The BDUs on some are still burning. Nostrils are tingling from the stench of parched human flesh, cotton and something else, terribly stinky. I'm labouring not to vomit. Suddenly, from the dark, grunts' faces are emerging from the downstairs. We're all happy and hugging. - Still alive, demon? - We couldn't get enough of each other, like lovers after a long break-up. - How did we bust the shitheads, ha? Hammered the crap out of them! - Yurka was wound up. Despite the cold, everybody was steaming hot. - I grabbed some scumbag back in there. Squalled he was just a con, but had dog-tags dangling round his neck. Here they are, - I pulled a bunch of dog-tags out of my pocket, - I sent him off to meet his victims. - You did the right thing. They dug in well in here. With machinegun and all. Not even one approach. But thanks to you - OK, let's go. You owe me a drink. - I fetched a packet of cigarettes, my home ones, "TU-134", the sniper's smokes were long gone. It's a petty, they were really nice, - have some, the NATO threat. Happily chatting this way, though still in the heat of the gunfight, we walked out on the street. Following us, grunts helped my wounded lad out. He walks by himself though, his arm patched tightly, meaning that he'll live. Out here, the clash was also over. Apparently, the spooks retreated from their other positions, realising that we would've taken care of them too if they hadn't. The barricade was also nearly dismantled. From that direction our neighbours were coming up. - Slava, look. What the hell is that? - The approaching grunts had some tanks, they wore like backpacks, carrying metal pipes in their hands attached to the tanks by rubber hoses. - I think it's flame-throwers. I've never seen them live, but heard that some units got them off the emergency reserves and dragged them over here. Probably a marvellous tool. Meanwhile all our grunts left the building and the newly arrived soldiers, with jokes, approached the basement windows and having tossed a pair of hand-grenades in there first, started pouring from their backpack-type flamethrowers, which these devices did turn out to be. Bravo. Streams of flame, human hand sized and about 10 meters in length, widening as they left the pipes were flowing into the basements. At once we felt the stench of burnt kerosene and something else of the kind. - First class gadget. I wish we had more of them. We'd smoke the snakes out for sure. We should throw the idea at our commander to ask for them in the "North". Since they are sending us to storm "The Minutka", might as well give us these, - I said, watching with admiration as grunts having finished off our building are preparing to fry some other structure. - I've heard, in Afghan, there was a flame-throwing tank, but turned out useless in the mountains and was taken off the production line, - Yura said climbing our APC. - Such morons, ha? They could've figured that we'd have to take towns at some stage instead of clashing in the mountains or in the open all the time. Bloody Moskovites; what can you possibly get from them, except a urine sample, and that one will be hopeless too, - I spewed and tried to settle comfortably on top of the "armour". - Attention! All ready?- Then the order came through, - Move! On the march! As we set off, APC underneath me jerked sharply trying to shake us off the "armour", but clinging to each other and to every extending part on the APC's surface, we held on. Internal forces are lucky in that respect: they have the BTR-80s. Very smooth piece of machinery, moving fast and soft. We, on the other hand, have bulldozers. As we approached the flame-throwers' roadblock, we again greeted each other shouting. The rest of the journey was pretty uneventful, although we were prepared for any surprise. Now first outposts and roadblocks of the "North" airport were coming into view along the way. Whole regiment guarded the airport. When rumours came that spooks planned to assault it, another airborne battalion was fetched to help the defences. - One battle is over and another one begins, the longer and harder one and more important too, - I said to Yura. The mood was changing from the merry, since we came back all OK, to more grim and serious. We had to attend the briefing with the High Command representatives. The latter were itching to send us to our deaths. 