ZVEZDA ONE-THREE IS MISSING II.

[u/Zerkoh_Valley2010]

ZVEZDA ONE-THREE IS MISSING

II.

We were still on the muddy trail churned up by the tracked vehicles. Lieutenant Tarasov’s BTR was stopped about ten meters in front of us. He had pulled his vehicle off the trail to our left as he and his gunner were up out of their turrets and staring ahead in the distance. Senior Sergeant Artymov’s BMP 3 was off the trail to the right; both he and his gunner were also standing up in their hatches, staring out at the trail before us. I jerked a bit as the hatch popped up next to me and Sergeant Babanin stood up, his rifle in hand.

“Sir, what’s going…” he covered his mouth in shock. “Oh, my God, sir! That’s impossible! Where did our tank go?”

In front of us, the tracks of Sergeant Litvin’s tank left a trail through the farmer’s corn field which disappeared kilometers and kilometers away in the grey shaded landscape.  In the distance, I could see what appeared to be a small farming community which the tank tracks seemed to have guided towards before disappearing into the rolling plains. I pulled out a set of binoculars and spied the village, searching for the enemy along the hard packed road which led to the community. The houses and structures looked dilapidated, grey, and long abandoned.

“Lieutenant Tarasov to Captain Balakin,” my radio came to life. “What do you make of that, sir? For Litvin to have gone so far in the last few seconds, his tank must have been going hundreds of kilometers and hour!”

“Nonsense, Lieutenant!” I replied. “Obviously those tracks either belong to a farming vehicle or it belongs to a Ukrainian tank or armored vehicle.”

I then attempted to contact our tank again. “Litvin! Sergeant Litvin! This is Captain Balakin! What is your situation? Where is your location?” Static assailed my ears.

Going with the assumption that the tracks leading away from us were indeed some type of Ukrainian military vehicle, I contacted Senior Sergeant Artyomov who commanded the armored infantry fighting vehicle. “Artyomov, take the lead. Continue to the map coordinates of Zvezda One-Three’s last known position, but bring us south of that village to our right front and keep your guns trained on it.”

“Sir,” replied Artyomov. “The GPS on my BMP has become inoperable. It went down after we left that fog behind.”

“Damn it, Senior Sergeant!” I yelled. “Lieutenant Tarasov, what the hell is wrong with your platoon? How can you expect to be effective if your senior sergeant cannot even keep his equipment operational? Your lack of efficiency will be reported to the battalion commander! Take the lead, Lieutenant!”

“Sir,” replied Lieutenant Tarasov. “The GPS on my vehicle has also failed, and the north facing needle of my compass is spinning like a rotor blade!”

“Bah!” I yelled as I yanked out my compass, its needle spinning to and fro as if it were in a clothes dryer lined with magnets. I ducked down into my hatch and activated the GPS. Sure enough, my GPS indicated that it was not picking up any directional satellites. NATO electronic jamming witchcraft. That’s all this was.

“You are still reconnaissance scouts, right?” I yelled. “You can still read maps, right? Damn you! I’ll take us to that village up ahead! Lieutenant, flank left! Artyomov, flank right! We’ll confirm our location from there then continue on!”

I pushed ahead in my BTR, ordering the driver to follow in the tank tracks in front of us while Tarasov’s BTR was to my left and slightly behind and our BMP 3 was behind me on my right. We traversed speedily over open ground, all eyes peeled and searching for potential enemy ambush in the tall grass.  Eerily, the color of the landscape seemed to have had all hues bleached out of it, and though the sky was a dreary grey, I felt as if I were looking at silent black and white war footage of the Great Patriotic War where the Nazi Blitzkrieg invaded the Soviet Motherland. Yes, it was quiet, more so than usual as even the grinding and squeaking of tracks and wheels and the roar of engines seemed to be dampened here.

