Czytaj książkę: «Prohibition of Interference. Book 1»

Chapter 1

The high-speed elevator carried me to the flight deck, making a quiet rustling sound. The howl of the alarm did not contribute to my mental equilibrium, and the occasional tremors that were felt in the elevator, even through many meters of ground and armor, suggested to me that the base was still holding on only by some miracle. It looked like the protective field hadn't died down completely yet, and the shuddering of the cabin floor was just the vibrations of the warhead explosions that hit the peripheral infrastructure of the lunar base, which was not covered by a defensive field. Otherwise, the elevator wouldn't be going anywhere.

I could only guess what was going on on the surface and in space right now, but there was clearly something bad going on. The elevator came to a halt. It happened much more abruptly than I had expected, and I was literally thrown into the hangar, where my fighter was standing alone. The whole squadron had already gone into battle, and the alarm caught me on the lower deck of the base, which probably saved my life in the end.

I jumped into the cockpit of the fighter and connected up its interface, and then I realized with horror that my comrades were no longer alive. Apparently, they died in the first minutes of the battle, trying to prevent the enemy, who was still unknown to me, from shooting the base with impunity from low orbit. I still couldn't see what was going on in space. The data from the scanners was not coming in, and I was afraid I understood the reason for this phenomenon. When I started the engine, I lifted the fighter above the deck and immediately went into afterburner mode, thus cynically violating all the flight instructions. There were no other machines in the hangar besides mine, and I saw no point in caring about the safety of the base equipment in light of the events taking place.

The deck, walls, and ceiling of the hangar became a blurry shadow to me. The flaps of the outer gate slid open to the sides, and above me opened the blackness of space with bright dots of stars and numerous bursts of rocket and missile explosions.

I barely made it out of the hangar in time. The scanners of the rear hemisphere dispassionately recorded the moment the heavy shell hit the hangar from which my fighter had just escaped. The instruments could no longer see the protective field above the station, so nothing interfered with the projectile, and the hangar turned into the mouth of an erupting volcano.

The full picture of the battle finally appeared before me on the tactical projection in all its ruthlessness. Our moon base was attacked by a rebel cruiser. It was quite unclear to me how this cruiser got here, in this wilderness, since only a few hundred scientists and military in the Sixth Republic knew of our base. But it didn't matter now. The cruiser loomed over the base and struck at its facilities not only with its major caliber guns, but also with its plasma cannons. At least the natives couldn't see the fiery bacchanalia that was going on in their natural satellite since our base was on the back side of the Moon.

The thought came into my head automatically, apparently due to the fact that I had spent the last year on a research station that was observing a new human civilization that we had recently discovered. Given the level of development of the locals, the Central Republican Academy categorically did not welcome any interference in their affairs, and we tried in every way to avoid showing ourselves.

Through the crackle of interference from the cruiser's electronic warfare systems, someone from the base command finally contacted me.

“Seven, can you hear me? This is Colonel Niven.”

“Seven's on the line. I can hear you, but not very well.”

“Make him shift toward the fifth anti-space defense battery. This is the last thing we have left. I need to reduce the flight time. At any cost! I don't know how you're going to do it, but it has to hover right over the launch silos, or it's all for nothing. You got it, Seven?”

“Roger that. I'm on it.”

What an order! How am I going to make a cruiser shift? It's a cruiser, and what am I? A cricket compared to it. Especially since the rebel scanners have already spotted me, and now they will start pounding me with short-range missiles, since they can't reach me with their anti-aircraft guns yet. All I have against them is speed and maneuverability. It's a good thing they didn't bring an aircraft carrier here, then I'd be finished. But my comrades had enough of this cruiser, I remembered, noticing the places where the wreckage of my squadron's vehicles fell to the surface of the moon.

I went back into afterburner mode. I don't care about the overhaul life – it's clear that this fight will probably be the last one. A fighter can only do something to a cruiser by coming in from the stern. The ship's delicate propulsion systems are, of course, covered by armor to the max, but plasma emitters cannot be hidden in an armored cocoon, so I have a slim chance. I don't need to damage the cruiser, I just need to threaten it and make it maneuver in the direction I want it to go.

Our base was dying. It was quite obvious, but Colonel Niven was not considered an experienced officer for nothing, and he knew how to wait patiently, when combat situations demanded it. I imagined him trying not to lose control of the few surviving systems down there on the lower level of the bunker, among the crumbling ceilings, and I increased my speed even though it seemed impossible. This lunar base was, of course, built as a dual-use facility, but it was primarily designed as a research base, not military, so it couldn't withstand cruiser fire for long, I knew that very well.

I think the commander of the cruiser quickly realized that I was going to attack his ship from behind, but it wasn't hard to guess. I went around the enemy in a big arc from the side of the fifth battery, which was still silent and undetectable, which is why it was still intact. The most logical action of the rebel ship, if it ever saw fit to react, would be to reduce the distance between us, and as a result dramatically increase the efficiency of all its anti-aircraft systems. I really hoped that the rebel commander would do that, but he stubbornly continued to fire on the base, not wanting to be distracted by such small things, like my fighter.

I had to provoke the enemy somehow. In principle, there was another way I could have gotten behind the stern of the cruiser, besides the evasive maneuver I was now taking, which would have been even faster, but there was almost no chance of success with that option. If I pressed close to the hull of the enemy ship and flew along it in afterburner mode, the guidance systems simply would not have time to track the fighter, because it would be in their range for too short a time. But to do that I had to break through to the side of the cruiser, and that, in fact, was the main problem. In squadron combat such maneuvers are not uncommon, but there the enemy ship is attacked by dozens of fighters and torpedo bombers at once, and the attention of anti-aircraft assets is distributed among them. Here I was alone, and the entire arsenal of the cruiser's short-range defense would be firing on my fighter, so it wasn't worth trying, but I could demonstrate my intent.

I sent the fighter into a sharp turn, and I approached the cruiser myself. The rebel anti-aircraft gunners, delighted with this gift, greeted me with a concurrent rocket salvo. At this distance, it wasn't very scary yet. The fighter's electronic warfare equipment were sufficiently reliable in suppressing the enemy's homing systems, and the maneuverability of my machine allowed me to dodge from missiles that were not too accurate. Nevertheless, this dance could not last long. I understood that, and the commander of the rebel cruiser understood it, and it more than suited him.

I jerked the fighter a few times chaotically in different directions, simulating panic as another wave of missiles approached, then I turned around again and rushed away from the cruiser, as if in desperation, trying to increase the distance. Sensing an opportunity to quickly solve a small but unpleasant problem, the rebel commander decided not to let me get away from the cruiser, and the warship started heavily following my fighter.

“Seven, you're good,” the communications system carried the Colonel's voice to me, “but it's not enough! Keep dragging it.”

Every second of delay could have been my last. It is one thing to taunt a cruiser by moving on parallel courses and evading its missiles with sharp maneuvers, it is quite another thing to run away from it when it is impossible to jerk sideways without a significant loss of speed. Of course, I should have gone into afterburner mode and quickly moved out of the effective range of enemy anti-aircraft fire, but then the cruiser would stop pursuit and all would be in vain. I gritted my teeth, but I endured it. A hail of projectiles whipped at the fighter's thin armor after a near missile explosion. A damage alert beeped and the tactical projection displayed a list of failed systems in front of me. Nothing fatal has happened yet – the most important components of the fighter are duplicated, sometimes repeatedly, but a couple more of these gifts and the damage will become critical.

I changed thrust vector sharply and went sideways, making the Split S maneuver, so I lost another few hundred meters of distance, but dodged another wave of missiles. A little longer and the anti-aircraft guns will start hitting me, and then – that's exactly the end, and missiles at this distance are much more effective.

And then something changed in the picture of the battle, and I did not immediately understand what it was. I didn't really care about what was happening on the surface of the Moon, or anywhere else for that matter, except for the small patchsection of space where my fighter was doing a death dance. Meanwhile, a lot has changed. The cruiser tried to change course sharply toward outer space, and then shuddered violently several times, cracked and began to fall apart.

“Seven, can you hear me?” The interference disappeared, but I could hardly hear Colonel Niven's voice, it was so weak.

“I hear you, Number One. Observing the destruction of the rebel cruiser. The debris is captured by the gravitational pull of the Moon and falls to the surface.”

“I'd like to congratulate you on your victory, Lieutenant, but there's nothing to congratulate you on – everyone lost in this fight. The base is gone, you have nowhere to go back to. I've got a couple of minutes left, it's all going to collapse here.”

