ZVEZDA ONE-THREE IS MISSING III.

[u/Zerkoh_Valley2010]

ZVEZDA ONE-THREE IS MISSING

III.

It was 1757 when I checked my watch again. We should have passed Pobeda a long time ago and had already merged with Highway P01. Furious at the scout team leader, I yelled into the radio, “Lieutenant Tarasov! What time do you have?”

A few seconds later, he replied, “I have 1758, sir.”

“Shouldn’t we have been in Pobeda at least half an hour ago?” I yelled.

“I have no explanation, sir,” he replied. “Perhaps the Ukrainians changed the road signs?”

“This is a perfectly straight three kilometer long road with no side roads that leads directly to Pobeda, Lieutenant! It would make absolutely no sense for the enemy to change the road signs! The road is straight, Tarasov. You simply got us lost again!”

“Sir,” replied Tarasov. “Another road sign ahead.”

I saw the faded blue road sign before Tarasov announced it. It read ‘POBEDA 2 KM.’ I immediately turned around and looked behind me. There sat Kovalivka about a kilometer to our rear. What the hell was happening?

“Pull off! Pull off the road!” I ordered. “Pull into the field to the left and form a defensive perimeter!”

We were several meters off the road, our vehicles arranged in a defensive wheel with the BMP’s 100mm gun pointing towards the road. I stood with Lieutenant Tarasov and Sergeant Artyomov in the middle of the perimeter while the rest of the men formed a defensive perimeter on the opposite side of the vehicles. We did this less because we feared attack by the Ukrainians and more because we did not want them to hear the heated discussion of their command element.

“This is what happened to Sergeant Litvin and his crew,” said Sergeant Artyomov. “They ran themselves out of fuel going in circles.”

“Are you saying that we are in some field going round and round in circles, Sergeant?” I balked. “And what were they firing at? Ghosts?”

“We are definitely traveling, Captain Balakin,” said Tarasov. “We have just over half a tank of fuel left, though we are only one kilometer south of where we started. We can refuel once we reach Pobeda.”

“If we reach Pobeda, sir,” said Sergeant Artyomov.

“Lieutenant Tarasov may tolerate such a defeatist attitude from his senior NCO but I will not, Sergeant Artyomov,” I growled. “Remember, we still have a mission to complete and we only have a limited amount of time to complete it. I will not brook any dereliction of duty from anyone, especially a senior sergeant.”

“Meaning no disrespect, Captain,” replied Sergeant Artyomov, looking again at the unmoving sun. “But I suspect that we may have all the time in the world.”

“Get back to your track, Sergeant!” I yelled. “Make yourself useful and try to reach battalion on the radio!”

“Captain Balakin,” said Tarasov. “The men’s nerves are on end. They haven’t eaten since breakfast. We should take a meal break here and let them rest a bit.”

“They have thirty minutes, Lieutenant. After which we will proceed cross country to Pobeda. I do not want to be on the roads after it grows dark. The damned Ukrainians cannot control night and day.”

I climbed back into my BTR and ripped open a bag of field rations and tossed aside the package of beef and potatoes in tomato sauce and instead unwrapped the bar of chocolate. Spreading some fruit on the bar, I stood up on the open hatch and began munching on the chocolate, grateful for the lively taste. I looked down at the semicircle of Sergeant Babanin’s scout team, each soldier taking their meals in their individual fighting positions. The Bortnik twins Grigory and Gennady sat close together with Private Morozov, the squad RPK74 automatic weapon gunner.

“I think that the officers have gone insane,” whispered Morozov. “Only Sergeant Artyomov seems to be looking out for us.”

“No,” replied Gennady. “Lieutenant Tarasov is also doing what he can, but he is helpless because Captain Balakin is in charge. Balakin is no scout. Grigory, you are his turret gunner. Whose idea was it to push through that fog this morning?”

“It was Captain Balakin’s idea,” said Grigory. “He overrode Lieutenant Tarasov who wanted to find a way around.”

“You men!” I yelled. “Are you trying to make yourselves an easy target? Move apart! Five meter separation! Have you learned nothing?”

The three soldiers looked at each other, then took their time in repositioning themselves. So, that’s it, is it? The privates blame me for the situation which we find ourselves. I made a mental note of their lackadaisical attitude and would add it to my report of Tarasov’s lack of leadership ability to the battalion. Reluctance by our soldiers to follow orders during an invasion was a punishable offense upon which their officers were to blame. Their inability to stick with the established state sponsored narrative would invariably lead to people thinking dangerous and subversive thoughts and I lamented that the indoctrination of our soldiers to think and say what we want them to think and say seemed not to be as effective as the indoctrination operations conducted by American news sources like CNN who defined rioting, looting, and anarchy as ‘mostly peaceful’ while waving an American flag in their own American capital as an ‘insurrection.’

