Free Fall (14 page)

At some point Moscow turned to me and whispered with irritation:

‘I really hope this is the last time. If they ask us to do anything else, I'm going to tell them all to shove it.'

I was in total agreement.

We soon reached our destination. The car stopped in the courtyard of a small building defended by our men. The yard was full of equipment randomly strewn across the ground. On the opposite side there was a road that separated our territory from the territory held by the enemies. We jumped out of the car and began gathering Kalashnikov clips, tying them together with the wide bandages from our medi-kits, attaching them to our vests.

The captain ordered:

‘Prepare ten clips for me too, boys!'

Then he went off to the tent in the middle of the yard,
which was surrounded by sandbags stacked up to a man's height around the perimeter. It was the mobile command base, where there was usually some low-ranking officer, a major or at most a lieutenant colonel.

Our captain was very critical towards the men in command – he called any contact with them ‘listening to babies cry', referring to the story in the Gospel about the massacre of the innocents. There was something about their behaviour, he told us, that he had never really been able to understand, and when he had to deal with them face to face they always ended up arguing and he would insult them. As he admitted himself, that's precisely the reason why he never went up in military rank – sometimes he would jokingly add the word ‘eternal' to his title of captain; he was aware that nobody in command was very fond of him, either.

That day, I could tell just from the way he stormed over to the tent that Nosov was going to get into trouble the moment he walked in there.

Not even ten minutes had passed before we started to hear shouting coming from the tent, along with a string of accusations and insults, with which our captain was always very generous.

Right after that Nosov came by the sandbags, and called me over, his voice breaking:

‘Kolima! Come here, I have a job for you!'

I could imagine what it would be, so I walked towards the tent with some reluctance. Inside there was an infantry major sitting at a table, improvised from empty cases for heavy machine gun rounds. He had a battle knife in his
hand, which he was using to show Nosov various points on a map that was spread out in front of them.

On the map, our area was surrounded by empty shells and various calibres of cartridge, which were supposed to represent the different military units. Next to that was a package of black bread, open, and a piece of paper with a pat of butter on top, a Kalashnikov survival knife stuck inside. There was also a big pot full of black tea, which was so hot it was steaming, and in fact its smell filled the entire tent. In one corner, on top of a zinc case, an infantry explorer, a private, ate silently. Next to him, leaning against the case, was his precision rifle: a VSS with an integrated silencer, exactly the same as mine. He was a sniper too.

The major was angry with Nosov, but he paid no attention and made himself at home. He spread some butter on a thick hunk of bread and passed it to me.

‘Here. Eat while you can . . .'

I didn't need him to tell me twice, and in a single bite I'd chomped off half the piece. Then the major took an empty tin from a pile of rubbish on the ground and poured a drop of hot tea in it. He rinsed out the tin with a vigorous swish and dumped the dirty tea on the rubbish. Finally he filled the tin up with tea and said to me:

‘Drink up, soldier, don't just eat stale bread!'

I liked him right off the bat, this major; he had a very friendly demeanour and he treated me like a son. It was clear that he found himself in an awkward situation, that's why he was trying to get some support.

While I drank the tea, with the residue of the oil from
the tin still floating on top, Nosov bent over the map. He said to me, without ever looking up:

‘Look, Kolima, your colleague here has managed to find the spots where the Arabs are. You have to memorise them, study them carefully . . .' I turned towards the explorers' sniper, who still hadn't said a word.

‘You left the area by yourself? How did you do it?'

The guy gave me a serious look, and while he was still chewing, he said:

‘I went into the sewer system. In the yard, behind the house where our post is, there's an entrance to the sewers. Our lieutenant ordered me to search it and, if possible, follow it all the way to you guys.'

It seemed incredible, looking at the guy. Alone, with a precision rifle and a few clips, that boy had gone through over a kilometre of sewer. Even if they were completely dry, since in the city the water pipes weren't working and there was no drinking water, the biggest danger in the sewers was the mines. During the First Chechen Campaign, all the sewers were mined – first by the enemies, then by us – to keep anyone from using them as underground passageways from one part of the city to another. Nobody dared go in there, the risk was too high.

‘That's some luck, brother! You weren't just born with a bulletproof vest, you had a full-on jacket!' I said, looking on the map at the path he had taken.

I had only been in the sewers once. We were clearing out a neighbourhood in the Chechen capital, the city of Grozny. To get closer to the position of an Arab sniper
I had to take down, I went through nearly two hundred metres of sewer, but it was nice and wide, and there was no danger of being discovered. The city was under the control of our troops, and two soldiers from the strategic unit had already passed through that same tract of sewer and deactivated the mines they found on the path.

The Arabs had several models of explosive devices at their disposal, many of which were Italian-made, coming from San Marino. They had different mechanisms, but were all deadly weapons. Some of them had been scattered throughout the city we were supposed to attack, thrown in the street in order to attract our soldiers' attention. They were made to look like mobile phones, watches, videocameras, and unfortunately sometimes toys or boxes of crayons. We all knew about these dangerous surprises, and if during the First Chechen Campaign a Russian or two had lost his hide, I don't remember a single case of that happening in the Second. But many civilians died, including – disgracefully – children. When we saw those mines in the street we wouldn't hesitate to shoot them to make them explode, thus rendering them harmless. The idea of picking them up and trying to deactivate them, on the other hand, never occurred to any one of us.

The explorers' sniper had done everything alone. Besides making it all the way to our position, he had emerged from the sewers at several points to observe the enemy camp and had used a piece of hard lime to mark the areas of greatest danger on the walls. He had risked his life so
he could tell us where and how the Arabs were positioned. To me he was a hero.