As if to confirm the Colonel's words, I heard a rumble and a shriek from the communications system. Nevertheless, a few seconds later, Niven was back in touch.

“Most likely, no one will come here for years to come, maybe never. The civil war in the central worlds of the Republic has taken on far greater proportions than those you have been told. Chaos ensues, and no one will remember this far-flung base for decades to come,” the Colonel coughed heavily, “I don't care anymore, but you have no reason to die. If it had been like before, I would have introduced you to the Order of the First Consul – you've earned it. Except, I'm afraid, there will be no one to write the recommendation or put a resolution to it. I authorize you to land on the planet and lift the ban on interference in the lives of the natives. People there are just like us, and maybe even better, given what's going on in the Sixth Republic right now. Hopefully, with your help, they can avoid what we got into, if, of course, you see fit to help them do so. Part of the network of scientific satellites survived in orbit. I've already given your machine's computer the access codes to it. That's all I can do for you. Goodbye, Seven.”

The Colonel's last words were barely audible, and after a few seconds I heard the rumble of the collapsing ceilings in my headphones again, and the signal was gone for good.

I disobeyed the Colonel and landed on the surface of the Moon, but I couldn't find a single intact entrance to the base. I found nothing but piles of debris and many meters of rubble. The rebels even managed to destroy the Fifth Anti-Space Defense Battery, which finished off the enemy cruiser, before being annihilated. If there were any survivors on the lower levels of the base, I couldn't help them. After standing over the ruins of the base for a few more minutes, I returned to the fighter and started the engine.

After circling the Moon, I steered the fighter toward the planet. Half of the blue balloon was in shadow, and I adjusted my course slightly to enter the atmosphere over the day's hemisphere. I was neither a historian nor an expert on evolving civilizations, but my year at the station and my close acquaintance with a very pretty research assistant awakened my interest in this subject, and I even picked up some knowledge. It's a good thing Letra left for the central worlds a month ago, and I was so worried… Who knows how her fate turned out in the chaos of the rebellion, but at least she's not now lying under tons of moon soil and slab debris in the ruins of the lunar base.

Down there, according to the local chronology, the 20th century was approaching its midpoint. Electricity, oil, mechanical and electrical engineering, the internal combustion engine, automobiles, tanks, propeller aviation, the recent great war and the next one, by all indications even larger and more destructive, already knocking at the door…

Hello, my new home!

Chapter 2

I faced an unfriendly welcome from the atmosphere. A space fighter is not designed to fly in a dense gas environment, especially if it has combat damage. Of course, fighters are quite capable of landing on planets in an emergency, but in doing so they exhibit the gracefulness of an ancient flatiron and overstress the engines by operating in extremely erratic modes, which leads to their rapid deterioration and sometimes failure.

I tried to pilot my flying machine as carefully as possible, but already at an altitude of 60 kilometers above sea level the fighter's computer started beeping angrily, reporting new damage caused by the abnormal use of the march and maneuvering engines. Holes in the thin armor, punctured by the strike elements of rebel missiles, prevented the oncoming airflow from flowing normally around the fighter, which, at my speed, severely overheated the hull and the technical compartments directly beneath it, where important communications ran. The fighter was losing control. The computer was giving a very disappointing prognosis. I could count on no more than a couple of minutes of more or less controlled flight, and then the fighter would just start to fall apart.

Now the vast forests of the eastern part of the largest continent on the planet stretched below me. When I was putting the fighter into the atmosphere, I was planning to land much to the west. More populated areas began there, but it was still possible to hope to land unnoticed. Now I had no choice, so as I descended a little more, I ordered the computer to eject the escape pod.

A sharp jerk, an excessive overload, which caused my seeing red, a brief loss of consciousness… After all, the ejection system of a space fighter is not at all designed for throwing out of a capsule with a pilot in the dense layers of the atmosphere. The roar of the disposable braking engines, the crackle of the breaking tree trunks, the violent impact that shook the capsule and knocked me unconscious again. However, the battle suit quickly brought me to my senses by injecting the necessary cocktail of stimulants into my bloodstream.

I don't know what happened to the computer that ejected with me in the escape pod, but for some reason it switched into voice communication mode. Although, maybe it was stipulated by some regulations and instructions, I do not remember.

“Lieutenant Irs,” it sounded from the helmet's earpieces, “you made an emergency landing on the planet Earth. The escape pod is damaged on impact with the surface. Hull integrity is compromised. The life support test failed. There is no damage to the communication system. The power plant is functioning normally. External conditions are suitable for life. Your body condition is satisfactory.”

“Where did the fighter crash?”

“I have no way to pinpoint the exact location of the fall. The fighter crashed and partially burned up in the dense layers of the planet's atmosphere. Individual pieces of debris reached the surface ten to 30 kilometers west of the landing point of the escape pod,” answered the computer and projected on the visor of my helmet a map of the surrounding region with the area of debris dispersion.

“Excellent,” I couldn't resist a caustic comment. The computer nonchalantly ignored my words.

* * *

So, what do we have as an asset? Well, first of all, a livable planet inhabited by not-so-wild people. That last statement is a bit of a stretch, of course, but considering the circumstances, Lieutenant, I wouldn't be too picky if I were you.

I know the basic aboriginal languages, thanks to Letra and her hypnolinguistic equipment. I remember local history rather superficially, but I have a pretty good idea of what has been going on here for the last hundred years, and the computer, if anything, will always tell me, so in this respect, I hope there will be no problems with naturalization.

What else? I also kept some of the technical stuff, that this world is still 200 years away from. First and foremost, of course, is the computer that survived the landing and the remnants of the network of satellites in orbit. With a functioning communications system, that's a lot. Also, there are personal weapons, although I probably shouldn't, on second thought, carry a plasma pistol, as well as any other equipment I can't explain the origin of. Consequently, I will have to hide my spacesuit, my personal weapons, and other equipment I have, except for the ones that can be worn discreetly, which I also have. Thanks to pilot foresight – we all prefer to have a backup targeting and navigation system and communications equipment, independent of the fighter, but able to work in conjunction with its computer as a last resort. In my case, they are contact lenses on which, if necessary, information is projected from a dozen pea-sized devices that are placed in various organs and tissues of my body. For example, in my palms, under the skin behind my ears, in my liver, kidneys, and even my heart.

Together, these components are actually a very peculiar computer, the parts of which are somewhat separated in space, which does not prevent them from working as a unit. But our scientists have never learned how to stick anything useful into the brain – practice has shown that it is not necessary to do this, it is not good for man. In general, I will have something to surprise the locals, even without showing them high-tech devices.

Now the minuses and problems. The main thing is that I am nobody here. I came from nowhere, I do not fit into the local social environment, and it is very specific here and extremely suspicious of outsiders.

I found myself in a state that kind of suffers a paranoid disorder and suspects that almost every other citizen is an enemy and a spy, and I can hardly avoid confronting its security forces. That is, I need a clear and consistent legend. Of course, the technical level here is low, even the photos on the documents are flat, black and white and of such quality that it would be better if they did not exist at all. There are no unified databases at all, and those that do exist are on paper. In other words, it's just paradise for a rogue scout, from which I am not much different at this stage. But here's the trouble – I don't have the means to make fake documents even of this quality.

The specialists at the lunar base, of course, would have done it in no time, but the designers of the escape capsules and combat suits didn't think to equip their products with such devices. I could, of course, try to use someone else's documents, but I have to get them somewhere, which is not so easy to do in peacetime, and the age and sex must coincide, as well as the appearance, at least in general terms. And with this approach, it's easy to miscue on any little thing related to the biography of the character whose ID I'm trying to appropriate.

As I pondered all this, I was at the same time masking the crash site of the escape pod, in which I carefully packed all the things I had decided not to take with me. Naturally, I had no clothes suitable for the local environment, so I had to stay in my flight suit for the time being, that was worn under the battle suit, especially since the late spring in these latitudes did not promise any serious cold weather. The place where I found myself was a remote taiga, so I didn't have much trouble camouflaging a not-so-large capsule.

After about an hour, I checked everything again and made sure that communication with the computer left in the capsule and with the satellites in orbit was functioning properly, then I had the satellite closest to my landing point take a picture from orbit to make sure that the pilot of some plane that happens to be in these parts would not notice anything curious. The taiga had reliably swallowed up the wreckage of the fighter and the escape pod, but in a couple of places the largest debris still gleamed in the sun, and I decided to plot my route in such a way as to pass by them and finally eliminate traces of my invasion of this world.

