When the engine's rumbling slowly died down, I parked my car in front of the hangar. I grabbed the metal handle of the door, pressed it lightly, and it creaked open. When I stepped inside, I was met with a familiar and equally impressive sight.
A quiet order reigned inside the enormous hangar. Long steel tables were arranged in neat rows, with hundreds of soldiers seated at them... All wearing the same uniform, they spoke quietly, exchanged greetings, and made no movement until orders were given. Some were polishing their boots, others adjusting their weapon straps. Each had been trained and selected by the VDV's ruthless standards. Approximately four hundred people.
Colonel Nikolai Margelov, with his short gray hair, stern gaze, and wrinkle-free uniform, was looking at me intently. The moment our eyes met, he stood up. Then, without hesitation, the entire unit stood up at the same time. The chairs slid back with a metallic hiss. As one, the hands of 400 soldiers went to their foreheads at the same time.
"Salute!" a loud voice rang out from the back rows.
I responded with the same respect. As the echo of my footsteps reverberated with a heavy rhythm on the steel floor, I walked over to Margelov. He gestured to the empty chair next to him. I sat down. The tables were clean, but soon the action began.
Soldiers carrying hot meals began to enter one after another. Steaming boiled meat, mashed potatoes, slices of bread, and canned side dishes were placed on the tables in steel containers. Then came a box of vodka bottles and small glass cups. A glass was placed in front of each soldier. It wasn't a wedding, it wasn't a feast; it was a brief moment of safety in the midst of war.
The food was eaten, conversations began. Some laughed, some talked about old missions. But eyes kept turning to me. Everyone was aware: something would be discussed tonight. They were waiting.
And finally, Margelov slowly stood up. He tapped the table twice with his fingers. The sound resembled a bell. The conversations fell silent one by one. Even the soldier at the back stood up and fell silent.
"Now we can begin speaking, comrade Aleksey Brusilov," he said in a firm tone.
The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to me.
I took a deep breath, turned my face toward Margelov, and began to speak in a loud but controlled voice:
"Near the city of Torzhok, there is an underground facility that once belonged to the KGB. Its old code name was Object 42. It is not just a base. Inside, there is a closed ammunition depot, a medicine storage room, and an archive room. Cold War-era materials. Anti-radiation medications, heavy weaponry, some prototype equipment, and perhaps more. The interior is still intact because I blew up the main entrance. This way, Federov's men won't be able to get inside. At least for now."
Margelov tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes.
"Who is Federov?" he asked briefly.
"I don't know his first name, but his last name is Federov. He's a former marine officer. He turned to banditry after the war. The group he leads now is well-trained, organized, and ruthless. I saw at least one BTR-70 armored personnel carrier in their possession. They have automatic rifles, RPGs, and likely armor-piercing ammunition as well. Their numbers aren't clear, but based on my observations, I estimate there are over fifty of them. And they're currently active around Torzhok."
There was silence. Only the low hum of the distant generator could be heard. I continued speaking:
"The area is strategic. If they take the base, they can cut off all North-Central lines. The logistical advantage will be theirs. But here's my proposal: if you give me military support in this operation, I'll hand over the base to you. You can take some of the people inside. Weapons, medicine, whatever you can find. My only request is this: continued support for Irina's treatment and the allocation of a small base area with the necessary ammunition after the operation. We need time to completely eliminate Federov."
With these words, the atmosphere in the room grew even more serious. Margelov leaned back in his chair. His thumb was on his chin, his elbow on his knee. His eyes were fixed on the floor, but his mind was already wandering among maps, possibilities, and losses.
There was a moment of silence. Then he spoke softly:
"It's difficult, but doable... The fact that the base's door has been blown up is an advantage. If Federov hasn't taken control of what's inside, it's still ours. We can't underestimate the enemy, so we may have to use the armored vehicles we have, even the MI-24 helicopter. After taking the building as part of the operation, we'll deal with Federov. Everyone should be ready to attack in two days. We'll finish them off at midnight."
Everyone shouted "URAAA!!!" at the same time.
I stood up, wiped my hands on my pants, and turned to Margelov.
"That's all from me for today. I hope to see you again tomorrow," I said.
Margelov sat up slightly in his chair and smiled.
"Take care, son, see you tomorrow. Be careful," he said.