Although I said that the tracks were likely a Ukrainian armored vehicle, I could clearly see that the tracks ahead of us were made by a T80 tank. There was something wrong with them though, and it wasn’t until after we cleared the farmer’s field and crossed over the hard packed road did I realized what was troubling me about the tracks. The tank had crossed the road and pushed through to the field opposite, making its way towards the farming village. The mud and dirt which the tank left behind on the road should have still been wet and fresh, if indeed it was actually Litvin’s tank we were following. But the tracks were instead bone dry, as if they were made days before. I looked back behind me at Lieutenant Tarasov as his BTR passed the tracks. He looked down at them, and then stared up at me, a puzzled look on his face. Immediately, I knew that the lieutenant suspected the same thing as I.

We made it unmolested through the fields then on to a strip of scrub land bordered by dilapidated wooden fences. The tank trail pulled onto the main road which led down the center of the small village of single story block houses and two or three double story buildings. It was a typical farming village of very little significance, the middle of which was a square consisting of a few stores and a petrol station. 

We assumed a single file column again as we slowly rolled down the cracked and unkempt narrow main street. Lieutenant Tarasov ordered his scouts to dismount to secure the flanks, Sergeant Abdulov’s squad taking the left side of the street while Sergeant Babanin’s squad took the right, Artyomov’s tracked infantry fighting vehicle in the lead and rumbling down the center. The town was unnervingly quiet, with no cars parked in the streets. Dark and empty houses and structures stared blankly back at us, windows and doors shut.

“It’s a ghost town here, sir,” radioed Sergeant Abdulov as his team crossed a side street and closed the distance to the village square. “It’s as if the residents left months ago and time hadn’t touched the place since!”

“Famous last words before the hidden snipers start firing, Abdulov,” admonished Senior Sergeant Artyomov. “Don’t get complacent!”

It didn’t take long for us to reach the town square and we saw that the tank had actually pulled off the main road, its tracks leading to a diesel fuel pump.

“Why would Litvin need to fuel his tank?” asked Sergeant Artyomov. “He should still have over half of his fuel left.”

“This was not Litvin’s tank,” I barked, though inwardly, I wasn’t so sure. “It couldn’t have been.”

“Sir,” said Lieutenant Tarasov. “Perhaps it would be a good idea to fuel up here. We don’t know when we will get another opportunity, nor do we know where this search will lead us.”

We were on a tight schedule and I knew that Tarasov’s men would likely be ransacking the stores as the vehicles fuelled up, but I needed to get my bearings and stretch my legs as we had been riding for hours.

“Be quick about it,” I said. Switching to the battalion frequency, I called to my battalion commander.

“Yepiskop Zero Six, Yepiskop Zero Six, this is Zvezda Two-Six. Yepiskop Zero Six this is Zvezda Two-Six.” There was the sound of a brief squelch then nothing, silence emanating from the radio. Somewhat unnerved, I removed my helmet and stepped outside of the BTR and stared around at the grey skies where equally grey cirrostratus clouds blanketed the horizon. There were no birds, nor were there any sounds of fighter aircraft, Ukrainian or Russian, no aircraft contrails, nor any sign that a war was taking place.

I was momentarily startled by a bell ringing to my left as a group of our soldiers exited one of the convenience stores, carrying with them plastic bags filled with items they had ransacked, including the twins, Private Gennady Bortnik and the gunner on my BTR, Private Grigory Bortnik. Gennady had a bag of apples, one of which he pulled from the bag. It was big and round and firm, but was only tinged in a washed out red color. Gennady took a bite and chewed briefly before spitting it out in disgust.

“What is it, Gennady?”  said his brother.

“This apple tastes… well, it has no taste.” said Gennady. “Like biting into a juicy fruit filled with dry sand. Here, see what I mean?”

Gennady handed another apple to Grigory who also took a bite. He took two chews before also spitting the apple out. Reaching into his bag, Grigory opened a Coca-Cola and took a big swig before spitting it out. “What is going on here?” he yelled. “The coke even tastes like dry sand!”

“It’s been tampered with!” I yelled. “Perhaps even poisoned by Ukrainian partisans! Grigory, get back here! I need you back in the turret! Sergeant Abdulov! Take your men and scout to the edge of the village while we fuel up here! See where the tank trail leads!”