After checking the map, I just shook my head: I was in the Tuvan People's Republic, not just anywhere. This strange state was formed in southern Siberia four years after the communist upheaval in Russia. Having survived the troubled times of the Civil War, the capture by Admiral Kolchak's troops, and the subsequent Chinese-Mongolian intervention, the republic, not without the help of the Red Army, proclaimed its independence, which was recognized by the Soviet Union and later by Mongolia. Almost the rest of the world considered this territory part of China, and refused to recognize the TPR. However, despite its formal independence, power in the republic belonged to the local Communists, who regarded Comrade Stalin as their older brother and teacher.

With my European appearance, it was not so easy for me to go unnoticed among the local population. However, there were also enough Russians in the Republic, and I intended to turn this fact to my advantage.

I wasn't going to hole up in the taiga. According to predictions made by our scientists-historians with the help of the lunar base computer, it appeared, that very soon Comrade Stalin's aggressive and dangerous Western neighbor would wage war against the USSR. And, like, he has every chance of putting the Soviet Union in a very uncomfortable position, for after the revolution in this large country, under the wise leadership of the Leader and Teacher, there are, to put it mildly, ambiguous, events, so that all its many tanks and planes may not help in organizing a proper repulse to the foe.

The prospect of the mad Adolf winning and taking over much of the world did not please me at all, and that is why I originally chose Soviet Union as the landing site. My scientist friend's colleagues did not eat their bread in vain, and were rarely wrong in modeling the future of pre-space civilizations. Their calculations suggested that the brunt of the war with Hitler would fall precisely on the shoulders of Comrade Stalin and the citizens of his country, rather than on the shoulders of the Anglo-Saxons, who had already been actively fighting Adolf in Europe, the Atlantic and North Africa for two years. And on the eastern frontiers of the Soviet country, from time to time samurai Japan also looks toward Siberia, remembering the wrongs done to it at Lake Khasan and the Khalkhin Gol River. It is true that these bellicose yellow-faced characters now have much more problems with the looming American oil embargo, without which the island empire will be dead in a year if not a month, so it is unlikely that they will get into a fight with the Soviet Union. But even if war comes only from the west, the key events that will determine the fate of this world, will take place here.

The taiga on my way turned out to be really dense, but a couple of dozen kilometers from the drop point the satellites saw an abandoned Old Believers' farmstead, to which I was now approaching. Given that I needed a believable legend and at least some local clothes, it certainly made sense for me to check the place out.

I had no experience walking through the taiga, so my speed left a lot to be desired. I had to go, as they say, using general erudition, since pilot training did not devote much time to the problems of survival in the forests and jungles of the oxygen planets, to say the least.

I reached the lodge when it got noticeably darker. The place really turned out to be long abandoned. Those who once lived here apparently went into the taiga and never came back. There could be many reasons for this. There were plenty of dangerous predators around, and I had more than once praised myself for that I had decided at the last moment to bring my standard pistol.

The horizontal pole fence had long since lost its battle with the rain and wind, and in many places it was gaping holes. Things were no better with the outbuildings, which stood on the perimeter of the vast yard overgrown with grass and young trees. It didn't take long to examine them. If there had ever been anything of value in those animal barns and pens, it was now just shapeless piles of decay.

The house was somewhat better preserved. The thick logs held up for now, and the owners had renewed the roof, apparently just before they disappeared. The door was a little warped, but it still seemed pretty solid. It was bolted from the outside, but there was no lock, so I, after a bit of fiddling with the rusty bolt, I entered the long-abandoned dwelling.

Apparently, only one person lived here. It looked like this house was once inhabited by a large family, but then, evidently, something happened. Maybe illness, or maybe something else. But in the end there was only one owner left. The house had two living rooms, a hallway, and something like a kitchen, although I could not identify with complete certainty the purpose of this elongated room. The roof was leaking in many places and some of the furnishings were hopelessly ruined, but some things have survived.

After a thorough search of the crudely made furniture, I found myself in possession of a pair of pants that fit me relatively well, shapeless but warm enough, three shabby shirts, some very old but neatly stitched quilted jackets, several shifts of strange-looking underwear, and, most important, a bunch of yellowed papers that clearly served as identity documents and social status documents for the locals.

I carefully read and remembered the names of the people who once lived here, their dates of birth, and in some cases – of death. The overall picture was poor. Apparently, here, in the middle of nowhere, even births and deaths were not well documented, to say nothing of other, less significant facts of citizens' biographies. But I did manage to understand some things. The documents in a separate box apparently belonged to the last inhabitant of the house – Ivan Terentyevich Nagulin, born in 1890.

Judging by the names I could make out on several covers of books blackened by time and damp, he was, like the rest of his family, Old Believer, who had gone into the woods with his parents at the end of the 19th century, and who had been staying in the taiga permanently ever since. Ivan Terentyevich was old enough to be my father, and after some reflection, I decided that I could not find a better option for my legend.

* * *

I was too late for the start of the war after all. An Old Believer who came out of the taiga, having decided to return to the world after his father's death, aroused natural distrust in the representatives of the Republic's authorities. The lack of other documents than my 'father's' passport, issued back in czarist Russia, also did not help my smooth entry into the local society. I was lucky enough to get some of the right words from the newspaper Tuvan Truth, published here in Russian, which was crudely pasted on the wall of the house of some official institution in Kyzyl. I surrendered to the local people's militia completely voluntarily, so I was beaten without any excess, just to prevent and to make sure I knew exactly where I ended up.

The district militia chief, to whose office I was taken after my arrest and initial processing, was rather skeptical about my words about the boring taiga and my desire to return to my ancestral homeland. It seemed that my case was not unique here, although it was quite rare. After the interrogation, which he conducted with a boredom in his eyes, he scribbled some words on a yellowish sheet of paper and summoned a sleepy guard, who took me to a cell with a dirt floor and uneven, badly painted walls. No one was going to feed me here, but they did give me some water.

Toward evening a representative of the local security service came to pick me up. This organization bore the complicated name of the Office of State Internal Political Security. Unlike the militiamen, the officer who arrived was Russian, and his uniform was of much higher quality. Guarded by a soldier armed with a rifle that was outdated even by local standards, I was taken to the central part of town in a very quaint and mercilessly stinking horse-drawn vehicle.

They didn't keep me in a cell and immediately sent me for interrogation. The specialists here were more thorough, in the sense that they beat me longer and more thoughtfully. Nevertheless, they weren't going to maim me, because they didn't seem to have anything to maim me for yet. Naturally, I offered no resistance, limiting myself to timely tensing and relaxing the necessary muscle groups, as well as making light movements of the body and limbs, which helped to minimize the damage to my body from the not too dexterous and skillful blows of the investigators.

At the first interrogation I heard no intelligible questions, except the idiotic accusations of espionage and work for subversive counterrevolutionary organizations. Naturally, I kept making round, innocent eyes, pretending complete incomprehension, and I kept bluntly telling time after time about my Old Believer father who died in the taiga, and the rest of the family, whom I barely remember, who were carried away by some contagious disease. However, the investigator didn't really insist on anything. Apparently, this was the custom here, and it was all standard psychological treatment before the normal interrogation, which took place only a week later.

I don't know how long this whole story would have lasted, and maybe I would have been sent to some mines or camps in the end, for free labor was not at all superfluous to the expanding economy of the People's Republic, but then the Führer of the German nation, Adolf Hitler, ran out of patience and ordered an attack on the USSR. Information about the outbreak of war roused the Tuvan People's Republic with unexpected force. Even I, a prisoner without rights, was made aware of this information, although they could have done without telling me about it, for I knew what was going on far better than any of the investigators here, and even better than Comrade Stalin himself, because from low orbit it was perfectly visible how endless columns of tanks and infantry were advancing toward the border, how technicians at airfields were bustling about, hanging bombs on planes, and how the whole armada, obeying the iron will of their Führer, came into motion and crossed the Soviet border to the roar of the artillery cannonade.

The Tuvan Communist government owed much to Comrade Stalin, so much so that on the same day, June 22, it declared war on Germany, and proclaimed through the Great Khural that 'The Tuvan people, led by the entire revolutionary party and government, not sparing their lives, are ready to participate with all their might and means in the struggle of the Soviet Union against the fascist aggressor until final victory over him'. How about that! And that's when I declared that I wanted to do it, too – without sparing my life and with all my might!

