Luka 01: "And now I am a bringer of death."
Unless we came back in the Hokum, the future was out of our control.
In the eight years since I joined the Russian Aerospace Force, I’d only been operationally deployed in Syria flying Hokum asset protection sorties in the oil fields and in urban close air support. While I was there jets and bombers inflicted most of the damage. Our unit’s job of patrolling the oil fields was a big deterrent and I just got lucky/unlucky and didn’t get into direct contacts there, but eventually our job expanded and we saw some engagements in the cities and hunted outside them from time to time. It was good experience that ramped up on a manageable learning curve, although there was a hell of a lot to learn.
In Syria, there was something tangible at stake that doesn’t exist at home and can’t be simulated. There were actual bad guys down there and lines that, if crossed, had consequences. American psychos were wandering around but far worse than that were the nasty bastards the Americans were paying. If we went down or fucked up, we didn’t have our own full recovery forces so we were relying on our attached Syrian mechanised infantry and two Syrian “fast” choppers to save us from being torn to pieces by Jabbat-al-Motherfuckers or whichever flavour of twat was running about. “Quick response” is never quick. When you’re in trouble time slows down so nothing from your side comes quickly. Then you can always guarantee that no one is as ready as they say they are, or a lot of shit hits the fan at once and “quick” actually turns to “slow” while the command system works its way through the thickest shit first.
Our unit boss at the time, Lev, got us into a huddle before we shipped out and we had a mini “blow-off” where we could speak freely and vent concerns, whinge and blow-off some steam to clear our minds. Part of the discussion was around how we were going to behave and the context of the deployment. Almost none of us had operated outside of home ground, never mind been attached to a host nation in an actual combat theatre. We were going as the help, not the bosses. Most of us weren’t very familiar with Middle-Eastern cultures so we were on a learning curve. We’d watched what America did in the Middle-East and the results they got. It was enough to make us decide that we weren’t into that. Respect, low profile, good integration, making friends, ultra-professional. They were the key things we all agreed on. We also anticipated a new problem: language difficulties that would screw up the command and communications process. This was a big deal. We had to learn from the local Syrians enough Arabic phrases so that the need for translation of key radio chatter was reduced. If we got in the shit and called alerts in Arabic they would understand straight away without going through a translator. That sped things up in the air and on the ground, and it meant we bonded through Arabic lessons that enabled us to haggle a bit at the market without a handler.
The Syrians were good hosts and the food was fucking awesome. Unlike the Americans and the Afghanis, no one drank booze on base although we were free to do what we wanted as Syria isn’t a completely dry country and it’s a melting pot. Before it all got fucked up, it was pretty moderate and well integrated with the Muslim majority getting along fine with Christian and Druze minorities. We agreed to follow our hosts’ lead and we barely drank, joined them for PT and more.
Lev was our clever and sensitive leader. He set up a prayer service for us beside the Syrian’s formal prayer space as a symbol of integration. It didn’t matter about the differences in how we all praised God. What was more important was that we could share the space for God physically and mentally. When Lev explained this to us, all of us turned up to service irrespective of how much we believed in the big man to show unity and collective respect. The Syrians really liked us for it.
Our intel attachment gave us periodic regional contact reports via the Syrians and it was fucking grim. Worse than pictures and stories from Chechnya. Whatever rules might have existed in Chechnya, these rebel bastards never even knew about. It wasn’t the stuff you’d see in the press that we paid attention to. All press reporting of war is bullshit and lies, no matter who’s producing it. Even Mother Russia speaks with a forked tongue to anyone who will listen. But the reports we saw had Syrian intel combined with our own. You couldn’t believe it all with certainty, you’d have to be really dumb to do so. It was in the Syrians’ interests to present us with the picture they wanted us to see to justify us being there, and our bosses needed to keep us suitably motivated and suitably cautious, so showing us chopped up people helped focus us on not crashing and getting minced ourselves. That’s a big difference between air and army: we never see the real shit that gets created or that we ourselves create. It’s ground forces whose hands get plunged in blood. They carry out the bodies and smell the stench. There is a heavy price to pay for that. Then and now I thank God for the mercy he affords me in the air.