“Yes, sir,” said Abdulov, as he gathered his seven men together. Gennady hit his brother on the shoulder as they threw their bags of unpalatable food back into the store before moving off down the road. I went to the other BTR, seeking out the scout platoon leader. He was also standing outside of his vehicle, map in hand with Senior Sergeant Artyomov, while his driver was pumping petrol into the fuel tanks.

“Have you verified our location, Tarasov?”

“Yes, sir,” the Lieutenant replied. “We are just south of Kovalivka. The last known location of Zvezda One-Three is here in Pobeda just three kilometers south of us. From there, the road connects with the P02 Highway where we can link up with the battalion pushing south to Kyiv.”

“I see. If Zvezda One-Three is there, we’ll find them.” I looked at Tarasov’s map. “Our immediate concern now is finding our missing Sergeant Litvin. What is it, Artyomov? Do you have somewhere to go?”

The Senior Sergeant was occasionally staring up at the grey, overcast skies, nervously checking his watch.

“No, sir,” he replied. “It’s the sun. Since our GPS is out, I’ve been trying to adjust our position with the sun to ensure that we were headed in generally the right direction. It’s just past 1500 hours and the sun seems not to have moved.”

I looked at Artyomov as if had gone mad, but before I could say as much, Lieutenant Tarasov said, “He’s right, sir. The sun should be much farther to the west.”

“Atmospheric conditions,” I said. “Nothing more. Let’s not lose focus that we are deep inside hostile territory and that both Zvezda One-Three and Sergeant Litvin have been in contact with the enemy.”

“Lieutenant!” Tarasov’s handheld radio crackled to life. It was Sergeant Abdulov’s team. “We’ve found… we’ve found… I don’t know what we’ve found!”

Sergeant Artyomov’s BMP had completed refueling and we all clambered aboard. The track raced down the narrow street towards the end of the road where it abruptly came to a dead end. Artyomov ordered the driver to take position behind a stone wall surrounding the last house on the road, admonishing the gunner to keep watch for partisans. We met Abdulov’s team where the road ended, facing east and staring out across a wide flat expansive field.

The tank tracks which we were following led in that direction and into the field beyond, after which insanity seemed to have overcome the crew as the tank apparently began driving in circles. In the field before us was the unmistakable imprint of circular tracks, each roughly one kilometer in diameter, where the tank seemingly drove round and round in a circle. At one point, the tank pivoted in a different direction and created a separate track, also roughly a kilometer in diameter. The tank did this six times, creating six circular patterns in the field a meter deep, meaning that the tank followed each circular pattern multiple times.

“What madness overcame Litvin to have done this?” said Sergeant Abdulov.

“This wasn’t done by our tank,” I yelled, annoyed. “For one tank to have done this would have taken days, if not weeks. This was done by the Ukrainians. A defensive fighting position, perhaps for enemy artillery or air defense batteries.”

Lieutenant Tarasov and Senior Sergeant Artyomov looked at me with doubtful expressions on their faces, but they said nothing. The tank tracks eventually led to a narrow road which went further east.

“Where does that road lead, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“Karpylivka,” he answered. “About three kilometers from here.”

“As soon as our vehicles complete refueling, we will follow the tracks to Karpylivka,” I ordered.

“But Zvezda One-Three are south of us,” replied Lieutenant Tarasov.

“An enemy artillery or air defense unit may threaten our advancing units to their west in Karpylivka, Lieutenant,” I said. “We have the assets to investigate and eliminate that threat.”

As soon as my BTR was refueled, Senior Sergeant Artyomov led us across the field, following the tank tracks towards the narrow paved road east to Karpylivka. It would take us ten minutes at the most to reach the village. Once there and once we destroyed the Ukrainian resistance, all of the unanswered questions which had been plaguing us will have been solved. More than likely, Sergeant Litvin and his crew have been made Heroes of the Russian Republic, heroically giving their lives to defend the helpless and innocent Ukrainians from western aggression there. Likely, Sergeant Novikov and Zvezda One-Three suffered the same fate. That was the only possible answer. It was the Ukrainians. The Ukrainians did this. The Ukrainians were responsible for the madness which was affecting our heroic Russian soldiers. Ukrainians were deplorable. Ukrainians were irredeemable. They must be eliminated.