I don't know what I did to convince the local security service, but they didn't seem to see me as a subversive person or a real spy after all. And what can you take from a Russian who is eager to fight for Comrade Stalin in a friendly Soviet Union? Why waste energy and time on him when you can let this naive young guy go to the USSR and thereby serve the mighty neighbor by throwing him some cannon fodder. People like me – not in the sense of those who came out of the taiga without documents, but in the sense of the Russians who wanted to fight the fascist aggressors along with their Soviet brothers, there were an unexpectedly large number of them in Tuva.

In the end I was given a document that struck me as blatantly unclear and completely devoid of any means of protection against forgery. This paper stated that I was Pyotr Ivanovich Nagulin, born in 1921, Russian. And, in fact, that was it. No citizenship, no place of residence, no education, no occupation, not even a number – nothing. In general, it was possible to understand the local officials who gave me this document. I claimed that I didn't even know exactly on whose territory my father's cabin was located. I only knew roughly where to go, but I walked for many days and came out of the forest in Tuva. I said that I really wanted to go to the Soviet Union and asked the local officials to help me. Where are my papers? There weren't any, in the taiga, well, either my father lost them or hid them somewhere so that I couldn't find them.

No one was going to leave me in Tuva, and the fate of a Russian who had asked to go to war to the Soviet Union was of no interest to them at all. They somehow lived without me until I came out of the taiga, and they will evidently be able to live on later, when I go to my ancestral homeland to gain military glory or, much more likely, a tin star on my future obelisk.

* * *

The train moved slowly, as if bowing to every pole, and getting stuck for a long time at inconspicuous tiny stations. The impact of the big war could be felt here too, but so far only by the tense faces of the locals and the abundance of men in uniform.

No matter how hard I tried, the bureaucratic machine was too slow to react to external stimuli, even to those as strong as the outbreak of war. The notion that 'the Red Army is the strongest', instilled in the Soviet people by official propaganda as an immutable truth, led Soviet officials, especially those in the rear, to realize the gravity of the situation far from immediately.

In general, the fighter Pyotr Nagulin, in my person, found himself in an echelon bound for the front only at the end of July. Already the border battles, in which the best-trained cadre of the Soviet army had been killed, were over, heavy fighting near Smolensk had been going on for two weeks, the battles for Kiev and Leningrad had already unfolded, and in the south the Germans and Romanians were coming to the outskirts of Odessa. And I was slowly dragged across the vast country in a goods van with three-story bunks, packed to the limit with guys like me, who were cheerfully and confidently talking about how they would beat the Nazis – political propaganda worked here without fail.

Every few hours I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep, and reviewed the images taken from orbit, projected onto the surface of the contact lenses. I didn't like what I saw. We were going to hell. With songs, laughter, and the reckless enthusiasm of youth.

Chapter 3

A tall guy with a round face and a perpetual smile on his lips flopped down on the bunk next to me. I've noticed him more than once – the man couldn't sit still. In addition, a senior lieutenant of the NKVD (People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs), who accompanied the train, put him in charge of our van. One could sense that in peacetime he was an incorrigible optimist, and he dragged his easy-going attitude to everything that was going on here, in this wooden wagon, which was approaching the front with replenishment for the infantry divisions that had suffered huge losses in the fighting.

“What are you so gloomy about, soldier?” the boy asked, fidgeting and making himself comfortable.

“War is no fun,” I shrugged, trying to let my disturbing neighbor know that I was not in the mood for conversation.

“You're afraid, aren't you?” There was no negativity in his voice, but rather genuine surprise, “My name is Boris and I am from Voronezh.”

“Pyotr,” I introduced myself and shook the outstretched hand, “Of course I'm afraid. It's foolish to underestimate your adversary.”

“Don't be afraid,” Boris lowered his voice, but the smile never left his face, “and keep your voice down, or better still, shut up than talk like that. If your words get through to the commissar, you'll get in trouble, and do you want that? The morale of the Red Army fighters is high and unshakable. And it should not be sapped.”

“Morale is important,” I didn't argue, “so we'll strengthen it.”

“No, Pyotr, you're not afraid,” Boris looked at me carefully, “That's what I thought at first when I heard you say that, but I guess I was wrong. You're very serious, and you seem to know something that we ordinary soldiers aren't supposed to know.”

Is it really written all over my face? It's really not a long way to get into trouble if the first person I meet sees right into my mind…

“My father told me about World War I,” I carefully answered my interlocutor, who turned out to be overly perspicacious, “He did not go to war himself, but he talked to those who had been there. I wouldn't want to be in those trenches. Not many people came back from there.”

“So he was telling you about the imperialist war,” grinned Boris, “Well, that's another thing. The people there died for the interests of the bourgeoisie, and we are going to defend our socialist homeland. You have to understand the difference.”

“I'm not arguing,” I decided not to escalate the discussion. I have attracted too much attention to my modest person, it's time to change the delicate subject, “Do you know when we're going to get weapons? I feel uncomfortable – the front is coming soon, and my hands are empty. I grew up in the taiga, you can't do without a gun there. Even now I feel like I'm naked.”

“In the taiga, you say? A hunter?” Boris was interested. I noticed that the other neighbors in the van were beginning to listen to our conversation.

“Of course I'm a hunter. In the taiga, all men are hunters.”

“And you must be a pretty good shot, with all that practice?” asked the guy on the next bunk with the unruly frizz of hair which he kept trying unsuccessfully to smooth out.

“My father was pleased,” I answered evasively, “but it's hard for me to judge, I have no one to compare it to. My skills were enough for a successful hunt.”

“I don't know about weapons,” Boris remembered my question, “they'll give them to us, don't worry. When we arrive, we'll be assigned to a combat unit, and then we'll get weapons.”

“Okay, if so…” I yawned in a pointed manner and leaned against the swaying wall of the wagon, “I'm going to sleep for a while, I'm sleepy.”

I closed my eyes and lightly tensed the right facial muscles, activating the interactive mode with the contact lenses. To begin with, where are we? Thus, the nearest major station is Khristinovka. This is 300 kilometers south of Kiev and 20 kilometers northwest of Uman. We'll be there in a couple of hours if we don't get stuck passing someone again, or if the Germans don't bomb the way.

The situation on this section of the front is changing quite rapidly. Kiev is still holding on thanks to the fortifications built before the war, but the Germans are advancing stubbornly on the flanks, encircling the city from the north and south.

That's where they're taking us, to the south flank, only why are we still going forward? It's not like we're a regular unit with guns, ammunition, and a clear mission. We still need to form some units, at least to train those who are completely out of the loop, they have to give us weapons, finally. Where are we going? And why so careless? German planes should already be flying in even here, and a train going to the front in the middle of the day is not a target that Luftwaffe pilots would consider of secondary importance. But this is understandable to me, with my level of awareness, which no one else here has, including the leadership of the Red Army and Wehrmacht, although the Germans are better at it – no matter how you look at it, air supremacy greatly improves the quality of air reconnaissance.

So, what else don't the higher-ups know about? Or they know, but have not yet had time to react properly and give the necessary orders. The communication here and now… Let's not talk about sad things.

No one but me on this train knows that less than a couple of hundred kilometers west of our train, the Germans have thrown a fresh infantry division into battle, and the defense of the city of Gaisin, which seemed more or less stable, has collapsed, burying under it the hope of holding the front. Major General Volokh's 18th Mechanized Corps, which had held the 12th Army's defenses together a few days earlier, was dismembered, suffered heavy losses and was rapidly losing combat effectiveness, retreating chaotically to the east.

But that wasn't even the worst part. In the path of the Wehrmacht division that took Gaisin, there are still enough Red Army troops that, although retreating, put up a fierce resistance, regularly launching counterattacks. Much worse, Major General Hubert Lantz's First Mountain Division, taking advantage of the success of its neighbors, formed a strike motorized group that made a 70-kilometer dash southeast in one day and found itself deep in the rear of the Soviet forces, and more and more German 49 Corps units began to be rapidly drawn into the resulting gap. The Soviet defense near Uman was disorganized, and no one in the leadership of the southwestern front really knows what is really going on there. And so into this meat grinder we go, remaining in serene ignorance as to what fate awaits us in the near future.

I felt totally powerless. Here and now nothing depended on me. No one will listen to the ravings of an ordinary soldier, who is not even a soldier yet, but a green rookie, who hasn't even smelled powder and isn't even assigned to any military unit.

I opened my eyes, stretched out my shoulders and back, and stood up from my seat. There was surprisingly no one at the small window, so I looked out.

