Barbie looked confident. She held the gun rigidly in front of herself, adjusted her aim on the rotting lump of wood, and squeezed the trigger. The gun cracked as if a tree were about to fall, and the bullet pinged off a trunk to the right, peeling off a lump of bark, before it struck the ground.
“Not bad. Slightly right, but good height. Now you see the recoil of the Glock. Remember it. Simon, now you.”
The times I’d seen them shoot automatic weapons on the TV flashed into my brain. It was all rubbish. If you held the gun as they did, you wouldn’t hit a barn door from ten paces, let alone a person. I took my stance as Barbie returned her weapon to her side. The inner tremble was something I couldn’t prevent, but I was glad I’d suppressed it enough to not be visible. I wondered if Barbie felt the same sensation too.
I locked my left hand around my right, and pulled it in towards my body, thumbs forwards, right-hand high just below the breech mechanism. I could hear my heartbeat drumming in my head. I thought for a minute it might just give up the ghost, the pace was so frantic. I breathed in and out several times as I lined up the rear sight with the raised spline on the barrel. I looked beyond the sights to the targeted lump of wood, remembering the buck from Barbie’s shot as the weapon recoiled. I adjusted my aim and tightened my grip with my left hand pulling the gun towards myself to compensate. The weapon bucked upwards as I pulled back on the dual safety trigger, before my grip settled it back to my original stance.
“Wooohooo! Get you, Hawkeye!” Barbie shrieked.
I hadn’t even realised the lump of bark had disintegrated in front of me. I was still focused upon the weapon in my hands when Petrov tapped my shoulder. “Excellent! Again.”
Petrov walked to set up another block of wood on the makeshift plinth. Once he was back safely behind me, I took my stance once more. This time, I held my final breath out just before I squeezed the trigger, hitting the block dead square in the middle. It spun off into the bushes amid a cloud of splinters. I wasn’t sure if my exhale upon seeing the wood fly was because I was elated to have hit it, or the image of that lump of wood actually being a real person. Barbie whooped again from over my right shoulder.
Petrov frowned upon seeing the fear in my eyes. “Barbie, your turn.”
As Barbie took her stance, Petrov leaned in to speak to me privately, offering assurances. “Da, this is only wood. To shoot a man is not an easy thing, but he
will
shoot you. As soldiers, we are taught to detach, to see an aggressor not a person. Remember that, Simon.” he urged. He rested his hand upon my shoulder as he spoke.
I considered the lives I’d already taken to this point. The boiler-suited man in the car, impaled on the fence post, and the schoolboy too.
How many more would have to die for me to remain living?
I thought of my children. Did boiler-suit-man have children? Were they now wondering when their father would be coming home? Was there a father out there looking for his son? A husband looking for his wife—to be found with a fork in her skull, laid out in a car park? I fought to expel the thoughts from my mind, to find some justification for my actions, though I could find none. Over and over again, the same three words filtered through. Them or us.
Barbie fired off a couple of rounds, testing out the auto-load mechanism. The report from her gun snapped me from my reverie. These guns were light and fast. Petrov told us to count the rounds as we fired, to remember how many we’d shot, so that we could be ready to switch mags. I took his words and added them to the rapidly expanding stockpile of this world, a million miles away from my own.
The overhead noise of a helicopter sent Petrov into a frenzy as he picked up the loose rounds, and spare magazines. He instructed us to clear and holster our weapons. We walked back to the main area in time to see General Volkov stride towards us.
“Ah, Simon, good, you’re back. Good lessons?” Volkov smiled.
“Excellent teacher,” I replied, complimenting his son’s abilities as a tutor.
“Come. Mr Seuchencko has arrived.”
Chudo, south of the Port of Murmansk, present day.
Nathan and Stewey sat with Yaromir in the comfort of his home. A hot drink and the absence of enemy soldiers changed the once tense atmosphere to one of mutual calm. After modest introductions, the conversation turned back to the two survivors. Yaromir explained the circumstances under which he found them, how he helped them, and where they were likely to be. He agreed to lead the way to the stronghold, which made Nathan and Stewey’s life a whole lot easier. It took some reassurances from the two British soldiers before Yaromir would accept their plans; the fact that he also agreed to join them as good as placed him on the same side. They would leave come nightfall. The actions of the Russian military increased the sense of urgency with which those survivors needed to be found.
“All set, Nathan? Yaromir?” Stewey queried.
“Good to go. Let’s hope they didn’t get too far ahead of us,” Nathan responded.
*****
The three men set off along the rutted track and made good progress in Yaromir’s pick-up truck, helped by a clear sky and a full moon. In the hours observing the troops, Stewey documented equipment and numbers as well as obtaining as many photos as possible.
After his initial recce, Nathan studied the maps to trace the track road. It didn’t have a designated number, yet it appeared in regular use. After a couple of hours following the tree-lined track, a milestone informed them that the small town of Chudo lay two kilometres ahead.
