He was practically begging. It seemed like  his fiance  was  holding it
off for him up there. I was curious myself though.
     - Hold on,  - I  said  to him and asked the crew, labouring  near their
"armour", - How much longer?
     - Any time now, comrade Captain, maybe 5 more minutes, - coughed up one
of the grunts, forcing the busted caterpillar onto the leading wheel.
     - Semeon, Glue,  Mazur, Americanets, Picasso  -  come with me. The rest
stays here,  assisting  the repairs  and watching  our backs. If we  do  not
return in half an hour, move  forward, two blocks  to the north. Over there,
you wait  for  another half  an  hour  and then ride back to  base.  Gunnery
sergeant Sergeev will take over from me for  the time being. All  call signs
are the same.
     Now to the grunts who'd come with me:
     - OK, children, let's  move it. Picasso leads, Glue at the rear. Semeon
- right flank, Mazur, take the left one. Have your grenades on stand-by.
     - And  me? -  The skinny private  put  up  his voice.  The  chap  was a
qualified rock climber,  nicknamed "Americanets" (the American). When he was
drafted, he came into the office wearing his American flag shorts.
     - And you will walk by my side and watch your ass, - I replied in jest.
- Let's go clean them up.
     Everyone understood perfectly  what the  words  "clean up" meant.  They
meant, "take no  prisoners". "Good apache - dead  apache", -  Conquistadors'
motto was a close match in our case. What could we possible squeeze out of a
live spook? Nothing:  no maps,  no  storage hides,  no  communication system
layouts - NO-THING. Moreover, a wounded raghead would be a major pain in the
ass. First,  you'd have  to pool men  to  guard  him. Second, he'd still  be
perfectly  capable of pulling some  kind  of  shit on us.  Nor could  he  be
exchanged  for anything.  Finish him off on the spot and that's that. He too
would surely like it better than torture.

        2


     With caution, we came up the third floor. In two neighbouring flats the
rag-heads made up their firing nests. In the first one  we found the "Shmel"
shooter, in the second - two of his unlucky comrades, with one RPK each. The
most disturbing thing was: they were just  kids, most probably only about 13
to 15  years old.  One of  them was still alive  and  while unconscious  was
quietly groaning. Judging from the fact that  one  of his legs was torn  off
and he was bleeding heavily, I figured he wouldn't live for much  longer. It
seemed like one of our  cannon rounds dropped into  the room  where  he  was
launching  his  rockets from  and blasted  to shit his ammunition  store.  I
looked  around,  my  good  mood  was totally gone  by  now. Of  coarse these
rag-heads tried to blow us and all but...  they're just kids for God's sake.
Damn it. I spewed  and gave another  order to my grunts: "Finish him off and
then sweep the block, someone might've got away." Although even I had doubts
that anyone of them could escape.
     My grunts,  Semeon,  Glue  and Picasso  each let off  a burst  into the
disfigured  body, one  after  another. The kid's  body flexed  out,  bullets
ripping his chest  open, some blasted his head to pieces  and it sprayed the
walls in red clots of his brain. I calmly watched this murder. Then I looked
away from the corpse, still not used to this or maybe it's just normal human
reaction?  Who can tell?  I  fetched the sniper's Marlboro packet and handed
some cigarettes to my grunts.
     -  Didn't you hear  what  I just said?  "Sweep  the block". Anyone  not
clear? - I uttered, taking a puff. The grunts left, mumbling something.
     Left alone, trying hard no to vomit, I went through the dead rag-heads'
pockets.
     Wow! An Army ID tag and  many of them, OK, let's see:  Semeonov Aleksey
Pavlovich, born 1975. Semeonov, Semeonov, Semeonov... It suddenly clicked in
my mind. Is  that the  Semeonov from the engineering  regiment,  which  went
missing after we  stormed  the Airport?  They  sent the fellow for some mine
sweeping  cord  and  he  vanished. Was  that he, shooting at us? I carefully
studied the  dead rag-heads'  faces,  matching them  to  the badly preserved
photo on the ID Tag; I even looked inside the breach in the  wall and at the
dead  "Shmel" launcher's face. No,  not him, thank God. Turned  a  few  more
pages in his  ID. Shit! Yes! Our division. Our  Semeonov. Your deaths  saved
you a  lot of trouble, assholes! Your end would've been  brutal. I  would've
dealt  with you  myself. During my adventures in the  former Soviet Union, I
learnt well how to make people talk, make them  last long and stay conscious
all the way.
     My  sadness was gone in a heartbeat. I cared about the dead boys' souls
no more.  My teeth cramped in rancour. If  needs be, I'll tear anybody apart
for  Russian soldier. I'll crush anything  just to return the youngster home
alive and in one piece.