5 - Regardless of the briefing's outcome I'll drink myself stupid tonight, - my good mood was totally gone by now and I was grimly watching the airport sentry. They have already managed to wash up and some even changed into brand spanking new BDUs. I looked at my blood-splattered pants, my filthy coat, burnt and even twice shot through by shrapnel. In peace life, a first police patrol would pick me up for sure dressed like this. A total tramp. - I agree Slavian, we should get wasted today. Moreover, I owe you one, - Yurka, on the contrary, was in a fabulous mood. - Where are you planning to get the liqueur? From under the bench? - I and Ryzhov, before the Grozny campaign, chipped in and bought three boxes of Vodka as well as seven litres of pure ethanol that I swapped for a camouflage set from the comms operators in commemoration of our old friendship. Thus, I would be very surprised if he found alcohol in any other place. - Where else? Spooks closed their stashes and our Voentorg never comes out beyond the "North" - Listen, near the field hospital, there is a Voentorg trading spot. Let's try to get some beer down there (fallen off the truck of coarse). What do you think? - Beer was a terrible temptation. Right now, right here, I even imagined its tight, bubbly, cool flow streaming down my throat and heavily bumping against my stomach walls on its way down. And I would drink it right from the bottle, no glasses, hate them. May be it's my unfit family upbringing, but I just like it like that and there is nothing I can do about it. - Good idea. We've got about twenty minutes, while they are offloading the wounded. The problem is if they actually have beer and if we've got enough dough? - He said, dumping everything from his pockets, including the useless here money and counted it. - I've got some more, - said I, pulling out some crumpled paper nodes, - get cigarettes too, preferably something nice. - Like a rich life, don't you? - Ryzhov sneered. - Yeah, rich life, sure. When right before your eyes people live like moguls, - I looked at "the royal court" regiment's HQ with a sigh. - Wait until we walk into the hospital with all its women, - Yurka was clearly tormenting me. - I'd either rape ten of them at once or put a bullet in my head. The hospital was situated in the airport's left wing, in the ex-restaurant building. Rumours had it that this restaurant used to belong to some relative of Dudaev's. Along the way we met some doctors and actually female nurses. At war, any woman is a goddess.It's not just about sexual deprivation. Looking or simply talking to them you don't harden up as fast. That thin wire that connects you back to the "normal" life doesn't break as quickly. We have no women in our brigade, maybe that's probably why we are so drawn to them. But first desire, of coarse, is purely sexual. Why don't we have mobile brothels with us? In the past wars were gradual and rigidly positioned. People had respect for their opponent. They had fine moving canteens, mobile brothels, champagne and whites. How times have changed? Not for the better, if you ask me, although, medical science is definitely on top. So far none of the incoming wounded here has died. - We're home! - Com-brig first leapt off his carrier. Everybody else followed him, warming up their numb legs and bums. Surgeons and nurses ran over and started offloading our wounded and dead. The latter are to be placed in wooden and then in zinc coffins, soldered in, meshed, to make it more comfortable to carry, and sent home to their parents as "Cargo-200". With the coffins, parents will also receive death notifications and thanking notes for their sons' wonderful upbringing. That's about it. After the funerals they'll have commemorative salvo fired into the air in their honour, with dummy rounds, by military college students or young soldiers. Both types are potential candidates for the same "elegant" burial in the nearest future. The God of War demands new sacrifices and opposing sides supply them in full. Then parents or wife of the dead soldier will be paid ten-year salary: the whole five million rubles. During the next six-month they'll have visitors and after that, as it is customary, they'll be left to themselves. When mother or wife comes to the authorities for help (no matter which, military or civilian), first, they'll nicely talk to her and then tell her that there is no money or prospects for help at this stage. And if she persists, they'd state the following: we, personally, did not send your son (or husband) to this war. Go ask for help those who did and please do not come here again because people who sent your son to his death must've forgotten to allocate money for your pension, your licking roof, telephone and so on. You can, my reader, complain all you want; there will be nothing done. The power hungry would say about you: "This is that woman who lost her son (or husband) in that war". That will be said jokingly, so that you weep, my reader, and run away never to come back here again. Even if they throw something at you for the New Years Eve or The Army Day. Now think if it's worth sending your son into that butchery because of some sick old Head Commander. Think well. By the way, during the Chechen campaign, he had a grandson