This was a reassuring detail—it showed that I wasn't there to attack, but that I shouldn't be taken lightly.
"Hello, comrade," I said. "Give me ten cans of canned meat. I'll pay with bullets. How much is the price?"
The man bowed his head slightly and began pulling the cans out from under the counter. He arranged each one carefully. The cans had stamped dates on them, and some had military seals; they were probably leftovers from a warehouse or an old convoy.
The seller carefully placed the tin cans into a cardboard box. The corners of the box were worn, and the tape seemed to have been opened and closed many times. As he placed the box on the table, he spoke without looking up:
"Sixty pistol bullets in total."
Without saying a word, I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket. I pulled out the small ammunition pouch and emptied the bullets onto the table, handful by handful. I placed forty 9×18mm and ten 7.62×39mm bullets on the table. The seller bent his head and carefully counted the bullets with his fingers. His hand trembled slightly as he counted.
When the counting was finished, he pressed the bullets against his chest and stuffed them into his inner pocket. He didn't respond. In such matters, using too many words was generally unnecessary.
I lifted the cardboard box, and the metallic weight of the tins inside it slightly disrupted the balance on my shoulder. I carefully placed the box in the trunk of my black GAZ-2424 and closed the trunk.
Then my eye immediately caught the fruit and vegetable seller at the neighboring stall. The stall, covered with colorful fabrics, was filled with relatively fresh fruits—wherever they had found them. Some of the apples were a bit wrinkled, the oranges had spots on them, but the mandarins still looked vibrant.
Behind the stall, an old man was watching me through his thick glasses. He was wearing a gray wool sweater and a faded hat. It was clear he had been making a living from this trade for a very long time.
"Give me a kilo of apples and a kilo of mandarins," I said. "I'll pay with bullets."
Without responding, the man placed a few weights on the scale. As the needle of the old-fashioned brass scale swayed slightly to the right and left, he carefully placed the apples and then the mandarins into a paper bag. His hand was steady, but his eyes never left me.
"The fruit isn't fresh, but it's not bad either. Seven pistol bullets," he said in a clear voice.
I took seven pistol bullets out of my pocket and placed them on the counter. As he counted them, he picked one up, held it up to the side light, checked the oxidation on it, then accepted it.
Turning to the man one last time:
"So, where's the gas station around here?"
The man thought for a few seconds, then pointed toward the end of the street:
"Turn right at the end of this street, and you'll see a gas station."
I took the fruits, carefully placed them in the trunk, and closed it. As I started the engine, the rumble of the black GAZ-24 echoed around us. I sat silently for a few seconds, then touched the gearshift. The next target was clear: gas. The gauge needle was now in the red, and going into the next operation in this state would be suicide.
I drove the car slowly to the end of the street, then turned right. At a corner where the concrete was cracked and the signs were swaying in the wind, a half-ruined gas station appeared. The tin roofs over the pump stations were rusted, and some of the hoses were torn. But it was still standing—that was enough.
In the shaded corner next to the station, a man with a potbelly and a dirty beard caught my attention, sitting on a worn leather chair. Through his thick-lensed glasses, his eyes scanned both my uniform and the black Volga. He set the faded newspaper on his knees and stood up. He spoke with an expression that resembled a smile but was more cautious:
"Ho ho ho... A black Volga, huh? There aren't many of those left... So what do you want, comrade?"
I closed the door and replied, glancing briefly at the car:
"I need AI-95 octane gasoline. I'm also looking for some good motor oil."
The man adjusted his glasses slightly, rubbed his hands together with a sly smile spreading across his face, and walked inside. When he returned a few minutes later, he had a 20-liter gray metal gasoline can in one hand and a dusty but almost new-looking bottle of motor oil in the other. He grinned as he set the bottle down:
"It's not easy to find gasoline like this these days, especially 95 octane... But maybe we can make a deal, hmm? What do you have? Maybe something valuable."
My answer was clear:
"7.62×39 bullets. Is that a fair trade? Let's see."
The slight mocking expression on the man's face faded a bit when I mentioned the bullets. His eyes darted around like a small calculator; he quickly weighed the values in his mind. In this day and age, bullets were not just ammunition for a weapon, but also the language of bargaining, the foundation of the economy.
Running his hand through his dirty beard, he spoke with a mocking pause:
"Gasoline for 60 rounds... Motor oil for 10 rounds. That makes 70 rounds total, comrade."