Now that I had a full stomach I went and carefully studied the map the sniper had drawn, trying to memorise all the points marked on the route, but there were so many I couldn't even count them. So I took out the map they'd given us at the beginning of the operation, and with a pencil I traced every single enemy post.

In the meantime, Nosov was talking with the major, discussing the possibility of launching an attack to free the trapped soldiers.

‘Before we attack,' the major said, ‘we have to wait for the planes to arrive, to bomb the perimeter, and . . .'

‘But that means sentencing our men to death!' Nosov broke in. ‘We have to try a passive attack. We push the Arabs back to their positions, and take back control of the perimeter. Then from there, we create a path for us to get to the area where the soldiers are stuck . . .' Nosov wasn't used to having to explain things to other people.

The major barked:

‘Captain! You are an officer in charge of one unit. Do all of us a favour; devise strategies with your men however and whenever you see fit, but don't try to resolve something that goes beyond your capacities!'

Nosov, however, didn't want to listen. He went on with accusations, using the same old stories about Afghanistan, talking about how he had been abandoned by a bunch of ‘officers with no balls' worried more about their medals than about the soldiers who were dying in the ‘traps laid out for them by the generals in the
Kremlin', people who had sold out to those ‘faggots at the Pentagon' . . .

At a certain point the major lost his patience and he went outside the tent, asking to be brought a field radio.

Three soldiers came running up. One carried the radio; the other two – Cossacks armed to the teeth, with vests, guns, Kalashnikovs and extra clips all over – went into a corner and started talking with the explorers' sniper.

The soldier with the radio fiddled with the equipment a little, then passed the handset to the major. They were calling the unit of trapped infantrymen, who had been holding out heroically for hours.

‘Twelve thirty-two! Twelve thirty-two! Birch calling! Birch calling!'

They answered right away.

‘Birch! Birch! This is twelve thirty-two!' You could hear the agitation in his voice, gunfire in the background.

The major took a deep breath, and said in a shaky voice:

‘Soldier, what is your situation? Request confirmation of your situation!'

For a moment everything on the other side stopped, you could only hear some shooting and a couple of loud explosions. We all stared at the radio, holding our breath.

After a moment the voice returned, even more agitated than before:

‘Birch, Birch! Confirming our situation! The unit is under siege. Lots of two-hundreds!
*
The three-hundreds
are almost gone,
*
we have no more medi-kits! The unit has run out of supplies, I don't know how much longer we can last! We request air strike on our coordinates! Fire on us!'

The soldier's voice seemed not to come from the radio, but to come from somewhere beyond. It was more than desperate – it was defeated. After a brief pause, he concluded the conversation:

‘Goodbye, brothers, remember us, and may God bless you! The whole unit and I salute you . . .'

Afterwards, we heard a long whistle; that sound meant the other side had ended communication. The major ordered the radio to be turned off and sat down on one of the crates, his face tired. He took an unfiltered cigarette and started smoking it with fury. He looked Nosov in the face, and then said quietly:

‘Captain, unfortunately you heard for yourself how badly off they are. Sending our units would be a futile sacrifice, pure insanity . . . Independent of whatever action we decide to take, command has already given the order, and soon we'll have confirmation – they're going to bomb the perimeter. All we can do is be ready for the attacks from the surviving enemy groups, who will most certainly try to flee the area.'

Nosov turned back to the map. The major got up and ordered the soldier with the radio to return to his unit. Only then did the two Cossacks approach the major. One of them, the older one, gave him a military salute. The
major stood up, and before responding, checked to make sure his hat was on
*
– you could see that he was tired and worn out too.

The Cossack said:

‘I'm Osaul
^†
Ustinov, Sixth Division of Free Kuban Cossacks . . . My son, Private Ustinov, is in the enemy-surrounded area. I ask your permission to join the attack group going to support our boys!'

The major looked at our captain for a second and then, lowering his eyes, began explaining the situation to the Cossack:

‘I understand your request, but the boys have no hope. They requested fire on their position, I'm certain they won't make it to daybreak alive . . . I officially apologise for our total powerlessness in the face of a situation like this . . .' From his tone of voice, it was almost as if he were apologising for having personally killed the Cossack's son.

The Cossack's face went dark, like a cloud heavy with rain. I was standing beside him, and I had the impression he was going to burst at any moment.

‘How much time do we have before the first air strike?' Nosov suddenly asked.

He was focused on the map and didn't notice the expression that came over the major's face. Naturally, the major didn't want to take on responsibility for any potential plans that came from Nosov's mind. Despite all that, he replied:

‘About an hour and a half, Captain . . . But I don't understand – what does the time of the strike matter now? The situation is cut-and-dried, unfortunately . . .'

Nosov looked up from the map, took a piece of bread from the table and chewing it almost cruelly, said:

‘Major, with all due respect . . . In an hour my strays and I can break through the enemy defence, check out their position, free the boys and come back home. We'll have time left over for breakfast . . .'

At these words my heart sank into my boots: Nosov was going to take us straight to hell.

The major took off his cap and sat down on the crate. He looked like he was about to have a heart attack; he was probably already picturing some superior stripping the stars from his uniform. He tried to object, without conviction, and raising his voice just a touch, he repeated:

‘That's not within your competencies, Captain . . .'

But Nosov shot back arrogantly:

‘Major! Let the beasts in the forest cry, we're soldiers and we must do our duty! My men and I will go into operation immediately. We'll go through the sewers, you prepare a group to cover us, because within an hour we'll come out at this exact point.' His finger pointed to the spot on the map.

Nosov traced a line marking a little street that went behind the trapped infantrymen's position and ended just opposite our units. Between those two points there was a kilometre and a half with enemy positions. Looking at it on the map, the route seemed short and simple, but to
physically travel it, on the actual perimeter, definitely wasn't going to be a cakewalk.