     All of a sudden somebody was screaming from upstairs:
     - Comrade Captain, Comrade Captain, they found some guy up there on the
roof. I think one of ours! - Americanets was fretting.
     I flew up the stairs  and  felt no wheeze. On  the roof, nailed  to the
cross, a dead soldier's body was  resting, just like Jesus. His own cut  off
penis stuck in his mouth. Without even looking at his dirty face, I knew: it
was he, Semeonov. I  probably only  saw him about 10 times before  and never
even  spoke  to the man.  But suddenly tears were in  my eyes and  something
pinched in  my nose. Now I regretted that I never got the chance to properly
meet  the  lad. I think  he  wasn't even  one of the permanent  staff. Right
before the Chechen campaign, he was attached to our brigade from Abakan.
     -  They nailed  him to the cross and put it  up on  the roof. The cross
collapsed from the  explosion and that's  probably why we  didn't  notice it
before. - Picasso tried to explain something to me, feeling a little awkward
that we didn't discover the body earlier.
     - He's one of ours. - I pronounced, labouring to stay calm, - Semeonov,
of the sappers.  Disappeared off the "North" while minesweeping. I found his
ID tag on one of the shooters.
     The grunts were  like  lightning-struck;  they  fussed about  Semeonov,
removing him carefully from the cross. While doing that,  they  tried not to
hurt him, handling his body like he was  still alive, whispering not to wake
him up and  tears were falling down their  faces  complicating this chilling
job even further. I looked away, pulled out a smoke and lit it up. Thirstily
inhaling I tried to push the clog in my throat further down, glancing at the
hustling  grunts  at  times  to  see  how things  were  moving  along.  When
Semeonov's body was at last removed from the cross, lads placed  it on  some
kind of stretchers  they put together from all sorts of  rubbish  they could
collect around here. When it was all over I said:
     - Glue,  get on the "boxes".  Tell them to come closer and that we  are
coming with a "cargo 200"... Our "cargo 200".
     I was coming down  the stairs ahead of  the rest, checking for anything
suspicious along the way. My grunts were carefully  carrying the stretchers,
like the man  on them was  only wounded. At the  rear,  Glue was  struggling
under the  weight of his  radio  transmitter  and  scraps of the armoury  we
discovered at the rag-heads' nest.
     We  loaded the body  into  the infantry compartment inside  our APC and
started for the  home.  I  felt that for any "spook" that tried to stick his
nose out now, this attempt would be, for sure, his last.  Confirmation to my
thoughts was the empty and  terrifying look in my grunts' eyes, were I could
see  the  reflection of  my own  feelings. Only  the fire  of vengeance  was
blazing inside them  and nothing else. Blood;  blood;  I now only craved for
blood to drown my rage, breaking their skulls with my rifle's butt, crushing
their ribs under my boots, tearing  and  ripping  their veins with my finger
nails, looking in his, her, their eyes  and  asking: "Why, why did you shoot
at the Russian soldiers?"
     OK, hold on motherfuckers, I'm coming. No mercy for anyone, not for the
elderly, not for the children,  not  for the women - NO BODY will be spared.
Ermolov and  Stalin were both right -  these folk are not to be re-educated,
only exterminated.
     Our APCs were both speeding ahead. It seemed they were feeling our mood
too  with their  engines running absolutely  fine  now.  Periodically,  they
drenched us with their oily exhaust fumes, adding some kind of foppish gloss
to  our  black  appearance.  But our  eyeballs  were  ablaze with  mad fury,
demanding  vengeance  and  there was now no place in  our  minds  for  fear.
Probably, in this state of mind, men run at machinegun nests to save others'
lives at  the price  of their own. Desire for vengeance suddenly  grows into
care for those who are close to you and self-sacrifice for others.
     Glinting at the  surroundings I  could feel movement inside the rubbles
with my skin. Resting AK on my elbow, I pulled out other ID tags and flicked
through a few more. Petrov Andrey Aleksandrovich - Maikop Brigade. Elizariev
Evgeniy  Anatolievich  -  Internal Forces (they  and the  Rangers have their
garrison  numbers marked  with four digits and The  Army have  theirs marked
with  five). Altogether,  eight  IDs  -  eight  lives.  Where are you  boys?
Probably, no one will ever know and  your mothers will be crying tears until
the end of their  lives: their dead sons will have no graves. All of this is
awful. I finished off reading all of the remaining IDs, I was positive there
were no more grunts from our brigade  in there.  I hid them back in my inner
pocked, looked at my "cavalry" and shook my head, assuring them that none of
the remaining  IDs belonged to  anyone  of ours.  They  again  turned  away,
watching out, racing past onetime battlefields. Demolished houses, torn down
trees,  burnt  and  given up  machinery.  It  was  mostly  tanks  with  torn
caterpillars  and  their  turrets  ripped  off  and  tossed  over  to  great
distances.  APCs,  with their  thinner armour  plates, were  just blasted to
pieces. All depended on where the rockets hit and how much ammo the  "boxes"
had onboard. Some drivers were lucky, others - not so much.
