several shades of black and purple, he seemed barely alive, eyes swollen to slits, still following orders, just like Vadim. Vadim was cold, impossibly cold and wet and miserable, assuming the officers were being especially unpleasant just for the fun of it, and steadied Lesha by the arm. In the rain and in the ranks, the helping touch would be hardly noticeable.

"Vadya …thanks", whispered Lesha.

Vadim nodded and squeezed his arm tighter.

There was an order given that he didn't understand, and the recruits began to move, trudge along. Probably a small 'tour of the barracks', have them march in the freezing weather, half naked, just because … because.

"Not you." The officer, yes, that one, dragged Vadim and Lesha out of the line. "I've got something special for this pair of faggots."

It was digging. Vadim had expected to be locked up, or be subjected to any number of sick games the officers played. Or even other soldiers. Velociped, the bicycle. Stick balls of cotton between somebody's toes and set them alight. The victim kicks his legs like being on a bicycle. Hilarious. Makaronina, little macaroni, make somebody rock his head to the left and right, and somebody strikes each side of the neck. Locya, the deer - stand with palm crossed, facing out, against the forehead. Then get hit by a fist, making the knuckles hit the forehead. That one was painful. Or fashka. Fill cheeks with air and get hit on the cheek - making the teeth cut the insides of the cheek.

This was different. This was digging a hole, and Vadim felt the dread bite his neck that it was some kind of grave. The officer stood in the window of his quarters, in the light, and watched them there, outside in the rain. Fucking bastard. He'd warned them to not stop or pause, or he'd call it insubordination and make them really suffer. Vadim wondered how much worse it could get.

"You … shouldn't have got involved", said Lesha, air wheezing in his lungs, his body struggling on despite the earlier beating, and Vadim was almost positive he didn't see much with that swollen face.

"Save your … fucking breath …" Vadim rammed the spade into the heavy, muddy earth, felt the ice ran run down his skin, knew he'd catch death this way, which was exactly what the fucker had in mind. Let the weather kill them. Die from exposure. Pneumonia. Him and Lesha. He suddenly laughed.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just so strange. We're fucking officer material, Lesha. More than that cunt."

Lesha laughed, lifting the spade, Vadim saw the bruised muscle work under the pale skin, saw him struggle, knew that Lesha would keep on digging, because that was the order, and Lesha was the type that would kill himself following orders. How and why Lesha could still trust any order after this was beyond Vadim. "Major Krasnorada, eh?"

Vadim shot him an amused glance. "General Petkov?"

"Pleased to meet you, Sir." Lesha laughed so hard he started coughing.

Vadim grinned, and both of them snickered every now and then for the next ten minutes, the humour keeping them going for a little while longer. But Vadim couldn't shed the thought that Lesha was much worse for wear, would have needed rest and maybe medical attention. Seeing him suffer like this hardened the fear and worry into something else, and Vadim felt anger rise, a hot, murderous anger that grew every time he saw the dirty bastard stand there, drinking tea and watching them.

"I'll pay him back", Vadim muttered. They were both wet to the bones, half frozen, Lesha's lips seemed bluish, and that was bad. Vadim had no idea how miserable he looked himself, but his muscles were cramping. Lack of food, lack of rest, the freezing cold, the repetitive strain of digging, and the anger clawing its way up like a parasite forcing its way out.

The window opened. "Faster, you bitches." The officer leant forward. Vadim could feel the warmth that escaped the bastard's room on his face. He stared at him, wanted to hurl the spade to jump him and smash his face and skull, and felt Lesha's hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, dig."

"You pathetic faggots, going all touchy-feely out there. Dig, bitches!"

Vadim's jaw muscles hardened, and he knew he'd kill the man. He'd been reluctant, but no longer. What had the officers said? War is about killing or being killed. This, then, was war. The officer was out to kill them, no doubt. And he could even - in case anybody wondered - say it was to "toughen them up", and of course, if they didn't survive, they had been too weak to begin with.