of the drafting age, but for some reason, I have never seen him there, even on civilian visits. Meanwhile our wounded were being offloaded and carried into the hospital rooms. We followed them. Nobody was paying any attention to us. Ryzhov and I were staring at the women. No point in flirting anyway, they have already been shared and allocated long ago. Our appearances also didn't help. We were searching for the semi-legal Voentorg trading spot or any local crook that can sell us liqueur and cigarettes. History of the war shows that there have always been some niggling criminals who make money reselling small wanted goods. Nothing really law-breaking, on the contrary, they are doing more good supplying men with those little things from the "normal" life that they are deprived of. The problem is money. For some it's war, for others it's their darling mother. May be that is what it should be? No, I don't think so; my upbringing and poor life experience wouldn't let me do this. We were hanging around the hospital asking grunts where we could get some beer and cigarettes. But since this was a medivac hospital, as a rule, soldiers never stayed here for longer than a day and thus knew nothing. But suddenly we noticed a corporal, with a mug, wider than two of ours put together. He wore new camouflage fatigues and standing next to the window was leisurely puffing a ciggi. That mug expressed vanity and self-indulgence. It seemed nothing around concerned him. He did not look wounded at all. I pushed Yurka in the ribs when he was flat out staring at a nurse rushing to attend to some matter and fortunate enough to walk past us. Judging by the hungry expression on his face, he's already raped her about ten times and kept going. - OK, that's enough. We are here with a peacekeeping mission. Remember? You better look at that panorama, - I showed him the mighty worrier, - I think his body can be used to plug ten machinegun nests at the same time. It seems he represents the whole might of Russia's armed forces. What do you think Yura? I deliberately talked in loud voice for the grunt to hear us. Yurka read my plot and kept going. - Yeah man. You're right. We lack lads like this one in the recon unit. They need some kind of human shield. Or better yet in the storm group, pulling wounded out of the killing zone. The soldier slowly moved his eyes onto us without even turning his head. We didn't wear any insignia, like many other officers. Snipers have this bad habit of picking officers first. Some kind of sad hatred they have for us. Well, everyone has his own thing and for them it's professional and even well paid. - Sonny, - politely and smoothly started Yura, - what would you say if we invited you down for a visit, so that you, prick, could see the war for yourself? Otherwise, you'll just come home with a metal thingy on your chest, having actually never seen it. All of this Yurka was telling quietly, thus passing surgeons didn't even pay attention to us. Some fellow soldiers are standing here, chatting peacefully, no trouble. - Get stuffed, - the grunt mumbled leisurely without his head even moving. There was so much scorn in his voice that it made me sick. Momentarily the grudge inside me was alive. I know that in moments like this I exercise very little control and can do a lot of stupid things, but the thoughts come to me later. - Turn around, scum, when a line officer is talking to you, and apologise immediately, - I too tried to keep my voice down, but the words were boiling inside. No one soldier ever dared to insult me, no matter what state they were in. In my being a green lieutenant I had to calm down a drunken sentry once. And here, this supply sergeant piece of shit dared to offend two of us. The fat skunk turned his head and jokingly stared at us in silence, with his appearance obviously laughing at us. Both of us figured that words here were useless and we had to act. There was a niche near by, where hospital personnel kept their cleaning gear. From two sides simultaneously, we fast picked up the young man under his arms and shoved him into the dark and humid closet. At once I grabbed him by the throat to keep him from screaming and Yurka thrust his rifle in the guy's belly and pressed it real hard. Even in this meagre lighting we could see that the lad went pale. His eyes were popping out and screams were bursting out of his throat, but I was holding them tight in there, squeezing his throat stiffer, only allowing him to breath. I leaned over to his ear and whispered: - I will now let go my hand a little, if you, scumbag, promise to be a good boy and give us your apologies quietly. Beer and cigarettes too, I'm sure you've got some. If you agree, blink once, if not, I'll just strangle you right here and my friend will shoot your balls off. I'm