The train still waddled leisurely forward, disguising itself with a column of smoke from the chimney. At another bend in the track, I was able to get a closer look at our echelon. At the last station, where the steam locomotive was refueled with water and coal, someone clever or just responsible enough decided not to neglect air defense equipment in the front-line zone and hitched a platform to the train with an anti-aircraft machine-gun mount of Tokarev design. The barrels of the 1931 Model Maxim quadruple-mounted machine guns stared up into the sky, and the helmets of the crew could be seen above the sandbags.

M4 quadruple anti-aircraft machine-gun mount. Its basis – four machine guns designed by Maxim. Developed by the team of N.F. Tokarev in 1928–1931. The mobile version was mounted on railroad platforms and in the bodies of trucks. Caliber 7.62 mm. Used to fight air targets at altitudes up to 1400 m. It was also successfully used against infantry and unarmored vehicles.

The presence of at least such protection from air attack could not help but rejoice me, but I did not believe in its high efficiency. It was a pity that the machine-gun platform was four cars away from me – if anything happened, I wouldn't even have time to warn the anti-aircraft gunners of the danger.

“What are you looking at?” Boris was there again.

“I just felt stuffy, so I thought I'd get some fresh air.”

“You call this smoke from a steam locomotive fresh air?” my traveling companion, who was overly talkative, grinned, wincing slightly.

The wind regularly blew coal smoke over the vans, and the smell was indeed not pleasant – it was an integral component of travel on the local railroads. In fact, that wasn't the end of the world yet. If we were moving through a tunnel…

A slight itch behind my ear made me wary. Something bad and dangerous happened not far from here, and the computer left behind in the damaged escape pod sent me an alert through one of the satellites. I put my face to the rushing air and closed my eyes.

Now it was as if I was in low orbit myself. The cloudless sky made it possible to see every little detail on the ground. However, even dense cloud cover could not cause much interference to the equipment of scientific satellites. I saw our train continuing westward, saw the anti-aircraft gunners who still didn't notice anything, and saw the low-flying targets approaching us from the southwest, highlighted by flickering red frames.

Messerschmitts Bf.109 – two pairs, one just above the other. They flew confidently, obviously aware of our train and not wanting to attract the attention of the train's air defense. They were less than a minute away from us. Explanatory inscriptions next to the enemy aircraft markers suggested that it was an 'E' modification. It was not the latest modification, but here, on the eastern front, the Germans used it as a fighter-bomber. Just what they need to attack our train.

What am I supposed to do? I certainly won't have time to warn anyone but my van mates. Of course, the train should have started braking by now, but it was not going too fast as it was. 30 seconds…

“Air!” I shouted, turning away from the window, “Everyone out of the van quickly!”

I rushed to the wagon door, threw the latch aside, and rested my shoulder against it. The doorframe slowly moved to the side.

“Why are you yelling?” Boris asked in surprise, looking out the window, “Leave the door alone! There's nobody there!”

“Open your eyes!” I snapped angrily, wrestling with the door, “Messerschmitts! Four of them. Coming in from the southwest!”

The long whistle of the locomotive and the sharp jerk of the train, which began to slow down, served as a good confirmation of my words, but I wasted no time in continuing the discussion, picked a moment when the ground rushing by seemed flat enough for me, pushed off harder, and jumped into the grass.

I landed pretty well; I rolled over a couple of times on not too rocky ground and didn't even seem to bruise myself. No one seemed to be in a hurry to follow my example, and in vain. Each enemy plane carried four machine guns of about eight millimeters caliber, plus bombs – a quarter of a ton of deadly cargo. It will be more than enough to destroy our wooden train.

I had managed to run far enough and fall into a small ravine, overgrown with not too dense bushes, when the first explosions and the crack of machine gun fire came from the head of the train. That's right, the locomotive is the primary target. But only two narrow silhouettes flashed there, and two other planes came in from the tail of the train and were now treating the train with bombs and machine-gun fire. Slivers fanned out from the roofs and walls of the cars. I tried not to think about what was going on inside. There was nothing I could do to help my dying comrades. I've already done everything I could.

The first to react to the enemy attack were the anti-aircraft gunners and NKVD fighters who accompanied our train. The quadruple machine guns were firing somewhere in the sky, but even I could see from my cover that the crew had very little, if any, experience firing at low-flying, high-speed targets. They were not leading correctly, and just didn't have time to correct the sight on the tracers. The train did stop, and now people were jumping out of the burning cars. I did not see any system in their actions. Some immediately fell to the ground, either killed or just looking for cover. Others tried to run to a forest that wasn't too far away, but it could only seem close when you weren't being shot at…

The NKVD platoon left its wagon in relative order, though I only counted half of its fighters at a glance. The others must have been killed in the shelling and bombing, but the commander was alive, and obeying his orders, the privates and sergeants scattered along the train, trying to bring some order to the chaos everywhere.

My hiding place was about 30 meters from the last car – despite the low speed, the train managed to pass quite a considerable distance, before it stopped. German planes flew in pairs over the broken train. They must have run out of bombs, but they kept shooting at the fleeing men with machine guns. Our anti-aircraft platform hadn't shown any signs of life for a minute. Through the smoke of the fire we could see the motionless barrels of Maxim machine guns looking helplessly into the sky. No one fired on the Messerschmitts, and they came at the target, as in a training exercise.

A soldier in NKVD uniform who had reached the last car shouted something, but I couldn't make it out because of the crackling of the machine guns and the roar of the fire. He tried to look inside the car, but it smelled so hot that he recoiled and took two awkward steps backward.

“Hide behind the wagon!” I yelled as I saw a string of bullet trails in the dust run along the train toward him.

The soldier heard me, but apparently did not understand what I wanted him to do. He just turned in my direction, but then a burst of machine-gun fire crossed his back, and he twitched several times and fell forward, instinctively trying to grab onto the wall of the car, but his arms, suddenly weak, slipped, and the guy slid to the ground, dropping his rifle.

Most of those who managed to jump out of the cars and didn't die in the first minutes of the bombing had already covered almost half the distance to the forest, but the enemy pilots were not going to give them a chance to get away alive. Some tried to hide in the folds of the terrain or pretend to be killed, but it did not help much. A man lying on the ground is too convenient a target for an airplane.

I didn't want to get out of my lucky hiding place at all. Here no one paid any attention to me, and the sloping earth walls provided reliable cover from the splinters. But 30 meters from my position there was a rifle, quite serviceable as it looked, and I knew that in my hands this weapon could give the men running toward the woods a few extra seconds.

Closing my eyes, I began to look at the area from above. The computer processed the image coming from orbit, filtering out the smoke, so I saw everything clearly enough. Waiting until both pairs of enemy planes were in an awkward position for an attack, I jumped out of the ravine and ran to the dead soldier, or rather, to the weapon that had fallen out of his hands.

The butt of the Mosin rifle fit comfortably in my palm. The weapon was indeed undamaged, and I considered myself very lucky, twice. I was lucky not only that the rifle was not smashed by bullets, but also that it was the weapon I had in my hands. True, it didn't have sights for shooting at high-speed, low-flying targets, but I didn't need them. But Mosin rifle had excellent accuracy by the standards of that time. The trick was that its barrel had a conical shape, tapering slightly from the breech end to the muzzle end. This resulted in additional compression of the bullet when fired and did not allow it to 'walk' in the bore.

After checking my weapon and making sure it was loaded and ready to fire, I took another look around the battlefield. The men running toward the woods needed another 30 seconds to reach cover, but both pairs of Messerschmitts, were already coming in to attack one by one.

I put the rifle to my shoulder and activated the combat mode of the sighting and navigation system. Of course, originally, it was not intended at all for shooting handguns at airplanes, but it had a lot of flexibility in settings, and in the last month and a half I had enough time to adapt my micro-implants and contact lenses to local realities.

Instead of solid smoke from a burning train, I saw clear skies with clear target marks and aiming points, that took into account the necessary deflection. The first pair of Messerschmitts was about to fly over the cars. I chose the leader, and pointed my weapon at the translucent outline of an airplane moving ahead of my target. A slight tingling sensation in my palms told me that the hand tremor suppression system had kicked in. I did the rough aiming of the rifle myself, but the bio-implants, which used my own nervous system, helped me to aim accurately. The trigger pull was long and heavy, which I knew in theory, but I still wasn't quite prepared for the fact that I had to pull the trigger so hard.

Shot! I moved the bolt handle to the left, then backward to the full, then I pushed the bolt forward and the handle to the right. Change of target… pointing… Shot!

