Free Fall (3 page)

‘Yes, Sir!'

‘That's it, very good. Now go to the door, there's a truck waiting for you.' And he turned to the next cell. I stared hard at his back and yelled:

‘Thank you, Sir!'

He waved his hand lazily, without looking at me, as friends do when they part ways after spending the day together.

From the hall, I could see a military truck in the courtyard, and two soldiers with their rifles aimed at me.

‘You! Get in the truck. Now, now!' one of them shouted in my face.

I knew very well that once I was in there I wouldn't have another chance to escape. I froze, as if struck by lightning. I still couldn't believe that what was happening to me was real.

‘Get in the truck, I said! What, are you deaf?' he taunted, pointing his rifle at me.

I had no choice, and so I got in. Twenty men climbed in behind me, then the armoured door closed and the truck took off.

Inside it was so dark you couldn't see a thing. Some of them were speaking, asking questions: Where is the train? Is it far away? As if wherever the train was made any difference. Some of the men were calm; they said they already knew where they had been assigned. One said:

‘I don't care. My father knows the commander at the base they're sending me to. He set it all up; I'll hide out for my whole term of service. I'll pass the time with the country girls . . .'

As I listened to them talk, I realised that none of them
felt responsible for his own life. I was surrounded by children. For many of them, military service was their first opportunity to be on their own, without their parents coddling them. It was a new experience, they said, an adventure. I couldn't believe my ears. They were losing two years of their life doing something that none of them would ever have chosen to do, and in spite of all that they were happy.

After a few hours, we reached the railway station. It was enclosed by a red brick wall with heavy barbed wire on top. It reminded me of the sorting yard in the central prisons. The train was there on the tracks, with a long row of sleeper cars. Floodlights from the towers illuminated a square full of young men, like me, dressed in civilian clothes. Some carried bags, as if they were going on a holiday. There were guards everywhere, some with dogs; it was just like when they'd taken me to jail. I lost all hope of escape.

My only thought at that moment was procuring a toothbrush and a few other things I needed – I'd left the house without imagining I'd end up here, and I hadn't brought anything with me. I went up to a guy with a backpack and asked him if he happened to have a toothbrush. He looked at me strangely. It was clear that even though he was taller than me and definitely seemed stronger he still didn't know a thing about the crude realities of life. I smiled at him.

‘Listen up – give me your toothbrush, toothpaste, towel and soap . . . I want to show you a trick!' I tried to sound friendly.

‘What trick?' he asked.

‘A funny trick, trust me,' I said, forcing myself to chuckle, as if I actually wanted to astonish him with some sleight of hand.

‘Give me your stuff while there's still time!'

He looked a little suspicious, but in the end his childlike curiosity won out, and he reached into his backpack, which was full of all kinds of stuff his mummy had packed for him to help make him comfortable during his tour, and pulled out a small bag. I snatched it out of his hands and slipped it under my jacket, and walked away as if nothing had happened.

‘Hey, what about the trick?' the idiot asked, a smile still on his lips. Poor fool, he still hadn't realised that I'd ripped him off.

I glared at him, and in an ugly voice replied:

‘Get lost or I'll rip your eyes out, you piece of shit!'

Filled with shame and fear, head hanging, he walked back over to the others in his group.

As soon as we reached the yard we lined up in fours. There were a few hundred of us altogether. The soldiers passed by and took away whatever they considered ‘useless', which was nearly everything. Bags, backpacks and any other possessions were immediately confiscated.

‘Money, watches, jewellery, cigarettes . . . everything out of your pockets!' the soldiers yelled.

The others looked around, disorientated. The most fragile ones burst into tears after a soldier yelled at them. I was angry, but at the same time I almost felt like laughing at their behaviour.

At last the doors of the train opened and they ushered us on one at a time. Two soldiers made another sweep, throwing everything they found on the floor in a corner: watches, chains and other items, until a giant pile formed. I had put the bag between my legs, inside my underwear – to be more precise, I'd hidden it under my balls. The soldiers didn't even touch me; I raised my arm to show that I didn't have anything in my trousers, and they let me by.

