We climbed the stairs slowly and cautiously. Each step seemed to echo in the silence of the night, but we were careful—every step was calculated. When we reached the upper floor, we were faced with a long, dark corridor. There were about twelve doors lined up at equal intervals on either side. In the dim light of the corridor, faint clicks and muffled conversations could be heard coming from some of the rooms.
I silently signaled with my hand; everyone knew immediately what to do. They positioned themselves in pairs in front of the rooms. While the soldiers leaned against the doors and waited for the moment to attack, I stood at the door of the front room. I took a deep breath, then kicked the door with all my strength.
The door burst open with a loud bang, the hinges creaking. As I entered, I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. The room was small but cluttered—a metal bunk bed, a table, and a few old trunks. Three men were inside. They were in shock, unable to comprehend what was happening. Their weapons were on the wall, out of reach. I didn't hesitate. I aimed my AN-94 and, with three controlled, short bursts, took them all down one by one. As their bodies hit the floor, the smell of blood and gunpowder quickly filled the room.
At the same time, doors along the corridor were being broken down one by one. The sound of metal hitting wood, followed by gunfire and muffled screams... The operation had begun. Gunfire rose from each room at different tempos. Some had tried to resist, while others had been shot before they could even surrender.
After clearing my room, I slung my rifle over my shoulder again, took a deep breath, and stepped into the corridor. Other soldiers began to emerge one by one. The brief silence signaled that everything was over.
One of Margelov's soldiers approached me and gave a brief report:
> "All rooms have been cleared. All resisters are dead. We captured two people alive—their hands are tied, and they are lying on the ground."
I nodded. I quickly started walking toward the underground armory on the lower floor. When I arrived, the steel door was still broken. I guess they hadn't managed to open it, which was a great stroke of luck for us. The door to the archive room was open, and I stepped inside. Inside, there were stocks of food and weapons. Among them were my belongings: a VSS Vintorez, an SVD Dragunov, boxes of ammunition, grenades, canned food.
I took my belongings and loaded them into my UAZ. Then I returned to the armory. One of the soldiers prepared plastic explosives and blew open the jammed steel door, then everyone went inside. The inside was just as I had left it, with shelves and boxes filled with weapons, ammunition, and armor everywhere.
1) One box for myself, containing 1,160 rounds of 9×39 SP6 ammunition.
2) One box containing 2,160 rounds of 5.45×39 ammunition.
3) One RPG-7D, along with a compatible PGO-7V3 sight and five PG-7VL rockets. (500mm armor-piercing capacity)
4) Two boxes, totaling 40 F-1 hand grenades.
5) One box, containing 880 rounds of 7.62×54 7N1 ammunition.
6) Two boxes, totaling 40 RGN hand grenades, which I loaded into the UAZ.
After moving through the metallic echoes of the underground corridors, I entered the medicine and food storage area. The room, locked with heavy steel doors, resembled an old Soviet-style industrial space—shelves lined with medicine boxes, dusty crates, and large zinc-coated boxes. As soon as I entered, I got to work.
I gathered 100 cans of food from the shelves—mostly Soviet-era cans containing meat, vegetables, and legumes. Then I moved on to the medicine section. I carefully selected painkillers, antibiotics, fever reducers, and radiation-protective medications, placing them in my backpack and metal boxes. I paid particular attention to potassium iodide tablets—the basic protective medication that prevents radioactive iodine from settling in the thyroid gland. However, no matter how much I searched, I couldn't find the familiar green-labeled "ZELYONKA."
This was a small but concerning detail. If ZELYONKA wasn't even available at this KGB base, it either had limited production or had already been transported to critical locations.
After loading the medications and supplies into my car, I went down to the garage section. This was a large, low-ceilinged area surrounded by concrete walls. On the left was an underground fuel storage tank, and on the right was a vehicle maintenance facility. I found five metal fuel drums, each with a capacity of 20 liters, in the storage areas. The label "95 octane - Gasoline" was visible on them. This was like gold to me. I carefully loaded them into the UAZ-469 and secured the drums with thick rubber straps to prevent leaks.
Everything I needed was now ready.
