Wildlife Security Solutions, LLC – Contract #2, pt 6

“Stop checking your watch.” Akula chided Volk without looking up from his cards. “It won’t make this go faster.”

“Fuck….how long have we been flying now?” The smaller man retorted, head in his hand and the uneasy green of motion sickness settling into his cheeks. The smell in the enclosed belly of the Il-76 wasn’t helping. The mix of cheap cigarette smoke with human waste was assaulting them even seated at the other end of the bay, by the access ladder to the cockpit. 

Despite his own advice, Akula had been sorely tempted to watch the seconds tick by several times already, which is why he’d sat in on the game of durak. Orchid’s men also refused to sleep, but unlike his team, they didn’t appear to concern themselves with anything at all. Akula couldn’t believe how they managed to stay conscious at first. Then again, how long has she kept them awake through beratement and threats, only to leave them alone now?

Many of the North Koreans had passed out from exhaustion or boredom. They laid on each other, despite the wrist and leg shackles restricting their movements. Yet Sum did not sleep, forcing his bloodshot eyes to remain open for any moment of weakness. Akula could respect that in the professional sense, as he’d do the same in that situation. Sleep depravation was nothing new to Akula, as it was a common form of hazing and initiation within the Russian Navy. Grizli also took advantage of Sum’s alertness to continue mocking him at every turn. 

On the opposite side of the Il-76’s hold, sitting on a crate and smoking, Marianna continued to watch over Il-Sung Rii as the broken man slept. Unlike the prisoners or their keepers, her hands remained steady and her eyes focused. This is nothing compared to treating gunshot wounds in the back of a BMP, is it?

“How the hell did you survive the flight from Kontrol to Haven?” Grizli teased Volk. ” Did you beg the stewardess to nurse you?”

Volk shook his head before discarding and ending his turn. “Stayed up for three days and passed out on the flight in. Missed the drop-off in Syria, even.”

Akula laughed slightly at that, “Be glad you did. Zhnets would’ve taken you for his Storm-Zed team, and you’d still be eating sand while also watching a bunch of rich assholes pretend that war is over.”

“When were you there?” Nosorog asked, offering a half-drained bottle to Volk, who gratefully took a long draw. “I was in Khmeimim before this, and don’t remember you. Not that a sailor had any work there.”

“Fuck, I was there almost a decade ago now, after that poor bastard got shot down by the Turks. I did two years there for the Aleppo offensives.” Akula summarized. “I was working for Tsezar back then, and learned how to clear buildings while he beat us into shape.”

“Fucking Syria…” Grizli groaned. “The food was shit, the women were worthless, and they had the worst looking armor I’d ever seen! I could’ve make their T-72s sing, if they had the right fucking tools”

“At least Syria had a goddamn naval front, so I could go stand on something floating.” Akula countered. The mere mention of such brought back a flood of memories to the sailor, like watching the mighty cruiser Varyag steam into Latakia port, or the clangs of skulls off bulkheads as the drunken Chiefs beat their younger sailors for getting drunk before they’d safely docked. “Warm water pukes…they didn’t appreciate the sea like we did up North.“

“I remember Aleppo…Kurdish bastards build the best car-bombs.” Nosorog replied, sitting back to let his mind wander back in time. “Best one I’d ever seen was tied to the satellite radio, so it would detonate when the channel search function hit the right station. It must’ve sat there for days until I found it.”

“So why are you here, Akula, and not in the naval detachment?” Volk queried, voice intense with curiosity. “The Brotherhood didn’t let me join the air unit like I’d wanted, and I get why Grizli and Nosorog are in the land division.”

“The company couldn’t fit that Chechen ass in anything smaller than this!” Grizli chuckled, shoving the broader Nosorog with his own massive shoulder. 

Akula shrugged at the question, but then shook his head. “I had the option before taking this contract. But Pasha…”

“She told you no, didn’t she?” Grizli finished the thought with a barking laugh. “Our noble Shark, chained by an ample anchor and fed scraps of chum when he does well.” 

Akula laughed lightly at the ribbing, taking the bottle for a swift drink. “She doesn’t have fond memories of water, and after leaving the Admiral Levchenko, it was time for change.”