sure no one would care, we'll write you off as a battle loss. And if you try to move a muscle, we'll keep our promise with the neck and balls. Or we can load you up on the truck and exchange with the rag-heads for beer and cigarettes. Besides, you freak, we are offering you the same deal anyway. Get it, asshole? - I squeezed his throat harder and Yurka pushed his AK a little more in. The grunt's eyelashes were flipping like butterflies near a light bulb: - I'm sorry, please forgive me, sirs my mistake I promise won't happen again, I'm giving you my word, - tears were falling down his face but I kept my grip on his fat throat. - What about the second part? - Asked Yurka, hinting at the beer and cigarettes. - No problem, right away, - The soldier hustled up and reached his hands somewhere behind his head and produced a six-pack of "Holsten" and a pack of "LM" or as we called it - "Cop's love". At last, we let the punk breath freely. I slapped him leniently on his cheek, pulled crumpled five thousand rubles from my pocket and shoved it in the weeping grunt's hand: - Do not ever be rude, young men, and maybe you'll even live through all this. There is the money for your goods, so that you don't tell anybody that we are thugs. By the way, lend us a few bags for the groceries, will you? The grunt turned around and again in the dark started searching for something in the buckets. Nice hide he's got here. Something banged inside buckets, something metal, like a pistol. Is he really planning a trick? I drew my rifle and pressed it hard against the junction of his scull and backbone. There is pain spot there and if you hit it, a person can collapse unconscious. In a moment Yurka too thrust his rifle against the man's kidneys. - Sonny, stop this, - I again spoke in a smooth voice, - or you, scumbag, decided to die like a hero. If that's the case, then go ahead, try. With my left hand I fetched my narrow stiletto and set it on his throat. Cold blade, for some reason produced more result than my Kalashnikov. Something metal banged in there again, he must've dropped it back in the bucket. Removing the stiletto I jerked him towards me and pressed the barrel under his chin. The grunt put his hands up, and his left one he was holding a bag off some equipment. With my left hand I searched behind his head and found a pistol. Wow! Makarov with a silencer! Bravo! Probably swiped it from some wounded scout or a Special Forces guy. I punched him in the nose with the pistol grip. He fell on the floor in a rumpled heap. We left him there, picked up our bags and walked away. Out on the street, the unloading was almost over and the Com-brig was gathering up our officers to go to the briefing. We stashed the bags inside our APC and told the driver that if we come back and they're gone he'll be castrated and left out here to die. The grunt nodded and carried on undressing passing women with his eyes. Walking behind our CO, we were slowly puffing good cigarettes and discussing our arguments against the head-on frontal assault of the bloody square. - Let's do this: first - airforce, then artillery, tanks, rockets and after they're all done, mahra goes in, what do you reckon? - Asked Yurka, enjoying his cigarette and observing all the almost peaceful life around here. - And better yet: napalm bombs, so that everything would burn alive and loud disco music for the spooks to sacrifice their lives to Allah with happy thoughts, - I was experiencing peace of mind and almost sexual satisfaction from the surrounding atmosphere and my cigarette. How little do we actually need? Good smoke, tranquillity and women walking past. Suddenly, we saw an officer whose face we instantly recognised. We were taking the airport together. His regiment was then left here to guard it. Lucky bustards. - Yura, Slava, you're alive! What a delight! We've heard about your deeds here and about Karpov too. We thought you guys wasted him, but all was then cleared. He's surely an idiot. He is to receive The Order of Fortitude. - So, you thought we killed the mother? - No, not really, but here everybody knows he is a rat. Yurka and I cackled loudly: - Sasha, we saw him for the first time and gave him exactly that nickname. Rat is rat. You better tell what the HQ has in store for the Minutka Square and us. - Fellows, listen to this: marines and some airborne units tried to take it on the fly, then lost about thirty men and backed off. Now is your turn. - Get out of here! - Yeah, that freaking peacemaker is there too. Radios to us all the time with statements. Listen to the joke: he's up there, inside one of the Dudaev's bunkers with his delegation committee and everybody has just forgotten about them. No food, no water, no nothing. They start to wander what to do. Suddenly he makes a suggestion: "Let's all convert