OKSANA

Grozny, Chechnya      2009

Peering through the shattered pane of the frost covered window, Sergei could barely see the outskirts of Grozny smoldering in the false dawn of incendiary shell bombardment. Russian paratroopers, thinly disguised as locals, moved from building to building dispatching the unlucky, but the city had effectively fallen days ago. He nodded to himself and took a small sip from his hip flask. 

“You know,” he said as he passed the vodka to his companion. “”If they find us they will execute us. Before you would have a chance to tell them whatever bullshit you’ve cooked up as our cover.”

The man smiled and lifted the flask in a salute before drinking. “My plan, if caught by separatists, was to shoot you and claim to be with the Caucasus Front. Alternatively, if the Russian army finds us, I am a loyalist ”

Sergei considered that. “Might work either way, as long as you also handed the asshole in charge ten thousand US dollars.”

“So you agree it’s crazy to try this today, then?”

“Fuck yes. But we will go anyway.” Sergei pulled a woolen ski mask over his face and began collecting his gear. Karoli sighed and followed suite. Emerging from the bombed out laundromat that had served as their refuge, the men scrambled across the rubble. They had almost made it to the safety of a deserted federal building when the shock wave hit.  The blinding flash and the impact were almost simultaneous and that was a very bad sign. Sergei could see the blood vessels in his eyelids so bright was the explosion.

“Jesus are you kidding me? That was a tactical nuke!” Sergei pulled Karoli back to his feet. “This is suicide.”

“It wasn’t nuclear, get a hold of yourself. Probably phosphate, but not nuclear.”

A thin layer of snow and ash lay over the ruined city but Sergei no longer paid attention to such mundane things as coldness or hunger. He had his eyes on the prize, as they said in America.

"Who is this guy, anyway? Why the fuck didn't he leave weeks ago?" Karoli complained. He was always complaining. "Now we risk our lives to extract some idiot? You know what? Putin can kiss my ass."

"Eyes on the prize," Sergei said in English. "Eyes on the prize."

It wasn't really all that bad. They were forced to shoot a self appointed sentry a few blocks from the objective but it was a kindness really. The man would have starved before the week was out. Sergei struggled with a map because he didn't want to take off his mittens. "Over there. That's the place. They don't even have electricity anymore." He pointed towards a block of soviet era apartments overlooking a corpse strewn plaza.

The snow had resumed in earnest by the time they made their way to the building, for which Sergei, though not a religious man, gave thanks. The wet snow, mixed with falling ash, obscured the collapsed entrance. They crouched as they hurried up the steps, trying to become very small targets, because snipers were still taking potshots at anything moving, for no discernible reason. But then, discernible reason was one of the first casualties of war. Sergei looked back towards their escape route. He only worried when things looked easy. To the south, the Sunzha River lay deceptively placid under a low gray sky.

Once inside the lobby of the apartment building, Sergei was content to let Karoli pretend to be in charge. The man loved to talk. On the flight from Moscow he had been compelled to tell  his life story, and only stoic Russian restraint had prevented Sergei from pitching him out of the aircraft. The two could not have been more different. Karoli was White Russian, son of a KGB officer and a university professor, destined for the politburo or higher. All his complaints were like salt on Sergei's wounds, as they involved perceived slights at social functions, failed love affairs and troubles with Moscow bureaucracy. 

Huddling in a corner of the lobby were  four soldiers, the remnants of a Chechen separatist army patrol. They watched Karoli and Sergei warily but seemed disinclined to defend the burnt shell of the building. Probably low on ammo Sergei guessed. A few weeks ago they were shooting at anything that moved, no doubt.

Karoli pushed his hands forward to show they were empty, not quite raising them but close  enough. Sergei followed suit and pulled the ski mask from his face. "Relax my friends," Karoli said. "It's too cold to fight today."

The oldest of the lot seemed inclined to agree. "There is no food here to steal. And other buildings are taller and better to snipe from. Leave us alone, OK?"

"Well, you know what? It's Christmas and fucking New Years Eve combined. We have rations, and not your lousy Chechen shit either." Karoli gestured expansively and Sergei produced the food from his backpack. The leader held up one hand and the soldiers hesitated, like snapping dogs held in check. 

But it was too much the most emaciated of the bunch. "We defect!" the man yelled. "We surrender to you." He was rewarded with a quick rifle butt to the mouth by his nearest comrade.

"Shut up you idiot," The leader said without emotion. "Why the largess, Russki?

"Oh it's a bribe, for sure. My friend here abhors violence so we grin and bribe to avoid bloodshed. It's better, no?" Sergei grinned like an idiot.

The soldier frowned. "What do you want?"

"Some countrymen. A family holed up on the twelfth floor we believe. We gonna pack them up and escort them back to mother Russia, in and out. We will be out of your hair in no time."