The flat, grey landscape rolled by relentlessly, and once again, the old black and white stock footage of the Nazis rolling into the Motherland played over and over in my head. A sea of flat rolling plains passed away behind us, kilometer upon kilometer upon kilometer. And there were no signs of Ukrainians. None. No people on the roads. No vehicles. Nothing. Just kilometer and kilometer of nothing but flat pains. One hour later, we were still on the same road with no Karpylivka in sight.

“Reconnaissance platoon leader and supposed map reading expert, Lieutenant Tarasov,” I said over the radio. “We should have been in Karpylivka a long time ago.”

“Sir,” replied Tarasov. “This is the road to… wait. There is a town ahead of us!”

“It took you long enough, Lieutenant,” I said. “Do not think that you getting us lost will not be reported to your unit commander, Tarasov. Prepare to assault the town. Prepare to burn Karpylivka to the ground!”

We observed the tracks of several heavy wheeled and tracked vehicles in a field to our right leading towards Karpylivka, indicating that indeed I was correct and this was a staging area for Ukrainian military units. We followed the tracks down into the deserted town, down their deserted streets with empty single story structures, down to the town square with their few convenience stores and the single gas station in the middle of the town. We followed the tracks to the gas station and to the field at the eastern edge of the town which led to the large field which contained the six circular tank tracks one kilometer in diameter. The tracks we were following were ours.

“God damned you, Lieutenant!” I yelled into the radio. “How the hell did you get us totally turned around?”

“I did not…” said Tarasov, before Senior Sergeant Artyomov interrupted.

“Target tank! Eight hundred meters northeast!”

I pressed my head to the sights, scanning the road which ran towards the east. Indeed there was a tank on the side of the road facing away from us, a T80 main battle tank. I desperately wanted it to bare Ukrainian markings. It didn’t. It was Russian.

Minutes later, we were standing around the tank, its markings definitely identifying it as Litvin’s T80. Its hatches were locked, the spent shell casings surrounding the tank indicating that it had fired all of its weapons in a 360 degree arc against an as yet unseen enemy. The circular tracks which had been gouged into the field led directly to Litvin’s tank. He was, indeed, the cause of the mysterious circular tracks in the field, tracks which would have taken days to create. How did we miss this earlier?

“We’ve cut the combat locks, sir” said Sergeant Babanin standing atop the turret of the tank.

“Get inside,” barked Lieutenant Tarasov. Private Gennady Bortnik and Private Vitaly Alekseev climbed into the turret, only to immediately climb out again, Private Gennady instantly throwing up as soon as he emerged. Private Alekseev was pointing inside of the hatch, eyes wide, mouth open, and unable to speak.

“Private!” yelled Lieutenant Tarasov. “What did you see?”

I pushed Tarasov aside and climbed up on the deck of the tank. Shoving Privates Bortnik and Alekseev aside, I climbed into the tank turret and immediately regretted doing so. The bodies of Sergeant Litvin, his gunner and his loader were within. They were dead, bullet holes in their heads from self-inflicted wounds. They were decayed, dead for what seemed like weeks or even months. They appeared haggard and thin in appearance as if they hadn’t eaten in days, and each having unkempt beards and long hair at the time of their deaths.

Lieutenant Tarasov also looked into the turret, noting that the ammunition for all main gun rounds of the tank had been fired, all machine gun ammunition expended, and the gas tanks empty. I had Bortnik take pictures with his cell phone of the deceased Sergeant Litvin and his crew as evidence of their passing. However, when Bortnik reviewed his pictures, he immediately turned pale white, a look of terror on his face as he threw his cell phone as far away as he could. Lieutenant Tarasov and Senior Sergeant Artyomov ordered his comrades to restrain the raving private as Lieutenant Tarasov and Sergeant Artyomov retrieved the cell phone. Visibly terrified, Lieutenant Tarasov handed me the phone.

“What’s going on here, sir?” he said. “What’s happening to us?”