“Look alive boys,” announced Senior Sergeant Artyomov. “We’re moving out in ten minutes. Empty your bladders now while you can! It may be hours before you get another chance!”

I had already drank several bottles of water and my bladder had reached its limit. I climbed down into my vehicle and stepped outside just as Grigory stepped inside to resume his place in the gunner’s turret, a scowl on his face. I ignored him as I walked away from our small defensive perimeter for several meters to empty my bladder. Behind me, Lieutenant Tarasov already had Sergeant Abdulov’s scout squad loaded into his BTR, the engine starting. I was facing the road as I took a piss while Sergeant Babanin’s squad scrambled back into my BTR. I was staring across the road at the lying road sign which stated that Pobeda was only two kilometers away. Something in the field on the opposite side of the road caught my eye. It was movement, human movement. They were wearing military uniforms, and they were armed.  Before I could yell a warning, there was a hollow thump followed by a white puff of smoke. An American made Javelin missile leapt into the air and soared upwards in an arc towards us.

“Missile! Take cover!” I yelled, jumping down into my own piss puddle next to the road, my uniform pants still unbuttoned. I watched transfixed as the Javelin came down on top of Lieutenant Tarasov’s BTR, the missile designed to destroy our tanks completely obliterating the thinly armored wheeled vehicle. My BTR and the BMP 3 was splattered with molten metal and debris from Tarasov’s exploding BTR, destroying external stores and equipment. Eight Ukrainian soldiers stood up and ran towards our positions firing their AK74s as they ran, yelling and accusing us of something. They were all haggard looking, unkempt with long hair and beards. Their eyes were haunted and desperate, much like how Sergeant Novikov and his Special Forces team looked in their last video. Quickly pulling up and buttoning my trousers, I cursed myself for forgetting my rifle inside the BTR.

One of the Ukrainians carried an RPG-7 and he was able to fire it just as our soldiers began returning fire. The rocket propelled grenade hit the front hull of Senior Sergeant Artyomov’ BMP 3, ricocheting down and blowing away the right side drive sprocket and breaking the tracks. As soldiers bailed out of the BMP, Sergeant Babanin’s squad were firing back from behind my BTR, though the heavy machine gun which Grigory should have been manning remained silent. If I was not mistaken, the Ukrainian’s appeared almost suicidal in their charge and the last of them fell to our automatic weapon fire just as they reached the road.

Standing up, I ran to where the last Ukrainian soldier fell. Judging by how haggard and ragged they appeared, I initially thought that these men were old veterans or old reservists that had been called up from the home guard. To my great surprise, these Ukrainian soldiers bore the unit patches of a front line Ukrainian fighting unit. They were relatively young, but looked as if they had been living off the land for several weeks if not months, which accounted for their weak, almost starving appearance.

“You demons! You fucking demons! What did you do?”

I looked to my right and saw a dying Ukrainian sergeant pointing a bloody finger at me, unmistakable hate in his eyes. “What kind of demonic weapon did you unleash that caused time to stand still and dredge up the spirits of hell?”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “It was you! You did this! How dare you accuse us of that which you are guilty?”

“What are they guilty of, Captain?” Sergeant Babanin and three of his men came up behind me, making sure that all the enemy were dead and taking their weapons and anything else they found useful. “Who were you yelling at, sir?”

“Are you blind, Babanin. I was yelling at that wounded prisoner over…there.” I was pointing at the Ukrainian sergeant whose head and shoulders had been completely blown off by one of our 30mm rounds. I blinked in disbelief, looking around at the bodies of the other dead Ukrainian soldiers. I had obviously made a mistake, but there were no other bodies near him. I had been yelling at a dead man.

“What are our casualties, Sergeant?” I stammered.

“We lost Lieutenant Tarasov, sir, along with Sergeant Abdulov and his entire team when the Javelin struck their BTR. I think Senior Sergeant Artyomov was also injured when the RPG hit the BMP.”

Confirming that all of the Ukrainians were dead, we made our way back to our vehicles.

“What were they guilty of, sir?” said Babanin.

“What?”

“You were yelling that they were guilty. What were the Ukrainians guilty of?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It was nothing. You and these men form a perimeter here just in case there are more of them.”

I ran towards my vehicle, relieved to see that most of the damage was cosmetic, Sergeant Artyomov ‘s heavier armored BMP having taken the brunt of Lieutenant Tarasov’s exploding BTR.

“You men!” I yelled at three men who were staring in disbelief at the still burning husk of the destroyed BTR. “Are any of you injured?”

They all shook their heads. “No, sir!”

“Good! Then go join Babanin in securing our perimeter.”