Every time we took off and left base we knew that unless we came back in the Hokum, the future was out of our control if we ever came face-to-face with any of the bad guys running about. But there was more to think about. Lev’s take was that while the Syrians weren’t the nicest people in the world, collapse of that government into chaos was going to be big time bad for the region and us down the line. This kind of western proxy war was standard ops for America - we were all under no illusions - to the point that you could literally read about it in the New York Times. “We are supporting anti-government/rebel opposition”, their papers would admit.
“So,” pointed out Lev, “they’ve spent 15 years going after AQ and in doing that they created ISIS, and now they’re working with and paying ISIS and others to fuck up Syria. How fucked up is that?”. The Americans getting oil and bringing down the government via “rebels” and ISIS and whoever was opening a pathway to home and our Muslim population. My co-pilot, Yaroslav, was generally down with the way Lev saw things because of his background and his brain.
Yaz was from Tatarstan and Muslim. His parents were Arabic immigrants so he knew the language and the Syrians took to him. I was a lucky hanger on who got the tea in and learned a new phrase every day to play catch up. It worked and we looked after each other. Yaz was - like me - keen to keep field skills up. We got matey with our Syrian mechanised infantry attachment and spent a lot of time on the range and in the occasional scuffle with them. Local infantry skills - anything you could get - were insurance. Bonds with the Syrians that put your name and face into their minds could make the difference in how hard they tried to get you back if you crashed on mission. Some nights Yaz and I dossed in survival bivvies on base in uncomfortable locations to use all our kit and talk about Escape & Evasion. We sometimes found a few Syrians to tag along for a cook off and sharing of stories and skills.
Amin and Gadi were these two massive Syrian nut jobs who did Brazilian ju-jitsu and were keen to show us why it was a valuable fighting style, any time, anywhere. Sparring was full contact to tap out, and it always went to the ground. They blended ju-jitsu with sidearm and knife use so you could use physical moves to get to your weapon to finish or the other way around if you were disarmed. We worked up to sparring sessions in full op gear, unloaded sidearms and a dummy knife. Gadi told us that once he’d had to bite someone’s throat open to “make his difference” and that’s why no one trusted him to do any cooking. He promised us he preferred the taste of his wife’s tea. I nicknamed him “Bigmouth” from that point on for two reasons, but I think he only grasped one of them.
There was something that happened with Syrian infantry that I’d seen before in ours. Up to a point, they were in normal mode. Then aggression would start to build within a situation on base. Pushed too far, something else switched in and the aggression stayed on and things could go too far. Yaz found this out the hard way sparring against a cocky junior guy, Kassib, who broke one of Yaz’s fingers when Yaz had the better of him on the floor. It was quick, too quick for Yaz to tap out and there was just the scream. I was on top immediately, ripped Kasib off with a choke hold, on to his knees then booted him full force in his back. He slammed face first into the floor and smashed his nose. No fucker does that to my co-pilot without paying. I could see in Kassib’s eyes that he had entered that rage space as they struggled on the ground. Lucky I didn’t kick the back of his head or I might have killed him. Amin and Gadi were livid because Kassib had shamed them by hurting the guests. It got sorted formally with a bullshit story from me and Yaz to our boss and Yaz could still fly. Informally, Yaz accepted that I’d squared the situation then and there, and it was a lesson to us both about where we were, what we were doing and ultimately being able to forgive Kassib. Yaz really knew I had his back. Kassib paid a penance by having to cater a big feed for us all. I bet his wife loved him for that.
I never said this to Yaz but Syria made me appreciate him in a way that I simply never would have without that posting. He was my guide into a world that I knew nothing about. He didn’t know the culture but he knew enough of the language and he knew a lot of its spirituality. Having him as my brother there, I think, made me a better person and a better pilot. Operationally, I could have slacked off on the Arabic and left that to him on the radios, but there was no way I would do that. We both fly the chopper fully from either seat, so we both need to be equal in skill sets, including comms. I worked hard on the lingo and then practised with him as well. Getting cheaper prices at the market was the practical test of my growing skills, but I gave myself one more as a way to prove to Yaz that I was getting somewhere. I stuck my neck out and stood up to do a Syrian poetry reading in my best Arabic, of Adieu by Abou Mohammed. It was hard work and very imperfect, but Yaz got it.