After the fifth push to the shoulder, the magazine was empty. None of the enemy planes exploded in midair or crashed to the ground, but only the leader of the second pair fired a short and kind of tentative burst at the men running toward the woods. The rest of the planes came out of the attack without firing their machine guns. A not too thick, but clearly visible dark plume stretched behind the two Messerschmitts. All four German fighters turned smoothly to the west and quickly disappeared behind the forest.

I cancelled the combat mode of the implants, put the rifle next to its dead owner and sank tiredly to the ground. The surviving soldiers were returning from the edge of the forest to the burning train. Some helped the wounded walk, while others waddled with difficulty. I felt a stare on me and turned around. A senior lieutenant of the NKVD, commander of the security platoon of our defeated train, was looking at me silently and very attentively from the neighboring car.

Chapter 4

We spent the rest of the day helping the wounded and burying the dead. We had no means of communication, and even if we had any, it was burned up in the bombed-out cars.

There was no movement on the railroad either from Uman or from the rear, but several times German bombers and fighter planes flew close to us. We heard explosions and the rumble of artillery cannonade. The situation on the front continued to deteriorate rapidly.

We had no means of transporting the wounded. Stretchers made from cape-tents and poles cut out in the nearby woods made things a little easier, but all the same our marching unit looked like a walking hospital. There were no medics among us, so there was nothing we could do to help the wounded except for primitive bandaging.

The NKVD platoon commander, with 12 men left, tried to hold on, but the defeat of the train was an unbearable burden on him. The First Lieutenant seemed to think that he was responsible for everything that had happened.

“Comrades Red Army men, if anyone else does not know, I’m First Lieutenant Fyodorov. I am assigned to accompany your military echelon, which means I am your commander. And if that's the case, everybody listen to the battle order!” he said it in a hoarse voice as he strode in front of our uneven line, “We are now moving in a marching column to the west along the railroad tracks. We'll take turns carrying the wounded. It's evening, but we can't stay here overnight – they're waiting for us in Uman. That's where you should all get your weapons and assignments to your units. We'll walk all night if we have to. Any questions?”

I was about to ask why we, unarmed and with wounded in our arms, should go into the trap into which the outskirts of Uman were turning, but after looking into the eyes of the First lieutenant, I changed my mind. People here thought in very different terms, and no amount of reasoning could shake this officer's determination to follow orders and get us to our prescribed destination. Besides, the First Lieutenant didn't know what was really going on around us right now, and I couldn't plausibly explain to him how I knew it.

Nevertheless, our temporary commander noticed something on my face. After the fight was over, he looked in my direction regularly, but he never asked me anything until then.

“Soldier, do you have a question?” The First Lieutenant turned his whole body toward me.

“Red Armyman Nagulin,” I introduced myself and took a step out of the ranks, “Comrade First Lieutenant, we are going to the front. The situation is not quite clear, but from the looks of it, it has deteriorated a lot in recent hours. We have the rifles of your dead fighters and the machine gun platform crew. Right now your people are carrying them, but maybe it makes sense to distribute these weapons to us?”

“If we have to, we will,” the First Lieutenant answered sharply, without explaining anything, “Get the stretchers up with the wounded! We're moving out.”

“Comrade First Lieutenant…”

“Follow your orders, soldier. Or should I repeat it?” The First Lieutenant squinted unkindly, and behind his shoulder a sergeant in NKVD uniform reached for his weapon.

Well, if I have to do it, I'll do it.

“Copy that,” I answered clearly, devouring the boss with my eyes, for I had absolutely no desire to see what would happen next if I began to insist.

“That's better,” the First Lieutenant mumbled in a completely hoarse voice and went in a wide stride toward the head of the column that had begun to move. The Sergeant looked at me unkindly for a while, but then turned around and ran after the commander.

Army discipline, especially in a combat situation, is undoubtedly a wonderful thing, but I had absolutely no intention of continuing to beg for a rifle from the commander. I just wanted to tell him that walking along the railroad tracks in the direction of the train to get to Uman is a futile matter. If we do that, after 40 kilometers, which is a lot for our column, we will be at the Khristinovka station. Only from there there is a branch to Uman, which goes almost in the opposite direction, to the southeast. Uman itself is now about 25 kilometers south of us, and if you go there, it is better to go straight through fields and woods, rather than along the railroad, which not only greatly lengthens the way, but also attracts the German air force like a magnet. The latter, of course, is not so scary right now, since it's already getting dark, and enemy planes won't appear over us until morning, but the fact that once we get to Khristinovka we will still find our troops there, and not the Germans, is highly doubtful.

“Well, Pyotr, have you got it?” I didn't notice Boris next to me as I pondered, “You talk a lot, and in all the wrong places. I also like to talk, but I always know where to do it and where not to do it. This is the NKVD, you have to understand. And you started discussing orders, and in a combat situation. Did you see how that sergeant was groping the rifle? No doubt he would have fired without hesitation, at one movement of the commander's eyebrow.”

“I don't doubt it,” I didn't argue, “I could see it in his face.”

“You've gone completely feral in your taiga, I see. Stick with me, or you'll get in trouble. Be thankful that nobody whispered to the First Lieutenant or his Sergeant about how you left the wagon without permission… Apparently, they've forgotten this episode out of fear. But now it seems calmer, so maybe someone will remember, if those who saw it are alive, of course.”

“It won't be for long,” I answered softly, and immediately regretted what I had said.

“What won't be for long? Have they forgotten that not for long? That's what I'm telling you.”

“No. That's not what I mean, I mean it's calmer now, but it'll be over soon.”

“What's going to be over?”

“The silence, if you can call it that. Do you have any idea where we're going?”

“Well, to Uman, the commander told you directly.”

“We're not going to Uman! Uman is over there!” I waved my hand to the south, perpendicular to the direction of our movement, “And these tracks lead to the Khristinovka station, which is 20 kilometers west of Uman. There will be a front line there any day now, or even by tomorrow morning! Do you hear that rumbling?”

“Does the commander know less than you?” There was a suspicious mistrust in Boris's voice, “He's got a map, too! Well, he should. And how do you know where Uman is? And about Khristinovka?”

“You just had to study well in school, Boris, not dream about girls in class. My father taught me – there was no school in the taiga. You live in the great country of victorious socialism, and you should know the geography of your immense motherland. Did you remember the names of the stations we passed?”

“Well…” Boris said in a lower tone, obviously not expecting such a rebuke from me, “it seems that we passed through Talnoye… And Yurkovka.”

“Do you have any idea where we are?”

“Not really, I'm from Voronezh…”

“Have you never seen a map of the USSR either? It's only 700 kilometers from here to your Voronezh, by the way. You can get there on foot.”

“Look, Pyotr, why are you picking on me? I realized that you know geography well.”

“Well, if you understand it, then there's no need to ask stupid questions. Let's better think about how to report to the commander that this railroad won't lead us to Uman.”

“It's no use,” Boris shook his head, “He won't listen to you, and he won't listen to me either. What are you suggesting? To turn into the fields and go straight ahead? But you can lose your way easily, as there are no landmarks. And the rails are right there, you can't get lost.”

“I'll show us out,” I said without proper confidence. I understood that, but I really didn't want to go where the First Lieutenant was leading us.

“Listen to me, Pyotr…” I could hardly make out Boris's grin in the darkness, “Do you believe yourself? At night, without a road, with the wounded in our arms, in unfamiliar terrain… It's not like you can drive your finger on a map of your home country in the warmth and comfort of your own home. No offense, but it's all nonsense. After all, we have an order, and it has to be obeyed.”

Then we walked in silence, gradually getting into the rhythm, and about 30 minutes later it was our turn to carry the wounded, and there was no time to talk.

* * *

No matter how hard the First Lieutenant tried to move quickly, but we still had to make three stops. The men were too exhausted for the day, and they were simply unable to endure the continuous march through the night while carrying the wounded. After the defeat of the echelon there were about 150 of us left. There were 27 wounded on stretchers, but by morning six of them had died, yet our losses did not end there. Apparently, I was not the only one who did not like the idea of walking blindly and unarmed toward the advancing Germans, and the fact that the front line was not far away could only be doubted by a deaf person.

At the last resting place just before dawn, the sergeant conducted a roll call on the orders of the commander. Our unit was 17 men short. I was beginning to understand why the First Lieutenant was so sour about my suggestion to give us the rifles of dead soldiers.

The morning greeted us unpleasantly. The indistinct roar that had sounded all night in the west had turned into a continuous rumble, in which individual violent explosions were already clearly distinguishable. But the worst thing was that it was now heard not only from the west, but also from the north and even from the northeast. It finally dawned on the First Lieutenant, too, that something wasn't going quite the way he wanted it to, despite all his unwavering determination to follow orders.