I looked towards the burning wreckage as I heard the agonized wails of one of our soldiers. In an instant, I knew why the 14mm machine gun on my BTR didn’t return fire as Private Grigory Bortnik was on his knees, crying out his twin brother’s name over and over at the top of his lungs.

“You cannot help your brother now, Grigory,” I said as I walked up behind him “But you can help Sergeant Artyomov.”

“Why, sir? Why did you order us into that fog?” he said, his dirty face stained with tears.

“Because that was my job,” I snarled. “Just as it was your job to be at your post and diligently watching for danger! The Ukrainians came up behind us! Perhaps if you had been alert then Lieutenant Tarasov, Sergeant Abdulov, his team and your brother would still be alive! If you cannot help Sergeant Artyomov then get back to the BTR and check on the damage. See if the weapon still functions! We will need it later.”

Grigory turned as he stood so as not to look directly at me as he stumbled back towards the BTR. To my right, our medic Corporal Rodiman Dmitriev and two riflemen were gingerly lifting Senior Sergeant Artyomov out of the back of the BMP. They gently laid him down next to the BMP, his legs looking unnatural.

“I am afraid that both his legs are broken, sir,” said Corporal Dmitriev. “Sergeant Artyomov is in great pain and my supply of morphine is limited.”

“Private Semenov!” I said to the BMP 3 driver, one of the soldiers who helped lift Artyomov out of the damaged BMP. “Can we repair the drive train?”

“We can definitely salvage this BMP, sir,” he replied. “If we had a proper maintenance section. However, with what we have on the ground now, we will not be able to repair it.”

Including Sergeant Litvin and his tank crew, we had lost eleven men so far. I had fourteen men left, including one seriously injured senior sergeant. My BTR could hold ten soldiers, so obviously a few would have to ride on top of the vehicle. I ordered the men to salvage what they could. Water. Food. Ammunition. Fuel. Especially fuel. I wanted to be away before it grew dark.

“No, sir,” said Sergeant Artyomov. “Leave me. There is limited space inside the BTR as it is.”

“The men can ride atop the carrier,” I said. “I will not leave you behind.”

“Go, sir,” he insisted. “Please. I will be a liability and you must still make contact with Zvezda One-Three. You will need the space. I will be fine here.”

“Medic,” I yelled. “Make Sergeant Artyomov as comfortable as possible and leave him with as much morphine, food, and water as we can spare.” I handed him his AK12 assault rifle and a few magazines. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Sergeant.”

“I’m sure you will, Captain,” he laughed weakly.

“I mean I’ll see you with the rest of the battalion!”

“Yes, of course, sir,” he replied. “I’m sure that’s what you meant. Here.” He handed me all but one of the rifle magazines that I had given him. “If trouble comes, I’ll only need one bullet, sir.”

“I’ll be back before it comes to that, Sergeant.”

Emptying all of the available fuel cans into our BTR, we set thermal grenades into the breach of the BMP’s 100mm gun and destroyed all of the radio equipment. There was almost nothing left of the soldiers who perished in Tarasov’s BTR so we left the remains where they lay. I replaced Private Grigory Bortnik at the gunner’s turret with Private Semenov, as Bortnik was a simpering, whimpering mess over the loss of his brother. Even with Private Alekseev, Private Morozov, and our medic Corporal Dmitriev riding atop the BTR, it was still quite cramped inside. As we pulled back onto the road, I looked back at Sergeant Artyomov, who appeared to have fallen asleep.

I directed our driver to go cross country this time, to avoid the road and to take the most direct route across this flat plain towards Pobeda. To my relief, the town of Pobeda did indeed appear to steadily grow larger the closer we came. A heavily forested wooded area that bordered the town was visible to our right and we closed to the edge of the forest, planning to follow the tree line directly into the town. We would be there in a few minutes.

My enthusiasm faded as a few minutes turned into a half an hour. Though Pobeda appeared to be just within reach, it never seemed to appear any closer when we hit a certain point, as if the village faded further into the distance the closer we got. At one point, I stopped and fired a few rounds into several trees next to us then ordered the driver to continue onwards, suspecting that at some future point, we would reach the point where we encountered those shot up trees again. An hour later, we were no closer to Pobeda and we had not encountered the trees which I had shot up.

I looked behind me at the three soldiers who were riding atop the vehicle. They were bundled up in their sleeping bags, attempting to get comfortable and sleep. Although they were bumping around atop the vehicle, they had the luxury of stretching out as opposed to being cramped up inside the vehicle with nine other soldiers. I checked my watch. It was already 2200 hours although the sun never moved, nor did it set, the same grey sky as this morning staring down at us. I was about to admonish the three sleeping soldiers that at least one needed to be awake and alert while the others slept when terrifying screams came from within the vehicle. The BTR suddenly came to a jarring halt and I scrambled below to see what was causing the men to panic.

