Zrada

by Lance Charnes

  Galina says, “I have an idea.”

  Carson says, “We need ideas.”

  “They have their lorries in the trees. Maybe the soldiers on the hill didn’t see them. What if we could get them to notice? They could tell the artillery to blow them up.”

  “And destroy Mashkov’s supplies?” Carson’s heard worse ideas. She’s come up with worse. “How would you do it?”

  “Burn some of the lorries.” Galina’s smile tells Carson she’d like to do this even if it was completely pointless, just to give Mashkov more shit to deal with.

  It’s not pointless now. “Getting shelled is a good distraction. Could be good cover.”

  Rogozhkin says, “Until a round falls short and takes us out.” He leans his elbows on his knees. “It could work, though. Burn the lorries at both ends and the middle so the spotters know where the arc is and how deep it is.”

  Carson groans onto her feet and stretches. “Whatever we do, we do it now. We’re running out of night.”

  “True.” Rogozhkin stands and rearranges the Dragunov across his back. “I have a lighter in my bag. Do either of you?”

  Galina says, “I do.”

  “Right. We do the arson while Tarasenko drives to that electrical station to pick us up.”

  Carson pulls her phone to examine the satellite image. The answer doesn’t fill her with confidence. She grabs Rogozhkin’s arm as he heads toward the car. “You know it’s over half a klick to the other end of the treeline, right?”

  He frowns. “Well, I need the workout.”

  “Can you even run that far? With your leg? If something pops halfway there, we can’t get you out.”

  Rogozhkin stops to let Galina get out of earshot, then closes on Carson. He murmurs, “What do you propose?”

  She takes one more look at the arc of trees. “I’m beat to shit, but my legs still work. Give me your lighter. I’ll burn shit, you drive.”

  His frown becomes a scowl. “What if you get dizzy again?”

  “I’ll deal.”

  “If they catch you, they’ll kill you this time. They’ll do it slowly, too.”

  Like I don’t know that already. “They won’t buy you drinks, either.”

  The steady mechanical whine of small engines working hard grows quickly in the background. Carson and Rogozhkin plunge into the trees. An instant later, two GAZ jeeps slide around a turn and bounce over the railroad tracks, heading for the front gate. Once their noise fades, Carson says, "Bet they know we’re here now.”

  Chapter 53

  They’re soon all ready. Carson and Galina have AKs, cigarette lighters, and two pairs of Galina’s oldest socks each. Rogozhkin has his black PB suppressed pistol he used on the guards, the sniper rifle, and a Russian Vityaz tactical knife. Carson recognizes the Vityaz from the knife work Yurik dragged her through (which she loathed). They stand in an arc around the Octavia’s open driver’s door, glancing at each other, not knowing what to say.

  “Get going,” Rogozhkin almost barks. “Someone will get the bright idea to search the trees.”

  Carson tips her chin at Rogozhkin’s pistol. “Sure that antique won’t blow up in your hand?”

  “Don’t set yourself on fire. And don’t lose my lighter—it was my father’s.”

  Galina and Rogozhkin stare at each other for several beats. She says, “Don’t leave us out there,” then turns and melts into the trees.

  Rogozhkin chuckles. “Progress. She’s talking to me.”

  “Don’t get a big head about it.” Carson follows Galina into the dark.

  They creep through the forest’s edge carefully, trying not to snap branches or flush noisy birds on their way to the nearest trucks, perhaps thirty meters from the car. Galina whispers, “Tarasenko. What’s your given name?”

  Names again. “Why?”

  “You call me ‘Galya,’ but I don’t know what to call you. You said yourself, we have known each other long enough.”

  Carson usually doesn’t tell anyone her real first name. It’s too easy to look up the stories about her being the bent cop, the mole, the traitor, the gangster’s pawn. TPS did a real job on her. But she’s told Galina most of the stories by now. She considers Lisa, her main cover name, but she doesn’t want to lie anymore, not to Galya. So she whispers her actual name.

  Galina says, “That’s pretty.”

  “Like I need a pretty name.”

  “It can’t hurt.” Galina glances at her as her mouth holds in a smile. “Larochka?”