to Islam". His friends ask him: "Would it help?" He says: "Not really, but we could make a soup out of the shreds!" -Sashka cracked up. We grinned at his joke and the news. - Guys, I work here in supplies now, come on over at some stage. Now I've got to run; somebody beat the shit out one of the grunts in the hospital. With our jaws dropped from surprise about Sashka's new appointment, we picked up our pace to catch up with the rest of our group. We cared not for the hospital grunt's health. I bet his skull is fine. Nosebleed is nothing, probably tripped over something in the dark. Could anybody possibly punch such a wonderful young lad? I don't think so. As for the officers: he must've dreamt them while splayed out dazed. With his excess weight and high blood pressure it all could've been much worse. He must go on a strict diet, dear doctors. Or better yet, give him to us for a week. You won't recognise the fellow then. Some officer came out and said that General Rolin is busy at this stage and will be free to meet with us in about ten to twenty minutes. They are on the telephone with the Defence Minister. Fine, let them talk. I'm pretty sure, nothing good will come out of that conversation. Meanwhile our Com-brig left to radio the brigade's HQ to see how they are hanging. We saw Sashka returning and called him: - How is the busted up grunt, Sasha? - He's telling some bullshit that two officers beat him up. He wet his pants while unconscious. His description, - he stared at us with suspicion, - sounds like you two. - Sashok, you don't seriously think that we could bust up the soldier. Personally, I only squeeze throats, - I started. - And I usually shoot nuts off. You know us too well, - supported me Yurka. We gazed at him upset, as to demand that all accusations be dropped at once. - I sure do. Mad cranks. I've seen a lot of you two. You wouldn't care, for yourselves or for anybody else. So, did you bust him? - Sasha, - I again spoke in the smooth voice, half-hugging him, - my dear man. Please explain to us, as you have put it, "mad cranks", what for did you run back to the hospital? We never noticed anything merciful about you. Even when we brought over our casualties, you, apparently, were so busy, that had totally forgotten to come and greet your friends. - Which, by the way, came to your rescue when the ragheads pinned you down badly at the edge of the airfield, - continued Yurka, - and (somehow I don't feel comfortable reminding you this) you swore by all saints that you will never forget about your saviours. - And now, my dear friend, you are about to sell off your guarding angels like bad meat at a discount price. - I picked up from Yura. - We, on the contrary, never even mentioned the fact that your lad was dropping liqueur at sky-high prices, and, son of a bitch, even tried to threaten us with a pistol. So, Alexander? I reckon your guy just hit his mug against something, a? - What did you do him for? - He told me bluntly to get stuffed, and didn't apologise. Get that. - I'll teach the bustard manners. - Sasha, since we have found common ground, I could now make you an offer to get us some of that humanitarian aid. - But you've snapped it already. - Shameless lies, false allegations and groundless attacks, - Yurka stated with style, - we never stole anything, we bought it for five bucks. Or five thousand rubles. It was dark in there, rubles or dollars, all in the same pocket. Is that true Slava? - It's the truth. I've paid him off myself. I reckon that your sidekick is trying to hide some of that illegally made profit from you. By the way, we only bought one piddling six-pack of itsy-bitsy beer cans, you know, and a pack of cigarettes, and you, after all this, refuse to gear us up properly. - Just imagine, - Yura was unstoppable, - if we were killed in action (God forbid of course) you would naturally be sad. Because you never gave us three sticks of good salami, Vodka of the well-known Moscow brand "Crystal", a few bottles of good cognac, surely some cheese for it and a few more bits and pieces. And we will visit you in your dreams reaching our hands out to you and yell, - we started grabbing him like vampires, - "you, cheap bastard!" - Yeah, Sasha, - I interrupted, - I might survive without a pair of beer packs and good cigarettes, but it would be nice of you to throw in some dry fish for the beer and - That's enough. Please give me some water, ma'am, cause I'm so hungry and have no roof for tonight, - Sasha copycatted us. - If you two hadn't saved my life, you would've been eating free food in the brick by now. - That's why, during that gunfight I said to Slava: "Hey, look at that officer dying there for nothing. Let's save him and he, when highly appointed, will be feeding us for the rest of the war." Slava, confirm please. - God, strike