Volk watched his team lead for a moment, trying to fill in things left unsaid. To refocus the pup, Grizli gave Volk’s air a mussing. When he got shoved back, the Ukrainian grabbed the bottle with an effortless swipe. 

Nosorog gave Grizli a glare of venom and vodka. “Don’t you hate this swill?”

Grizli tapped the label with a mischievous grin. “Not when it’s made with the waters of the Sinijärv! It’s one of the best things in Estonia!”

“Besides their women?” Akula asked, wondering just how good the vodka had to be to get Grizli to drink it.

The Ukrainian’s smile grew wider. “A perfect mix of Scandinavian heartiness, Slavic tongue, and Germanic asses that don’t quit. It’s all they’ve got, but what they’ve got is good.”

“You’ve been there? Estonia?” Volk asked.

“Took a little vacation there to go pay my respects to the Soldier of Tallinn for my grandmother, maybe six years ago. Also got to beat the shit out of a few loudmouthed Londoners, which was an added bonus.” Grizli reminisced, almost dreamily in tone when he recounted the fistfight.

Akula noted just how still Volk had gone during Grizli’s tale, the younger soldier hanging on every word of the larger man. Grizli also noticed, and shook his head. “Don’t let those damned thugs pick your next assignment, pup. There’s work to be done in the West, you’d like it. All the old Pact nations have cells there, trying to bring them back under the influence of the old Motherland.”

Grizli’s expression then darkened several levels at that, and with it went his tone. “Who knows, maybe you’d have better luck in Tallinn than the assholes assigned to Kyiv. Then maybe a lot less people would be dying now.”

Volk went silent for a moment to think on that, remembering his query to his team leader to bring the conversation away from such a polarizing topic,”Did you have that choice when this came up, Akula? Sail the world on missions for the company?”

Akula shook his head, “Not exactly. I took this mission for Andre.”

Volk looked puzzled by that, but Grizli nodded sagely. A small smile of understanding returned to the larger man’s lips, welcoming something new to tease his team leader with. “One can’t raise a newborn pup on Kontrol’s salary alone. And the sign-on bonus was more than just a voucher for rubles.”

“It certainly beat the fucking menial clerk work I was offered after Aleppo…” Akula spat out, momentarily surprised by his own hostility. “I would’ve ended up on Orchid’s staff, or been Silverback’s errand bitch.”

Each expression in the quartet grew darker at the mention of their current taskmaster’s name. Out of curiosity, they all turned to look onto the other four armed guards. Orchid’s team stood separated and rigid, focused on the prisoners who offered little resistance or motion at the moment.

Akula caught one of them glancing their way and lingering for a moment. Akula waved his cards at the man, knowing full well how boring it was to maintain control of unconscious cargo. For a moment, the man was tempted, and his hands tensed on his submachine gun. Yet the curious sentry shook his head and turned away from them, focusing back on their captives. Another of the quartet clearly took offense to seeing such hesitation and promptly began gesturing angrily at his teammate.

“Der’mo…how bad has that witch broken them down?” Volk asked aloud, echoing the group’s thoughts.

“Someone like that only knows one way to deal with people.” Nosorog growled. “Yet they’re always surprised when they get shot in the back.”

“Aspirations for the future?” Grizli asked, voice missing its normal mirth for such a proposal.

Nosorog was slow to answer, but Volk answered for him, “Not here, not yet. Maybe one day, while we sleep.”

Grizli raised an eyebrow at such a forecast. “Like before, back at Haven? Pup, you haven’t been paying attention. Fuck, did that fall off the hanger damage your brain? We’ve each had the chance to kill each other by now. Yet here we are, bastards alike.”

Akula tapped the bottle of vodka with his finger, and Volk was first to take a drink from it. With the Wolf quiet and distracted for a moment, Akula turned to Nosorog. “My offer still stands, Timur. Downtown Grozny, when this contract is over.”

Nosorog laughed at that, though his voice was much more sober than it was a few moments ago. “If Leonid doesn’t kill you first, then maybe.”

