Zrada

by Lance Charnes

  A hundred meters ahead of them, a gas station explodes.

  Chapter 51

  Galina screams.

  It’s Ilovaisk all over again. The whistles, the blasts, the ground shaking with each impact. Random death all around her.

  The windscreen fills with fire.

  The flashback hits her all at once: a burning lorry, flaming men leaping from the back, Misha’s arms flailing.

  Something metal clangs off the roof as the car swerves right, through a bus turnout, to avoid the inferno across the street.

  Galina screams again.

  “Galya! Stop!” Carson climbs halfway over the front seatbacks to grab Galina’s hands before they open the car door. “Stop! It’s okay! Fucking stop!”

  Galina shrieks, “Let me out! I have to get out!”

  Rogozhkin swats Carson’s right leg. “Stop kicking me! Get her under control and sit your ass in the seat!”

  Carson knees his shoulder. “Get off me! She’s been through this before. Just—”

  The car swerves. Tires rumble on gravel, then lurch over the blacktop’s edge.

  Carson lets go of one of Galina’s hands to wrap her left arm around the headrest and keep from getting thrown into Rogozhkin’s lap. Galina claws at the door lever. Pops it. The door gaps, showing the asphalt blurring by beneath them. The steady whump, whump, whump of shelling behind them and the thunder of heavy guns in the distance fill the car.

  “…out! Let me out! Let me—”

  Carson tumbles over the front seats, slamming a boot into the headliner on her way. She lands like a truckload of potatoes on Galina’s back and uses her body weight to pin Galina in place. The car swerves to the left, slamming the door closed.

  Galina sobs and scratches at the door, but not with any strength. Her cries wail like a siren that rises and falls in a semi-regular rhythm. Her body bucks against Carson’s like she’s being electrocuted.

  Carson wrestles with Galina until they’re both sitting and Galina’s bawling into Carson’s stomach, her arms tight around Carson’s waist. Carson strokes her back and murmurs, “It’s okay you’re safe I’m with you we’re safe it’s okay…”

  Rogozhkin watches them in the rear-view. “What happened to her?”

  “Ilovaisk. She was in the retreat. Her unit got chewed up. A sniper shot her.”

  He blows out a long breath. “That will do it.”

  Minutes pass before Galina settles into hiccups and little grinding noises in her throat. She finally sits up enough to wrap her arms around Carson’s neck and bury her face in Carson’s shoulder. She whispers, “Is it over?”

  Carson hugs her hard. “We’re out of it.”

  For the first time since they fled the grain dryer, she can pay attention to the outside. The highway has turned into a two-lane country road over rolling terrain. Behind them, flashes of what looks like—but isn’t—heat lighting bounce off the thickening clouds. She says to Rogozhkin, “We can’t go back into that.”

  “We may have to if the checkpoint’s closed.”

  “How far?”

  “Two kilometers, more or less.”

  So close. Carson rocks Galina, cooing, “It’s okay, girl. We’ll be fine. I’ll keep you safe.”

  Galina shudders, then pulls away. Her face is bright purple in the dashboard’s blue glow and shiny with tears and snot. “I’m sorry.”

  Carson could barely hear her. “Rogozhkin, get me a rag out of the glove box.” She takes it from him and gives it to Galina, who starts to mop up. “Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through that again.”

  “You told me to go. I should have listened.”

  “You were doing what you thought was right.”

  Rogozhkin asks, “What was she doing?”

  “Taking video of those rocket launchers. Is that a problem?”

  He shrugs. “They’re not mine.” His voice turns into a mutter. “Anymore.” He glances at the women. “Galina, I know you don’t want anything from me, but hear me out. I wasn’t at Ilovaisk, but men I know were. It broke some of them. The intensity, the brutality. If you’ve made it until now without something triggering you, you’re doing very well.”

  Galina stares at him for an uncomfortably long time. Then she nods once and looks away to continue drying her face. She glances at Carson. “You called me Galya.” Her nickname.

  “I figure we know each other well enough by now.” Carson strokes Galina’s hair. “Ready for the checkpoint?”