The Chechen grunted and put his hand down. His soldiers descended upon the rations and began frantically ripping away the packing. "Be my guest," he said as he joined them. "The less Russians in Grozny the better. No offense."

Karoli smiled benevolently and said nothing. He and Sergei crossed the lobby to the stairway and ascended. Karoli loitered on the balcony until until hunger overcame common sense and the last Chechen below had lowered his weapon to eat. He shot each man with a short burst of his Kalashnikov and spit over the railing for good measure. "No offense taken," he muttered and turned to catch up with Sergei.

Most floors were empty but a few apartments showed signs of life, furtive movement behind blockaded doors as the Russians made their way through the darkened halls. No one rushed out mistaking them for saviors however. On the seventh floor Sergei relit one of his precious Marlboro 100's, ignoring Karoli's impatience. "I'm winded," he explained. "I need nicotine to revive me." 

When they found the apartment it was empty, the door splintered and forced open. "No way. All this for nothing." Karoli punched his fist through the cheap stucco lining the hallway.

"Calm down," Sergei said. "Where would they have gone? Wander around downtown? They are nearby."

A man was standing in the stairwell trying to be inconspicuous. Sergei knew immediately this was the father.

 "Antoly Kasmadov? Professor? We are here to help you and your family. We are going to take you back to Moscow."

"I have a gun," the man replied in a voice both defeated and slightly hysterical.

"Yes, me too. Everyone has a gun, Professor Kasmadov." Sergei motioned for Karoli to stay back. The man would startle his own mother. "But here's the thing, the next wave of shelling is going to collapse this building, and neither of our guns will make much difference. What do you say?"

"I don't trust the Russian army," the man said.

"Me neither. They are a bunch of cocksuckers, but the Chechens are worse and so here we are. Your family cannot stay in a war zone, Professor."

Kasmadov stepped out of the shadows and tucked a handgun into his waistband. "You came all this way to rescue us?"

"Not just you. We have collected quite a few citizens in your situation," Karoli lied.  A shell impacted somewhere nearby. "Your wife and daughters, they are safe?"

Sergei handed Kasmadov some water as he slumped against the peeling wallpaper. He drank until Sergei reached over to remove it from his grip. "We were forced to leave our apartment." Kasmadov said.  "They stole our food and belongings but I have kept my girls hidden. Do you have antibiotics? My wife has a bad cough."

He led them down the hallway and up one flight of stairs to a utility closet blocked by debris. Sergei and Karoli helped him clear the wreckage away and when the door opened they saw three miserable shapes huddled on the concrete floor among the pails and mops. The wife was in bad shape. Sergei kneeled and felt her forehead. The woman moaned and struggled for breath through pale blue lips. Even so near to death, she was beautiful, Sergei thought. Blond hair pulled tightly back from her glistening forehead, blue eyes unfocused and unseeing. She was rail thin of course. They all were. The two daughters were little replicas of their dying mother. One would not survive either, but the smaller of the two, bundled in layer after layer of winter wear watched Sergei curiously. 

This was the one.

"I want to examine your littlest girl, Professor Kasmadov" Karoli said. "I am a field medic."

They all watched as Karoli knelt and took the child's coat almost tenderly. He rolled up a frayed sweater sleeve and drew a syringe of blood from the child, who neither resisted nor cooperated. He grunted in satisfaction and gave Sergei a sidelong glance. The men herded Kasmadov and his family into the hallway.

Kasmadov gripped Karoli's shoulder. "What about her mother? What about her sister? Aren't you going to examine them as well?" 

Sergei removed the man’s hand from Karoli. "When we get to the extraction point, Professor. Everything will be fi-"

Karoli had already maneuvered the youngest child apart from the others. "We don't have time for this. Hold the kid steady would you?" Karoli studied the device containing the girl's blood. A row of LEDS flickered green and he nodded with relief.. "War zones are very useful for a variety of reasons, Professor Kasmadov. People go missing, crimes go unpunished, and the natural order emerges. You make me ashamed actually. To be a fellow Russian I mean. Here you have produced virtually perfect human beings but you are not man enough to take care of them. And we can only take one back, which is a shameful waste."

Patting his Kalashnikov, Sergei listened to Karoli absently, already working out their escape route. 

"What...what are you talking about?" Kasmadov said.

"Genetics," Karoli replied. "I am talking about genetics." He carefully repacked his equipment and picked up his weapon. He shot Kasmadov first.  The woman tried to crawl over her older daughter and shield her, which only made the job easier, since at this range, a bullet from a Kalashnikov could travel through two bodies with little loss of velocity. The surviving child looked up at the men in mute acceptance, as if she had expected it all along.

“What the fuck, man!” Sergei was furious. “Our orders were  to take -”

“Piss on the orders. I’m not hauling a sick family through a war zone.” Karoli shouldered his rifle and grabbed the child by her wrist.

Later, a few miles from the extraction point. Sergei shot Karoli when he complained about carrying the girl. It was a kindness really.