  A diminutive for her name. “Let’s go with Lara.” Another, less little-girl nickname.

  They discover that what looks like a forest is actually a scrim of trees—no more than ten or twenty meters deep—along the rail line. Darkness makes it appear endless. That’s useful; they can walk along the track ballast and not risk running into some soldier or truck driver taking a piss against a tree in the dark. The downside is that they can’t see the trucks or anyone near them.

  After what seems like enough walking, Carson turns into the trees again, then prowls toward the western edge with her rifle ready. She shuffles her feet slowly so she doesn’t break any deadfall or rustle leaves. No lights, no voices, just the man-made thunder ahead of her and the sinister noises wind makes in the forest.

  She steps between two trucks about five meters apart, giant square shadows against the murk of the forest and sky. A few moments later, a light brushing sound and a tap on her shoulder tell her Galina’s arrived. Carson dips her head next to Galina’s and murmurs in her ear. “Check for drivers, then light it up.”

  The truck to her left is full of cartons but empty of people. She unscrews the fuel filler cap and stuffs one of Galina’s socks into the hole, then stands with Rogozhkin’s heavy textured silver lighter clutched in her hand. Here’s where it gets real. They’ve been under the radar until now; once she torches the sock, that’s over.

  She coaxes a flame out of the lighter—it takes three tries—and touches it to the sock’s cuff.

  Galina meets her near the train track. They jog south, trying to stay on weeds and dirt so they don’t draw too much attention to themselves.

  The sound of a very large door slamming at the end of a very long hallway breaks the still. Carson risks a glance behind her. A fireball rolls into the dark sky, lighting the tops of trees all around it. Seconds later, a second crump launches another fireball.

  It’s on.

  Carson picks up speed, checking her GPS every few seconds to see if they’ve reached the halfway point in the arc of forest. The blip never seems to move. Men yell in the dark to her right; an engine coughs to life. Don’t leave yet. We’re not done with you.

  A gunshot behind them. She pivots, runs backward a few steps. Shooting at us? Shooting at shadows? Galina’s also checking behind them, though she has enough sense to watch where she’s going. While it’s easier to move out here, it’s also awfully exposed. Carson’s battered legs can just barely run faster than Galina’s.

  The GPS blip reaches the arc’s midpoint. They swerve at the same time and plunge into the trees, glad for the cover. The first set of trucks Carson reaches brackets two militiamen nervously swinging their rifles toward every sound, real or imagined. She finds Galina—behind the next tree over—then waves her south.

  Four trucks later, they stop at an unattended pair. Carson trots to the one farther south and hops onto the rear bumper to check the cargo bed for any sleepers. It’s stuffed with wooden crates. She risks snapping on the lighter. Stenciling on the crates: 30mm cannon shells.

  Oh, hell yes. This one gets to burn.

  She jumps down and starts for the gas tank, but a harsh psst makes her turn and level her rifle. Galina’s on the other truck’s bumper, waving her over. Carson joins her and looks at the pool of flickering yellow cast by Galina’s lighter.

  More wooden crates, these about a meter and a half long. The first thing that catches Carson’s eye is stenciling that
reads “RPG-26.” “Rocket-propelled grenades?”

  “Yes.” Galina’s eyes glitter in the flame. “We could use these.”

  “For what?”

  “For that armor.” She points toward the road. “I saw these at Ilovaisk. They cut right through the BTRs and BMPs. We need that to get to the other side.”

  Carson looks at her the way she would any other crazy person. “How do we haul these things around? The crates look heavy. We still have to blow up two more trucks.”

  “No crates.” Galina hands Carson the lighter, then swings over the tailgate. She uses a small tactical knife to pry the top off the nearest crate; it sounds like she’s torturing a peacock. Then she hoists two olive-drab tubes a bit less than a meter long by their skinny green shoulder straps. “Here, take these.”

  “We gotta get out of here! Those troopers’ll hear us. Come—”

  More squealing. Galina slings the next two launchers over her shoulder. “Okay, we burn the rest.”