     With pain I  was  looking  at the trees.  I  like nature. Humans have a
choice. They can refuse  to come  here and go to jail  for desertion or self
inflict an injury, thus buying themselves "the white" ticket  out  of  here:
crafty  Russians are capable  of anything. But the  trees  and  animals  are
helpless. Men planted them at will; others came and wiped them out. And they
can do nothing in response. Neither  trees,  nor animals can flee  or defend
themselves. Thus many died together with their owners on their porches. What
remain,  people will eat later because of  the famine. These-days people are
frequently seen  tottering  about  like shadows  amongst  the rubble. Mostly
these are elderly men or middle-aged women. Everyone, who could fire weapons
and  more  or  less  think  clearly,  escaped  into  the  mountains  seeking
vengeance. No problem, we, in turn, will take revenge on them. Thus, closing
up this vicious circle. Every one of us thinks he's right. We all believe in
our own gods,  praying them  to help us and demanding retribution for deaths
of our friends and brothers.  But God  deals  spoils  and losses equally for
everyone. OK,  so we'll fight. It would be pretty  tough to fight the  whole
nation though, as opposed to a regular army of one particular  state. That's
what  we've  been  taught  to  do.  In  an open field, busted your opponent,
occupied a town, picked up the spoils and back to  the field. Here it's more
like in Afghanistan, fight the  folk all  you want.  The whole thing  is not
even a war. According to the law, all this is a piddling policing operation,
exclusive  purpose  of  which is  reinstating of  the  constitutional order.
However, no one knows what this order  used  to be like in the  first place.
OK, while the "spooks" and us are mincing one another, someone in Moscow has
hit the jackpot. We've all seen a  lot of  that  going on. For some, war  is
like their mother. Not even one  son of a bitch went down  for all the blood
they've spilt in our spacious former Union. Not counting the Baltic States -
a couple of squealers and OMON guys went to jail, so  what? They did nothing
but avenge the deaths  of their  friends, but those who gave  them orders...
their  bellies I would twitch with  my bayonet,  looking in their  wide-open
from pain and fear  eyes, listening to their deafening screams and breathing
in smell of their blood. That would be fun.
     Yet here, people lived by penitentiary laws for four years. We fed them
with money, supplied  with weapons and taught how to use  them. Then we sent
them to fight in Osetia and Abhazia for us, - like we are not even aware  of
what's going on.  And when there was no longer need for them, they should've
been eliminated, but no, - we tried to domesticate the Chechen. Yeah, right!
He  turned against our Moscow gang.  Why, though, should  the  whole country
suffer? We even came here from Siberia to break up the dogs. China is closer
to us than Chechnya. Then  men  from ZabVO, DalVO and TOF were dragged  down
here too.  They can  walk  to  the States or  Japan. One  thing  isn't clear
though. Why  is it so that  the rag-heads left the  oil refinery intact? We,
too, were strictly ordered not so much as  touch it. Here is our  Air Force,
happily bombing the city's living quarters, but as for the Staropromyslovsky
part - no way.
     All of  which means: the plant is somebody's property. Somebody who can
hush our Defence Minister and tell him specifically to leave it alone, - you
can  level the whole town  to the ground,  but  don't you  dare ruining  the
refinery. Of coarse, when Russian soldier is in rage, he's very difficult to
hold  back, so too  the  rag-heads, not  all  are  aware  of  the refinery's
importance. They naively think that they are actually fighting for their own
fucking freedom and don't get it, morons, that we are all simply taking part
in an ordinary criminal quarrel, very  big though. One  little baron decided
to screw The Big  Daddy and start his own business. Then, Big Daddy sent his
own hood, the Russian Army,  over, to bang the little  fellow. But the baron
was a  smart chap; he squalled with  independence  and sent  his "bulls" in.
That's how  the quarrel has begun.  Now, no one  can remember why the  whole
thing  started in the first place.  The hoods are  busy taking vengeance  on
each  other;  meanwhile,  their  barons  are  making big bucks expropriating
salaries and pensions. The little  one is pulling in Islamic World now, with
his cheap religious mottos. God, help us and forgive!
     My  APC took a sharp U-turn,  which  nearly  cast me off the  "armour".
That's right,  moron, your business  is to keep  your teeth  from  clapping:
you'll break  your neck one day, falling off the "armour" or  a sharpshooter
snaps  you. Your  COs are there  to think for  you and  supply  you with the
ready-made decisions. Your objective is  to  survive and complete the  task.