When he finished speaking, my lips involuntarily tightened into a line. I furrowed my brows. This was clearly an inflated price. I slowly reached into the inner pocket of my jacket. The man flinched in a moment of anxiety, probably thinking I was going to draw a gun. But I pulled out a blue-covered passport, almost untouched by wear. I held it up to eye level and extended it toward the man, my fingers lightly gripping the edge of the passport as I locked my gaze into his eyes.
"You can lower this price to sixty bullets, can't you?" I said, my tone calm but carrying an implicit threat.
The man took a shaky breath and took the passport into his hands. As his eyes darted across the document, a thin bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. On the top page was a seal—one of those documents bearing Margelov's personal signature, granting intelligence and military privileges. His eyes widened, and the confident smirk on his face vanished instantly. It was replaced by a dry smile and a quick apology.
"Well... Of course, comrade, how could that be? Of course, 60 rounds will be enough. I wouldn't even ask for more than that, haha... haha..."
His smile was forced and hollow, but I had gotten what I wanted. I pulled two small cloth bags from my pocket. Inside were a total of 60 7.62×39 rounds. Without counting them, I placed them in the man's outstretched hands. He quickly stuffed the bullets into his pocket and carefully returned the passport with both hands.
The man immediately got to work. He lifted the 20-liter metal can and attached it to the gasoline pump's hose. Slowly and patiently, he began transferring the fuel into the Volga's tank. The smell of old gasoline emanating from the engine and the heat of the metal once again reminded me of how much time had passed.
Then he lifted the hood. He pulled out the dipstick and looked at it; the old engine oil had turned almost black and was covered with a thick layer of sludge. With the help of a bucket and a screwdriver, he opened the drain plug. The oil slowly drained into the can, replaced by new Polish-made oil. The droplet logo on the oil can was still intact.
"The engine's lungs are now open," he said with a smile. "In these times, it's not easy for anyone to get such oil. I hope everything goes well, comrade."
The man closed the hood, and I looked at him one last time as I lowered the window slightly. He was still watching me, this time with respect but also with caution. I started the black Volga. The engine growled with a fuller, cleaner sound, fueled by fresh fuel and new oil. I drove away slowly, leaving behind a man counting his bullets and his small empire.
I drove slowly through the city streets toward the hospital. The engine's monotonous hum blended into the approaching night's silence. I would tell Irina the details of tonight's operation.
When I arrived at the hospital, I hit the brakes and pulled the car to the curb. The cold night air hit the window. I opened the door and stepped out, opened the trunk of the GAZ-2424, and took out the fruit package wrapped in brown paper. With each step I took on the concrete ground, the dull sound of my boots mixed with my evaporating breath into the night.
As I walked down the corridor leading to Irina's room, I felt an odd sense of peace. Whenever I was with her, the darkness of the rest of the world seemed to fade a little.
I stood at the door, tapped the wood lightly with two fingers, and waited. A familiar, soft voice came from inside:
"You can come in."
I opened the door and stepped inside. Irina lay under the pale light, surrounded by white sheets, holding an old, yellowed book in her hands. When she saw me, a warm glow appeared in her eyes. She smiled slightly and placed the book on the nightstand beside her.
"Welcome, Aleksey," she said, her voice soft and sincere. "It's nice to see you."
Her smile eased the weight of the night. I moved slowly and sat down on one of the chairs by the window. A warmth formed between us without breaking the silence. There was no need for unnecessary words or artificial displays of affection.
I took an empty plate from the table. I took the bayonet from my belt, picked up one of the apples, and began to peel it carefully. I cut a slice from the apple I had peeled, placed it on the slightly curved tip of the bayonet, and handed it to Irina.
Irina took the apple without saying a word. The tip of her finger touched the dagger involuntarily. Her eyes lingered on the dagger for a moment, then on mine. It was as if all the blood, pain, and fatigue of the past had been read in that small touch.
She bit into the apple slowly. As the juice from the fruit stained her lips, a brief wave of satisfaction flashed across her face. But the traces of fatigue under her eyes were still there.
Then I took one of the mandarins in my hand, held it between my thumb and forefinger, and began to peel it slowly. The sharp scent of citrus oil spread from my fingertips; this scent reminded me of my previous life.
I cut the mandarin orange in half and carefully handed it to Irina. At that moment, a childlike sparkle appeared in her eyes. It was as if, for a brief moment, all the chaos in the world had disappeared. She took the fruit like a child reaching for a beloved chocolate, holding it gently between her fingers. Then she bent her head and placed a piece in her mouth. As her eyes turned toward me, a small smile formed at the corners of her lips.
