Free Fall (15 page)

The explorers' sniper came up, shook my hand and said:

‘Good luck and may God protect you, do everything you can for our boys . . .'

I, at that moment, was thinking that if anything went wrong, there wouldn't be anybody to do everything they could for us. If we tarried even a little we would get bombed by our own planes. Nothing to be cheery about.

The major looked Nosov in the eyes and said:

‘Captain, there's nothing I can do to stop this insane endeavour of yours, but remember that if anything happens behind the line, no one will be able to help you . . . As an officer of the Russian Army, all I can do is restrict myself to calling your actions dangerous for the lives of the soldiers under you. Personally, I'm against anarchy . . .' After these words, the major made a sly face, and whispered in a low voice, ‘But, Captain, if you need anything in particular, all of our magazines are at your disposal . . .'

Nosov spoke seriously, as he would do whenever he could already taste victory:

‘Prepare the support troops at the places I showed you on the map. In an hour we'll be there.' Without another word he exited the tent.

Before leaving, I paused to salute the major according to regulation. Looking at me squinty-eyed, he just waved his hand as if he were shooing away a fly.

*

Our captain was roaming around the yard looking for my comrades. The first one he found was Moscow. They spoke briefly, and right afterwards Moscow yelled:

‘Saboteurs! Battle alarm!'

As our men came from various places, running, throwing on their jackets, putting their clips and everything in place, Nosov slung two grenade launchers and a couple of bags of extra ammo over his shoulders.

Once we were all there he spoke in a low voice, as he did whenever he wanted to explain something important:

‘We'll go on foot, without using the car. We'll go through the sewers and then, following the map, we'll come out directly on the perimeter where our guys are trapped. When we get there, hopefully we'll find some of them still alive . . .'

We listened carefully. We too needed to know what sort of death awaited us.

Suddenly the Cossack came over with his young sidekick. The old man interrupted Nosov, his words full of desperation:

‘Captain, I beg you, take us with you, my son is there, you understand? How could I go on living knowing that I could have done something to save him and I didn't?'

Nosov replied calmly, as if he had been expecting this question his whole life.

‘I understand you, Osaul, and for me personally it's not a problem. But we saboteurs are a family, and we make decisions together. If even one of my boys doesn't agree to it . . . I'm very sorry, Osaul, but you'll be staying here . . .'

The Cossack turned towards us. He wore a moustache, and he looked dead tired. He seemed about fifty years old.

‘My boys, help me at this difficult moment! One day, God bless you, you will be fathers too, and I hope you never experience what I'm going through now . . .' He gazed at us with sad eyes and stiff lips, as if a cramp had frozen the muscles in his face. You could tell he wanted to say something else, but couldn't manage to get it out.

Moscow was the first to speak:

‘It's fine with me . . .'

We all gave our assent.

The expression in the old man's eyes changed instantly.

At that point Nosov said:

‘We have about an hour, so let's try to hurry as much as possible, on the double, and no messing around . . .'

We quickly introduced ourselves. The old man was called Vasily, the young one – who was much less worried about the gravity of the situation – Yury. They were uncle and nephew, and they seemed like good people to me. I was glad that someone else was joining our group on such a dangerous operation – it was an unusual occurrence, and maybe it would bring a little more hope to all of us.

We checked our equipment one last time, while Moscow and Zenith explained to the Cossacks what they needed to remove and what they should keep on. The two immediately lightened their jackets, tossing their guns that would have made noise and restricted
their movement. The Cossacks were expert soldiers – no one had any doubt as to their training – but we didn't have time to explain saboteur rules and conduct.

We had to cross the street, go through a yard and from there go down into the sewers. In the darkness of the early morning there was a cool wind that caressed our faces; you could still see the stars up in the sky.

As we moved in silence, I noticed a cat, an old male tabby, perched on a half-destroyed car. He observed us attentively, while we prepared ourselves covertly for the mission. The presence of cats, according to Siberian tradition, brings good luck. I hadn't forgotten that terrible darkness I'd seen inside the vat of water, and the cat seemed like a positive sign.