  Galina closes her eyes, takes a shaky deep breath, then nods.

  The black-and-white city limits sign says “Yasne,” which consists of a few streets of housing to the west and a sprawling industrial complex to the east. The checkpoint’s a hundred meters past the highway’s intersection with the road that ties the two halves together. Rogozhkin panic-brakes the car a few meters short, shaking his head. “We’re not getting through here.”

  Carson peeks past his shoulder. Three Jersey barriers stretch across the road and its shoulders, completely blocking the way forward. A BMP’s parked alongside the barriers with its turret facing north. A top hatch swings open and a soldier in a tanker’s helmet pokes out his head, squinting into the Octavia’s headlights.

  Rogozhkin shifts into reverse and floors it.

  They reach the crossroads less than a minute later. Carson checks out the scene. To the right: dual railroad tracks and a dark street lined with darker trees and the hint of houses. To the left: a lit guard shack at the industrial complex’s main gate. “Is there a way past the checkpoint in that plant?”

  “If there was, we’d be using it right now.” Rogozhkin nods to the right. “If we go down there, I know a road that will take us to within five hundred meters of the contact line.”

  “What’s on the other side of the line?”

  “Another half-kilometer walk through their side of the gray zone. Most of it is mined, though mostly with antitank mines. Then Kyiv’s lines.”

  “What’ll they do?”

  “Take us prisoner.”

  “Mmm. Fun.”

  Rogozhkin glances at Carson, giving her a sour look. “You’ll be fine. I won’t enjoy it as much. I’m not certain what they’ll do with her.” He gestures toward Galina, who’s watching the conversation bounce back and forth while clutching the rag to her mouth.

  Carson asks, “Can we drive it?”

  “No. Well, yes, if we have a tracked vehicle. Not in this.”

  “You should go.” Galina’s voice is rough, but stronger than it’s been since the grain dryer. “Both of you. Get across while you can. I’ll…”

  She’s right. It’s quiet here. Maybe we can make it across the Ukrainian lines without getting caught. Carson’s so ready to be done with all this, to get out of this shithole, to leave all the violence and death behind. She can taste that döner kebab in Dnipro. She’d kill for another pair of underwear.

  But she’d promised to help Galina free Bohdan.

  She’d promised to get Rogozhkin to the West so he can retire.

  Carson says to Rogozhkin, “You said there’s another way through. What is it?”

  He stares out the windshield for a while, his right hand squeezing and releasing the steering wheel. “Do you remember that spoil heap I pointed out? The one with Kyiv’s troops on it? There’s a road between it and the quarry. It’s a gravel road, huge ruts from the tipper lorries that haul the dolomite to the plant, but a road. It runs into a north-south road—more gravel—that leads to a dirt trail that eventually drops us into Novotroitske.”

  Galina mumbles, “Hmpf.” Then she asks, “What about the kolorady?”

  He twists to look at them. “They may have a screening force along the approach to the spoil heap. The shelling may force them to keep their heads down. Once we get between the spoil and the quarry, we’re in Kyiv-held territory, only they don’t usually have a presence in it. They rely on the observers to call in indirect fire
on any DNR forces that wander into it.”

  “And the Ukrainian Army?” Carson asks.

  “The last intel I saw said their line parallels the H20 between the motorway and that north-south gravel road I mentioned. The line’s more a concept than a physical reality through town, though. If we can get into Novotroitske, we should be able to reach the H20 without trouble.”

  “That sounds too easy.”

  “The way I described it, it is. The roads are miserable. There’s no light. The fighting will be three to five kilometers southeast of there. That ought to distract any forces in the area, but that’s a may, not a will. The road’s periodically mined, sometimes even on purpose. But I’ve used the route, it works, and Galina here can probably get her car through it.”

  All three of them fall silent for a long time, thinking of all the ways each option can go bad. The number of mays and probablys and mights scares the shit out of Carson. She likes having a plan that isn’t based on blind luck or divine intervention.

  Maybe that’s the best this place has to offer.