Yaz prayed in the Syrian’s space and was a bridge between us and them. I took my place in our space right next to where Yaz was, and he was always at our services. Practising ju-jitsu we didn’t spar with each other because we agreed we needed to go up against their superior skills and style of aggression. We were our little team and worked in our corner on beating them. Yaz had a natural physical intelligence that was a massive differentiator between me and him. He was a pretty small guy so at a size disadvantage in most fights. His goal was to be able to kill Gadi and Amin, the biggest and best guys. While I was over focused on the moves and the hand-to-hand aspect, he switched straight to overall tactics to get the kill any way, any how so he was looking for any means to get space or speed for a weapon or a fast disabling or kill move. That’s what got his finger broken - Kassib’s rage made him rip at Yaz’s gun and his finger snapped in the trigger guard. But that’s how it would have been for real. The one lucky turn was that Yaz had the pistol in his left hand otherwise he’d have had a struggle to fly and operate all the primary stick controls with a fucked up right index finger.
I managed to stay on the right side of the “integration” line, despite coming one step away from falling in love at first sight with a woman with the blackest hair, darkest eyes and caramel skin when I glimpsed her at the market. God spared me a complicated life and as I stalked the market many times, I remained a distant appreciator of her beauty. God let me imagine her the way I wanted and spared me having to find out how she really was. That way, I could never actually disappoint her with all my unfixable flaws.
I enjoyed the posting in Syria, but I didn’t really feel emotional about the mission itself. It was a “contract job” from which I took what I wanted. Learning, new experiences and friends, and the application of our skills to a real combat environment was all good stuff. Looking back, not actually getting heavily shot at was a blessing. I was being gently prepared for the actual test to come, I think.
This time around, when our unit’s proper deployment to the Ukrainian border came, every one of us was stoked to go. I felt it too, in a way that I hadn’t in Syria. Real commitment. This was our thing, our purpose, our test. There was a strange, new feeling in me. I find it hard to describe but it was a mixture of sombre seriousness, fateful doom, righteousness, and a notion of bringing salvation tinged with darkness within. Despite the complicated, conflicted, almost schizophrenic feelings, I felt this total commitment inside to the immediate future. It was then that I finally understood in my own way, something that I had pondered years before as a teenager.
“I just wanna go and do some fucking fighting,” is what I remember hearing Artyom say as their little gang were hanging out in the garden. Artyom had just received his orders and would be gone in a few days. The guys were giving him a send off. I didn’t get why he’d say that though. He was actually keen to go and fight? To kill? To maybe be killed? I couldn’t really picture that beyond images and feelings given to me by movies and some of the bits of news, but overall it felt bad and unknown and scary.
Artyom was the best mate of my elder brother, Maxim. Artyom was in the infantry. I was still a teenager. He’d been in for a year and was deployed to Chechnya in its later stages. Max had known Artyom since they were three years old. Artyom had lived next door until he was 11, when his dad took a better job and moved out into the suburbs. Despite the new distance, either one would ride his bike across town so they could be together. The first time they did it, they planned the route with a map and tried it together. In that way, they grew in their independence, navigating the bigger distance and growing closer in their bond. Then they competed on how quickly they could get across town, starting from the moment they hung up the phone call. They were similar enough and bound tight by their early years, but as they grew their contrasts became very complimentary. Max was more the thinker, Artyom the more practical activist. Together, they made a good team. They could generate ideas for adventure, have a think about how to pull them off, then actually get them done. Their successes and occasional failures were their learning curve that bound them tightly in a brotherly love that was theirs by choice, not birth.
Artyom was a brash, mouthy fucker when he was in the thick of it in front of a friendly audience, which was a trait that had swelled since he joined up. Quick with a superficial opinion that quite often didn’t fully hang together, especially when it concerned the nuances of the female character and relationships.
“No wonder you haven’t got a girlfriend, Artyom! You’re so full of shit! If I took your advice, I’d be kicked out of Anya’s place next week!” Dani started off in a serious tone. “It’s her fucking flat, her mum lives next door, I can’t just have you all round every Saturday, can I? Especially you, jumping off the sofa. Your head nearly put a fucking hole through the wall!”. Dani was laughing by the time he’d finished recounting the previous weekend at Anya’s place.
“Fuck me,” piped Kirill, “I nearly asked you what colour Anya’s mum’s pyjamas were. I thought your head was going straight through the wall into the old lady’s bedroom!”.