"Thank you, Aleksey," she said in a soft voice. "You're truly thoughtful."
I quietly ate the other half of the mandarin. The room fell into a brief silence. Outside, the wind was hitting the tin can by the window, reflecting a metallic sound inside. The silence felt like a harbinger of the approaching storm.
I placed the paper bag on the nightstand, then leaned forward slightly, looking down as I began to speak. My voice was firm but sincere:
"We're moving out at 2:00 a.m. tonight. Our target is that old KGB base. We'll carry out the operation with Margelov's handpicked 30-man VDV team. If we get there in time... we'll take control of the place before Federov's men can reach the armory."
When I finished speaking, Irina remained silent for a moment. She locked her eyes on mine. Her pupils held both fear and deep trust. Her face tensed; her lips trembled for an instant. But she quickly composed herself and nodded with a warm yet bittersweet smile:
"I hope everything goes smoothly, Aleksey…" she said, her voice almost a whisper. "But no matter what… take care of yourself. Please."
At that moment, there was a silent prayer in her red eyes. Perhaps she felt anxious about tonight's operation.
I looked at the watch on my wrist. I took a deep breath and slowly rose from the chair. My fingertips briefly touched the edge of Irina's blanket, then I placed a faint smile on my face:
"I have to go now," I said quietly. "Take care of yourself, Irina. Try to get some sleep. The circles under your eyes are dark from fatigue."
Irina rested her head on the pillow and fixed her eyes on me. That bittersweet yet warm smile reappeared on her face:
"Goodbye, Aleksey…" she said gently. "Good luck. And please… be careful."
I bowed my head in silent farewell, then left the room. I walked slowly under the dim lights of the corridor, each step echoing beneath my feet, disrupting the silence of the night.
When I stepped outside, the wind had begun to howl through the empty streets of the city. I got into my car and started the engine. The dashboard flickered with dim red lights. My destination was clear: the "Number 1" hangar in the military zone. Margelov's elite VDV unit would be waiting for me there.
After a half-hour drive, I reached the hangar's entrance. My headlights revealed the silhouettes of soldiers moving outside. With "PNV-57" night vision devices in their eyes and AK-74s on their shoulders... some were reloading their magazines, others were patiently cleaning their weapons. Two GAZ-66 trucks were idling, and the hot exhaust fumes rose like mist when they met the cold night air.
I pulled my car to the side, turned off the engine, and got out. My heavy, sturdy boots made a loud thud as I walked across the ground. A lieutenant with stern features, standing at the head of the unit, took notice. I approached him, stood at attention, and gave a crisp military salute:
"Salute, comrade. Is the unit ready?"
The lieutenant returned the salute with the same seriousness. His eyes locked directly onto mine, his voice was firm and disciplined:
"Yes, comrade. Everyone is ready for the operation. We will approach the KGB building in trucks. Once we reach the vicinity, we will switch to silent mode and proceed on foot. No noise is permitted until contact is made."
I nodded in agreement. Some of the soldiers lined up behind me were standing, others were crouched on the ground. The coldness of the air was evident on their faces, but there was no hesitation in any of their expressions. Each of these men had faced death countless times. Now, only the mission remained.
At exactly 2:00 a.m., everyone quietly divided into two groups. The soldiers' movements seemed to be in perfect synchronization; their steps were silent, their gazes sharp, their intentions clear. Everyone headed for their respective trucks. I climbed into the back of the truck in the lead group and sat down in the corner of the steel box. The coldness of the metal floor seeped through my pants into my bones.
I silently pulled the slide of the AN-94 in my hand. The metallic "clack" sound it made as it moved forward echoed in the truck, but no one turned to look. Everyone was alone with their own weapon, their own silence.
When the trucks started moving, the roar of the engines pierced the absolute silence of the night. With every jolt, every bump, the weapons clinked lightly. Night vision goggles on our eyes, only the rumble of the engine in our ears… but everyone was lost in their thoughts. Perhaps their loved ones, perhaps the last letter they had written, perhaps the possibility that they might not see the morning of this night...
The full moon watched us like a sentinel in the sky. The faint white light shining through the clouds spread over the night like a thin mist. Even death was silent this night.
After a few hours of driving, the trucks came to a silent stop a few streets away from the KGB complex. When the screech of brakes was heard, everyone reflexively reached for their weapons. Without being ordered, everyone got out of the vehicles.