Lesha deteriorated over the next hour or two. Badly. He didn't react to jokes or humour, didn't seem to know what he was doing, just murmuring "cold, so cold", every now and then, and Vadim's helpless rage grew. Grew and threatened to swallow him. Lesha, who'd told him he reminded him of his older brother, Lesha who'd touched and hugged him much like a brother would, and if Vadim could get nothing else, this was a most precious gift. Friendship. Vadim thought of the moment when Lesha's been sitting against him, easy and comfortable closeness, both resting, Lesha nearly asleep, and Vadim's head had moved just a fraction and brushed his lips against the other's temple. Wanting and desiring him, but not demanding, nothing, just fitting in with the others.

The same man that seemed delirious, red spots in his face spoke of fever, and Lesha shook, uncontrollably, wrestling with the spade's weight. Didn't actually manage to dig. Vadim looked up to the dark silhouette against the window, and knew the bastard was having a great time watching them like this, knowing what Lesha did to Vadim, and especially his suffering.

Vadim worked on, kept somewhat warm by his seething anger, when he suddenly noticed something was wrong. He lowered the spade and saw Lesha lean against the rim, the spade had slipped from his hands, and slowly, Lesha's legs gave, which made Vadim drop his spade and steady him, then bend down and pull him across his back to carry him inside. He glanced at the bright window, but the officer didn't move, didn't tell them to stop, just seemed to watch what was going on. Maybe even smiling. Lesha needed to get out of the sleet, first and foremost, and Vadim didn't care what that meant. The officer would keep doing this, anyway. He climbed out of the hole, shaking and in pain himself, but he had to get Lesha inside, so he carried him over to the barracks, stripped the wet trousers and soaking boots off him, quickly. He was just about to wrap him into his blankets, when the door opened, and the officer came in, a belt in his hand.

Vadim only managed to raise an arm to protect his face, when the heavy brass buckle hit him on the chest, his frozen skin registered the pain, any touch was painful, but this was really bad. The buckle hit him again, and again, amid curses of "you fucking faggot, you bitch …"

Vadim managed to catch the belt, though, before it hit Lesha, and tensed his arm, pulling on the belt so hard it slipped from the officer's grip.

"Your bitch will die anyway, whatever you do", the man hissed, and that was when Vadim felt the anger turn to needles of volcanic glass inside him. Without thinking, he went at the officer, choked him with the belt and dragged him out of the room. He didn't want any witnesses, didn't want anybody to hear or see or interfere when he killed the fucker. Dragged him into the only room that promised a little safety - the man's own quarters.

The officer was only semi-conscious, Vadim kicked a chair against the door from inside, then rammed the officer's head against the nearest wall, his nostrils flared when he could smell blood. The man's legs went slack, and Vadim released him for a moment to properly lock the door. He found a towel and tore it into two strips, then tied the bastard's hands behind the back, manhandling the heavy body that was bleeding from a bad bruise at the forehead until he was nicely tied up and, for good measure, just in case the bastard screamed, stuffed a pair of socks in his mouth and tied them with another strip of the towel. Could feel the man come round again, beginning to struggle and Vadim had to pin him down again, while the rage inside continued to grow. He wanted to cut the bastard into shreds, wanted to break him, punish him, drive home the point he should leave Lesha the fuck alone.

The struggling, powerful body underneath, the muffled groans, and Vadim suddenly felt an odd stab of something else entirely. Anger, but of a different colour, a different taste. A heat that flared up inside of him, stoked by rage. The man's strong body … he was in top physical condition, only weak for the moment.

Suddenly he knew what would break him.