Akula and Grizli exchanged looks, the latter raising the bottle in the air as a toast before taking a long swig. “Slava Ukraini, and all that bullshit. Fuck all of them. When this assignment is over, I’m moving to the armor regiment.”

The declaration washed over the group with a beat of surprise. Volk was first to ask “Miss beating people with wrenches?”

Grizli barked a laugh, drawing all conscious eyes towards him, as mirth was a foreign intruder in such a cramped space. Not bothering to acknowledge Orchid’s men, Grizli responded, “The tank drivers may get the flowers and the dead fishes, but the maintainers get the women of true gratitude. No one fucks like a thankful woman. Besides, at least Kontrol will let me take the Driver’s course. I’ve seen Kidra drive, and I’ll run circles around that old fuck.”

Akula nodded at that, letting rapid-fire memories of a very thankful Pasha swim in his mind while Grizli continued to vent. “Kovat would welcome the help running that division, I have no doubt. Maybe you can help him find a nice plump babushka as well. Poor moron has the charisma of diesel exhaust.”

Grizli shouldered Volk, almost knocking the smallest member of the quartet over, “Not until I find this one a beauty to show him what makes life worthwhile!”

“Doesn’t the Brotherhood give you one on credit? For focus or as a drug mule?” Nosorog asked.

Volk shook his head, “Not the real Brotherhood. Too much work to do. All that’s run through other groups, and they don’t like outsiders touching their things.”

Akula noted hesitation in Volk’s explanation, like it had to be remembered or was rehearsed and unused for a while. “Is that what they told you?”

“Galina told me, and she made sure I heard.” Volk answered, voice trailing off to a whisper at the end.

“And so here you are, now in both the company and the bratstvo. Do they at least pay you while you’re in the company?” Grizli queried.

Volk snorted a mirthless laugh, “Not me, but they pay the cops or state guards to not arrest me if I get caught during or after a hit. Here, I think they’re trusting Kontrol to do that.”

For a moment, no one spoke, as each could see Volk’s gaze grow distant. It was more than the thousand-yard stare every battle-hardened soldier wore. 

“How many did you have before this?” Akula finally asked directly.

Volk took another drink from the bottle, and handed it to Nosorog. “I don’t bother counting anymore. Galina never had to tell me why, just it needed done.”

“Always obedient, eh Pup?” Grizli noted, but then he nodded to the smaller man. “But, if we all had a choice, we wouldn’t be here.”

“In the company or in this piece of shit plane?” Nosorog asked with growing irritability. 

Akula chuckled a little at that, as there was little else to do. No one had drawn a card for several minutes, and the liberated bottle of smuggled booze was almost gone. “Both, it sounds like.”

“Want to go beat that Korean prick for a while?” Grizli asked, half-satirically. “Might speed up the trip.”

At that moment, the Il-76 began a slow lurch to its right. Akula and his quartet were quick to their feet, scooping up the cards and letting the drained bottle roll into a corner.

Arkady’s voice blared over the radio as Akula felt the nose of the massive transport aircraft begin to dip once its turn was complete. “Listen up! We’re landing in ten minutes, so wake up, clear your shit up and get ready to get the hell off my plane!”

****

The next chapter in the Wildlife crew’s journey to potentially nowhere, or right into a lion’s den. I admit, this contract overall has been much more difficult to plan & execute than Contract #1, so it’s been through a myriad of re-writes, re-structures, and a few threats to just dump this arc entirely for something else. But as noted by several of my mentors, I have to do the actual writing first before I can decide if I like it or not.

I hope you all enjoy

Contract #2 Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Freedom From Pain

Her name is Tamara McNair.

Today was supposed to be a twentieth birthday full of laughter, love, friendship, and family. She’d finish her classes early, take a day off work, be spoiled by a boyfriend who loved to love her, and be toasted and teased by parents who couldn’t be prouder of the young woman she was becoming.

Now, the room she sleeps in is silent, save for the continuous beeping of the sensors that watched her heartbeat, and the electronic scritch-scatching of the electroencephalogram that monitored her brain activity. The latter rarely moved anymore, despite the many procedures Tamara had been subjected to in the hopes of finding some proof that she still existed in this world. One spark, one flicker Of light in the darkness is all her parents would need to carry hope another year or more.