Immediately afterward, whispers spread like an order:
"Divide into two groups. No contact, just reconnaissance and entry."
We formed two groups of fifteen. I was in the first group. I adjusted the PNV-57-EM night vision device in my eye. A dim green world unfolded before me—the walls looked like faint ghosts, the trash cans like shadow monsters.
We began moving toward the building in silence. We were crawling along an old wall on my left. The smell of burnt rubber carried by the wind hit my nose; something had been burned somewhere.
As we approached the building, the first thing that caught my attention was a Ural-4320 military truck. Two UAZ-469s were parked next to it. I immediately recognized one of the UAZ-469s; it was the car I had been forced to leave behind here. However, my weapons and belongings were not inside. I assumed they were all inside the building. I slowly entered the building, followed by the others.
As soon as we entered the building, the damp, musty air caught my attention. The concrete walls bore the wear and tear of the years; in some places, the plaster had fallen off, and cables hung down from the ceiling. The interior was dark, with only the faint light from broken fluorescent lamps flickering intermittently, weakly illuminating the corridors.
The first room we entered resembled a large lobby. Once upon a time, visitors would register here, and high-ranking officials would enter the building. But now there were broken glass, overturned chairs, and dried bloodstains on the floor. I turned right and pressed myself against the wall. The soldiers behind me silently took their positions. Everyone's breathing was controlled, their eyes constantly moving.
I paused for a moment and listened—a faint sound like floor vibrations came from the upper floor. Maybe it was a patrol, maybe it was a trap. I turned on the radio on my left arm, but didn't speak to avoid making noise. I signaled to the team to move deeper into the building.
The building's corridors were narrow and branched off in many directions. It was like a maze. We were on high alert at every turn. The silence was as sharp as a knife, with only the echoes of our footsteps and breaths in our ears.
Suddenly, I noticed a faint light seeping through the door at the end of the corridor. I pointed forward with my thumb. We moved forward, staying close to the walls. I stopped by the door and signaled for everyone to stop. I looked over my right shoulder; there were two silhouettes inside.
After making a gesture of silence with my hand, the two VDV soldiers behind me immediately moved into position. They quietly drew their silenced PB pistols and took them in their hands. I took a deep breath, then slowly walked toward the door. The door hinges were rusty, and when it opened, it made a faint creaking sound, but it was too quiet to echo in the surroundings. I took the first step inside, and the soldiers followed me one by one.
The room was dimly lit, with only an old desk lamp casting a flickering glow. The walls were cracked, with patches of dampness here and there, and faded propaganda posters from the Soviet era hanging limply. There were two men inside: one was bent over a document at the corner table, writing something, while the other was pacing behind him. I aimed my gun at the man, taking care not to make a sound.
One of the VDV soldiers quietly approached the man on the right from behind and knocked him to the ground with a powerful move, wrapping his arm around his throat. The guard fell to the ground with a muffled groan. At the same time, the second soldier approached the man at the table and pointed his gun at his head. The man froze. He dropped his pen and raised his hands in the air, trembling.
I lowered my gun and approached him slowly. When our eyes met in the darkness, fear was evident in his pupils. His face was pale, and beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead. I leaned in close to him and began speaking in a cold, stern tone:
> "How many of you are there? Where are the others? Is Federov here?"
The man's face suddenly turned pale. He glanced at the VDV soldiers behind him—their camouflage uniforms, night vision goggles, and disciplined posture made them look like angels of death to him. He couldn't speak for a few seconds. His lips trembled. Then we noticed that a warm liquid was flowing uncontrollably between his legs. He had wet himself. This showed that both his physical and psychological resistance had broken. I realized once again how terrifying the VDV was for these men.
He began to speak in a trembling voice:
> "There are thirty of us... All on the upper floor. On the second floor. With the guards. Federov isn't here... I swear he isn't! Please, don't kill me... I'm just following orders…"
There was a moment of silence. The sound of the man's labored breathing filled the room. I narrowed my eyes. All I could see was the pleading on his face. He looked weak, scared, worthless. There was no need to waste any more time with him.
I took a step back, then brought the butt of the AN-94 down hard on his forehead. The man collapsed to the ground, unconscious. One of the soldiers behind me quickly pulled out the handcuffs and bound his wrists, then stuffed a piece of cloth into his mouth. He could be interrogated again if necessary. But now our business was upstairs.