“Soldiers!” He looked at us with a frown, “Anybody here from these parts?”

The answer to the commander was silence. We were all mobilized in the eastern regions of the country. Boris, with his Voronezh, was probably the most western of us, so we couldn't please the First Lieutenant in any way. Well, almost.

“Red Army man Nagulin!” I went out of the line.

“You again?” The First Lieutenant's voice had a bad tone to it, “Are you from around here?”

“No, Comrade First Lieutenant. But I can draw a schematic map and roughly show you where we are.”

“A schematic map, then?” The commander said thoughtfully, looking at me frowningly, “Where did you come from, Red Army man Nagulin? You're newly mobilized, right? You haven't even had basic training. In fact, you should have been sent to the reserve unit first, but that's just the way it is. But you're a good shot with a rifle, I've seen it myself, and now it turns out you can read a map, and not only read a ready-made map, but draw your own. Where did you learn?”

“My father taught me. We lived almost on the border of the USSR with the Tuvan People's Republic. He was an Old Believer, he was educated in Czarist Russia, and then his grandfather finished his schooling on our farmstead. I grew up in the taiga, so I'm a good shot and I know how to handle weapons. And I've been interested in geography since childhood. I dreamed that when I grew up, I would travel and discover new lands. I know this area from the map quite well, but I have not been here myself before.”

The First Lieutenant didn't believe me, he didn't believe me at all, but nodded and took a notebook and a chemical pencil out of his field bag.

“Draw your map, Nagulin, but watch out if you lead us to the Germans…”

“Comrade Commander,” I tensed up as I drew the railroad line from Talny to Khristinovka and a little further to show the general direction to Teplik, “I, like you, don't know where the enemy is now. I'll draw a map, but it's not for me to decide where to go.”

Fyodorov only nodded silently, showing that he had heard me, and continued to watch attentively as on a sheet of his notebook the railway line leading from Khristinovka to the southeast to Uman was appearing, and as I marked these settlements.

“What about roads, rivers, bridges, woodlands?” asked the First Lieutenant when I handed him the prepared diagram.

“My memory also has its limits, Comrade Commander,” I answered, “I depicted what I remember. According to my rough guess, we are somewhere around here, about 15 kilometers from the Khristinovka station.”

“So you're saying that all night we walked the wrong way and didn't get even a meter closer to Uman?”

“That's right, Comrade Fir…”

“Silence!” bellowed Fyodorov, “Why didn't you report at once?!”

“I tried, Comrade First Lieutenant. You wouldn't listen to me.”

The First Lieutenant was silent as he continued to glare at me. He didn't have anything to say, but he seemed to really want to grind me down. Yes, I know how to make enemies, and I need to do something about it.

“Get in formation,” he finally ordered, putting my map away in his clipboard, and turned to our thinned out team, “We continue along the railroad tracks. At the nearest station we will hand over the wounded to the medics, report back to Uman, and get further instructions. Get the stretchers! Start moving!”

The situation was worse than I thought. Fyodorov did not want to admit his mistake, or maybe he just thought his actions were right. The idea of getting help at the station would have made perfect sense if it weren't for the constant rumble of the front line coming toward us.

Satellites broadcast a bleak picture from orbit. The Germans had already captured the Khristinovka station, where our commander was so eager to go. The railroad track in several places in front of us and behind us was smashed by enemy bombs. In addition to our train, two more trains were burning out on the tracks, and under the circumstances, no one was going to repair anything or remove the burnt-out cars from the tracks, nor would they have been able to do so if they wanted to. And to the north of the railroad we were rapidly encircled by the 16th motorized division of the Wehrmacht, which had almost reached Talny, and the troops defending there were clearly unable to prevent the Germans from capturing this settlement. Behind our back in the east Novoarkhangelsk was still in the hands of the Red Army, but it was already being approached from the south by the 11th German Tank Division and the SS Division Leibstandarte.

Counterattacks organized by the Southwestern Front command struck with extreme fierceness, but they crashed against the viscous defenses intelligently built by the Germans, meanwhile, the threat of a complete encirclement was already clearly looming over the 6th and 12th Soviet Armies, as well as the remnants of the Second Mechanized Corps. The battle was simmering all around us, but by some miracle our unit had not yet been directly affected, except, of course, by the destruction of the train in which we were on our way to the front.

Something had to be done urgently, otherwise our commander, who was unreservedly devoted to the cause of Lenin-Stalin but was completely inadequate, would lead us into German captivity, which was absolutely not in my plans. Except that I didn't yet understand exactly what to do.

Our luck ran out after about 15 minutes. First, a lone I-153 Seagull fighter with red stars on its wings flew almost over us to the east, which caused great excitement in our column. The plane was going low and clearly had combat damage, but I was the only one in our squadron who saw it. The rest of the soldiers waved their hands and caps, welcoming the first representative of Soviet aviation they had seen since the defeat of our train. And then I felt the familiar unpleasant itch behind my ear.

The First Lieutenant was now walking somewhere ahead, and I was just carrying a stretcher, so there was no way to get to him. But not far away from me was the Sergeant who had made it so clear to me how discussing the commander's orders in a combat situation could end up.

“Comrade Sergeant! The enemy is ahead! I hear the sound of motorcycle engines a kilometer to the left of the road behind a wooded area!”

“Column, halt!” I have to hand it to him, the Sergeant reacted seriously to my warning. He ran off to find the commander and soon the two of them were back together.

“Quiet, everybody!” The First Lieutenant commanded and listened intensely to the silence, which was very relative, for there was a good deal of rumbling all around us.

“There's nothing there!” After ten seconds, the Sergeant said, catching the commander's questioning look on his face, “I don't hear any suspicious sounds.”

Of course he couldn't hear! At this distance, the woods reliably muffled the sounds of the engines, but there was nothing else I could explain my knowledge of the approaching German motorcyclists. And they were not the only ones…

“There are at least three motorcycles and something else, heavier, but not tanks. Maybe a truck, maybe an armored personnel carrier – something is clanking there,” I reported, stubbornly looking into Fyodorov's eyes, “Over there, see? There's a road along the rails. Then it goes to the left and turns behind the forest. That's where they're coming from.”

The First Lieutenant hesitated, but action was needed immediately, and he made up his mind.

“Zhurkov, Blokhin, move forward and carefully check around the corner. The rest of you, take cover behind the embankment. Quickly! Not this side! The opposite side of the road! Sergeant Pluzhnikov!”

“That's me!”

“Keep an eye on Red Army man Nagulin!

“Copy that!”

As expected, Fyodorov's men did not make it to the road's bend. What could they, tired from the long march, do to compete with the BMW engines?

Two motorcycles with strollers jumped out from behind the woods almost simultaneously. Five seconds before Blokhin and Zhurkov heard the sound of their engines and rushed to the side of the road, simultaneously waving their hands at us. Instead of hiding behind some cover, the two NKVD fighters raised their rifles and opened fire on the Germans. It couldn't be helped – they've been taught that way, and they've learned their lesson well.

BMW motorcycle, with an MG-34 machine gun on the side trailer. Various models of such motorcycles were widely used by the Wehrmacht during World War II.

The motorcycle in front swerved to the side. The driver may have been injured, but did not lose control of his vehicle. Apparently, this was not the first time these Germans had encountered the enemy, and they were largely prepared for such a situation. In any case, the machine gun on the second motorcycle fired a long burst just five seconds after the NKVD fighters' first shot.

Blokhin fired from full height and was the first victim of return fire, catching several bullets with his chest at once. Zhurkov, apparently, had some combat experience and behaved more intelligently. He rolled into a shallow ditch and tried to shoot the motorcyclists from there, but the forces were too unequal. The soldier was simply destroyed by the fire of two machine guns.

I lay behind a low embankment and thought, with an inner shudder, that now our First Lieutenant would rise to his full height and try to raise us to attack – with a dozen rifles for his men and bare hands for the rest of us. However, it did not happen.

“Sergeant, distribute weapons to the Red Army men!” Fyodorov ordered softly, but clearly.

“There aren't enough rifles for everyone, Comrade First Lieutenant. Who do you want to give them to?”

“Give one to Nagulin. To the others, as you can.”

“Yes.”

The Germans, meanwhile, had stopped. One of them was helping a wounded man at the motorcycle closest to us. The driver of the third motorcycle, which appeared from around the corner, immediately turned his vehicle around and drove back. Apparently, he was going to report the incident to his superior. Another German was moving slowly toward Fyodorov's position, trying not to block the range of fire of the machine gunner protecting him.