When I went upstairs, Margelov's men were working systematically after the operation. Weapon crates, ammunition boxes, and supply cases were being loaded one by one onto GAZ-66 trucks. Everything was disciplined and quiet—as expected from professionals.
The decision had been made: control of the base would remain with us. Fifteen VDV soldiers were left behind to secure the area. The others would withdraw along with the supplies they had taken.
I got into the UAZ, started the engine, and we set off in convoy as the smoke from the exhaust mingled with the morning mist. The road was quiet. It was still dark, but the first faint rays of sunlight were beginning to appear on the eastern horizon.
We arrived in Tver at dawn. The soldiers opened the hangar doors and began unloading the cargo piece by piece.
I parked my UAZ next to the GAZ-2424, placed my armor and helmet in the trunk, and went to meet with President Nikolai Margelov. I stepped out of the vehicle, adjusted the collar of my dusty military coat, and headed toward the wide hangar door. As I stepped inside, President Nikolai Margelov appeared before my eyes—a strong-built man who didn't show his age but had experience etched on his face. He had his hands clasped behind his back, walking among the crates, overseeing the loading operations.
When he saw me, a satisfied smile spread across his face. He walked over to me with heavy steps. His voice was deep and reassuring:
"Hello, son. You didn't tell me there was so much material there."
He tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
"Thanks to you, we've significantly replenished our food and medicine stockpiles. This will help us withstand the winter better. From now on, whatever you need, just tell me or my men directly. We'll do more than our best."
Margelov's sincerity was genuine, but behind every word lay the cunning of a politician. For him, these supplies were not just about survival but also about solidifying his authority in the region.
I smiled slightly, stepped closer to him, placed my right hand on his shoulder, and replied with a touch of sarcasm:
"You can be sure I'll make the most of it, Margelov. Hahaha…"
We both laughed briefly—the shadow of a cold and weary morning lingered behind us. But for a moment, the familiar feeling of victory had warmed our hearts.
After chatting for a few minutes, I left. The sun was slowly rising on the horizon; the first light of morning spread like a soft veil over the fog-covered streets of Tver. I drove my UAZ toward the hospital, accompanied by the monotonous hum of the engine. The city's sleepy silence mingled with the weight of victory—another operation had been successfully completed, but the peace within me was still lacking. This victory was merely paving the way for the next battle.
When I arrived at the hospital, I slowly brought the vehicle to a stop. The smoke from the exhaust lingered in the air for a few seconds before dissipating. I turned off the engine and took a deep breath before opening the door. As I stepped out, the tires squeaked on the concrete, and the morning chill caressed my skin—but it couldn't erase the fatigue I felt.
I entered the building with heavy steps. The corridors were dim and quiet; the lingering scent of medicine and antiseptic from the night before still hung in the air. I was in a place where time moved slowly—a sanctuary outside the war. My footsteps echoed, but my mind had already turned to a much quieter place: Irina's room.
When I reached the door, I paused. I raised my hand and knocked lightly—neither too hard nor hesitant. Without waiting for an answer, I slowly opened the door and stepped inside.
The room seemed to still be in the grip of night. The curtain was half-drawn, and the morning light filtering in gently touched Irina's face. The thin hospital blanket had slipped off her, and her hands were clutching the edge of the blanket. Her face was pale. The dark circles under her eyes were silent witnesses to a sleepless night. Her swollen eyelids revealed that she had been lost in thought, waiting for morning.
But in that moment, when she noticed me... everything changed.
She turned her head, her eyes focused on me. And the anxious, tired expression on her face vanished in an instant. The corners of her lips curled into a trembling smile. Her gaze held both relief and longing—dark thoughts had been replaced, if only temporarily, by hope.
"Aleksey…" she whispered, her voice tired but filled with sincere warmth.
I took slow steps, never taking my eyes off her as I approached. When I stood directly in front of her, I raised my hand and gently touched her cheek with my fingers. The coldness of her skin bore the marks of sleepless nights. But at the same time, there was a sense of seeking reassurance in that touch—as if my presence offered a temporary refuge for her fragile soul.
Irina tilted her head to the side and rested her face in my palm. Her eyes were fixed on mine, filled with a complex mix of fear, longing, and relief... her voice trembling as she spoke:
"I was so worried about you, Aleksey."