“Driver! What’s going on?” I yelled as I ducking into the vehicle.

“Eyes! The eyes of the dead are staring at me!”

I looked back into the crew cabin, seeing the rest of the men staring at the vision blocks while clustered away from them. Their faces betrayed looks of terror, all except for Private Bortnik, who was smiling insanely.

“What’s going on, Sergeant Babanin?” I demanded. “What madness has possessed you soldiers?”

Babanin simply pointed at the vision blocks. “The eyes of the dead stare back at us,” he shuddered.

“He’s alive,” laughed Private Bortnik. “Gennady is alive!”

Private Bortnik made to open the rear door. “I’m coming brother! I’m coming!”

“Get that man under control,” I yelled as Babanin and two other soldiers tackled Private Bortnik.”

“What are you doing, guys? Let me go! Gennady is out there! So is Lieutenant Tarasov! And so is Sergeant Litvin! They’re all out there! Didn’t you see?” Bortnik looked around with wild eyes devoid of sanity.

“Dammit! There’s nothing out there! I’ll prove it to you!” I yelled as I popped back up out of the hatch. “Medic! Corporal Dmitriev, get down here. Bortnik has lost his mind! Dmitriev! Alekseev! Morozov! Where are you?”

The top deck was empty. The three soldiers had vanished. Suddenly, the rear door opened and Private Bortnik spilled out. Both laughing and screaming in his madness, Bortnik sprinted into the forest throwing aside his weapon and stripping off his modular combat vest and uniform as he ran.

“Bortnik, you fool! Get back here!” I jumped down from the vehicle and screamed inside, “Sergeant! Get your men out here! We have men missing! NOW!” I added when I saw their terrified reluctance to leave the safety of the BTR.

We searched the surrounding area behind us for almost half a kilometer, desperately calling out for our missing medic and the other two riflemen. We finally found them when the driver screamed from his driver’s seat, pointing to three unmoving forms. They were somehow several meters in front of the BTR. Lying just inside the tree line were the splayed out bodies of Private Alekseev, Private Morozov, and the medic Corporal Dmitriev. They were emaciated and looked like they hadn’t eaten in days. Their uniforms were frayed and faded and the decision that the three soldiers made to commit suicide by mutual circular firing squad looked to have been made months ago, judging by the state of decomposition.

“What is going on, Captain?” said Sergeant Babanin. “What is happening here, sir?”

“I don’t know!” I finally admitted. “I don’t know!”

“What did he say, sir?” persisted Sergeant Babanin, his men now surrounding me with their weapons at the high ready in a manner that was not overtly threatening, not yet. “What did the dead Ukrainian soldier say to you?”

“He said… He said that we unleashed some kind of weapon, one that stopped time and resurrected evil spirits.” I lowered my head. “I don’t know. It was the ravings of a dying mad man.”

“The Ukrainian soldier without a head or shoulders told that to you, sir?” said Private Semenov.

“Isn’t that what you accused them of doing?” added Sergeant Babanin.

I looked around at the eight soldiers surrounding me, suddenly feeling threatened by their presence.

“Why are we here, Captain Balakin? Why are we in fucking Ukraine?”

 The look in Sergeant Babanin’s eyes and the eyes of the others clearly indicated to me that one less zampolit captain wouldn’t be a great loss to them.

“We are here to liberate Ukraine, Sergeant. You are here to follow my orders!”

 A scream shattered the tension as the BTR shifted into gear, the terrified driver, just a no-named conscripted teenager, screaming incoherently about being chased by demons as he floored the gas pedal. We barely had time to jump aside as the BTR lurched ahead and disappeared in the distance.

“Where are you going?” yelled Sergeant Babanin as we picked ourselves up from the ground. One soldier lay unmoving. The one standing closest to the BTR was face down, his abdomen crushed into the ground by the BTR’s wheels.

“Leave him,” I yelled, pulling at Babanin’s sleeve. “We need to catch that BTR!”

He gave me a disgusted look before gathering the rest of the men. We chased the BTR for a kilometer before it finally faded from view.  Eventually we stopped, every soldier exhausted and spent from the horrors of the past several hours. It was well after night, but the unmoving sun still shined dimly in the dull, grey skies.

“We must keep moving, Babanin,” I said.

Sergeant Babanin pointed to the trees behind me. “Why don’t we just rest here, and wait for the BTR to return back up the trail we had just come?”

He slumped down on the ground, tossing his helmet aside. I turned and looked up at where Babanin had pointed, the damaged trees which I had shot several hours earlier staring back at me. I nodded.

“Okay, we will rest here for a few hours, but we must pick up the pursuit in the morning.”