me by lightning if it's not true. Hey, that would be cool, for a week or two, to rest up in the brick. Food three times a day, clean sheets, steam-room. - I closed my eyes stargazing. - Nirvana! Sasha, could you send us to that prison of yours and your scumbag will change his confession in exactly two weeks from now. Let's say he mistook us for somebody else and they'll let us free. By then the war could too be over. Think about it Sasha. I'll buy you a drink for that. - You're naturally delirious. Spooks don't call you "dogs" for nothing. You are obviously mad and dangerous. - We are about to go and see our Commander in Chief now, listen to him trying to talk us into the Minutka assault. So, I'm thinking to suggest that he takes his own regiment off the airport guard duty and throw it at the Square. Meanwhile we would pull security here. Then, after you guys take the Square, we might move on. How about that, Sash? By the way, have you tasted all the girls around here? - No, they are all taken. No chance. - Don't be stingy and give us one. We'll return her, don't you worry! - You are mad, mad I tell you! A deputy assistant emerged from the HQ and called us in. - Sasha, we'll be there for about forty minutes, so, don't forget that humanitarian aid, we talked about or we'll come to you in your dreams. Tell your lad that if he's ever rude to us again, he won't get off this easily. Wait for us and we'll be back, you'll see, -- I cited a line off a well-known poem. - And dear, don't forget the beer, the rest is a must. Yura even blew him a kiss. - We'll meet again, darling! Sashka, spewed aside, clearly showing his attitude towards our giddy behaviour. Passing grunts were watching this whole scene with surprise. We walked into the airport tailing the rest of the group, hurriedly finishing off our cigarettes and chucking off the butts. At war we usually smoke, concealing cigarette in the fist. That way sniper wouldn't see the flash. This habit worked around the clock, night and day. It makes cense like this. If your habits are different throughout the day, it is easy to make that one fatal mistake. All of us walked into the boardroom where we met the Commander in Chief, General Rolin and our general Zaharin. In the past his surname was of Armenian origin, but after the fall of the Union it was suggested to him that he change it. That's how he turned from Avakian to Zaharin (his wife's surname). Sandbags plugged all windows in the meeting room. The poor light didn't reach the corners where all people looked like shadows: Comms officers, deputies and the rest of the General's aid as well as a few of those who couldn't miss the opportunity to kiss his ass. - Please be seated, gentlemen, - Rolin rose and shook Bahel's hand then simply nodded to the rest of us. - I have just spoken to the Defence Minister Grachin. At the high level, - Rolin emphasised the words "high level", - we came to the decision to assault the Minutka Square structure. I was appointed head of the operation and you would be carrying out this complex and demanding task. At the end of the speech his voice turned exultant. I wonder if he and Karpov had the same teacher in the academy, although, he's not from Moscow. Hell knows "who is who" in their HQ. - Our operative group, together with the General Headquarters, has devised a plan, which was successfully signed off by the Defence Minister. General Zaharin has just familiarised himself with it. I'm also asking you to listen carefully here. Correct completion of this task will allow us to eliminate the rebel forces, led by Dudaev, in the shortest possible time. They are all now concentrated in the Government Bank Building and in the so-called Dudaev's Palace, - he pointed his finger at the map laid out on the table. (Judging from the expression on Zaharin's face, he was not overly impressed by this plan), - The rest of the buildings, around the assaulted area, are not important and of not particular interest to us. It was amazing that a military officer, planning such a blood bath, treated structures surrounding the assault area with such neglect. Obviously, the rebels would defend those houses not mentioning the two bridges, which are for sure fortified and densely mined. In the Army, we've got three objectives: immediate, next and major. We always start at the immediate one, then, come to the next and after that arrive at the main. If people start with the main target, moreover, mentioning names such as Dudaev's, that is politics. Politics means death to soldiers. Because these morons never think of people's lives and consequences, all they're interested in is the result and the timeframe, regardless of the cost. Jesuitical axiom. We all stared hard at the map. It turns out that we had to cross both bridges in almost parade