I took a place at the window, just as I had done in jail. I had learned that that was the best spot, the safest.

The train hadn't even pulled away and the complaints had already begun. One guy was whining about the guards hitting him because he hadn't boarded the train fast enough, others because they'd lost the things they had brought from home. It was clear that they had never felt the sense of vulnerability and powerlessness that you feel in the face of the system, when you are crushed by the reality of power.

After a two-day journey, we reached a place similar to the one we had just left. There were lots of soldiers in the yard wearing various uniforms. It was midday, and all the men had come to the windows to get a look.

And they began to chatter:

'Look, the tankers! They're here for me, I'm going with them!'

‘The ones in blue berets are the paratroopers. Look, that guy has a bayonet hooked on his boot!'

‘Well, the infantry still have the smartest uniforms!'

The cheerful voices made me nauseous. I wanted to get off that damned train as quickly as possible.

The officers opened the doors and let us out, and then they began to call us, one by one. The first on the list were the ones headed for the infantry, so the yard was immediately half emptied. Then they called the artillery, and almost the entire second half left. After that, they called three groups simultaneously: paratroopers, tankers and motorists. Then there were about twenty of us left. Some officers in blue, navy and white uniforms came; they were the
spetsnaz
, the autonomous special units of the infantry, and they took most of the rest.

There were three of us left. A man in civilian clothes came, gave us a melancholy look, and said:

‘Saboteurs, let's go!' Without waiting for us, he turned and started walking towards the car, an armoured military off-road vehicle parked on the other side of the yard. We didn't look at one other, just followed him, and after a moment an officer ran after us with a folder full of papers. Each unit's representative had signed a piece of paper covered with stamps and other scribbles before leaving with his group. Now the officer, still running, yelled at the top of his lungs:

‘Zabelin! Give me your bloody signature for once, you bastard!'

The man in civilian clothes casually kept walking. The soldier gave up, and, cursing, gestured contemptuously in our direction.

‘Your unit is bullshit; you're just a bunch of amateurs!'

The man in civilian clothes stood by the car with the keys in his hand, staring at us.

‘All right, boys, I'm Senior Lieutenant Zabelin, in charge of the saboteur training unit . . . Which of you boys can drive?

‘I can, Senior Lieutenant Sir!' I replied, with the voice of a young communist – full of energy and faith in the Nation's future.

He gave me a funny look:

‘Tell me, how many times have you been in?'

‘Two, Senior Lieutenant Sir!' I replied, without missing a beat.

He whistled, and then asked:

‘Did you steal? Deal drugs?'

‘No, Senior Lieutenant Sir!'

‘Well then,' he said, raising his voice, ‘are you going to share what the hell you did that was serious enough to get two juvenile convictions?'

‘I impaired some people's health, Senior Lieutenant Sir!'

‘You
impaired some people's health
? What language are you speaking, boy! Can't you explain yourself any better?'

It was like talking to my late, great uncle Sergey. He used the same expressions, and his voice wasn't cruel or fake like that of other soldiers.

‘I beat up and stabbed two people, Senior Lieutenant Sir! But I did my time and I've learned my lesson!' I kept playing the good soldier, responding in the way I imagined that soldiers were supposed to respond: fast, like tap-dancing with your tongue.

‘Good boy! I like you!' he said, amused. ‘Now take the keys and be careful with the transmission, it's an old car . . .' Then he paused, looked at all three of us and said in a normal voice, without any trace of mockery or arrogant bullshit or anything of the sort:

‘Never call me “Senior Lieutenant Sir” again, is that clear? From now on, you're saboteurs. We don't have ranks, just names, remember that. So I'm “Comrade Zabelin” to you. Let's go, get this thing started . . .'

The saboteurs' camp was in the paratroopers' camp. It was a base within the base, with fences, checkpoints and everything. The paratroopers went about their daily lives and we never encountered them.