But it will never come. The damage is too severe, and the vessel is now too degraded to ever house Tamara.

Her body only knows it’s her birthday today thanks to the extra little something added to the mixture pushed into her stomach through the feeding tube thanks to a sympathetic doctor. Whoever Tamara was has been lost for months now, broken by a man who’d played roulette with one last shot of vodka and lost his senses behind the wheel. Justice had been served, and he would never breathe free air again, but such reciprocity is no comfort to the grieving. He will be visited by another, though I do not know who or when. Vengeance and self-loathing are my kinsmen, yet we do not cross paths unless called to.

Her parents had every intention of visiting Tamara each and every day in the beginning. For some months, this promise is made solid through deeds. Long sleepless nights listening to her mother’s voice reading the stories of old. Lunch breaks where her father would join her, though she couldn’t eat with him. Sadly, such noble intentions do not forge gold, and desires waiver in the face of burden. Tamara’s father, a low-level accountant in a cubical farm of faceless drones, was right now still buried in the same stack of menial data that had been given to him that morning. Her mother, unable to calm her grieving mind, resorted to washing dishes in a chain restaurant, taking on every hour of labor she could to avoid the grim silence of an empty house.

Their love for Tamara was undeniable, but that love had been shattered into shades of truth as the months had crept on. Some days, love had been hopeful, even wishful, that a single spike of life would rouse Tamara back to her body and soul. Some days, love had been five minutes by her side on the way to the mines, to kiss her cool forehead and hold unmoving hands just to be near her. Some days, love became an admission of doubt and fear that this is all Tamara would ever be now. And some days, a prayer was crafted deep in the depths of misery and shaped in love: to free Tamara from her mortal anchor at last so her body and soul could rest together.

Those unspoken words, when prayed in harmony by mother and father on this day, were what summoned me to Tamara’s side. I know they will never speak these words aloud, as what parent would. I see what they don’t want to face, which is not a weakness or flaw. On this day, love must be given wings, and I am to be Tamara’s craftsman. My only thought, my only hope, is that Tamara can forgive her family for summoning me should they meet again

My work is simple, and the machines quickly panic as the husk that was Tamara McNair is now emptied of its captive soul. Hers would be wings of golden feathers and ivory inlays. For a life so needlessly ended and by no fault of her own, Tamara will be lifted by the wingspan of lost potential.

The doctors will try and restore her to a deathless paralysis, as they should do, even though they will fail. I will not stop them, as that is not my role. Nor will I watch them struggle with any sense of glee or triumph in fulfilling this unspoken desire. I will weep for a twentieth birthday rendered irrelevant by fate’s cruel machinations. I will watch Tamara’s parents wail and cry for many days, as I must do. In such moments of impenetrable grief and infinite loss, they may wish to join Tamara where they cannot reach her. Should they wish it, I am bound to accommodate. I can only pray they will forgive each other long enough to see the error of such a desire.

I do not keep count or score of all those broken birds I make to fly one last time, as there is no number worthy to mark that tally. Each one is worth more than just a pebble in a never-ending river, and I wonder sometimes if whoever is waiting for people like Tamara will tell them all that they could have been. So much beautiful potential, like paint wasted on a canvas of trash. Do the lambs forgive their butchers? Do the jackals finally cry over their deeds? These details are not mine to know, and perhaps that makes this easier.

I leave Tamara’s room with the defeated doctors and nurses, though they will never see me. I watch some weep into each other’s arms while others coil their fists in rage or beg to whoever they deify that Tamara will find rest and forgiveness for her sins. I also hope that such a young girl finds something waiting for her beyond the grasp of her physical prison.

And then I am gone from that hospital, dispatched a world away to repeat the same kindness upon a boy in Shambiko whose belly has never known a real meal. To never hunger again must be an odd sensation for the living, but to break the chains of pain and strife entirely is a force outside my charter. All I can do is repeat this duty again and again. Infinite are the souls on the plane that are lost, broken, or imprisoned in vessels unable to let them bloom. For this boy, wings of ivory bone and sinew inlaid with jewels, light and unburdened by mortal limits.