All else is shit. Take  Andrei Petrov,  former mortar  platoon commander. He
had principles, right? He demanded that he be given two weeks to prepare his
men, considering the fact that  his grunts were only drafted in November and
have only seen their rifles once before - during the oath. He was dismissed,
made an example, like a coward, a deserter. Replaced with a raw lieutenant -
two-year-termer  college graduate.  Where is that  lieutenant  now  with his
mortar  platoon?  During the  Airport assault he lost  almost all of his men
and, himself, perished too. You see? They draft too many morons in The Army.
Some of them you have to stand for two years, others for twenty-five.
     We tried to reason with our multi-star commanders that we are not ready
for any  war,  not  technically,  not  logistically.  Men  are not  prepared
physically. Then, in December, when the order came to load the gear onto the
locomotives  and  step  out, the weather was freezing  cold. As it is always
done in our  Army, the diesel fuel, that  vehicles  were filled with, was of
the  summer kind and rather depicted a tomato sauce. So, some smart ass from
our garrison came up with the  idea to mix this  "sauce" with kerosene. Yep!
You guessed it. One of  the APCs blew up right in  the parking lot  with its
full  ammo  complement onboard;  by  some weird luck nobody was hurt. Second
burst while loading onto cars. And again God was on  our side. And, as it is
customary in The  Army,  these events were  used  to write  off much of  the
property, just like  Suvorov  described in  his "Saviour".  According to the
official documents, those  APCs had  on board:  not less  than fifty uniform
coats,  twenty-five night-vision devices, no fewer  than  a hundred pairs of
shoes and BDUs. When the papers were to be signed by  the HQ representative,
he read that  masterpiece and pronounced: "Add one more parka plus one  more
BDUs, for me". Supplies XO added each of them  by one and the General signed
the papers with his eyes shut.
     Now  this  general  is here  somewhere. Thank  God,  he's  just signing
papers. "Material battle losses" is probably his credo.
     For now, my mind was occupied by thoughts of the dead sniper. What do I
tell at the HQ? How did it happen  that  he  didn't make here?  I knew well,
that  no one would be breathing in my face with  his honourable  anger, only
with   disappointment  that   they  couldn't  hank   his  guts   themselves.
Particularly, the GRU  and  recon guys will be sad.  It's  their cup of tea,
just let them  play with the fellow, they'd make him  talk.  We  can do that
too, quick and simple, but they handle it gracefully. Liquor can't  kill the
mastery.
     Suddenly  something  moved in the rubble, twinkling  with  rays of  the
setting sun.  My mind  hasn't even  produced a  thought  yet, but  my  hands
already responded, quickly raising my AK, finger  clung to the  trigger. And
only then  my judgement kicked in  - I saw our artillery spotters,  the lads
constructed their positions in one of the remaining pieces of a house by the
road. They too met us with their rifle barrels.  All of us, however, managed
to  keep our  cool and hold  fire.  Moreover, they just began to wind  their
"Shilka" in our direction. It is  a  large  calibre  anti-aircraft gun (ZSU)
with  four barrels. It would've chopped us  to chips for  sure. Alright,  at
least we identified each other in time. We shouted merrily something to each
other for greetings. This meant  the HQ is near.  Yep,  there is the blazing
fire-fountain from the breached gas pipe. 200 or so yards and we're  "home".
Now we can relax a little.
     - Hey,  radioman, - I said  to Glue, - Let them know  we're  coming, or
they'll shoot us to hell.
     Glue tattled something in his headset and nodded to me that  we were OK
to go.  Talking or rather shouting through  roaring diesels seemed senseless
and inappropriate with the dead  man onboard our APC. Everyone felt a little
guilty for  some strange reason, although, on the other hand, knew well that
he, himself, could've been down there in his place.
     Cars  retarded  a bit  and, manoeuvring this way, we passed  a  virtual
labyrinth  of  remaining concrete  blocks  and  bricks. Soldiers  watched us
through their sights from behind every  corner. Their faces were all covered
with dust and, from  that, seemed made of  stone. They all looked exhausted,
with their dog-tired red eyes. The lads greeted us with smiles and gestures,
lowering their guns. We greeted  guards the  same way. I knew, our  officers
and men  would be  betting  on  me delivering  the  sniper  alive  and well.
Personally, I wouldn't put my money on his safe journey.
     Lucky,  we  returned  before the daybreak.  Some  smarty-pants  in  the
defence ministry  invented a new password  system for us. Before, everything
was  nice  and  simple, but  now, the thing is  a brain surgery, without ten
years  of high school  or  lots  of liqueur,  impossible  to translate.  For
example,  before,  the  password  was  "Saratov"  and  the reply  to it  was
"Leningrad", even a moron could understand that. Some grunts can barely read
or  write: outcomes of the "perestroika". The core of the new system is  the
number: say thirteen. The guard, seeing a silhouette in the dark, calls out:
"Stop! Password - seven!" Now, you have to instantly take  away seven out of
thirteen  and quickly yell  back: "Reply - six!". After all  this, the guard
must add his "seven" and your "six",  get "thirteen" and  then let you pass.