style. What if we didn't make it over? Or only parts of the assaulting force would cross. The spooks will for sure blow up the bridges. What's then? Then, those who did make it across, the quicker ones, ragheads will slaughter like sheep before our own eyes. No one of us liked this adventure. We are professional soldiers and learnt to risk our own lives and lives of our men back in college. But to perish foolishly like this - please, let me out of here. All faces in the room turned grim. Everyone understood that if we don't stand up for ourselves now, gloomy end of the Micop Brigade would soon seem like an innocent walk in the park. This was not even the Central Train Station. This was their President's Palace, symbol of their national pride. The only solution seemed a nuclear bomb drop or a long and laborious air assault. From inside the shadows, emerged the so-called Chief of Staff of the allied HQ, Colonel Sedov. No one knew much of him, but wars often promote great men as well as losers to the top of the military ladder. I, personally, couldn't hold anything against Sedov, but if it was he, who devised this plan in the first place, he wasn't a loser then, he was a criminal in ranks. Sedov began to speak. His conduct was well schooled. He didn't seem threatened by Rolin at all and it probably wasn't his first time in a company like this. Judging from his parched face and military posture, I figured he was a line officer. OK, let's see what he's got to say. - General and gentlemen, - started Sedov, - our opponent concentrated his chief forces in the Minutka Square area. "Tell me something new" - I thought to myself. - That's why to finally break his resistance, demoralise him and flush out of town, you are to carry out plan, signed off by the Defence Minister and approved by the Commander in Chief, - now it seemed like Sedov was admiring himself in the mirror. His was irrupting with pride, self-importance and the fact that this plan was his idea - now all doubts about the authorship were gone - he did it. - You are to quickly capture the bridges over the Sunzha River on the run and dash through the square, then, capture and destroy enemy infantry inside the Bank building and Dudaev's residence, so-called Palace, - Sedov continued to sing. "Hello my baby, how are you today?" - breezed through my mind. - To carry out this assault, several airborne elements, marines and the Leningrad regiment will complement your brigade. You will also have artillery and air back up. The most interesting part was that no one indicated unit numbers of the supporting force and the amount of back up we would supposedly receive. Would that be one air-wing or an artillery division? Altogether, the plan seemed raw and superficial. In case of failure, we would obviously take the full blame. Nice future! - The time for the assault was designated two days from now. During these two days you are to promptly take hotel "Kavkaz", then reassign it (to whom!?) and move out to the Square, - Sedov, it seemed, had it all figured out nicely and naturally we should've too, thus right now scooting out of here and capture the Square. Absolute foolishness! - General, gentlemen, I'm finished. Any questions please? - Judging from his tone, he must've thought that only degenerates and morons could ask questions - what can you possibly expect from siberian mahra? - What are the estimates of the enemy force at the Minutka complex? Their armament, mine fields around the square and bridges? - Quietly but sharply asked our Com-brig, emerging from the shadows. - The amount of the rebel force does not exceed three to four thousand men (I like the precision. Who cares? One less thousand or one more thousand). Their armament consists of standard issue small arms plus GP-25s, RPG-7 grenade launchers and light company mortars. (How about darting around a flat square under the shower of mortars?) - What about the bridges? - We do not have any precise information whether the bridges are mined or not. All approaches are heavily defended with nests and blocks without any possibility for proper reconnaissance at this stage. However, we are constantly working on it. Also our local supporters constantly inform us. We all smiled at this statement. A chechen would rarely sell another chechen, but to bust a non-believer is always a delight. - You are all laughing vainly, - Sedov turned nervous, - recently in Moscow a question was raised from the local opposition's initiative, whether this invasion and senselessly violent actions have caused this republic an irreparable economic damage and set its people against us. Partisan movement is growing stronger by the day (really?). Because of that, there is a notion, that we under no circumstance kill the rebels but only disarm them and let go home. In their majority they