He touched my shoulder lightly. Then I turned and walked out of the hangar with heavy but determined steps. The open night sky was above me, and the air had grown cool. A faint moonlight stretched my shadow across the concrete floor. I opened the car door, sat down in the seat, and started the engine.
As I set off, a small shop with dim lights caught my attention on a corner of the city's worn-out streets: a pastry shop. It was a nostalgic thing in this world… I stopped. Maybe that night could be saved not just by vodka, but also by something sweet. I pulled the car over, turned off the engine, and went inside.
The bell above the door rang quietly. Inside, it was warmer than I had expected. The scent of freshly baked pastries—a mix of butter, cinnamon, walnuts, and caramelized sugar—filled the air. Behind the counter, an old woman was shaping the dough with a spoon, while a young girl carefully placed them into the wood-fired oven.
I scanned the sweets displayed on the counter. Cookies, pastries, cakes… but my eye was drawn to one in particular: round cakes filled with condensed milk and covered in dark chocolate. They seemed like a luxury from days gone by.
I took four pistol bullets from the inner pocket of my jacket and placed them on the counter.
The old woman shook her head. She silently took four cakes and placed them in a small, brown paper bag. I thanked her and left.
I returned to the car, started the engine again, and continued on my way to the hospital. I drove through the dark streets. Several areas along the way were darkened; power outages were intermittently engulfing the city. But the hospital was still standing, like a castle with its yellow, dim lights.
I parked in front of the entrance. I turned off the engine and got out of the car. I walked quietly through the lobby; the security guard was busy with his files and didn't even look up. I walked down the corridor to Irina's room.
I opened the door slowly and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, with only a faint glow coming from the small lamp by her bedside. Irina was still asleep. Her pale face was buried in the pillow, with a few damp strands of hair stuck to her forehead. The steady hum of the monitors gave the room a steady rhythm—a sign that life was still flowing within her.
I slowly opened the paper bag in my hand. I carefully took out one of the cakes and placed the other three on the metal table by her bedside. I paused for a moment before taking a bite, staring at the cake.
I ate slowly and left the room. I closed the door quietly. As I returned to the dimly lit corridor, my footsteps echoed in a weary rhythm. I left the hospital, went to the car, sat down in the seat, and turned the ignition. The engine started with a click, and I set off. Night had fallen. The sky was cloudy, and even the moon was not visible. Most of the streetlights were not working. I moved slowly through the dark streets of the city.
I needed a place to stay for the night. After a long drive, as I approached the city center, a small tavern with an old sign and peeling paint on its walls caught my attention. The sign read "HOTEL-TAVERN" in faded red letters. I parked in the empty space on the side street and got out of the car.
The tavern was dimly lit, but the air inside was warm. The wooden walls, the smell of old vodka and tobacco spreading across the damp floor... As I stepped inside, a few people turned their heads to look at me, then lost interest. In the corner of the bar sat a middle-aged man with a stern face. The thick woolen coat he wore seemed to carry the weariness of the years.
I approached him with heavy steps, looking directly at him as I began to speak:
"Hello, give me a room for the night."
The man remained silent for a few seconds. Then he nodded, took an old room key from the lower shelf, and placed it on the table. In response, I took 30 pistol bullets from the inner pocket of my jacket and laid them out in front of him one by one. Each one clattered onto the table with a metallic clink. The man knew how many there were without counting them; he put the bullets in his pocket.
I took the key and headed toward the stairs. Each step echoed as the wooden steps creaked. On the second floor, I reached the room at the end of the corridor. I turned the key and opened the door.
The room was clean but simple. There was a bed, a small table, a single-door wardrobe, and a narrow bathroom in the left corner.
I closed the door, took the gun sling off my shoulder, and leaned the AN-94 against the wall. Walking toward the table, I carefully placed my pistol, my bag, the spare magazines in my pockets, my steel vest, and the helmet on my head. They all lay there like a pile of metal fatigue.
I entered the bathroom. I turned on the faucet, and after a few seconds, hot water began to flow. Steam quickly filled the small space. I slowly removed my clothes and lowered my head under the water. Dirt, sweat, and dust… it all seemed to be washing away, but the fatigue inside me remained.
Half an hour later, I dried off and lay down on the bed. The moment my back touched the bed, I collapsed like a stone. I stared at the ceiling. Then my eyes closed.