  Galina speaks first. “You should cross here. It’s easier, it’s safer. Leave me here, get to the West. I’ll manage.”

  Carson swivels toward her. “How will you get to Shakhtarsk if we leave you here? You have to get Bohdan out of that camp. You have to. He’s relying on you.”

  Galina bows her head and snuffles. “You can’t get hurt. You can’t risk that…that mess the Kacáps just said. I won’t have you die for me.”

  “I’m not dying today. Neither are you.” Carson focuses on Rogozhkin. “This other way. Can you get us through it?”

  He pushes his fingers back through his hair. “I did it once. But Galina’s right—it’s a lot easier here.”

  Carson glances between them. “You both agree on something.”

  Galina snarls at her. Rogozhkin says, “It won’t last.”

  “This place is easier only if we leave Galina behind and you risk having the Ukrainian Army grab you. What happens when they find out who you are?” Carson shakes Galina’s shoulder. “And you’re gonna get halfway across the Donbass on your own? Really?”

  She lets them think, mostly so she can think…and decide.

  “Fuck it. We all go or we all stay. Rogozhkin, get us to this back door of yours.”

  Chapter 52

  “Did they plan this blackout,” Carson asks, “or did it just happen?”

  Except for the still-burning gas station, Dokuchajevsk is dark by the time they return. The northern streets are deserted; no streetlights or shop signs or even LEDs on vending machines break the shadows. The only light comes from the Octavia’s headlights and the strobing reflections on the low-hanging clouds.

  “A shell or rocket probably broke something.” Galina squeezes Carson’s hand. “If you don’t like the dark, you shouldn’t live here.”

  Rogozhkin cuts through neighborhoods of homes to avoid any civilian or military police on the main roads. He’d bypassed the area by the New Market to keep from distressing Galina. There are no living creatures in sight other than a few prowling dogs.

  What’s going through Rogozhkin’s mind? He’s been quiet and watchful since they left Yasne behind. Second thoughts? Worrying the back door’s been slammed shut and locked? Carson could ask, but he probably wouldn’t say much with Galina listening.

  She rolls down her window partway. It’s in the low teens (Celsius) and damp outside; the cool air sweeps the stale funk out of the car. The rumbling of nearby artillery is clear enough to make out individual guns. A more distant thunder to the east—Russian artillery?—is like an echo. The only other sound is the hum of the tires on asphalt.

  Rogozhkin turns right, then pulls over to the white-painted curb. He twists to look at Carson. “I need you up here with your weapon.” He checks his phone, then shows the screen to Galina. “If you want your video to do any good, send it to this email.”

  She peers at the screen without leaning forward. “OSCE?”

  “They’re the observers. You’d better send it now before we lose mobile service.”

  Galina frowns. “Why are you helping me?”

  Rogozhkin pockets his phone and sighs. “What they did wasn’t honorable. I’ve played tricks on my enemies, but I tried to never deliberately target civilians unless they targeted me. What you saw in that field? They did that to kill innocent civilians for propaganda. Send the video so someone will know the truth.”

  They sit staring at each other for some moments. Then Galina pounds her phone’s virtual keyboard.

  Carson slides into the front passenger’s seat and checks her pistol and AK. “How far?”

  “Not far. This takes us to the mine entrance.”

  They quickly pass out of the city into a small forest split by the road. Part of a three-story building with a pitched roof anchors the road’s end. Behind it, the dark bulk of two spoil mounds masks the gun flashes of the Ukrainian Army artillery on the other side.

  Rogozhkin slows a hundred meters from the road’s end. A Jersey barrier blocks the right-hand lane just before the road tees into a three-way intersection by the building. As the car creeps closer, a man starts swinging a flashlight with an illuminated red cone on the end. By the time the Octavia is within thirty meters of the barrier, the headlights pick out two men, both in camouflage.

  Carson grumbles, “Here we go again.”

  The car coasts to the soldier with the flashlight. Rogozhkin rolls down his window.