are only frightened peasants. The spring is coming so is their crop season. Otherwise they'll all die of famine. - So the hell with them! - I let it out in the mortal silence. Everyone instantly burst laughing and I attracted attention of both Rolin and Sedov. Yurka nudged me, but it was too late by then. - You must've missed the point, comrade - Sedov looked at my shoulder flashes and seeing no stars continued, - By the way, why aren't you wearing your proper insignia? - Scared of snipers, comrade colonel, - I replied modestly, although was close to making a huge scene. - It's all horseshit. Do you think that snipers are interested in your stars? I don't think so. How would you lead your men if you don't have your insignia? I was just about to burst into a long and unflattering speech about shoulder stars and my opinion about his lousy plan. I am no hero, but at war, you figure out quickly that there is no deeper shit than this, well, may be only if you're wounded. Other than that - screw them all. You want to fire me - be my guests! But Bahel outpaced me; he must've guessed what is going to follow and thus quickly spoke: - Comrade general, we'll work out later why captain Mironov is not wearing his stars. That was me who allowed my officers to take them off. I am for now more worried about the forthcoming operation. The timeframes you have set for us would not allow our brigade, which has been engaged in heavy fighting for weeks, to rapidly, without proper preparation, redeploy and carry out your assignment (Bahel emphasised the word "your"). I recommend you immediately give the order to commence sustained air and artillery strikes at the square network. That must continue on until the time comes for us to move into the area. Two hours before the assault, airborne reconnaissance units must capture the bridges and keep all attempts to blow them up at bay. By the way, could you tell us exactly which airborne units would act as our aid? In my opinion, frontal assault of the Minutka Square is a senseless suicide. I will not follow orders, which would literally mean running my men past a firing squad. - Do you understand what you are saying, colonel? - Rolin was furious. - I will make a phone call to Grachin and have you court-martialed! I will have you arrested on the spot! You'll be on the first plane to Moscow! You know how many men would want to take up your spot? - If it would save my men from slaughter I volunteer to write my letter of resignation immediately! - Now Bahel was enraged. -You are afraid to blast the shit out of this f...ing square from the air, but at the same time you are OK to drown in blood a few thousand soldiers! You better think of that first before you think of your public image - Shut you mouth, traitor! - Rolin erupted. - You are out of your god damned mind, colonel. You're a coward. I'll grind you into powder in five seconds. And you What are you all looking at? Get the hell out of here! No way, general, we'll tear up anybody for our commander if he only tells us to. - We uphold our CO's opinion that this is a sheer suicide to storm the square without preparatory air and artillery runs, - somebody from our group summarised the situation. - Does everyone think like that? - Rolin squinted and looked around heavily. - Out! Get out! Guards! Get them all out of here! Disarm them! Convoy the traitors to the brick! We only huddled closer in response. Silence set about the room. Mortal Silence The door opened and two privates and an officer entered, ready to carry out any order their commander gives them. All of us prepared for the worst possible outcome. General Zaharin suddenly interrupted the silence - what a brave man. - Let's all not make any rush decisions. We will let the officers go breath some fresh air for now and ourselves stay in here and discuss possible solutions to fix this situation. Let's keep our cool and not make any sudden moves. We all understand that a frontal assault would be dangerous, but together we must find the ultimate solution, - and now addressing us, - go gentlemen, wait outside, nothing is going to happen; I'm giving you my word. - Go, - The Com-brig told us dryly. We left the room. All of us were quivering. The guards were following us closely. Someone grabbed their chief and whispered: - If you bitch, even think about arresting our commander, I'll kill you. Get it? - What about my orders? - He asked in scare. His grunts kept away by the walls. - You want to live? - Yes! - If you are given the order to arrest him, we'll ambush you. During the ambush you'd give him up quietly. Understood? This way we'll let you and your grunts live. Did you understand everything I just said? - Yes! - We'll now move our vehicles up a little closer. Don't panic. When our CO comes out with your general, we'll ge