In that moment, something inside me softened. All the harshness of the operation, the coldness of the metal, the sharp smell of gunpowder… it all melted away in that gaze. I leaned down. I gently pressed my lips to her forehead. My kiss was so gentle that I felt as though I might break her. At that very moment, I felt her face flush all the way to her ears. Her cheeks grew warm, her breathing quickened, but she smiled—a small, shy but genuine smile.
I sat up and looked into her eyes, smiling slightly. Lost in her tired but deep gaze, I found my hands between her. She grasped them gently, caressing my fingers and my fist as if she had found a treasure she had lost long ago and thought she would never see again. Her touch was trembling yet resolute—a silent echo of both fear and surrender resonated within it.
Without saying a word, I raised my hand and gently rested her head against my chest. I began to stroke her white hair through my fingers with tenderness. The rhythm of my heartbeat could be felt just below her head—calm yet deep, a silent proof that I was alive. Irina closed her eyes and began to listen quietly to my heartbeat. She took in my presence, my breath, the beating of my heart—perhaps to feel that she was alive again.
Then she turned her head slightly, inhaled my scent, her eyelids fluttering. She touched my chest, right over my heart, with the tip of her nose. Then she placed a gentle kiss there; just over my heart. That kiss was so light that even the wind would envy it. At that moment, time seemed to stand still.
She lifted her head and looked at me. A pure, sincere smile appeared on her face—filled with warmth that shone through the pain, the exhaustion, but also the renewed hope. Then, a delicate, clear voice flowed from her lips:
"You could have not come back…" she said, her voice almost a whisper, but the emotions hidden within were as deep as a scream. "In the darkness of the night, every time I looked out the window, I thought you were in danger somewhere, that you might never come back."
Her voice trembled, but she didn't look away. She was staring straight into my eyes—there was no judgment there, only longing and fear. Her fingers were still in mine, but now she held them tighter, as if afraid I might slip away.
"Your heart… it's the most beautiful thing still beating in this world," she said. "You always seem strong, tough, and serious, but you… you're always kind to me."
I gently laid Irina on the bed. As soon as her head touched the pillow, her eyelids grew heavy, but even on the edge of sleep, she didn't take her eyes off me. I sat down beside her, running my fingers through her white curls.
Even as her eyes slowly closed, she held my hand. Her fingers had disappeared between mine, but the strength in her grip was still there—she trusted me. Perhaps she was at peace for the first time in a long time.
I didn't need to tell her I liked her. With every touch of my fingertips on her hair, with every echo of my heartbeat in her ear, I was already whispering it silently.
Irina sighed deeply, the lines on her face softening. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she finally surrendered to peaceful sleep. I leaned over and kissed her cheek gently—perhaps it was a silent farewell to the first moment in days when she felt completely safe. Then I quietly sat up, covered her, and left the room.
The corridor was silent. It was early morning... Tver was still asleep. Only the sound of my footsteps echoed off the empty hospital walls. Outside the building, there was a slight morning chill; the hazy air had not yet accepted the first rays of the rising sun.
I got into my UAZ-469. I started the engine and set off. My destination was the repair shop in the military zone. I no longer wanted an ordinary reconnaissance vehicle, but a reliable one capable of withstanding combat conditions and carrying a heavy load.
When I arrived at the military zone, I parked my UAZ right next to the GAZ-2424. I turned off the ignition, got out of the vehicle. The exhaust was still hot, the engine silent, but my thoughts were still noisy. My steps were firm; I pushed open the heavy iron door of the repair shop and entered.
Inside, two young soldiers were working on their knees. They had crawled under the GAZ-66; one was removing the axle guard, the other was wiping the oil off the engine block with a cloth. The sound of metal was the only noise, except for the occasional clatter of tools hitting the floor. When they noticed me, they quickly stood up, put down their tools, and turned to me with military discipline.
"Comrade Brusilov," they said in unison and saluted.
After returning the salute, I nodded toward the outside. They followed me out. I pointed to the two parked vehicles—the GAZ-2424 and my UAZ-469.
