|
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."
|