“According to the maps, the only notable thing beyond Chudo is the Gora Lyavochorr mountain range. At 3,894 feet, it’s the highest point accessible by road for miles,” Nathan said.
“You think they went
there
Yaromir?” Stewey queried.
“Da. Trust Yaromir, Stewey. I
know
this,” the woodsman chuckled.
“Remember I said they had company? I meant military company. The Russian Federation, despite their best efforts to convince the rest of the world, is still very much factional. The tyre tracks up at the farm were military, I’d put money on it. We’re heading that way, have been for a couple hours now. Besides Chudo, it’s miles of almost uninhabitable terrain beyond that,” Nathan observed.
“Okay, how far from Chudo to the foothills of the mountain?” Stewey asked.
“Roughly fourteen clicks, going by the map. We can cover that in a little under half an hour. The mountain has water on two sides, that leaves us the front and back for access. I’m guessing from Chudo, there will be a direct route. Let’s get to the outskirts of the town, lay low, take some rest—we’ll plan ahead from the OP.”
“Sounds good to me. Yaromir, what do you think?”
Their driver nodded his approval.
“We’ll need to skirt the town, avoid unnecessary contact. We don’t want Federation soldiers knowing we’re here. Have you heard from Evie?” Stewey smiled at Nathan.
“Not yet. I have her secure satellite phone number if we need it. She’ll be up to her ears in tests about now, I reckon. Let’s set camp and check in.”
“I radioed through while you were scouting, only a brief update on what we had. They have the pictures I took and the video to go on. I’ve asked for intel on the subjects, names, etcetera. With luck, they’ll be able to let us know what we’re up against out here. They gave me no news on the ship. It seems the Russians have clammed up big time.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Nathan frowned.
“Don’t worry, mate, she’ll be all right. Gladstone and Portman will have her back if there’s trouble. We’ll check-in when we get to wherever Yaromir is taking us. We’ll know more then.” Stewey smiled.
*****
A half hour later, the skyline yielded to the town of Chudo, nestled in the shadow of the mighty mountain range. Surprisingly, the town had a degree of tourism and picturesque scenery with good climbing terrain being the main attraction.
Yaromir filled the two squaddies in on the history of the mining community. He talked about the Federation and of the factions at work within the former Soviet Union to this day, little of which news would ever be found on social media outlets. The Russian Federation held tight control over all media, including satellite activity above its airspace. It told the world what it wanted the world to perceive, nothing more.
He pulled up at an abandoned mining shack surrounded by dense, overgrown foliage. No one ever came there, he assured them. The town planted its first roots as a settlement of such ramshackle dwellings, built for the mining community of the time. While Nathan and Stewey set up comms, checked kit, and took time to rest up, Yaromir made his way into Chudo for supplies.
While he was there, he would also check on Russian military movements in the area by contacting his regular sources. In a small, isolated town, nothing went unnoticed.
“Oli! My friend!” the Russian logger bellowed.
“Yaromir, da. Good to see you. You lost weight since last we met, I see,” the bespectacled barber replied.
“How is business? Any new faces come by recently?” Yaromir smiled.
“Business is steady. Tourist season is here. Your comrades rolled through here late last night, no followers that I saw. They didn’t hang around, though. You need the radio?”
“Da. I need to go up there, have to let them know I’m coming. Keep an eye out front, yes? I won’t be long.”
He walked behind the main counter of the quaint barbershop and accessed the cellar stairwell by way of a door, just big enough for him to get through. A dull, age-old bulb hung on its power cord. The light emitted was passable, covering everything in the same yellow hue. On the back wall of the musty cellar, a table boasted a fully functional, multi-scrambled radio communications system which looked out of place in this environment. Blue and red lights littered the front array, alongside a series of switches and dials.
Yaromir sat upon the protesting wooden chair, sure that one day it would leave him flat on his back and cursing. It wouldn’t have been the first time that. He placed the headphones over his ears, tuned the radio into the frequency, and awaited a response.
“Woodsman, Goliath, go ahead,” the voice replied.
“Da. Woodsman en-route to haven. Three up. Request David. ETA sundown. Out.” As simple as that, Yaromir had transmitted his intentions to the mountain stronghold.
The chair legs scraped on the cobblestone floor as he stood, the sound echoing around the underground chamber. There were many such radio stations dotted around Federation territories, put in place by Mr Seuchencko to aid the resistance movement. Yaromir remembered the first time he’d met the man. Although he’d towered above him, the very presence that Mr Seuchencko held somehow made him feel smaller.
“Communication is the key to winning a war, my friend—and money” the distinguished man had stated.
That was the only time the woodsman had ever spoken directly to the man behind the resistance. He was rarely mentioned outside of the stronghold despite his high profile business portfolio and prominence within the oil industry.
“All done, so soon?” Oli smiled.
“Da. They know, my friend.”