I opened my eyes as the morning light filtered through the dusty windowpanes into the room. I still felt the fatigue of the night on my shoulders, but my mind was clear. I got up, washed my face with cold water—I looked at my pale face in the mirror. Then I gathered my things: I slung my bag over my shoulder, put on my steel vest, took my helmet in my hand, checked my gun by the handle, and attached it to my belt. I was ready.
I went downstairs. The creaking of the stairs seemed to whisper the age of the building. When I reached the reception desk, the man from last night was still there, his eyes weary but familiar. I placed the key on the counter and nodded in greeting. He silently bowed his head in return. No words were needed.
When I stepped out onto the street, the morning chill hit my face. I got into the car, started the engine, and set off toward the hospital. The streets were still quiet, with only a few people walking along the broken sidewalks; all of them had the same look in their eyes: the shadow of war and destruction.
When I arrived at the hospital, I parked the car in front of the entrance, turned off the engine, and got out. My feet were heavy but steady as they hit the stone floor. The hospital building was still tired but standing. I went inside and blended into the familiar dimness of the corridor. I headed straight for Irina's room. I paused for a moment in front of the door, took a deep breath, then gently knocked and opened it.
Irina was awake. She was sitting up in bed. One of the cakes I had bought from the bakery yesterday was in her hands. She was biting into it childishly, eating it with a faint smile on her face. A dried milk stain on the corner of her mouth glistened in the light, but she didn't seem to notice. She raised her eyes, and when she saw me, the corners of her lips curled upward even more.
"Good morning, Aleksey. Thank you for the cakes… they're delicious," she said, her voice soft but still a bit tired.
"Good morning, Irina."
I walked in slowly and sat down on one of the metal chairs next to the bed.
"How are you feeling?"
She looked at her leg for a moment. A fleeting shadow of unease crossed her face, but she quickly shook it off. She continued to bite into the cake in her hand, then murmured softly:
"I'm fine for now... But I'm as hungry as a wolf. And..."
A short pause.
"...My wound feels like it's burning. There's a warm pain inside. It's like fire is passing through my veins."
I shook my head slowly.
"Your body is rebuilding itself; your cells are dividing rapidly. The burning sensation... it's normal. But it will pass."
The door opened slightly, and a middle-aged doctor in a white coat entered. His face was tired, but his eyes were attentive. He held a stainless steel tray in his hand; on it was soup, some boiled meat, oil, slices of black bread, and a cup of dark tea. After quietly placing the tray on the small table next to the bed, he spoke in a soft tone:
"Good morning, Mrs. Irina. We'll perform a few routine checks now."
Irina placed the half-eaten piece of cake on the table; her face was still a bit pale, but her eyes looked more lively. She silently nodded and turned toward the doctor. The doctor pulled out a small, surgical-grade examination light from his pocket and gently brought it close to Irina's pupils. He shone the light first on her right eye, then her left, carefully examining her reflexes. He measured the speed of her eyelid twitching, her pupil responses, and her sensitivity to light.
"Interesting…" he said in a low voice, more to himself than to her. "Her light sensitivity in the pupil seems to have decreased. That's a good sign."
He then took her temperature with a thermometer. He then quietly turned toward the cabinet. He took out sterile bandages, antiseptic solution, gloves, and a small medical kit. He put on his gloves, carefully moved the blanket aside, and slowly began to unwrap the bandage on Irina's left leg.
As the bandages came off, the current state of the wound became visible. The line where the stitches were still clearly visible, but the surrounding area was no longer red. The wound had completely scabbed over, and new tissue was beginning to surface. There were no signs of infection. The doctor looked closely, then used a small light to check the depth of the wound.
"Incredible..." he said, this time with a hint of surprise in his voice. "ZELYONKA is really starting to show its effect."
He opened the cap of the alcohol bottle and cleaned the area around the wound with a sterile gauze pad. His movements were systematic and delicate. After finishing the cleaning process, he carefully placed the new bandages and secured the dressing.
After finishing his work, he removed his gloves and quickly jotted something down in the small notebook next to the table. Then he turned his face toward me and Irina; his voice carried a hint of satisfaction and cautious optimism:
"Your condition appears stable at the moment, Mrs. Irina. Sensitivity to light in the eyes is below the level we're accustomed to seeing in albinism. This may indicate that ZELYONKA has begun to stabilize nerve transmission. The tissue regeneration in your leg is progressing faster than expected. We can remove the stitches in two days. If this pace continues, you should be able to start walking cautiously in about eight to nine days. However, full weight-bearing—that is, being considered fully healed—will take 14 days."
