Zrada

by Lance Charnes

  Don’t show weakness. Don’t show fear. They smell fear.

  “Don’t make me wait.” Rogozhkin’s voice has gone low and quiet.

  Carson tries to take a deep breath, but being bent double makes that impossible. She wrestles with her rising fear while she tries to steady her voice. “Twist my arms off if you want. Answer doesn’t change.”

  He pushes forward on her wrists a touch farther. She tries to relax as many muscles as she can so her own resistance doesn’t add to the pain. It’s hard when her shoulders are spasming.

  Then he lets her go.

  The end to the pain is almost erotic. Carson slowly sits up, then tries to roll out her shoulders. It only sort-of works. She glares at him. “Why’d you do that? I’m being straight with you. I’m cooperating.” She hates how thin and wobbly her voice has become. At least she’s not screaming.

  Rogozhkin stares deep into her eyes. As close as they are, in other circumstances they could end up kissing. Now he’s trying to open locked doors in her head. “Our prisoners are usually terrified of us, but you’re not. Why is that?”

  For once, Carson takes a moment to put together an answer she hopes won’t have him use more stress positions on her. “I understand you. You’re pros. You have a job to do. So do I. Don’t make it complicated.”

  The colonel considers this. After a very long few seconds, he calmly returns to his seat. “What was your plan for coming here?”

  “Follow the militia patrol. They can track Stepaniak’s SUV. Could. What’s your beef with the militia? Thought you own those guys now.”

  Another smile, one cold enough to make her suppress a shiver. “We can track him, too. He’s in a clinic in the center of town.”

  Except he isn’t. Should I tell him? “Who are you? Where do you figure?”

  His dark-brown eyes resume rifling through her brain. “The woman out there, by the market.” He waves toward the minimart. “Who is she to you?”

  Nice dodge. “You first.”

  Rogozhkin’s eyes get a few degrees colder. “We asked her, but she wouldn’t say anything except her name. We can apply more pressure. It would be unpleasant for her, but we’re good at getting information.”

  Carson’s surprised it took so long for him to drag Galina into this. “I answered your questions, right?”

  “Have you?”

  “Sounds like it to me. We don’t have a problem, you and me. You know why I’m here. I’m confused about why you are. If I know, maybe I can tell you things that’ll help you.”

  “Such as?” An eyebrow arches.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what you want. Help me help you.” Yurik had told her that even though spetsnaz operators learn torture, they’d mostly rather have captives tell them intel without it. Torture wastes time and isn’t always effective. He also said some guys get off on it. She hopes this Rogozhkin isn’t that way.

  Rogozhkin stares at her the way a statue would. He doesn’t move or blink or even breathe hard. Just the look makes her shoulders twinge. This goes on way longer than Carson likes. She fights hard to not blink or shift in her seat, but soon all she can think of is how dry her eyes are getting and how uncomfortable the seat is.

  Then the colonel chuckles and shakes his head. “Fine. I belong to a liaison group. We’re a conduit between the local militias and my army. We also have to keep peace between the militias. That patrol was outside its assigned area—we had to make an example of them. Does that tell you what you need to know?”

  What he described sounds bureaucratic enough to be truth-adjacent. Carson’s also pretty sure that’s the best she’ll get from him. “Galina’s my guide. I’m paying her. That’s her car.” She nods toward the little dead Slavuta. “She knows just enough to be helpful. She doesn’t like Russians much.”

  “That’s not unusual.”

  She pushes the puck down the ice a bit more. “I get the part about keeping peace between militias. What do you want with Stepaniak?”

  “As you said, he killed several Makiivka Brigade members. They want…closure. We can do that more efficiently and without causing as much trouble.” He sits straight and plants his palms on his knees. “So. How can you help me?”

  Decision time. Carson gazes out the rear window at Galina while she thinks. Given what she knows about the spetsnaz in general and their doings here in particular, she won’t underestimate them. Rogozhkin won’t let her or Galina go unless it benefits him. She doesn’t know what happens to Russian prisoners here and doesn’t want to find out.

  That means doing a deal with Rogozhkin.