Our barracks were long, arranged on a single storey, and in the middle of the hallway there was an entrance that led underground.

During the first week they subjected us to various trials; they wanted to assess our health and endurance. Zabelin was our only drill instructor; there were a dozen sergeants who assisted, but he saw to the training himself. They woke us up during the night and made us run, armed and with full backpacks as if we were in the field. We would leave the base in total darkness, Zabelin at the head of the ranks and a few sergeants at the side and the back, and start running like a pack of animals. It was extremely difficult; we had to move in the dark down dirt paths in the woods, run up and down hills, and every metre of ground we covered cost us enormous effort. Lots of guys got hurt; one fell and broke a leg; another didn't see a ditch and fell in, shattering one of his vertebrae. You
couldn't see a thing, and Zabelin didn't let us use any lights.

‘You have to move in the dark like animals. Darkness is a saboteur's best friend; you have to take advantage of it. It's your lover, your partner . . .' he would always say when anyone tried to complain.

We also had to learn how to orient ourselves in the dead of night; it was important to know where base was at all times, to be able to load our rifles, arrange things in our packs. Even in the barracks our windows were always covered by heavy shutters made of dark wood. We ate, did our business, showered, dressed, dismantled and cleaned our weapons, all in the dark.

Zabelin respected me because I had learned to run in the dark without being afraid to fall, I handled exertion well, I could go a long time without drinking water, and especially because I never asked pointless questions, which he hated more than anything.

After a week, we began target practice. Beforehand, Zabelin asked if any one of us was handy with weapons, if we had shot anything. A few of us said yes, so he ordered us to take up the AKSM-74 Kalashnikov assault rifles, and gave us each an entire clip. I had a head start; in addition to the target shooting I did in a city sports team, I had lots of hunting experience in Siberia with my grandfather Nikolay. Whenever I went to visit my grandfather, even when I was still just a kid, my father often let me shoot his Kalashnikov.

When it was my turn, I made a spectacular shot. Instead
of just hitting the bullseye, I knocked it down, breaking the pedestal that secured it to the ground.

‘Siberian, what the hell are you doing? Why didn't you aim for the centre?' Zabelin pretended to be angry with me.

‘There's no point in shooting straw targets with this cannon, Comrade Zabelin!' I replied, like the ideal soldier. ‘If you want me to hit that bullseye give me a slingshot, at least then it would be fun!'

My comrades broke into laughter. Zabelin laughed, too:

‘All right, let's make a pact: if you can knock down the rest of that pedestal, I'll send you to a place where you can do whatever you want!' His tone was very cheerful.

‘Consider it done, Comrade Zabelin!'

I levelled the rifle, fixed the stump in the crosshairs, lowered my aim by half a finger and fired, very delicately pressing on the trigger. The pedestal lifted off the ground completely, and fell with a bounce.

‘All right, Nicolay, you've earned a spot in the sniper course. Starting tomorrow you'll be working with Comrade Sergeant Yakut!'

From then on, every day for four hours, I would leave the main group and follow individualised training with a small detachment composed of twelve men. The sniper instructor was a sergeant of Siberian origin, like me, and so they called him Yakut, after the region he came from.
*
He was sharp and knew all there was to know about war.
He'd fought in several armed conflicts and was an expert in ‘micro expeditions', brief and highly risky engagements in special war operations. He seldom spoke, and spent most of our lessons teaching us the basics of shooting with precision rifles. He explained how to make the most of the telescope and how to pick out and hunt down other snipers. The principle wasn't difficult; you had to move slowly without letting yourself be seen, be patient, and be extremely alert – like a hunter.

After a month of training exercises, I'd figured out a way to escape from the base. So one night I grabbed a few of my things and crossed two fences watched by the sentry. Like a shadow, I crept along the walls, but when I finally emerged outside the base, thinking that I'd made it, there was Zabelin, eating an ice cream.

‘Want one?' he asked casually.