But, if any one of you can't  count well enough or has something else on his
mind, then, according to the Statute  of the armed  guard service, the guard
can, and will, shoot you on the spot without any further  investigation. And
no  one prosecutor would  lift his finger to pursue  this issue any further.
You, moron, should've been learning your math back in  high school. Fine, if
you are not completely deaf and  the grunt on  duty can actually  count, but
some  smart  asses  call out fractions and negative numbers. That's when you
recall all of  his relatives, and your  math skills, while you're at it. For
all this, some shithead got promoted back in Moscow, or maybe,  even a medal
on his chest. Those snakes are capable of anything.
     Thinking this way, we stopped  near the partly demolished kindergarten,
where  our brigade's HQ was  now situated. I jumped  off  the APC, rubbed my
stalled and frozen feet and started for the entrance dragging my stiff legs.
I had to see our  HQ's CO, Lieutenant Colonel, Alexandr Alexandrovich Bilich
first.  All of us called him San Sanych. Already on  my  way,  I ordered  my
grunts:
     - Start offloading our hero, carefully.
     Grunts nodded understandingly.
     San Sanych  was  about  1.75m tall with broad  shoulders  and  constant
sparks in his blue eyes. Or were the sparks just a fruit of our imagination?
San Sanych  was  somehow different from all the officers in our Brigade.  He
was  actually well mannered. At  first, it seemed superficial, but  the more
you got to know him the  more you  were convinced  that  it is really in his
nature. It seemed, he should've been born in times of chivalry, high society
and duels, definitely  not in our mad century. Even now, when we are more or
less bottled in OK and started hammering our opposition, when the war, maybe
only at times for now, but  has taken a  proper shape of the trench warfare,
every day our lieutenant colonel Bilich has found the time for brief morning
exercises.
     Every morning, if  it was possible to catch any sleep at all  at night,
we crawled out of our cellars  shacking from the  cold. Because it's winter,
may be southern, but still a winter. As a rule, there was no  water, and our
old unshaven whiskers were no longer rough, but  felt rather fuzzy. However,
looking at your CO, you, unwillingly, pick  yourself  up  and find the time,
the water and the razor. Although, many officers, some superstitious or some
just plane  lazy,  grew beards and  moustaches. Some even looked  great like
that. The only one who looked exactly like a Chechen, was, our recon platoon
leader,  Hlopov Roman,  naturally possessing  dark  skin and having  grown a
dense  beard. This way, during the Station siege, he was nearly  shot by his
own grunts.  Luckily,  he put on  a helmet and his armoured west; otherwise,
our sporty protectors would've definitely done him. Since  then, Hlopov - we
called him Hlop - developed a habit to shave every morning no matter what.
     About one and a half weeks ago, when he and the reconnaissance CO broke
through  to the  Airport "North", the allied commander's HQ, on the way back
they  ran into  an ambush.  Their APC was blasted by  RPG fire from  a point
blank range. Hlop died instantly, the CO had a bad concussion. For two days,
skirmishing along the  way,  their grunts were  slowly  sneaking home.  They
brought back the Hlop's mutilated  body  and  the severely concussed, almost
deaf and blind, reconnaissance CO, Captain Stepchenko Sergey Stanislavovich.
As they  recounted  afterwards,  the days  they spent in  basements  and  at
nights,  risking the bullet from  Chechens or  from  us, they crept  back to
their home base. They slept in turns, using parts of the poor Hlop's body as
pillows.
     Maybe after his concussion or maybe after hiding in basements with  the
corpse,  Sereoga  Stepchenko  started  having problems. We almost cured  his
sight and hearing with liquor, but he couldn't stand closed and tight spaces
anymore.  Mostly he's  OK,  working  and fighting,  but sometimes he's  just
mumbling  something completely out of this  world. Our  brigade's Commander,
Colonel  Bahel  Alexandr Antonovich,  placed an order to  dismiss Stepchenko
from his post, and  watch him  so he doesn't make any trouble.  There was no
chance  to  medivac  the man as  even  our wounded  were lying  in  bunkers:
choppers  couldn't land. He  was, temporarily, replaced by senior lieutenant
Krivosheev Stepan. Bilich San Sanych was taking care of Stepchenko, not just
him though, of everyone  around him. He arranged for the grunts that brought
him and the Hlop's body back,  to  be  awarded each by  the Hero  Of  Russia
Medal. But for now, the papers were kept in Chiefs of Staff's safe.