  She doesn’t like that option. She’d have even less control than she does now. She and Galina could still end up face-down in a ditch once the Russians get what they want, whatever that is. But if she tells them to fuck off, that’s what’ll happen anyway, just sooner. Probably after a lot of pain.

  It’s not the first time she’s had to make a decision like this. Not that that helps.

  She turns to Rogozhkin. “Untie me. Let’s talk like grownups.”

  Chapter 26

  Carson isn’t surprised by the disgusted look on Galina’s face.

  “You want to do what?”

  “It’s not about want.” Carson pulls her closer to the Slavuta. “It’s about not ending up like that poor bastard they shot on the road back there.”

  Galina gets in Carson’s face. She has to go up on tiptoes to do it. “No. No deals with the Kacápskyi. Those people caused all this. They tried to take my country away. No.”

  “Keep your voice down!” Carson hisses. “I went out on a limb for you. Know what happens when you say ‘no’? They take you and those two guys and shoot you all in the back of the head. Then you go in that dumpster over there. Then they throw in a phosphorus grenade. There won’t be enough left to fill a shopping bag. This is not a deal we get to say ‘no’ to. Understand?”

  Galina stands there shaking, her face glowing red, her folded arms threatening to crush her ribcage. “How dare you do this without asking me?”

  For fuck’s sake…Carson takes a few breaths before she accidentally removes Galina’s head. She leans in to stab Galina’s collarbone with an index finger. “You notice me getting shoved into that fucking jeep over there? See me with my arms bent backward? These assholes aren’t good about taking prisoners. They’re not set up for it. Before they take off, they’re gonna clean up this mess. That includes killing you if you’re not with me. Got it? Questions?”

  They stand like reflections, arms crossed, grimacing, staring daggers at each other. Galina says, “Sometimes you make me hate you.”

  “Join the club.”

  “We need a car.”

  Carson thumbs toward the silver sedan. “The Škoda.”

  They transfer the Slavuta’s load into the Škoda Octavia. The taillights and rear window are cracked from the explosion. Carson wipes Stas’s blood off the back seat. The entire operation takes less than ten minutes and happens without either of them saying a thing to the other.

  Rogozhkin finishes with a spetsnaz lieutenant and stands by to watch the women work. He catches Carson’s arm. “You understand that if you break our deal, my men will eliminate you. Yes?”

  Carson stares at his hand on her bicep until he removes it. Then she stands straight—she’s two inches taller than he is—and glares down at him. “If you break our deal, we’re gonna have a problem. Yes?”

  He gives her an iceberg smile. “Of course.”

  The Octavia is newer and nicer than the Slavuta. Plusher seats. Other than the wind whistling through the bullet holes Carson punched through the right-rear door and window, it’s a lot quieter.

  Still, Galina keeps fiddling with the mirrors and driver’s seat, grumbling while she fiddles. She steers like she’s still driving the Slavuta even though the new car handles much better. They veer across the road whenever she tries to avoid a pothole or impact crater on the T0509 highway. There a
re a lot of them.

  Carson keeps her eyes on the pulsing red dot over Stepaniak’s location on the tracker. He’s approaching Mospyne, a city that looks about the same size as Starobesheve. From there it’s only around fifteen klicks to the eastern suburbs of Donetsk.

  Carson and Galina are supposed to lead Rogozhkin and his cutthroats to Stepaniak. Carson will use the money to lure him out of whatever hole he’s in. When he’s in the open, the Russians will kill him. She gets the painting he’s carrying and a day to get across the contact line. Galina gets to go home…if she still wants to.

  The icon’s resting face-down on Carson’s lap, padded by the folded blanket. She probes the back for the tracker chip using the tip of the tactical knife she’d taken from Vadim.

  Galina glances at her, then smashes her lips in irritation. “Do you have to do that now?”

  “Tired of being a target. You?”

  “You’ll ruin it.”

  “Learn to steer.” It’s been like this since they left the gas station. Galina’s been winding up tighter with each klick they cover. Carson hates this, but it’s something Galina’s got to work out for herself.