“It could have done!” laughed Artyom. “Made of titanium, this block is!” He rapped his knuckles against the side of his square-ish, buzz cut head. “Mother Russia upgraded me when I joined up!”.
That’s how the gang dealt with his bullshit. Someone would eventually call it out then they’d all steer it into comedy. Sometimes Max or Andrei would chip in with something sensible or a bit of acquired wisdom. But not this time. Not when he said he wanted to fight.
“I just wanna go and do some fucking fighting.”.
There was quiet. Not long quiet, but long enough to be totally different.
“You’ll be fine as long as you do one thing…”, replied Max.
“What’s that, Max? You know something that my training didn’t include?”, came back Artyom.
“Yeah. Just make sure you always get hit in that titanium block head of yours and the bullets will bounce straight off!”. There was the humour, but it didn’t come from the usual clowns. The gang burst into sympathetic laugher. Artyom, laughing and smiling wide, jumped across and grabbed on to Max in a big boyish hug, rubbing his head. I could see Max’s eyes welling up he was laughing so hard, but I didn’t know if they were tears of joy or something else.
As the laughter subsided, there was another unnatural, momentary lull.
“You’ve…”, Max’s voice was softer. He wiped at his eyes as his smile faded. “…got to fucking come back.” His voice was on the edge of breaking. The gang were detectably stunned into silence. Where the hell was this going? “…because there are no more blockheaded clowns in this town and we’ll have no one to take the piss out of if you don’t!”. And there it was: the Young Man’s Public Reveal. Love, fear, care all wrapped up in a put down.
More laughter and smiles.
“Yeah, without you’ve we’ve lost our spare asshole!”, chimed Kirill.
“Ha ha!”, Artyom was entertained. “Then join the fucking army! They’ve got spare arseholes coming out of their fucking ears! I can keep you all safe as long as you follow me in line and let my head take the fire!”.
There was more to Artyom than met the ear. He was like a second brother to me, so I was privy to his true nature and often present or eavesdropping when it was just Max and him together. His decision to join up had been calculated. The service was a risky investment in his future in terms of pension and so on. He had talked it through with Max, who had done his best to help him calculate. But their youth and lack of wisdom had been their shortcoming and Artyom’s miscalculation was to kid himself that the infantry was where he should go. For some reason, he got caught up in the combat role of the soldier and convinced himself that the true test was combat, and at the last second he ticked the infantry box. In doing so, he forgot his rationale of self-investment through service. He should have joined the engineers or logistics teams and been properly upskilled. Looking back with what I know now, he could probably have made it into choppers if he had been a bit more academically supported to apply his mind at just the right times and have the confidence to go through selection. He was smart, despite his sometimes lazy and crass language. In my memory I now recognise how his physicality would have been well suited for flying and his positive character that drew people into an inclusive camaraderie.
It was the day before he reported to base, when both our families were together at Artyom’s place. We three were in the summer house.
“How long are you going to be away for?” Max had asked.
“Six months on then two weeks R&R. The thing should be done in a year, so they’re going to count a year as one tour.”
“What’s the pay situation? Do they actually give you more money? I fucking hope so. It’ll help with your plan, as long as you don’t drink it all.”
“Yeah, there’s a deployment bonus that’s coming a month in. Plus we’re on tour pay, which is another ten per cent. Someone said that we won’t be paying accommodation either, so that’s more money saved. We’ll be in some smashed up building or dossing in the back of APCs or field tents! I’m not paying for that shit! I’m there to save the fucking day!” He was self-aware and self-deprecating. They both giggled.
“OK, well that’s good. Speaking of saving the day, I’ve made you this red cape…” Max pretended to reach behind the sofa for something. “Oh, and there’s these red underpants you have to wear on the outside, as well.”
“Anything to pull the Chechen girls. I need all the help I can get. Just don’t give me a t-shirt with “A” on it. The platoon doesn’t need a reason to call me ‘“Assman” or something.”
Much of what was said sounded like cursory and boyish banter. It was what they did together, out of sight, that ultimately explained the depth of their friendship.
“OK…” started up Max. “So, let’s put all that money into the spreadsheet, so we know what you’re meant to be saving on tour. You’re still ahead of target, you tight-fisted wanker, so you’ll be rich by the time you get back.”