I finally got my hands on a gun and three cartridge magazines. Five rounds in the rifle and another 15 in the ammo bag. Not much, but thanks for that, too.

The enemy motorcyclists made sure that none of the attackers remained alive and settled back into their vehicles, taking the weapons of the dead. The wounded man was taken to the rear, while the remaining Germans waited for their comrades, who had gone to report to the commander, and once again rolled leisurely down the road toward us.

“Squad, to battle!” Our First Lieutenant, who knew no doubt, gave the order. The enemy must be destroyed wherever you meet him, and by all the means at your disposal. Such was the paradigm of this cruel time. Red Army soldiers and commanders were taught this in army manuals, and it was drummed into them in numerous classes by teachers and political officers until it became an integral part of their consciousness. The good thing, at least, was that Fedorov was aware of the importance of the effect of surprise, and gave the order quietly enough.

I decided to try to prevent this madness after all.

“Comrade First Lieutenant, there, just around the corner, are two armored personnel carriers with infantry and several more trucks!”

“You know too much, Nagulin!” hissed the First Lieutenant, “Maybe I shouldn't have given you that rifle. Why don't you tell me where they came from? And where are our units?”

“You know what I mean, Comrade First Lieutenant,” I answered softly, fearing greatly that I might be told to be silent again. But apparently the advance warning of the enemy had given me some credit in the eyes of my commander, and he preferred to hear me out after all.

“If the Germans are already here, it means that the Khristinovka station has long been captured by them, and the front is broken through. Our units apparently withdrew to the south and north. No cannonade can be heard in front, but on the right and especially behind, the rumbling grows stronger and stronger.”

Of course, I didn't say everything I knew. The Germans we ran into were one of the forward units of the 125th Wehrmacht Infantry Division. We were already so far into the mousetrap that Uman and its environs have become, that there were no normal escape routes left. To break through to the west would be pure madness. Even if there are Red Army men there, they are only the remnants of defeated and surrounded units. There was also no point in going north, in the direction of Kiev. The place was now packed with German infantry, which was pulling up after the motorized units that had moved forward to Talny. And even if we had broken through there, we would not have had any prospects, because we would have fallen into a new, even larger pocket, which was also already marked with all certainty around the capital of Soviet Ukraine. Three selected German divisions, two of which are tank divisions, are waiting for us in the east, and we have absolutely nothing to gain in this direction. That leaves the south, but there we will at best find units of the 6th and 12th Armies surrounded. Of course, this is much nicer than being taken prisoner by the Germans right away, but it's also pretty bleak prospect.

“Stop panicking, soldier!” said the First Lieutenant, as if trying to kill me with his gaze, but somewhere in the depths of his pupils I saw uncertainty and even fear. The Commander understood that I was right, he understood it very well, but he tried not to show it in front of his subordinates.

“That's right, Comrade First Lieutenant,” I answered, raising my hand to my cap, “We have one way left – to the south. That's where our units should be. At least they'll give us normal weapons. And with two dozen rifles against five machine guns we'll achieve nothing anyway, we'll just lay here all for nothing, without doing the enemy proper damage.”

I saw something very bad in the looks of the First Lieutenant and the Sergeant. I don't even know how it would have ended for me, but then the first Hanomag came out of the woods, roaring with its engine and clanking its caterpillars. I could clearly see a machine gun mounted on top of the cabin of the armored personnel carrier and rows of helmets above the armor.

“We'll finish with you later,” Fyodorov told me, and, ducking down, ran somewhere to the right flank, “To the battle! Squad, fire on the Nazi invaders!”

Well, that was it. Let him throw himself under the tracks, but there are more than a hundred young guys, most of them unarmed! I grabbed my rifle comfortably and looked around. Shots rang out around me indiscriminately, and the unarmed men just lay on the ground, keeping their heads down to avoid the hail of bullets that rained down on our low shelter from two sides – from the motorcycle patrol that had gone forward and the Hanomags that crawled out from behind the forest. German infantrymen were already jumping briskly out of the backs of armored personnel carriers and taking positions in the ditch, clearly preparing for an attack.

“Why aren't you shooting, Nagulin?” the deputy commander roared above my ear.

“I am choosing my position, Comrade Sergeant,” I answered as firmly as possible, “We have to shut up the machine guns, or we'll all get killed here.”

“Fire, soldier! Or I'll shoot you myself!”

“You can shoot me after the battle, Comrade Sergeant, but right now don't get in the way,” I answered angrily and crawled a few meters to the left, where a dust cloud rose from the machine gun burst that had recently rattled on the embankment.

Continuing to test the sergeant's patience was simply dangerous. I closed my eyes for a second to look at the battlefield from above. The greatest threat to us now, oddly enough, was not the Hanomags, but the two machine guns on the motorcycles that passed us by. These Germans were much closer to our position and shot much more accurately than the machine gunners from the armored personnel carriers.

I targeted the motorcycle closest to us, relaxed my arms and shoulders a little, went into combat mode and with a sharp movement I lifted myself slightly above the embankment. The plop of my shot was lost in the crackle of machine gun bursts and rifle fire. I didn't look at the result and immediately hid behind the embankment. Nevertheless, I was spotted, and several bullets struck the rails at once with a rumble.

“One down,” I told the Sergeant, once again taking advantage of the 'view from above', I'll change position and silence the other.”

“Are you sure you hit him?” Pluzhnikov asked incredulously.

“I'm sure,” I nodded affirmatively, “but I don't recommend checking right now. I'll calm down the other one, then it will be safer.”

“He doesn't recommend…” The Sergeant started, but I wasn't listening, crawling quickly to the left.

Shot! A sharp pain jerked my temple, but I didn't even notice it right away. This time the Germans seemed to be purposefully waiting for my head to appear over the rails, though not quite where I actually ended up. But the German gunner showed excellent reaction. I was lucky that it wasn't a bullet that hit me in the head, but a pebble that it knocked out of the embankment. But it rang a very bad bell for me. If I keep getting exposed to enemy fire like this, my glorious journey on this planet may be over before it has even begun.

“It's done,” I nodded to the Sergeant.

Machine gun fire on our flank subsided, and Pluzhnikov peeked out from behind the embankment to assess the situation.

“Three of the four Germans are intact,” he said as he crawled back down, “They're at the machine guns. One is behind the motorcycle, but he's moving – wounded, probably. And you said you took down two.”

“Are the machine guns silent?”

“Silent,” agreed Pluzhnikov.

“Both of them?”

“Both.”

“So I've done my job. Now, Comrade Sergeant, I have a reasonable initiative, but I need assistance. Will you render it to me?”

Pluzhnikov didn't have time to answer. We were interrupted by the distinctive pops of shots from German infantry mortars. It would be foolish to hope that the forward section of the German infantry division would forget to take this compact and very effective weapon with them. The Germans had such a Rheinmetal product in every platoon, and now we had the pleasure of experiencing what it was like, to have 50-millimeter mines dropped on your head.

“Get down!” yelled the Sergeant, obviously familiar with this enemy weapon.

I was lying down, but the Red Army men, huddled in a tight group along the embankment to our right, did not react immediately to the command. For the first time we were lucky and the mines fell short, but continuing to play this roulette game was not just dangerous, but criminal.

“Comrade Sergeant! We need to take the men away. Otherwise everyone will be chopped up! We don't even have individual cells dug, not to mention trenches, and the embankment won't protect against mines. There's a gully between the hills that's a good escape route. And there is a forest there…”

“There was no order to retreat,” the Sergeant cut off, lifting himself up over the rails and firing toward the enemy, “Don't you know the regulations, soldier? The enemy must be boldly and swiftly attacked wherever he is detected!”

I mentally groaned. If anyone here didn't know the regulations, it was the Sergeant and our Commander. So many great guys have already died because of that phrase, that was hammered by political officers into the heads of Red Army soldiers and commanders with wanton ruthlessness, it just made me want to howl. And no one even once remembered that this phrase refers only to OFFENSIVE combat, as the Red Army Field Manual of 1939 says quite unambiguously. What are we doing now? Are we fighting an offensive battle? But I couldn't have a military-theoretical debate with an NKVD sergeant right here, under mortar fire!

The second series of mines flew too far, but the embankment did not cover us on this side, and the cries of the wounded showed that the shrapnel had found its targets.

“I need your help, Comrade Sergeant,” I reminded Pluzhnikov, “We need to silence the machine guns on the Hanomags, or they'll keep pinning us to the ground, and the mortar men have almost zeroed in.”