  She checks the tracker. “We should be coming up on Osykove.”

  “I know.”

  Carson glances outside. The last village had featured a number of ruined buildings and a lot of pockmarked walls. Now the road’s flanked by trees, many of them stumps or splintered trunks. The trees give way to fields and a rusted, burned-out Russian tank near the road.

  They pass a blue-and-white Cyrillic sign: “Osykove.” Houses appear on either side of the highway. More ruins, more punctured metal gates, more gouges in the brickwork and concrete block. The scorched hulk of a civilian car lies half-buried under a collapsed carport next to a gutted house.

  Carson says, “Take the next left.”

  “I. Know.” It’s a low growl. Galina’s face has turned to weapons-grade steel.

  Carson expected anger, silence, snapped-off words; now she’s got them. “Look, Galina, I’m sorry. I know you hate this deal, but—”

  “Not that.”

  “Then…what’s wrong?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

  Galina stomps the brakes. They squeal to a stop. Her eyes are locked straight ahead. “This is where I died.”

  Chapter 27

  SATURDAY, 30 AUGUST – TWO YEARS BEFORE

  Galina squinted through the smoke and haze from her foxhole in a knot of trees on the southern end of Chervonosilske. She had the PKM machinegun’s sights lined up on the closest dark figure heading toward her from about a hundred fifty meters away.

  Valya, sharing the foxhole with her, fired his AK at these new enemies, trying to keep their heads down. That worked with the kolorady, but not with these people. His eyes were red and his hands shook when he reloaded. Galina wasn’t in any better shape. Like the rest of the battalion, they’d been awake for over three days and under fire for almost all of it.

  The enemy started shooting at them, little pops like firecrackers. Their bullets zinged overhead or sprayed dirt in their faces. Galina wiped her eyes, sighted in on the lead figure, then squeezed the trigger for an instant, just as Valya had taught her in about thirty seconds when she arrived the night before. The figure folded in on itself and fell.

  She pivoted to the next enemy. This burst missed. She fought the temptation to mash down the trigger and try to saw the Kacáps in half. Fire too long and the barrel overheats.

  Someone thudded into the foxhole between them, jostling them both. Valya swore and shoved the person into Galina, spoiling her aim. She rounded on the intruder. “Who do you—”

  “Galya?” It’s Lyudmilla, a fellow lorry driver. “Where have you been? Why are you here? Bohdan’s going crazy looking for you.”

  Galina stared into her friend’s dirty face for what seemed like an eternity before finally trying to crush Lyuda in a hug. “Why are you here?”

  Lyuda tried to hand her a full canteen and a slice of stale bread. Breakfast. Galina turned her toward Valya. “He needs it more.”

  She took a few more shots at the Kacáps while Lyuda tried to force Valya to take the food. When Galina reloaded, her hands trembled like she was eighty.

  Another shell landed thirty meters or so behind them. The artillery and mortar fire hadn’t stopped since the column got bogged down here midday yesterday. Burning houses, burning vehicles. What was left of Kostya, the man whose machinegun she used, sprawled on his back two meters to her left. He was starting to bloat.

  Lyuda slapped Galina’s helmet. “Get out of here! The battalion’s moving out! Bohdan needs you to drive!”

  She should go, but she didn’t want to. True, she was a driver, not a soldier. But we need soldiers… “Cover me!”

  She scrambled out of the foxhole and sprinted, zig-zagging, back into town, holding her helmet tight on her head. Another shell jolted the ground under her. She fell, then curled into a ball and covered her head as shrapnel slapped through the sheet-iron fence above her. It sounded like rain. O, Bozhe. O, Bozhe. Budlaska, Bozhe…She heaved herself onto her feet, then dashed north faster than she’d ever run before.

  Not yet six. The sunrise scoured the horizon. The glare would be in the Russians’ eyes. That may be why the small-arms fire was still thin and ineffective, and why the snipers hadn’t had a go at her.

  She stumbled into the small grove of trees at the road’s north end. The command tent was to her left. The major, haggard, his head wrapped with a bandage, argued with his platoon commanders at a table dragged from the nearby farmhouse. She hurried past to the lorry carrying their last supplies.