  At least the RPGs weigh only about three kilos each. Carson slings hers over her neck and left shoulder, then jumps to the ground and hustles to the truck full of ammo. She bolts for the railroad tracks the moment she lights the sock in the gas tank—they don’t want to be anywhere near here when this load goes off. The RPG tubes rattle against each other every time she even thinks about moving. So much for stealth.

  It’s awkward and loud to run, but Carson and Galina run. Carson keeps her eyes on her watch. Sixty seconds. Ninety seconds. Bangs like extra-large M80s crackle through the woods. A hundred twenty—

  A volcano erupts behind them.

  The ground jolts under them. Carson stumbles but doesn’t fall. A fiery mushroom cloud boils thirty, forty, fifty meters into the night, lighting everything around them like a slow-motion flashbulb. Shells cook off in groups, sounding like a huge firefight all in one small area.

  Then bam. Bam. BAM. BAMBAMBAM. Popcorn made of explosives. Is that what happens when a truckload of RPGs burns?

  Carson doesn’t want to find out. She grabs Galina’s arm—she’s been cackling and whooping like crazy—and drags her south as fast as they both can move. The noise doesn’t fade; if anything, it gets louder. An entire battle’s going on back there, loud enough to even drown out the artillery fire to the west.

  They run out of forest.

  Men and vehicles race across the open field, dragging their shadows behind them as they near the burning trucks and woods. Several Zils have pulled into the field; BMPs roar into position to guard the area. The electrical substation lies to Carson’s nine o’clock. Firelight glints off its wires and transformers. As they watch, the truck with the RPGs cooks off in a blinding gout of yellow flame and the roar of a meteor strike. The concussion slaps them backward.

  Glowing fuzz speckles Carson’s vision. No, not now. I can’t do this now…

  “Come on!” she yells. No need to sneak around anymore. “That way! Let’s get the last two!”

  They charge across twenty meters of open ground toward the last two trucks in line, which are mostly exposed by the thin trickle of trees.

  The fuzz gets thicker. Carson’s head fills with hot gas and butterflies. She waits for Galina to tear off toward the next-to-last Zil, then braces her palms on her knees and tries to shake the dizzy away. It won’t leave, but it stops growing for a few moments.

  She heads for the truck at the end. Its engine’s running. She checks the cab and finds a militiaman behind the wheel, about to pull out. She automatically hauls herself onto the running board and clubs the man with her rifle butt. He goes face-first into the steering wheel, then sideways into his shoulder harness.

  Carson grips the window frame and the driver’s seatback to keep from ending up on her ass. Tries to breathe deep and slow. Nothing works. She fumbles open the driver’s seatbelt latch, lets him tumble onto the ground. Ends up on her knees, gasping, her gut in a blender.

  “What’s wrong?” Galina’s voice in her ear.

  An arm wraps around Carson’s shoulders. Gotta get out. Gotta hide. She tries to tell Galina but doesn’t know how to say dizzy in Ukrainian, so she uses the godawful long Russian word.

  Galina tsks, then leaves.

  The crackling fires and yelling men and growling armor overwhelm Carson’s few working senses. She finds herself bent double, her forehead pressed into the cool dirt, desperately trying to puke and not able to.

  Galina returns after several hour-long seconds. She tries to drag Carson upright but can’t. “Get up!” she shrieks. “We have to go! The lorries will explode any time!”

  Yeah. Trucks. Explosions. Carson staggers onto her feet, then crashes to her knees. Tries again. Galina gets in front of her and takes Carson’s whole weight on her left shoulder, wobbling but not falling. Left foot forward. Right. Tiny clear areas in her vision: the substation’s a little closer. She manages a few more steps.

  Wham. Yellow-white glare pastes their shadows to the ground ahead of them. The slap of a concussion knocks them both flat.

  When Carson looks up, what little she can see is filled by a BMP clanking straight for her.

  Chapter 54

  Rogozhkin covers in the dark behind a tree a couple of meters from the Octavia. Which will come first: incoming fires behind him, or militia guards in front of him? Either way, things will get hot soon.