The yard shown on the map was full of empty cases that had held the explosive charges for the cannons. There in the middle was the entrance to the sewers, sealed with a heavy slab of iron. So as not to get lost, we had to follow the indications the explorer had drawn on the sewer walls. Along the entire route, as the captain had explained, we would find his unit number, 168, serving as our guide.

One by one, we jumped underground. Nosov and Moscow – the first and the last in line – had flashlights with red bulbs so as not to arouse the enemy's suspicion. The sewers were paved; they formed a very narrow tunnel
that forced us to walk with our heads down and bent almost halfway over.

I had only one thought in my head: the fact that the explorers' sniper hadn't blown up didn't mean there weren't any mines down there.

We ran behind Nosov, and it felt like we were mice. It was dark, it was dead hot, there was dust everywhere, and I felt like I was breathing sand. At multiple points we heard the Arabs' voices coming from above.

Suddenly Nosov froze, stiff as a rod. We stopped behind him, breathing hard. Moscow spat on the ground and cursed softly. Nosov studied the map with the flashlight, then pointed the light at the wall, looking for the sign. When he found the number with a little star drawn next to it, he didn't waste any time. He turned to us and said:

‘Ready for action – let's go!'

We loaded the barrel, Zenith and Shoe put two charges in the grenade launcher.

‘Kolima, you and Moscow go up on recon. If it's all clear, one of you come back down here to lead the way.'

I climbed up a narrow stepladder that went from the sewer tunnel to the exit. You couldn't see a thing, Moscow was climbing up after me with a flashlight, but that weak red light didn't help. I groped my way up.

After a while my head touched the ceiling. There was an iron cover, it must have been five metres wide. I tried to lift it but that thing didn't even budge a centimetre. I
thought something heavy was blocking the exit; maybe a car was parked on top, or maybe there was a light cannon. I kept pushing, even using my shoulders, but I really couldn't lift it. My sweat was cold.

‘What the fuck are you doing? Take off the bloody cover!' Moscow yelled at me.

‘Holy Christ, they've put something on top, it won't open!'

‘Bullshit!' Moscow came up and I moved aside, balancing myself on the ladder with one foot off the rung. ‘Fucking hell, Kolima! You're not even capable of moving a bloody manhole cover?' He was raging now.

‘They've put something on top, I'm telling you, it won't move!' Any more and I was going to cry.

‘Stop saying that. Let's try together.' Moscow started pushing on one side and I on the other. The cover lifted a little.

Slowly inching it aside, we managed to clear an opening. The cool morning air came rushing in, and my lungs greedily took it in.

‘They've put something on top . . .' Moscow made fun of me, in a simpering little voice. ‘Eat more, otherwise you won't even have the strength to take a shit!'

I went out into the yard first. Outside it was brighter than when we had left. The sun wasn't out yet, but there was already that strange morning light that at times seems like a reflection in the distance.

There were open crates of equipment everywhere, all empty. There was absolute silence, no sound of gunfire. On one corner there was an armoured car like ours, a
BTR with one side burned out and the rear doors open. Someone had dismantled the machine gun from the turret – it was clear that, once they had realised the danger they were in, the infantrymen had tried to gather every weapon they could.

For a second I thought we had got there too late. Then I noticed movement in one of the windows of the third floor of the building. Someone was pulling a rope, lifting something. Moscow pointed towards the entrance; lying on the ground, there was a soldier. I couldn't see the details; I could only make out a dark spot. He moved slowly, crawling towards the door as if he were afraid to get up. He went a couple of metres, then stopped; I thought maybe he was wounded.

Moscow touched my arm and said:

‘That's our guys, let's go!'

We hurried across the yard. Partly because we were used to the dark and partly because day was starting to break, we realised that the bodies of our soldiers were scattered here and there; none of them had his vest or gear. We could see that the living had pillaged the dead.