  Anton tossed empty crates out the back of the cargo cover while two other men—not from the battalion—heaved them to the side.

  Galina stopped, pulled off her helmet, then caught her breath. “Anton! Where’s Bohdan?” He waved vaguely to the east. “Thanks.”

  She trotted down the line of lorries—their last—until she found a knot of ragged men huddled in the trees. They were dirty, bloody, exhausted. She knew over half of them. This is what’s left of our army. Her heart broke for the fiftieth time since yesterday.

  So much had changed in two weeks. Her unit, the Donbass Battalion, had fought its way into Ilovaisk on the 19th, part of the big offensive that was supposed to surround Donetsk and cut the terrorists off from Luhansk. They took the city. The terrorist militias were falling apart. Their men were dropping their weapons and leaving their uniforms in the streets. The patriots had won. Ukraine had won.

  Then the Russian Army came.

  Her husband directed the troops loading the wounded onto a lorry. Bozhe. More wounded. Her lorry, as it turned out, a big, snorting, six-wheeled Zil that cornered like a train engine on rails. Her tractor was more maneuverable.

  She watched him work. Her handsome husband. Well, she thought he was handsome. Then again, he thought she was pretty. Maybe they were both crazy. He looked so confident, barking orders, pointing, urging the men on. She was so proud of the two chevrons on his shoulder straps. A junior sergeant, and after only three months!

  Gunfire sputtered to the east: the woodpecker chatter of rifles, the thumping of heavy machineguns. Russian paratroopers trying to cut them off from the road home. She ran to Bohdan and threw her arms around him.

  He squawked, then crushed her against him. “Where have you been? I was so worried…”

  “I was taking food to the men on the line. One of the gunners was dead. I jumped in just for a few minutes until someone else could come and they never—”

  His eyes got big, showing her how bloodshot they were. “That’s dangerous! You could’ve been hurt.”

  Another shell screamed in. This one would be close. Everyone standing crouched. She dragged Bohdan next to the lorry’s big rear wheels and pulled him down just as the ground jolted with the explosion. Something clang
ed into the lorry’s cab. Galina grabbed the front of Bohdan’s shirt and hauled him close to her. “What did you say? Too dangerous?”

  He smiled and kissed her hard. His four days of black beard scraped her face, but she didn’t mind; she was filthy and her mouth tasted like pig slop. Then he jumped back to work.

  She listened helplessly as the gunfire grew louder and closer. She tried to help with the wounded but couldn’t do much more than hold their hands and wipe the blood out of their eyes. Then Bohdan had two men swing the tailgate closed. She heard his voice crackle over the radio clipped to her shoulder. “Loading’s done. Head out.” Lorry engines roared awake up the line.

  Bohdan met her halfway to her cab. They fell into another hug. She said, “Come with me.”

  “I can’t. We have to hold them back so the convoy can get out.”

  “No!” She pulled away to glare at him. “You can’t! You have to come, too!”

  “No.” He pulled her close. “You have to get out of this mess. Get on the road, drive like hell. Their artillery can’t target you if you keep moving.” He kissed her. “I love you.”

  “I love you!” She kissed him desperately. He boosted her into the lorry’s cab. She roused the beast, then leaned out the window toward him. “You come back to me!”

  The last time she saw him, he was waving in her side-view mirror.

  The Russians shot at them the moment they cleared the village. The BTR escorting the convoy fired almost nonstop until a rocket blew off its turret. She watched, horrified, as burning men tumbled out and writhed on the ground. Bullets thudded into the sides of her lorry.

  They crashed through Volodarskoho while the Dnipro-2 Battalion streamed fire into a treeline a few hundred meters to the south. Mortar bombs burst on either side of her. She screamed at each explosion until her voice guttered out. A smoky finger reached out from the trees and slammed into the lorry three places ahead of her. It disappeared in a flash and a billow of orange flame. She swerved around the wreck. The driver flailed in the cab, burning. Misha, a friend. She prayed harder than she ever had before and kept the gas pedal flat against the firewall.