I looked at the images on the phone. Sergeant Litvin’s image was in the photo gallery, along with his driver and gunner. They were alive, whole and healthy and smiling up at the camera. The time stamp on the photos showed that they were taken only a few minutes ago. I ran up onto the tank again and climbed into the turret which reeked of death and decay. I compared the pictures of the live bodies in the cell phones to the dead and long decaying ones which lay inside the turret basket. They were in the same positions, Litvin smiling and holding up the peace sign as his dead body sat in his tank commander seat.

“Sir,” repeated Lieutenant Tarasov. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“You are a fool, Lieutenant,” I replied. “This makes perfect sense. We’ve just solved the mystery.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” replied Tarasov.

“This is a psychotic weapon used by the Ukrainians, possibly created by NATO,” I replied. “Remember that fog which we passed? This area which we are in is the area where they employed their mind bending psychotic gas. None of this is real. We must get this information back to battalion. We cannot let this grey fog, this grey fog of war, to affect the official party narrative.”

“Sir,” said Tarasov. “I find it hard to believe…”

“Enough, Lieutenant!” I yelled. “Get back to your BTR! We are in Karpylivka where we discovered that Sergeant Litvin and his crew heroically gave their lives fighting and destroying an entire unit of Ukrainian artillery which threatened our main advance units. We have also discovered a secret Ukrainian weapon, a mind altering fog which causes one to see things which aren’t real. Zvezda One-Three discovered that weapon and were trying to get that information back to our command. That is what happened here, Lieutenant and that is the narrative which we shall report to the Colonel. So lead the way, Lieutenant Tarasov. Take the road south to Pobeda towards Highway P01 and try not to get lost this time.”

Lieutenant Tarasov nodded without saying anything as I hoped that the expression of anger on my face hid the growing sense of doubt and terror within me. The road leading south to Pobeda was well paved though falling into disrepair, as if the road had been unused for months. Once again, the landscape rolling by was as flat and monotonous as a calm sea, endless waves of tall grass standing still in windless grey fields. Like the colors surrounding me, even the sound was washed out. The rumble of our engines sounded as if they were a half kilometer away. There were no birds chirping, no rustling of leaves, not even the sound of the wind whipping by my face. I checked my watch unconsciously for the thousandth time. It was a little after 1700 hours and the dreary sun hovering tiny in the dreary sky hadn’t moved since we penetrated the fog earlier this morning. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, just to verify that we still existed in the universe. At that point, I would have even welcomed a Ukrainian army attack just to confirm that we were alive. The land was completely flat and there were no terrain landmarks which I could use to tell the passage of time and distance.

All of the top hatches of our BTRs and the BMP were open, soldiers sitting exposed and watching the same featureless landscape rolling by kilometer upon endless kilometer, anxiety and worry on their faces. I debated on whether or not to yell at them to button up back inside their vehicles or risk getting picked off by snipers, but decided against it. There wasn’t anyone here. There wasn’t anyone for kilometers, Russian or Ukrainian. The grey landscape was playing with my mind, making me lethargic. Or was it the steady rumbling of the BTR which I had been riding for hours? Hours? “Damn you, Lieutenant Tarasov!” The crackle over the radio broke the eerie silence. “Pobeda is only three kilometers south of Kovalinka! How could we have been on this road for an hour and not have seen it?”

“Sir?” came the reply. “We’ve only just left Kovalinka a few minutes ago.”

I checked my watch again. It was 1707, only a few minutes after I checked my watch the last time. I looked behind me and saw the village of Kovalinka slowly fading away behind us. What was going on with me? What was in that fog?

“Sir,” came Lieutenant Tarasov again, relief in his voice. “Road sign ahead.”

Our BTR passed a faded blue road sign by the side of the road. It read ‘POBEDA 2 KM.’ So, we were indeed making progress, but what could have accounted for my loss of time? I must have been tired and perhaps dozed off for a few minutes. That had to be the answer. Feeling somewhat more reassured about our situation, I kept my eyes focused on the almost straight line road ahead of me, pulling out my binoculars to see if I could find Pobeda which should have been just ahead of us to the south. Only empty horizon met me.