Sneaking along the walls, we peered in the windows. The building was square, with identical rooms and a wide, long hallway with high ceilings – it seemed to be a school or hospital. It was completely destroyed, and our soldiers' bodies were in piles on the floor.

Once we reached the corner, I saw one of our positions. Next to a ground-floor window a soldier sat on the inner side of the boundary wall smoking a cigarette butt concealed under his hand. We crawled over to him and
he didn't notice a thing – he kept on sitting there, without moving, smoking calmly. Moscow approached from behind and immobilised him, like a spider clutches its victims. He put his hand over his mouth and whispered in his ear:

‘Relax, little brother, don't worry. We're the saboteurs, we've come to get you out of here . . .'

The soldier hadn't had time to react; the cigarette fell to the ground and I covered it immediately. When Moscow let go he looked at us as if we were aliens.

‘How did you do it, guys?' he said, incredulous.

‘Your sniper, the explorer, went through the sewers and showed us the way,' Moscow summarised. ‘We have to move now, while it's still not too light . . .'

The soldier grabbed an empty shell from the floor and threw it somewhere inside the building, into the darkness of one of the rooms. We heard a tired voice say:

‘What is it, Mitya?'

Our new acquaintance replied:

‘We have visitors – the saboteurs are here!'

From the other room the voice perked up instantly:

‘Fucking whore of a war, finally!'

There were sixteen infantrymen left. They had occupied a wing of the building and resigned themselves to waiting for the last attack from the enemy, who would come back at dawn to exterminate them.

While Moscow went to alert our guys, who were waiting for an update down in the sewer, I started talking to the sergeant. He was a really competent guy; he'd taken over after their lieutenant fell, planning their defence in an
attempt to stretch what little time they had as much as possible. His name was Lavrov.

‘I'd been hoping that, when dawn came, some of our men would start to push onto the line of fire,' he confessed to me. ‘That way maybe the Arabs' attention would have been taken from us to defending themselves . . .'

‘Sergeant,' I preferred to tell him the truth right away, ‘unfortunately, Command already approved an air strike . . .'

He looked at me in astonishment – he couldn't believe our command had been ready to sacrifice them without trying one last time.

I told him to gather the men from his unit right away, and within a few minutes all sixteen of the surviving soldiers were there in front of me. They were tired and worn out, but alive. Poor guys, they had only two boxes of rounds for the machine gun; if things went well that would have lasted them about five minutes of combat . . .

So as not to carry unnecessary weight, I decided we should leave the heavy machine gun behind, but first I plugged the barrel with a misshapen Kalashnikov shell and removed the lock to make the weapon completely unusable. I slipped it into my pocket; I'd throw it into the sewer later.

I picked up a few bulletproof vests, which could turn out to be useful during retreat, and passed them out to the guys. It was good to have a few extra – we could use them to cover the holes in the windows, to cover the radio and keep it from getting broken during transport, or to protect some other thing of value.

Moscow came back in a rush, all out of breath:

‘Let's hurry, the Arabs are coming. I heard noises in the distance . . .'

We headed out. I led the group, Moscow closed the line. The infantry made noise; their uniforms had tons of latches and they had some useless stuff on their vests that we hadn't had time to tell them to take off. But we got through the yard without any problems, and at the entrance to the sewers, one by one they went down.

Moscow and I covered them from a possible enemy attack, but everything was calm – there wasn't the slightest sign of the Arabs. Finally, when everyone had got to safety, we jumped down too. We carefully replaced the cover and off we went.

Nosov was down below, preparing some booby traps to mine the sewer entrance. He climbed up, and with some bandages from the medi-kits he affixed three grenades to the second rung of the iron ladder. Then he threaded some wire through the pins, tied two bullet-proof vests to one end of the wire to act as a counter-weight, and slipped the other end of the wire under the cover, which kept it in place and kept the vests hanging in the air. If someone moved the cover, the wire would come loose and the vests would fall and trigger the bombs.