     Out of his principles, Bilich didn't recognised physical methods during
conversations  with  the  enemy  or  cursing  with  his  own  men.  But  the
interesting part was, I knew  from my own  personal experience, that  if you
yell cursing at somebody, everything is done more quickly and clearly.
     And now I had to explain to this gentleman that I failed to deliver the
sniper because grunts' thin patience wore off and they hung him off a tank's
barrel. Trying a few combinations  in  my mind that could spare San Sanych's
delicate hearing and let the Com-Batt and Ivan off the  hook,  I entered the
HQ. On  the way in  I met  our Supplies XO,  Kleymeonov  Arkadi Nikolaevich.
Everybody was  describing  him with Suvorov's words: "...we  can comfortably
hang any  supply officer in one  year  time...". Looking at the  well-shaped
figure  of our "rear XO", you  knew  that the  Generalissimos was absolutely
right: in his time, Kleimeonov  would've being dangling off the tree by now.
His personal luggage has  been growing in size by the day, regardless of the
heavy fighting.
     - Ah, Slava, how was the trip? Got the sniper?
     - No  such  luck,  Arkadiy  Nikolaeich, he  passed  away,  -  I  made a
compassionate face, my eyes were telling a different story  though  and  the
rear XO picked up on my game.
     -  Really?  - Kleymeonov made  a puzzled  face and  asked me,  sounding
surprised.
     - Weak heart, - I smiled,  -  he was wounded too, so didn't survive the
departure.  Now I have to  delicately  explain it  to San Sanych.  He'll  be
really sad.
     - He's too busy for  that now. By the way,  nobody believed you'd bring
him anyway. Il'in and yourself  could've thrown  him harakiri  over there on
the spot.  It is a petty though;  we had people queuing up to  converse with
him, - Kleymeonov shone his teeth.
     - They were betting, weren't they? - I asked.
     - Sure, but mostly on your failure.
     - By the way, I also brought a soldier  with me, Semeonov,  disappeared
during  the "North"  siege; my grunts are offloading  him now. What else  is
new?
     -  You  were only  gone  for four  hours.  Oh, yeah, - his voice turned
gloomy, - Chief of Staff of the Second Battalion was wounded.
     It seemed that the walls around us swayed.
     - Sashka Pahomenko? - I asked.
     -  Himself. They  are trying  to break  through to the hotel  "Kavkaz".
There are  as many rag-heads there as there are demons in hell, so he caught
a bullet in  his chest. Medics couldn't get up there. Sargent patched him up
for  now. Now we're  getting a  storm group ready, made of scouts. Under the
cover of dark, they'll try to get him out of there, - I could see Kleymeonov
was pretty sad, telling me all that.
     Captain Pahomenko Alexandr Il'ich was loved by all in our brigade. Very
tall fellow, open-minded, he loved having fun. He knew countless gags, funny
stories and practical jokes, never malicious. The  main thing  about him was
his  openness and honesty.  It always  deeply affected people who knew  him.
While  taking  to him, in about ten minutes  you felt like you had known the
man  since your college years. With all that he was  never a layabout or  an
idler. He  was always the first  one where it was the hardest, always rushed
in to help everyone. Our officers and men liked  him  unmeasurably. He could
help with his words  or action, he could also swear like hell  - was a  real
virtuoso in that field. He could get behind the steering wheel of an APC, in
freezing cold fix an engine or give soldiers  a good lecture. Well, the very
type of  officer  that our information sources were always pounding us with.
Detesting his enemy, never  hiding  his genuine feelings, never  refusing to
give a helping hand. A bit loud at  times, but you get  used to it in  time.
That's what he's been to  us, Sashka Pahomenko, who always asked to call him
"simply Il'ich". Strange, but at  war, these  little, long  forgotten things
are suddenly surfacing in your  mind.  And  now this young man was lying  in
some basement with a hole in his chest. God help him.
     - OK,  Arkadiy Nikolaevich, I'm off to see San  Sanych,  - I nodded and
headed off along the corridor.
     - He's in there with an Allied HQ  representative. Bahel  is out in the
Third  Battalion's HQ,  meanwhile this clean-cut chap  is stamping  Sanych's
brain. They'll probably  throw  us in  to  push  somewhere, where our  elite
forces shitted themselves. It's always like that, they get to receive medals
and  fire  at the parliament palace  in Moscow and we,  Siberian  mahra,  to
crunch asphalt in winter. For that, we get to go home and they will pose for
cameras and tell stories to girls, - he spewed and wondered off.
     The corridor was full of officers and soldiers. Some were smoking, some
taking  a snooz, leaning against  walls riddled by bullets and  shrapnel and
raising their heads time to time from close explosions.