“Cool. I’ve got the numbers in my bag. I’m probably not going to have much time to read when I’m away, so you’ll have to pick carefully what you send me. Just focus on the stuff I need to know for the business.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t hold me to that. I think that if I sent you a book on small business accounting and how to fix houses and company law, you’d go kamikaze. I’ll alternate with porn mags and some Nabokov.”
“Over 50’s Readers’ Wives, remember?”
“Really? Shit. I fucked up already. I got you a year’s subscription to Dalmatians in Heat… You fucking dog botherer!”
“Ow ow ooooowwwww!” Artyom howled like a wolf at the ceiling and we all sniggered at the contrast between self-betterment and self-debasement.
They spent half an hour updating Artyom’s plan, casting towards a future that they were building together. What they both understood was that their friendship and trust was the ultimate form of contract and the source of mutual support. The plan was to flip a flat, then another then a house. Where that would lead, they didn’t know. But it was a start. Max was getting into computers and business, but he wanted a way to move out and be independent. Max was going to do the brain work while Artyom was away. When he got back, they intended to get going.
“Art, listen, I’ve been thinking. I’m worried about what you said.”
“What’s that? You’re worried about Readers’ Wives. Fuck, that’s the least of my problems.”
“No, about you wanting to go fighting. What’s that mean? We’ve got plans, buddy. You’re worrying me. What the fuck do you mean?”
“Look, it’s… they say it’s normal. Think about it. I’ve spent all this time learning to what? To fucking fight. I know, I know, I should’ve been a whatever. But I’m not, now. I’m this. For now. And this is these…” He held up clenched fists. “…And more, and worse. I’m not a shit soldier, but I’ve not been tested either. This is the test. If I pass this test, and do it with some… honesty… and some honour, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? God is watching. I can’t leave my mates or back off. It’s ‘commit and do the job’ and be a team that survives because it’s a solid team.”
“OK. I know, I know.” Max sighed as though he was both relieved and sad at the same time. “But you have to fucking survive. Don’t be fucking stupid. I remember everything you taught me, but you’ve got to remember to keep thinking enough about the future. Your future will not end in fighting. You are more. We… are more. Here…” Max stood up and walked across to the desk where he had left a big duffle bag he’d brought from home. He slung it towards Artyom.
“What’s this? I’ve got enough shit to lug, thanks!”.
“I’ve done a lot of work on this. It’s insurance for the both of us.”. Max’s voice had dropped in register as he entered serious mode.
Inside the bag was a brand new multi-component, combat body armour system from the US. Max had assumed that Artyom would be deployed to Chechnya. Max’s studies had begun to cover testing methodologies and risk assessment. It was from this that Max turned his attention to his best friend. He had undertaken detailed research into the comparative performance of troop body armour and had managed to get a full system.
“How the fuck did you get that? What’s the spec?” Artyom was wide-eyed.
“It’s US type 4, so it should be better than your standard issue. That’s no more than US type 3, from what I understand. Each of these plates can stop a 7.62, maybe more than one. No one’s fucking around with 5.56 pussy shit where you’re going. It took a bit of effort, but dad’s pilot buddy sorted it all out. He brought it back piece by piece over a few trips. You can buy this stuff there no problems. The plates are ceramics, you’ve got side protection, removeable shoulder pads, neck attachment, and Velcro and buckle fasteners - all that stuff. I know the vest isn’t going to go down well in your unit so maybe take it with you and maybe don’t use the vest if they really care. It’s the plates that I wanted for you, they’ll fit your standard issue vest, I checked. If they’re better plates, just fucking use them, no one will know. If they are the same, then you’ve got a spare set. If you get given shit gear or not enough, now you’ve got your own. If this is your test, you fail unless you come back in one piece.”
That was the first time I saw Artyom cry.
“You have to make me two promises, Art.”
“What? I’m not bringing back every copy of Dogbotherer Weekly. No fucking way.” Artyom sniffed.
“First. You never, ever, ever give this armour to anyone else. It is yours and yours alone. I had it blessed for you. Second, you protect this.” Max pointed his finger and pressed it to Artyom’s heart. “Whatever happens, you keep this beating and you keep it safe, and you keep it the way it is now. I don’t know what you’ll see, what you’ll do. But you must return as you and not as a shadow.”