  He follows the women’s progress by the noise they cause: two explosions of the sort he expects from large petrol tanks igniting, then two cataclysms that vibrate the ground under his feet. Now men and vehicles fill the air behind him with their racket. It’s good that the women stirred things up; it’s bad that he can’t hear the approach of the guards anymore.

  Voices in front of him. Sounds, not words. Three? No, four men. Unless they’re blind, they’ll certainly see the Octavia when they get close enough.

  There should be two more blasts. Where are they? What happened to the women?

  The first intelligible words from the approaching guards: “Look over there.”

  Rogozhkin switches from long, deep breaths to shallow, silent ones. He’ll have one chance to catch these muzhlany unaware. The last thing he wants is a firefight; he misses his ballistic vest like a lost lover.

  He sees them before he can hear them, thanks to the racket beyond the trees. At least they can’t hear any better. Two targets appear on each side of the car, rifles ready, uselessly sweeping the darkness in front of them. He’ll deal with the two on the passenger’s side first.

  One stage-whispers, “Isn’t this the car they told us about?”

  “Yeah. The spies and the deserter.”

  Spies? Deserter? Technically he’s only absent without leave now; he won’t be a deserter until he crosses the contact line. Calling the women “spies” is a bit of a reach.

  A target shines an unfiltered penlight into the driver’s window. Bad choice: it’ll wreck his night vision. Rogozhkin shifts focus to the nearer two, whose heads swivel here and there as if they’re looking for werewolves.

  Here’s your werewolf.

  He aims the suppressed PB pistol past the target at the right-front tire, then fires one shot. Phut. The target near the right-rear door crumples, but his rifle clunks against the car on his way down. The other three instantly snap alert. Damn.

  Crump. Crump. The last two lorries explode at the field’s far end.

  “What was that?” a target yelps.

  The target by the right-front tire spins almost a full circle. “Yuri? Where are you?”

  Phut. He’s down.

  The target by the car’s nose watches his buddy collapse. He sprays the trees in front of him with his AK. The rattle of his rifle covers the phut of Rogozhkin’s pistol and even the clang of the man’s helmet hitting the car’s bonnet as he falls.

  The fourth target—previously near the driver’s door—is now under cover. Rogozhkin curses silently as he scrambles in a crouch toward the Octavia’s rear end. The last tar
get’s fixated on the trees ahead of the car; that’s where the shots will have seemed to have come from. Rogozhkin’s got two things in his favor: the outside noise has rendered them both essentially deaf; and, he’s been fighting in the dark for years, while the brigade’s occasional night maneuvers were more slapstick than skill.

  The target fires bursts into the trees. First ahead of him, then across the bonnet.

  Typical panic reaction. Rogozhkin covers behind some shrubs at the car’s rear. Train them not to, but they still do it. Bullets spray him with bark and chunks of sapwood. While the target shreds the foliage off the driver’s side of the car, Rogozhkin shifts to a position behind a tree that gives him a full view of the prone target. Aims. He’ll wait until the kid gets into a crouch to fire across the bonnet again, which he’s sure to do. They always go in a circle.

  The target twists and riddles Rogozhkin’s tree.

  Rogozhkin’s flat on his back, clutching his right hip, gritting his teeth so he doesn’t make a sound. He lets his brain cycle through a long string of curses, just to get the trash out of the way so he can think. The mine in Kosovo didn’t hurt as much initially—he was immediately unconscious after that—but this is up there with the round he took through his right lung in Afghanistan.

  Inventory. He can breathe. He can move his right leg, though it doesn’t feel good to do it. He can sit up. There’s no arterial flow, so he won’t bleed out quickly. You won’t die yet. Finish what you started.

  He leans against the shredded tree trunk, aims at the last target. Phut. The man bounces off the car’s left-front wing, then collapses.

  Rogozhkin takes a moment to catch his breath and blink away the tears from the pain. Good thing I know where my wound kit is.

  High above him, a high-pitched whistle plummets from the sky.

  The BMP’s turret-mounted machinegun opens up. Its jackhammer rattle cuts through the growing chaos of noise.

  Bullets whiz over Carson like demented, supersonic mosquitos. Her vision’s slowly clearing, but her head is still mostly a vacuum. Someone’s yanking her arm.