“Time for a trim before you go?”
“Another day perhaps, Oli. I have guests to entertain. I came only for the radio and supplies. Let me know if Federation soldiers come here, khorosho?” Yaromir requested.
“Da. Okay. You will be the first to know. Take care, comrade,” Oli waved.
From the barber’s shop, Yaromir crossed Main Street, aptly named, as it was the only real thoroughfare in the town large enough for two vehicles to pass side by side. His destination was Chudo General Store.
A sun-faded sign hung precariously by what remained of rusted chains, wafted by the light summer breeze. On the opposite side of the counter, bearing a tobacco-stained, gap-toothed grin, Enida Kreschov welcomed her son home.
“My boy! About time you come to see Mamo, da?” She beamed.
Yaromir towered above the bent, elderly lady. Her rheumy eyes, with signs of love and admiration, sunken deep within the furrows of age, examined him.
“You are eating okay up there on your own? You look thin, boy.”
“Mamo, I am fine. I eat heartily. I even had British scrambled eggs yesterday. How about that! Is Papa home? I need to speak with him,” Yaromir said.
“Da, he is upstairs. Paperwork, he says. Go on up, you know where he’ll be. Here, take these with you, eat boy!” Enida smiled.
She had given her son a plate of freshly made sandwiches, some savouries, and a candy bar. With his hands full, Yaromir opened his muscled arms wide to embrace the frail old lady he loved so much. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d eaten just hours ago.
The wooden floor creaked under his weight, but then, it had creaked the same way since he was a little boy. The shop-cum-house held so many memories—good memories. It seemed as though it acknowledged his return with the noises it made, as he walked to the modest living quarters above the main shop.
“Papa?” Yaromir called.
“My son. In here. The Lone Wolf returns!” His father smiled.
Yaromir smiled at his father as he watched him struggle to rise from his seat. The stiffness of his joints, and the pain it caused him to move, barely disguised these days. The old man wobbled slightly and Yaromir darted forwards to steady him, the embrace as much for fear of him falling as joy to see him.
“Your cane, Papa, where is your cane?”
“Oh, I left it in the other room, my memory isn’t as good as it once was. Would you bring it for me?”
“I will.” Yaromir guided his father back to the seat and then went for the requested walking aid.
“Here you go, I have put it against the desk for you. Papa, do you still have the bag I asked for you to look after?” Yaromir asked.
“Yes, I still have it. It is under the flooring board, right side of our bed. Lift the rug, you’ll see the loose plank. You have trouble coming, son?”
“Da. Could be. I think the revolution is coming, for us all. Right now, the less you know, the better, Papa. If the Federation get wind of what we have, they will act swiftly and mercilessly as they did before. I cannot put you and Mamo at risk.”
The old man knew his son well. He could tell by the furrowed expression as Yaromir spoke that he was planning to re-join the resistance fighters. For several years, relative peace had come to the mining town, though not before the Federation had slaughtered or imprisoned many of the first to oppose the current regime.
After that, the resistance movement had gone underground and fragmented into smaller, covert groups—that was until Viktor Seuchencko offered his backing. From that point on, the resistance was no longer a fragmented collection of guerrilla fighters—they were a force to be reckoned with. Of course, the government had no idea who funded the rebel army, which was just as well, since Viktor was very well connected both politically and in the global business world.
“Be careful, my son,” The old man smiled.
“Papa, you too. I will return in a couple of weeks. Contact the resistance if the Federation come here, okay? Oli has the radio set.”
Yaromir bent to embrace his father, then stood straight and smiled before he returned to the store below.
He remembered his father much younger, vibrant and passionate about freedom for all. Years ago, he’d been one of the first to rebel, and one of the few to be lucky enough to escape death because of his beliefs. From Moscow, he had fled with his wife and young son, to seek refuge and a new identity in the foothills of the Gora Lyavochorr Mountains.
Now, his father’s eyes still burned with that same passion behind them, though his body had aged to the point of rebellion against the man himself. His silver-grey hair had become something he was known throughout the small mountain haven by, along with stories passed from generation to generation of the first conflicts. Yaromir swallowed hard against the rising lump in his throat. It was not one of distress, but of pride. If only time appreciated what that man had done, what he had sacrificed in his life for others, perhaps it would have been kinder to him.
It was time to get back to his guests. Yaromir took supplies from the store and the equipment bag he’d requested, and he stored them in the pick-up truck out of sight. He returned to the store to say goodbye to his mother and assured her that he would return soon.
For Yaromir, the drive back to the mining shack brought with it so many memories of his past, of the persecution he and his family had endured over the years. His childhood had been spent learning how to evade, counterattack and survive in harsh terrain or weather conditions. There were few toys as such, at least, none that didn’t either go bang or inflict serious injury. His parents had sacrificed everything to ensure survival.
Now comes the time for retribution, beginning with Andre Vadik,
he thought.