I spoke without hesitation, my voice clear and decisive:
"I want you to develop the black beast behind me. Use a UAZ frame and 4×4 tires, improve the radiator compartment, add a luggage rack on the body, install new off-road suspension, and enlarge the fuel tank. In short, you will give this vehicle off-road capabilities. Like the GAZ-24-95, but with a V8 engine.
One of the young soldiers nodded in agreement, while the other pulled out a worn notebook from his pocket. The flimsy cover was almost falling off, but the pages were still filled with meticulously drawn sketches and notes. He licked his pen and began writing quickly. As he took notes, he spoke, his voice filled with seriousness:
"Modifying the suspension, enlarging the exhaust, and performing all necessary welding work... It will take at least four days, Comrade Brusilov. Maybe even longer.
He paused for a moment, then looked up at me and continued:
"I also have a suggestion: if we install a K-151 carburetor on the GAZ-2424's engine, the engine's air intake will increase significantly. This not only increases power but also provides a more stable and cleaner combustion. In the long run, both reliability and maintenance intervals will increase."
He tilted his head to one side, his eyes sparkling with technical imagination.
The two young men saluted with military discipline and quickly got to work. One ran toward the back of the workshop while the other began gathering welding materials. The hood of the GAZ-2424 had already been lifted, and the V8 engine awaited its rebirth for this new task.
I turned around and left the silence of the workshop behind me with heavy steps. I placed the AN-94, my bag, helmet, and steel vest in the car's trunk. I took only the TT-33, the bullets in my tactical vest, and my bayonet with me. After all, the city was considered safe, and moving around with all that weight was torture.
The sounds of metal hammers, the hiss of the welding machine, and the determined efforts of the young soldiers slowly faded behind me. The sky was still covered with clouds—a gray blanket spread over the entire city. However, on the eastern horizon, a trembling light had appeared between the gray and yellow. The sun had not yet risen, but that moment of transition between night and day seemed to promise a small respite from the war, deprivation, and exhaustion.
I got into my UAZ and drove away. But I was in no hurry. For the first time in a long while, there was a void within me where I could surrender to the flow of time. Perhaps for a few hours, I could be far from the guns, the orders, the dark tunnels, and the hazy glances… just an ordinary person.
A few streets away, a large building appeared at the corner. It looked like it had been converted from an old government office. There was a sign painted in faded letters: "People's Tea House." When I entered, the warm air and the faint steam from the boiling tea hit my face. The place was crowded, but the atmosphere was quiet. The people were tired—both physically and mentally. Men and women sitting at the tables were eating their meals to the sound of cutlery, some talking in hushed voices, others simply staring at their plates. A few tables away, someone was fiddling with the radio, and in another corner, a crackling melody played from an old gramophone. The emotions were weary but alive.
I found a quiet corner and slowly sat down on a chair. My table was clean; there was only an aluminum salt shaker that used to shine but was now dull. A few minutes later, a young waiter approached. His face was pale from lack of sleep, but he was still polite. He spoke with a cardboard-covered menu in his hand:
"Good morning, comrade. Here are today's breakfast options."
I glanced at the menu. It looked quite good under the circumstances.
"Condensed milk, cheese, butter, boiled eggs, some toast, and hot tea."
The waiter took notes while listening to me.
I looked out the window for a while. A few people were passing by on the street, carrying their belongings, trying to get somewhere in their coats. Some were children, some were elderly. Everyone had the same shadow over them—the shadow of a post-war, restless life, but also the shadow of resistance and the struggle to get back on their feet.
A few minutes later, the waiter returned. He was holding a stainless steel tray. He carefully placed the plates in front of me. The hot tea was still steaming; the boiled egg was perfectly cooked. The condensed milk had been poured from a tin into a small bowl. The cheese was thickly sliced and fresh. The bread slices had been toasted in the stove and were still warm. The butter had been placed in a small metal container and had softened at room temperature.
"Enjoy your meal" the waiter said quietly. Then he turned to other tables.
The faint smoke rising from the burnt edges of the toasted bread and the appetizing crackle of the butter as it touched the heat, combined with the egg smell filling my nose, made my stomach growl. Almost reflexively, I picked up the fork and dug into the meal. Each bite was simple yet satisfying; it reminded one that even in a world torn apart by war, the concept of flavor still existed.