     We paid one hell  of a price for this kindergarten. In his time, Dudaev
announced that Chechnya  does need scientists but needs warriors. Thus, boys
should go to school for three years and girls for only one. Since women stay
at home at all  times anyway,  kindergartens became  obsolete. Then, people,
close to his government, some with bribes, some with force, has claimed them
all. This one too was rebuilt as a villa and belonged to one of the Dudaev's
bandits. The owner and his gang fought for it with ferocity.
     We were busting these snakes out of here for 12 hours straight and when
finally broke  in,  learnt that he  maintained  a pretty good live style  in
here: all floors were covered in carpets, not the cheap stuff but  handmade.
Design  furniture,  crystal  and  china,  appliances  we  only ever  saw  in
brochures. Left around photos had all  his family pictured.  We lacked women
here,  that's  for sure,  but  I have never  seen a pretty  Chechen, not  on
pictures, not in real life. All had small faces, narrow eyes, hooklike noses
and thin lips. Just like  rats, if you ask me. Everyone has different tastes
though.  As  we say, -  "there are no  ugly women, there is just not  enough
liquor, but I couldn't drink that much..."
     Occupied by  this kind of thoughts I entered  the main HQ's room in the
basement. I  pushed  the door  covered  up by a  raincoat-tent and  felt the
warmth coming from  the army  camping  heater in  the  corner. I guess these
heaters are only still alive in the Army. As long as the army exists they'll
always  be there on  manoeuvres  and at  war, to  offer  soldiers warmth and
comfort.
     - Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,  captain Mironov, reporting back to duty,
- I  reported, looking  at Bilich, who was leaning at the map. Next to  him,
bent over the map, were my partner or, as we called  each other, "henchman",
major Ryzhov Yuri Nikolaevich and some other officer.
     - We've  been waiting for  you, Vechaslav Nikolaevich. Did  you pick up
the sniper? - The Chief of staff asked me, inquisitively looking in my eyes.
- Here  is your mate, - he nodded  at  Ryzhov,  - was betting  a six-pack of
cognac that you won't.
     -  If  I  had  only  known about the cognac, Alexandr  Alexandrovich, I
would've brought back at least  his head. But the dog  died from his  wounds
and probably from some kind of heart condition. The son of a bitch was, from
his  own words, our compatriot, from Siberia. Thirty-two slashes I  found on
his rifle's butt and a fine Japanese scope too.
     - Where is the rifle? - Took interest in our conversation Ryzhov.
     - I left it back there. They show it to the grunts for ferocity and not
a bad feed for themselves too.
     - Yeah right, "feed". We  all need only one  feed  now -  air  support,
probable  enemy  positioning  and  where  the  bustards  are  getting  their
resupplies from.  They were  not ready  for this war  for sure and  prepared
nothing: no arms, no ammunition and no food.
     - That's  not all,  - I interrupted Bilich,  - on the way  back we were
fired upon and took on the rag-heads. After the counterattack, destroyed our
enemy and  found these on  the corpses... -  I reached my hand  out with the
dead soldier's ID tag. - One of ours. Semeonov.
     Again a clog was stuck  in  my  throat, making it difficult to  talk or
breath. I pulled my cigarettes  out. Bilich wouldn't object, realising  what
state I was in, although himself was a  non-smoker. After a few deep gasps I
felt the clog disappearing and continued:
     - The snakes,  probably,  were torturing him  for some time, and likely
while  he was still alive,  cut his  penis off. Then nailed  him to a cross,
like Jesus. Penis  stuck in  his mouth. We brought him  back; my  grunts are
probably offloading him now. Here is some more, - I fetched the  rest of the
IDs, - them too I got off the dead "spook". No more of ours though.
     San Sanych  carefully listened to  me,  looking straight  into my eyes,
then,  took  the  ID tags, briefly  flicked  through them,  noting only  the
garrison numbers,  added them up in a little  pyramid  and  handed it to the
unfamiliar officer.
     - By the way, let me  introduce you, - he  turned to the major, - Major
Karpov Vechaslav Viktorovich, Allied HQ representative,  General Command  HQ
officer.  And  this,  -  he said pointing  at me,  -  Captain  Mironov,  our
Brigade's HQ senior officer, an adventurer and  a  warrior. Still  can't get
accustomed to  the  fact  that he is  a  HQ officer now not a combat company
commander, - San Sanych somewhat fatherly lectured me.
     I was  a  bit  stunned by  the fact  that my CO would speak  of  me  so
heartily. I reached out and shook the major's hand.
     - Vechaslav, - he introduced himself.
     Namesake. We'll see, what kind of bird you are and what the hell you're
here for. I figure, one of  the  big boys, since was sent  to us. They might
want  us softened up  before giving some suicidal task or  maybe find out in
what state of affairs the brigade is in and then fire the CO. These fat cats
from Moscow love this kind of tricks.