  Another soldier stands at the road’s edge, around five meters behind the barrier. His buddy with the flashlight skirts the car’s nose and plods to the open window. “Road’s clo—”

  Rogozhkin shoots him with a black suppressed pistol Carson hasn’t seen until now. The bullet goes under the guard’s chin and out the top of his helmet. The soldier behind the barrier crumples with his rifle still pointing at the ground. Rogozhkin motions to Carson. “Help me get them off the road.”

  The bodies go into a nearby stand of trees; dust and gravel cover the bloodstains on the ground. Rogozhkin turns the Octavia left onto a gravel track. The headlights are off. “You saw who they belonged to, yes?”

  Carson nods. “Makiivka Brigade.” She checks on Galina, who’s sitting straight with her shotgun across her thighs. A tight smile crinkles the corners of her eyes.

  The forest closes in on the narrow road until it’s little more than a slot lined with leaves. The lack of light means Rogozhkin has to roll forward at walking pace, constantly correcting.

  Galina says, “Give me my flashlight.”

  She gets out, walks five meters ahead of the Octavia, then turns the light onto the road behind her. The moving pool of bright white is a beacon for the car to follow without blinding the people left in it. Rogozhkin says, “She’s finally being useful.”

  “Leave her alone. She’s had a rough time.”

  Galina stops shy of a set of well-used rails crossing the road. She flicks off the flashlight, then steps across the rails and disappears into the trees.

  Rogozhkin: “Should I be worried?”

  Carson: “No.” I hope.

  A few minutes later, Galina jogs back to rap on Carson’s window. “You should see this.”

  Carson and Rogozhkin follow Galina over the tracks and around a corner to the edge of the trees. To their one o’clock, a string of BTRs lines the road past an electrical substation and over a hump at the foot of the southernmost pile. Cargo trucks are half-hidden in the trees that rim a large open area to their ten o’clock. The bright dots of flashlights drift between vehicles.

  They stand, staring, for a couple of minutes. “Let me guess,” Carson says. “That’s our road.”

  Rogozhkin sighs. “Yes. Running through the middle of a motor rifle battalion.”

  Mashkov and Shatilov follow the beginnings of the offensive through their radios while the sergeant plots unit movements on the map.

  Shatilov stares thr
ough his haze of cigarette smoke at the latest updates. “The 31st isn’t moving very fast,” he says to no one in particular. The 31st is a battalion tactical group, the pieced-together units the Russian Army uses to rotate manpower through the Donbass theater.

  Mashkov measures with spread fingers the distance from the start line. “Half a kilometer since 0345.” It’s now 0420. “The 54th isn’t doing much better.” He smiles at Shatilov. “I thought they’re supposed to be able to fight at night.”

  Shatilov chuckles. “They say they milk chickens.”

  The sergeant holds up his free hand. “Colonel Mashkov, I’m getting a report from the Lev Brigade’s command net. A Russian armored company is moving north from the start line.”

  North? Mashkov shakes his head. “That can’t be right. Where are they?”

  “Still south of the Sukha Volnovakha, sir.” The now-dry river that slices off the southernmost part of Dokuchajevsk from the rest.

  “Keep an eye on that.” Mashkov glances at Shatilov, who shrugs.

  Damned Russians. It’s typical—Rogozhkin kept telling Mashkov the brigade isn’t ready to fight, but now two of their units are bogged down and a third is wandering lost. First Corps may have to put us in early. Wouldn’t that get the Russians’ goat.

  “Sir?” The sergeant again. “First Battalion CP’s reporting. They sent men to relieve the guards at the mine complex entrance.” He gives Mashkov a confused look. “The guards are dead, sir.”

  Carson, Galina, and Rogozhkin hunker down behind trees near where the gravel road crosses the rail line. The Hunter that clattered past a few minutes ago had come out of almost nowhere; Galina had just enough time to move the car into the trees before the SUV passed through going north.

  Carson checks her watch: 4:09. She isn’t a tactical genius, but even she’s smart enough to know they don’t want to drive through all that hardware out there in daylight. They don’t want to drive through it at all, but stopping isn’t an option.