He hoisted him up by the shoulders, laid him across the bed, kept him pinned down while he tore down the man's trousers, thinking, bastard, if it's naked recruits and naked flesh you want, that's what you'll get. He just loved the feeling of struggling muscle underneath, getting addicted to the sound of heaving, panicking breath through a partially blocked mouth, and the scent of dawning panic. Vadim pressed against the man's ass, could feel the struggle become stronger, like the bastard was coming back completely, and opened his fly, pulled his cock free. Lay down on the man, who tried to shout and doubled his frantic fighting, but kept him down with his chest. Opened the man's legs with his knees, could feel the warm flesh, warm and dry and hateful. There was a tub of Vaseline near the bed. Made wanking better and Vadim's lips curved into a nasty grin as he opened the tub and covered his cock with the stuff, hurried, then kicked the officer's legs further apart and felt him shudder with fear and revulsion as he rubbed some more into his crack, roughly pulling the flesh apart, forcing grease into the ass. Not for any kindness, no way, just so he could get in at all.

The man said something - hectic, mumbled words that made no sense. Vadim grinned and leaned in. "I think this faggot here found a new bitch, you cunt." He could smell the man's fear, an acidic, sharp smell, and Vadim paused, wanted to savour his revenge, realised anticipation was half the fun, and he wanted to give him time to anticipate. "I'll fuck you … like you've wanted it all the time, or you wouldn't have provoked it, you fucking cunt. You'll feel me and you'll love it, because faggots like you can't get enough of cock."

Then, shuddering with the effort at control, he moved in, pressed into the hot flesh that resisted, then gave against his strength, while the man screamed into the gag and did everything to fight him, clench, buck, but Vadim handled the terrified struggle just like close combat, keeping the body pinned and under control. The heat was intoxicating, power and revenge, rage concentrated in a rising, furious lust, and he bared his teeth in a grin so fierce it hurt. The struggle was so fucking good, better than the elation of a fight he was winning, and Vadim felt his blood pump, incredibly alive and hot after the freezing sleet outside. All it took was a fighting body underneath to warm up, mind and heart and body. Possessing.

The flesh yielding was an impossible feeling, coloured red-hot with the man's seething hatred, and Vadim couldn't help but see Lesha flash across his brain. His body, his skin, his dark hair. He began to thrust, thought of his comrade, and at the same time was completely aware this was the bastard that had tried to kill them both, but his worn-out brain didn't care anymore.

"Enjoying yourself, you cunt?" he murmured into the officer's ear, forcing in deeper, the body taut underneath, tight muscles, his own body melting heat and lust and hatred and revenge into one heady mix that hit him deeper than any drug. Remembered how the masseur used to fuck him, and began with slow, deep thrusts, pausing every now and then to murmur into the officer's ear. "Why don't you struggle? Feels too good, eh?" Which made the man buck, and Vadim thrust right into him, so hard the other collapsed with a sound of pain, hands clenching helplessly as Vadim found a rhythm, his own exhausted body took forever to build up enough pressure, feeling the other widen and accommodate him, softening up, strangely, the powerful body accepting him on the most visceral level.

"Who's the faggot now", he murmured, was almost positive the bastard reacted, reacted in a certain way when he thrust in, shuddering and clenching, but it wasn't all a fight, not all of it. A nice, deep, dark, absolutely devastating secret. Vadim laughed into his ear. "You enjoy it. I know what that feels like. You pressing down so you come, too, bitch?"

Vadim would have loved to pull out the gag and listen to the man's desperate breaths, but at least he could still feel them in his body, as he thrust harder, bringing his strength to bear, getting sounds out of the other man, pain, yeah, right, and something forbidden and dirty.

The pressure built up, impossible to draw this out any longer, triumph and release when Vadim came inside, thrust so hard he rocked the bed against the wall when he did, then remained on top of the officer. Resting for a moment, listening to the way the man's breath was irregular and forced and nearly seemed to choke him. "That's for Lesha", he muttered, feeling an odd, destructive gentleness.

Then, he pulled out, took some of the bedsheet to clean himself up, closed his trousers up and leaned against the wall, studying the still figure on the bed. Fit. Strong. A complete and utter bastard. And an ass that looked raw and glistened with petroleum jelly and Vadim's cum.