Such is the purpose of the Vacuitas Doloris, the Freedom from Pain. The duty is mine always, and I will suffer it alone.

************

My submission for this current IronAge Media’s prompt “The Consequence”. Sometimes the consequence isn’t yours to bear. Sometimes, a moment impacts a lifetime well beyond what can be perceived in the moment. But for every action, there must be reaction.

I hope you all enjoy.

The False Duel

“Two-Six, climb and maintain five-thousand. Wait for interception.” commanded Ground Control, a distant voice from Irkutsk-2 Airbase.

“Understood, Control.” responded Pavel Yostovich Dobrow, chafing against the newly-pressed second star of Senior Lieutenant on his shoulders. Word of his exercise in humiliating his former Senior Colonel had spread quickly, punting Pavel to the desolate and dull Eastern Air Theater from his home in the North. If not for the adulation of his regional Politburo, Pavel had little doubt he was facing a prison sentence as an alternative. But is this really any different? My wife waits for me in Moscow, yet her letters arrive slower each week…

The shining waters of Lake Baikal, hardened by the January ice, helped cool Pavel’s temper whenever he could take them in from the air, but the feeling of eyes and knives glaring at his backside had become a constant. :And yet, the sons of the Soviet Union are all brothers in arms, so said Lenin. Did his brothers seek to betray him so brazenly?” he dared murder to himself, unable to hear the words over the howling air outside, but feeling the thought pass across his lips gave him a small sense of being heard.

Now, Pavel found himself in the inferior position, as his MiG-21 interceptor lazily circled above the jagged island and inlet formations of the lake below, waiting to be pounced on by something. He hadn’t been told what had launched from Ulan Ude, or where it was coming from in its ambush. All Pavel had was his radar-warning receiver and his own eyeballs to scan the gray skies above and barren landscape below. Though his MiG appeared to be armed, the false missiles on his wings and iron ballast in his cannon stores were little more than training aides. Because the “people of the Soviet Union” simply wouldn’t understand letting me fly my machine to its full potential…der’mo, did we learn nothing from the Korean dispute?

For the next few minutes, the only sound Pavel heard aside from the rumbling whine of the MiG’s R11-F turbojet engine was the rhythmic ‘ping’ of the radar-waring receiver on the right side of his cockpit. Casually, the interceptor was being tracked by its home airbase, which was typical for any pilot wearing the Red Star. When it began to ping with a second, asynchronous rhythm, Pavel began to look harder at the eastern skies.

Suddenly, what was an asynchronous blip became an alarmed wail, as the MiG-21 alerted Pavel to a hostile aircraft trying to lock onto him for a missile shot. On instinct, Pavel yanked the interceptor’s nose into a hard skyward turn and pushed the throttle to full afterburner. Pavel kept his eyes glued to the horizon, and at last, caught a glimpse of something shiny against the dull brownscape beyond. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. A razor-sharp delta-wing, much bigger than his MiG’s, carried a longer fuselage than Pavel’s interceptor. Screaming past Pavel fast enough to shake his canopy with the sonic boom, the intruder also pulled into a climbing turn. On sheer power, the intruder was soon level with Pavel, even pulling beyond and over the MiG with terrifying speed.

Only when the intruder pulled away from Pavel did he see the letters “US Air Force” emblazoned on its sides, and the star-shield sigil on its wings. Instinctively, Pavel recognized the American symbols, but to see it here?! “Control, what the hell is going on?!”

“Two-Six, intercept the bandit! And be warned, enemy has already claimed one kill against you per our data recorders” Control barked back at Pavel, clearly annoyed that this enemy had so easily bested Pavel.

Now incensed to persevere, the MiG completed its looping turn and Pavel dumped the nose towards the ground, flipping belly-to-sky in the process. With such speed, the intruder wasn’t able to turn as tightly to take Pavel’s six o’clock, but it was already reversing its own turn to protect itself from him.