     I  looked at him  a bit more carefully  this  time. The face definitely
looks familiar, but where I saw him before, I, for now, couldn't recall. OK,
we'll figure that one out later. The  fact that he was from Moscow and  from
the General Command HQ,  immediately made me, like  any  other  line  combat
officer, dislike him.  All grievances  come from them. They are all bastards
and voracious rats. All soldiers knew  this axiom, watching them do  nothing
but  drink themselves stupid at every inspection and then departing for home
with  generous  gifts. Human garbage, from first to last. It's  their  fault
we're here in the  first place. Moscow has planned the first and this Grozny
assaults. 25<sup>[th]</sup> of November and 1<sup>[st]</sup> of January will
both be black pages in the Russian Army's History Book.
     I thought about it while  I was shaking  the Moscow officer's hand  and
squeezing out of my face some kind of smile. Although, I think,  my  parched
face reflected all my thoughts pretty well. But I couldn't send this coxcomb
to hell right here, in front of San Sanych, whom I respected too much.
     - Vechalsav, - I introduced myself back to this Moscow rooster.
     -  Major  Karpov, take  these IDs to the HQ  please, let them  work out
which regions the soldiers are from and notify their families,  - San Sanych
passed the tags to him.
     The rep  nodded,  took the  IDs and without even  looking or  counting,
dropped  them  into one  of  his parka's outer  pockets. Any  normal officer
would've at least counted them respectful of the dead.
     I was  a bit disturbed by this and asked  the son of a bitch with badly
hidden irritation:
     - Aren't  you  going  to loose them like this, my honourable man? Human
lives are behind them.
     Spotting the rage in my voice, San  Sanych and Ryzhov looked at the guy
like he was an enemy of the state. He  must've understood his lapse, mumbled
something and  placed the IDs in  one  of  his  flank jacket inner  pockets,
meanwhile giving me  a very expressive look, like he wanted to grind me into
dust. Alright, my boy, look all you want, I can chill a drunken soldier with
my look, as for you, dandy ass, I can bring you down to your knees. I calmly
stood  the look of  his  watery eyes.  He  even seemed flimsy. About a meter
seventy in hight, may be less,  skinny  and with small head. All blond, like
albino,  except his  eyes, they weren't  red,  but  rather  colourless.  His
appearance was just repulsive, and his quiff, that he was fixing constantly,
was even adding  something female to  it. Maybe he's  gay: a  funny  thought
breezed  through  my mind.  The General Command HQ Officer is  a  homo. That
would make a lot of noise. Well, I heard,  in Moscow,  it's very fashionable
these  days - alternative sexual lifestyles. I don't  think I'll be sleeping
next to him. Though,  I think he's just lifeless, like  a jellyfish. I might
offer  to paint this queer orange,  for fun. Would make  snipers' job easier
too.
     For a second, I  imagined the major painted  in red colour and  a smile
stretched  my lips. Karpov studied himself nervously  - something wrong with
his dress? Having ensured that his uniform was intact and finally  realising
that I'm just laughing at him, he stared at me angrily in response.
     Knowing my wild character  and to relieve  the tension in  the air, San
Sanych declared, talking to everyone at the same time:
     - Let's stop plotting against each other for  now and go see Semeonov's
corpse. We'll  fill  in the paperwork  and  you, Vechaslav Viktorovich, - he
looked at Karpov, - would have  to take him with you to the airport and send
home.
     We  all moved for the exit.  Officers  and men  were already out in the
yard. The corpse was carefully placed on the rolled out canvas, hands folded
on  his chest.  Nail holes in  the  wrists were  clearly seen,  his face was
thoughtfully  covered with a soldiers'  handkerchief. Hats off,  all present
were just standing around in silence. What was on their  minds could only be
read on  their tight-lipped faces. Lucky for the sniper, he was dead.  Here,
he would've lived a long time, to his distress.
     Bilich came over to the diseased, lifted up the handkerchief, looked at
his dirty face with forever frozen mask of terror on it, sighed and, turning
toward standing next to him Kleymeonov, gave him an order:
     - Arkadiy Nikolaevich, fill in the ID report and prepare the body to be
sent home. The HQ representative will take it with him.
     - Sure, Alexandr Nikolaevich, - and then to the surrounding him grunts,
- Take the  man inside.  It's warmer in there. Call for the bookkeeper; tell
him  to write  up the ID Act,  the death notification  and  whatever else is
needed.
     Everyone suddenly went active. Bilich announced, talking to Ryzhov, the
Moscow dandy and me:
     - Let's go eat.
     I had, of coarse, nothing against throwing something  in my stomach and
tipping a nip or two, but not in  the company of this faceless  shit, that's
why I politely refused his offer:
     - Thank you  so much, comrade  Colonel, but  I'd rather do it later.  I
have to  wash off the  dust first and  get the sniper and Semeonov's reports