He contemplated fucking him again, waiting for a little and doing it again, because deep down, where the climax had not sated the anger, and where his own darkest desire had come alive, he loved the feeling. Loved the struggle and the anger, loved knowing how much the other hated this, and bared his teeth in another grin. Faggot, yes, but that didn't mean he'd take things lying down. But there was another thing, and that was making sure Lesha was alright.

He rummaged through the bastard's kit and belongings, found penicillin and knew Lesha would need this, then stepped back to the bed, took the bastard by the shoulders and turned him around to look him in the eyes.

The officer didn't meet his gaze. And he'd been right, there was an erection. Vadim grinned. "You should have told me before … I could have fucked you sooner, would have saved us some trouble, correct, suka?"

The officer's eyes stared at him now, but Vadim didn't feel like relenting, didn't give a damn about consequences. Not anymore. "If you do so much as look strange at my friends or myself, I'll grab you again - and I'll bring a bunch of friends. We're all badly in need of a nice spirited devuchka. I'm sure we could keep you entertained all night, sweetheart."

Only to drive his point home, Vadim took hold of the officer's cock, stroking him once, twice, slow, strong motions. He was positive the man was dying with fear now, and probably something else, too, which was not revulsion. "I could leave you like this, or maybe fuck you again …" The man's eyes widened, and he grunted something around the gag, which Vadim took as disagreement or a plea.

"But I have to check up on a friend." He smiled again, as he turned the officer onto his back and loosened the restraints enough that the bastard would be able to free himself with a little time. "You better behave, because this is just a faint idea of what I can do to you if you cross me again, bitch." And he meant it. Nothing tasted or felt like power. Nothing he'd ever tried before. Nothing as intoxicating as control.

He gave the officer a series of slaps that were almost gentle, then left him alone. Sated, heavy, very very tired, but still concerned for Lesha.

Vadim fell into the rhythm of that garrison, helped with training and inspection, led a few patrols before he began to slip. He deliberately made mistakes, and badly concealed a completely random temper and subtle failings in his discipline, showing clearly that he was in trouble. It was quite simple, really. Tell-tale signs that he appeared too sluggish to cover up.

Eventually, Alexei Ivanovich Petkov came into his room. A major himself, that meant no stupid rank-pulling, as if his old friend had been the type. Granted, he was only regular army, but still, as Vadim had expected, a damn decent guy.

"I guess we need to talk."

"Talk?" Vadim feigned ignorance.

Alexei closed the distance and took his arm with both hands, pulled up the shirt. Revealed the marks. "What's this?"

Vadim looked at him, did not speak, did not comment. Remembered the crush he'd had on the young man, his protectiveness, the closeness, but he'd never acted on it. Not even later, when he had started to take what he wanted. Lesha had trusted him and respected him and, in his own way, loved him. He just couldn't destroy that, as much as he'd wanted him. Funny. One good decision there.

"You getting into drugs? Heroin?" Alexei sounded genuinely concerned. "I couldn't care less if you weren't who you are."

"What? Spetsnaz?"

"A friend."

"I see." And he did. The old bond still held. They were still friends.

Alexei looked on the verge of slapping him. "Fuck, don't give me that. What happened? I heard you flipped badly in Kabul. When did you start this?"

"A couple weeks."

"I need to report you. And lock you up." His thumbs dug into Vadim's arm.

"Or I take some morphine and piss off into the mountains until it's over." Vadim looked at the other. "Like they do when it gets bad."

"That's suicide."

"I can't go into prison. Don't do this to me. Give me a chance." The words came easy, too easy, almost. He reached for the other's shoulder. "I'll take morphine against the pain, find myself a nice cave and you tell people I'm doing patrols of the passes. We both keep quiet, and I'll owe you this time."

"Who tells me you will come back?"

"Do I look like I want to go native? I have a family in Moscow. I want to get out of here alive as much as you do."

"And if you don't beat this?"

"Medical exam when I come back. If the medics find anything, do your duty. But give me a chance."