Love Is for Tomorrow (18 page)

After several hours, Antoine’s eyes burned and his throat itched. It would be a major problem if it turned into a cough. He pulled his bandana up over his mouth and nose like the patrolmen. Silence was of the essence. The mist over the water helped conceal him. He embraced the coming of darkness. He felt the chill of the night coming, first in his fingers, then on the spots on his legs that refused to dry in the cold wind. The mud on the ground clawed on his soles like soft tissue.

At the end of the lake was a small river with a bridge overhead. A blockhouse and road barrier surveyed the crossing. It would be manned by another patrol. Light burned in the window of the house above him. They had established checkpoints to seal off the area. Whoever had the most power ruled.

Now deep in enemy territory, Antoine jumped at every sound. As much as he hated the surges of adrenaline, they would keep him alive. He listened to his heart pounding as he waited for a convoy of vehicles to pass overhead. From the sounds of it, there was one motorcycle, a jeep and a truck. They were coming from the west. He was certain that the Spetsnaz encampment lay to the north east. The convoy was probably heading there and would leave the main road somewhere along the way. Antoine had now studied the patrol movements long enough to know their pattern. It was always teams of two, with overlapping view ranges but wide enough to stay out of each other’s way. One man per team usually carried a radio set. Considering their spread and the ground they had to cover, he guessed they’d need at least three platoons for the tours, with a fourth on call inside the base.

Having broken through the outer perimeter, Antoine knew he would meet less resistance now. He crossed the open field strewn with hills. They would conceal his heat signature. He turned all electronic devices off to avoid detection.

Antoine kept low in the ditch by the bridge. Every time he entered new terrain, he made sure to take his time, slow his pulse and survey the area. The convoy headlights left the road and disappeared into a forest. The sound of their engines faded. He followed until he lost sight of them.

He had to enter the forest.

The wood rose above the grass field, like a wall. The wild trees shifted in the wind. They were untouched for centuries. Countless trees felled by storm or lightning lay covered with moss. Even more remained standing, allowing no light to shine through from the other side. If someone were hidden in the trees, he would never see them until it was too late.

He dashed into the trees. His eyes adjusted as soon as he entered. Forms in the darkness became visible and the blackness became grey. Twigs cracked underneath his feet and forced him to slow his pace. He was not alone. Twigs broke a couple of meters ahead of him. He bent low. There was a rustle in the leaves and the thumping of legs. Something bolted away from him. His heart raced, but he knew it was a small animal. It could be anything from a deer to a rabbit or even wolves. Bears roamed the region too. Wild animals took back the places that men tried to avoid. Wild animals like the men he hunted.

Antoine remembered a Russian folktale about men who chose to become wolves: The Bodark.

That myth had special resonance with anyone who chose the hardship of Special Forces, especially the Spetsnaz ranks. To transform into a wolf, so the story went, one had to run into the forest and stab a copper blade into a tree while reciting an old chant.

If you are afraid of wolves, don’t go into the woods
, Antoine thought.

There were scores of cut marks on the trees. At first he thought they were from deer. Closer examination showed them to be from knives.

The Vostok elite members must have nurtured the Bodark cult. It was a symbol that would bind them closer together, like a rite of passage. Anything that made their ranks feel stronger would heighten morale. That was a good thing.

The ritualistic marks told Antoine that he was close to the compound. This forest was frequented in great numbers, as an exercise or assembly point.
 

***

Southwest of Tsentaroy, Russia

He came into a clearing. An electricity pylon loomed into the night sky. He could follow the high-voltage power line to the Vostok compound.

Engine sound came from behind him on the road. He turned to see light cones drawing closer. He threw himself flat on the ground and rolled behind the trunk of a tree as the jeep passed. They hadn’t seen him. He rested against the tree for some time. The natural sounds of the wood returned and he moved on.

Trenches wound through the ground, nothing but leftovers from the war.

He jumped over one and followed it along. They were full of foliage and puddles, like dried out riverbeds. Most trenches would lead to pillboxes. They would offer shelter if the weather turned bad. Antoine marked the position and kept it in mind for later use.

Rusty, moss-covered tank traps flanked the trench system. He used one to climb out of the trench.

The Vostok compound had also been built in haste, out of the same flawed material. It loomed in the distance.

He had found their base.

He was exhausted but there was no time to rest. With every passing hour, this mission would turn more hopeless. He had to use the night while he had it.

Antoine scurried from tree to tree. The lights of the base were scarce like the moon hidden behind clouds. The courtyard was opaque from fog and dew. He sprinted from the tree line to the foot of the wall. It was grey and slick with no purchase to climb but it was crumbling in places. Repairs weren’t the militants concern. Bricks were broken in one section as if a wrecking ball had crashed into it. Antoine put his hand on the rim of the breach, and swung his legs over the gap. His boots hit the ground on the other side.

The buildings were concrete giants with all the finesse of Eastern bloc structures. It was as if anvils had been dropped from the sky and left there for generations. Not much would move or shake them. They were stripped barracks, workshops and motor pools. Their facings were full with mosaic-like window fronts of burst glass, resembling broken teeth. They lay scattered on the ground below Antoine’s feet. A murmuring wind blew through the houses’ empty steel bars.

The complex was huge. Antoine knew the barracks held one platoon right now sleeping in their beds, with space enough to house three more. Even then, the compound’s garrison would be wide-spread. The facility was made for six times that size, for a battalion’s strength. But the distances between the different areas were far, made to drill, hold parade grounds and maneuver tanks. He wouldn’t be able to close the gaps during the day. He had to do it now. He also needed food and shelter. But most importantly, he had to find the bomb. He needed to blend in and become one of them before the sun came up.