After saying his final words, he smiled slightly, tucked his file under his arm, and gestured toward the meal on the tray, adding gently:
"Try to finish this meal. High-calorie, regular nutrition is essential for ZELYONKA to maintain its effect. I'll stop by again later today," said the doctor, tucking his notebook under his arm.
Then he quietly headed toward the door. As he left, he left behind the faint scent of antiseptic and an air of seriousness about the information he had just provided. Once the door closed, silence once again filled the room.
After the doctor left, Irina returned to her cake. Her forehead lines were still tired, but now there was a hint of peace in her eyes. As she ate her cake, I noticed crumbs on the corner of her mouth. I took a folded paper napkin from the table and quietly bent down to gently wipe the crumbs from the corner of her mouth. When our eyes met, Irina paused for a moment. Then she smiled slightly. Her smile conveyed both sincerity and a subtle warning:
"Thank you, Aleksey. But please, don't forget that I'm not a child."
Her voice was soft as she spoke, but there was a subtle confidence in her tone. I responded with a gentle smile:
"I'll keep that in mind, little lady."
At my words, a warm blush spread across Irina's cheeks. She didn't take offense at my teasing; instead, she tilted her head slightly and smiled. Then she took one of the buttered bread rolls from the tray and offered it to me. Her voice was almost a whisper:
"I guess you haven't had breakfast yet either."
I silently accepted her offer. I took the buttered bread from her hand, and we began to eat together without needing words at that moment. The silence did not come from unfamiliarity, but from peace.
After finishing her last bite, Irina leaned her head back slightly. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her face wore an expression of satisfaction and peace. With the quiet resignation that comes from exhaustion and healing, she lay down on her bed.
I sat up from the chair and straightened my clothes.
"See you again, Irina. Take care of yourself," I said softly.
Irina smiled slightly before closing her eyes, as if those small farewell words were important to her.
"Goodbye, Aleksey."
I quietly closed the door and stepped into the corridor. As my footsteps echoed under the dim ceiling lights, a faint tension began to stir somewhere inside me. I walked to the car, opened the door, and got behind the wheel. I turned the ignition and, with the rumble of the engine, set my course for the building where Nikolai Margelov was located.
I stopped in front of the building and got out of the car. I walked up to the reception desk and told the attendant at the entrance that I wanted to see the president. Without delay, he took me upstairs.
When we reached the president's door, the attendant stopped. I knocked gently on the door.
"Come in," said a familiar, deep voice.
I opened the door and stepped inside. Nikolai Margelov was leaning back in his chair, looking out the large window behind him as usual. His eyes lit up when he saw me, and a faint smile appeared on his lips. He nodded slightly and pointed to the chair in front of me:
"Good morning, son. You're early today... Come sit down, we have a lot to talk about."
I walked silently and sat down where he indicated. A young attendant soon entered with a tray of tea. He placed two cups of tea in front of us, quickly greeted us, and left. The door closed quietly behind him.
Before taking a sip of tea, I kept my voice low but clear:
"So... what's the plan for tomorrow's operation?"
Nikolai brought his cup to his lips and took a small sip. His eyes were still on the cup, but his mind was already wandering over the map. Then he turned his eyes to me:
"Night operation. We'll start at 02:00. It must be silent, swift, and deadly. You'll have a fully equipped VDV unit of 30 men with you. All of them have night vision systems. That damned base… we'll take it, son. There's no doubt about it."
After discussing the plan for a few more minutes, I stood up:
"I should go now. See you later, Comrade Margelov."
Nikolai Margelov smiled kindly:
"Take care of yourself, son. See you again."
I walked away slowly and got into the car. Then I started driving toward the marketplace.
As I drove toward the market, the crowd began to grow. This temporary market, set up among the ruins of buildings, was one of the few places where people could breathe after the war. In some places, clothes were spread out on blankets over broken stones, in another corner there were old radios, and under umbrellas, people were trading food.
I stopped the car in front of an old Soviet tent selling canned food. On the rusty sign hanging above the tent were the following words written by hand:
"MEAT-CANNED — CHICKEN — FISH"
I closed the door and walked slowly toward the counter. An old man with furrowed brows wiped his hands on his apron as he eyed me. He clearly saw people carrying weapons often, but he was still nervous. I opened my jacket slightly so that the handle of the TT-33 at my waist was visible.