Stomping down on his rudder pedal, Pavel yanked the MiG’s control stick as hard as he could to close the loop. This time, Pavel made sure his own radar was switched from “Standby” to “Active”. By the time the MiG had pointed its nose to the sky again, the enemy was already diving back down onto him. Again, the RWR rang out with the enemy’s missile lock, but in coming almost head-to-head with him, Pavel was able to get his own firing solution. “Kill!”

“Not before you were shot down, Dobrow. Again!”

Growling under the strain of the many Gs his body was enduring, Pavel forced the MiG into another full loop, taking advantage of the enemy’s raw speed in its descent. That advantage paid double when the intruder was slow to pull its nose into a counter-turn to force Pavel’s aim to miss. It’s too fast to turn, even with such a large wing!

Seeing the error of its manuver, the enemy pulled its nose straight up, using its whole airframe to try and slow itself. Gauging his own closure rate, Pavel quicked switched his weapons panel from simulated missiles to the MiG’s internal cannon, and pulled the trigger. “Kill again!”

Control didn’t answer this time. Instead another voice came over his radio, colder and harder than the already-irritated ground monitor. “Lieutenant Dobrow, you have violated standard engagement rules! Stand down and return to Irkutsk!”

Pavel’s stomach froze momentarily, as Colonel-General Andyvich’s order was as clear as it was hard-hitting. The commander of the whole Air Defence Force, here?! “I…I don’t copy, Control. Please repeat.”

“Repeat, cease engagement and return to base!” Andyvich ordered again, nearly shouting at Pavel over the channel. “You will not jeopardize the Motherland’s property!”

In confusion, Pavel scanned the skies outside the cockpit for his opponent, and was quick to to find it. Yet instead of finding a stable, capable opponent, the enemy fighter now belched black smoke and appeared to be shuddering as it descended.

Of course…they can’t risk losing this captured asset. Pavel deduced, pulling back on his throttle and lowering his flaps to stay with his stricken adversary. The MiG shuddered and rattled as it struggled to stay aloft at so slow a speed, starkly contrasting the sound-busting slugfest of a few minutes ago.

“Control, give me their frequency! Let me help guide them down!” Pavel pleaded.

“Negative!” Andyvich countered, “Maintain your distance, and be alert for ejection.”

Much to Pavel’s shock, the enemy interceptor suddenly keeled over and began to spin on its belly. Snapping the MiG skyward to put altitude between himself and the stricken opponent, Pavel could only watch as his adversary smashed Itself flatly into the rocky shore of Lake Baikal.

“Control….no chute. Who was flying that plane?”

Only static answered him for a beat, leaving Pavel to circle the smoking ruin, alone in the skies once more.

“You’re not clear to know that, Lieutenant. Nor were you authorized to take such extreme action!” Andyvich responded, at first with sorrow, then with anger. “You have no idea what your boorishness has cost the State.”

Pavel looked down at the mangled wreck once more, hoping to see the unfathomable sight of a flightsuit-wearing specter walk away from the flames. Still, only carnage looked back up at him, the smoke’s shocking black trail reflecting beautifully of the water of Lake Baikal.

“So what was it I was fighting then, General? What was so crucial that i had to beat it, but couldn’t fly how I must to win?” Pavel asked, knowing full well that such a question had little chance of a true answer.

But what Andyvich responded with was nothing like Pavel expected. “Something you’ll be seeing more of soon, when you are deployed to assist our comrades in Vietnam against the imperialists.”

The command sucked the air from Pavel’s lungs, and he felt his stomach sink into his boots. Again, I am sent further from my home? Farther from Liliya? Is this the cost of serving the State and its people?! “When?”

“Your quarters are being packed now, Senior Lieutenant Dobrow. And you will return victorious, or not at all.”

*****

My next submission to IronAge Media’s weekly prompt, “The Duel”. While they conjures up the classical and romanticized images of swords clashing or pistols at dawn for some, these are the duels I’ve always dreamed of seeing (and possibly being in). Plus, coming back to this character & forming storyline was an exciting exercise in focus, as I’ve very much been scattered lately.

I hope you all enjoy.