Antoine thought about Khabib’s tattoo as he walked towards the canteen. The dining hall was empty but unlocked. He cast a long, weak shadow into the dark room.

The silhouettes of chairs and tables jumbled in the hall.  It gave
him a good idea of how many militants he would face tomorrow.

Antoine walked to the kitchen. The door was left slightly ajar. He opened it. Someone had left the lights on. Filthy luminescent tubes buzzed and flickered overhead. Pots and dishes hung from a rack. Water dripped into the sink, pinging like fingers on the strings of an instrument.

Then he found what he was looking for: Big kitchen knives. He took one out and held it, getting used to the weight and balance. Then he closed his grip around it tight.

He approached the back of the room. There was a freezer to the left and a door to the storage room. He entered the storage room. Inside were cleaning supplies and white serving uniforms.

Antoine went back to the mess hall. He crouched by the doorframe, where he had a good view outside. He killed the lights, waited and listened.

After a minute, nothing had happened.

Antoine stood knife still in hand.

He stopped at the rack with the cleansers.

Antoine’s hands touched the folded cloth on the rack. It felt surprisingly washed and clean. He took it from the shelf and spread it out in front of him. There was another set of clothes in plastic bags, a militant’s uniform.

The kitchen staff’s attire was about his size. He put away the knife to change his clothes and began with his jacket and shirt.

He awoke huddled on the floor of the storage room.

Antoine found a field ration to eat in the kitchen now that it was getting lighter. He washed it down with bottled water. He was still eating when he heard voices outside and the door to the canteen opening. Antoine took the leftover food with him and withdrew to the supply delivery area. Some vehicles were still parked there from the previous day. He leant against one of the trucks and waited, passing as a kitchen staff member waiting for delivery of new supplies.

They arrived after an hour.

Two trucks drove in, bringing foods from the farmers. They reversed back to the dais with loading ramps and canvas cover open. The kitchen staff arrived too. Some had gone out for a smoke and noticed him, so he nodded but kept his mouth shut. He stayed within eyeshot but didn’t engage in conversation. New personnel probably came and went regularly, but his presence would raise some curiosity. They would pester him with questions and one too many would sooner or later blow his cover. He looked over to them, as they stood in a circle, five men, shifting between legs in the chill morning air.

“Cigarette?” one of them asked Antoine in Russian.

The Chechen language was a lost relic and Russia had made sure to replace it with its own, even here.

He took a moment, looking at the arrived supply trucks, as if to consider their offer.

“No, thanks.”

He gave them a smile and it got returned. Then they turned around, lit their smokes and laughed about something.

The fact that there was work to do bailed him out. The equivalent of a petty officer arrived to bark orders. Staff scurried. Some put out their smokes. Others kept them in their mouths, trying not to lose them. There was enough to do to keep attention away from the new guy.

Someone handed Antoine a box. He followed another man. Once inside, he disappeared into the white-clad crowd of personnel.

Breakfast came. It had taken up most of the early morning hours to prepare the meal. The night patrols were coming in from their tours and the day shift headed out to replace them. All of them ate and packed their bags with provisions for the day.

Antoine stood at the counter and doled out the meal. He tried to keep a head-count.

Another staff member nudged him when he put rations on a plate.

“This one,” he said, indicating the next man in line. “You want to give him more.”

“Why?” Antoine asked.

“He is Spetsnaz,” the man said. “One of the former Vostok battalion.”

Antoine took a second scoop and loaded the plate. He gave it to the soldier and looked him in the eyes. They both held the plate. Antoine couldn’t bring himself to let go. He had to swallow his contempt first.

The Spetsnaz snatched the plate. He snorted and went away but Antoine could feel his poisonous glare following him until he left the line.

His kitchen colleague noticed.

“You must be new here,” he said to Antoine. “Better pay some respect to them. It’s healthy. You show respect, you don’t lose your teeth. Otherwise it will be soup for you for the next weeks.”

“I am new here,” said Antoine.

“Is that why you have no beard?” the man asked.

Antoine stroke over his chin. “That?” He grinned. “No, that’s because I was forced to blend in in Russia the last couple weeks.”

The man looked at him. “Well, shaving is allowed, I suppose. A shaved beard can grow again. A lost head, not so much. Bekhan,” the man said to him. “My name’s Bekhan.”

“Ruslan,” Antoine said.

They shook hands.

“That was Dzhalal Abramov,” Bekhan said. “I saw him once lay a block of concrete on his bare back, while his buddy smashed it with a sledgehammer. The concrete broke, his back didn’t.”

Bekhan nodded into the direction of the line.

“Trouble never comes alone,” he said. “That’s Abukhan Zakayev. He’s one ice cold bastard.”

“What did he crush on his back?” Antoine asked.

“He was swinging the hammer,” Bekhan said.

Antoine turned so as not to face Zakayev. He handed him the plate with an extra portion like he had with Abramov. Zakayev passed by without recognizing him.

“They are all veterans who have had enough,” Bekhan said. “You should see their ceremonial pictures from the day they were disbanded. Their chests laden with awards. Multiple Medals for Courage, Orders for Merit to the Fatherland and Orders of Courage. Like Nazyr here.”

The next Spetsnaz came into view.

“Nazyr Basayev.”

Antoine overheard him speaking.

“Can you imagine our comrades fighting in Ukraine as we speak?” Nazyr said to his colleague.

“Yeah, been there, done that, getting paid
schnietz
compared to us now,” the other said.