“Yes, yes.” Artyom’s tears gathered on his chin. “I promise, brother. God and Solnyshkuh here are my witnesses.”
The past began to echo in my chest as we received our initial deployment briefing about the “planned Western exercise”. A multi-view situational brief with a strategic outline came first. How we fitted in, what was generally expected of us, who we would work with and support. Big ticket, big picture issues that helped set the scene. Then it drilled down into theatre and enemy specific information. We wouldn’t get any detailed plans until we had deployed and broken from normal life on base. We were bound to operational secrecy anyway, like any combat pilot, but there was more this time around. Extra compartmentalisation. Not so much for our unit, but for those we left behind.
We were going to the western border for major exercises that were rotated North, West, South, East. This time west. Funny, that. There was a joint exercise in Belarus as well. In obvious terms, we needed to interoperate with CSTO allies, just like NATO did or any other alliance. In political terms, shared exercises were important. In immediate strategic terms, this was all a staging point.
What we were going to do was to first run “work ups” where we practised common operations and tactics as a full scale force. Flex the muscles. Then, we would start increasing the fluidity of our combined manoeuvres to try to simulate dynamic, kinetic combat with some other tactics that we’d learn at the ex. It was a big deal in how it was being set up. Reality would begin to bite at the exercise, once the politicians made their moves off the back of our manoeuvres that Uncle Sam would watch from space.
During the briefing, the feeling began to well up inside me. Like gravity emanating from my heart, drawing in sensations of seriousness and some kind of doom, but not mine. I stayed in the briefing room - just sat there for 5 minutes - after everyone had left. I was just staring, feeling. It kept growing and in my head I heard, “and now, I am a bringer of death.” In that moment, I wanted to test myself, to finally see our unit’s capability measured in some form of proper outcome. This actually was going to matter, if we went in.
Every one of us knew what was at stake. We had a “blow off” the next day. We all dumped phones and gear, sat in shorts and t-shirt in a secure room and basically sounded off about what we thought was actually going to happen. We couldn’t talk to anyone else but each other and we could only do that securely and in a focussed session. This was our way of being able to cope with not being able to say anything to family or friends other than supposedly being on planned exercises for a couple of weeks. That kept family happy and meant no one had anything to leak or let slip. There was an obvious problem down the line though. At some point beyond those two weeks we still wouldn’t be home and we’d be sending some kind of secure messages saying, “Honey, I’m not coming home yet.” Then there’d be all the news and everyone would get upset. Then there’d be loads of awkward phone calls.
We all knew the situation well, and we knew that this was going to be either a stand-off show of force or some kind of actual shit show depending upon uncontrollable factors well above our pay grades. Everyone got the steely-eyed stare at first.
“This is overdue. It’s been going on for years too long.” Dmitri had family in Donbass and so he was super clued-in, but mentally a bit too close. “These cunts need sorting. We fucking warned them over and over.”
This was part of the point of a blow off: to vent the initial tension when you start switching into combat mode. We had to let this stuff out and we knew to expect people to say things that we would not hang on to. It was about releasing pressure to leave space for clarity and focus, in the mutual support of people who were responsible for each other’s lives; shared vulnerability from which we rebuilt each other stronger and better.
“This is Syria on coke and crack at the same time.” Yaz spoke straight to me, but he was speaking to everyone. “This is nearly NATO power, with a lot of kit, with fanatics, and fuck knows what comes in behind all of that if we cross the border. And then, we might get a suntan in winter.”
“Sunscreen and iodine pills is all we need.” said Spock, who was second-in-command and cursed with pointy ears. His frontal leadership style occasionally hamstrung him when he lead a vodka session and three times he’d passed out. Each time we’d given him a Spock fringe haircut to match his ears. The third time, I brought out a shitty Star Trek fancy dress outfit that I’d kept quiet and we got him in it for the incriminating photos, including when he puked. He’s 43 for Christ’s sake. Fucking funny. None of this was ever going away or being forgotten. We tried to teach his baby to say “Spock” but his wife was having none of it. Some of us are banned from the house until little Lyudmila is 5 and knows to tell pilots to “fuck off”. My plan is to just teach her the Vulcan hand sign and no one will know. Hush hush and all that. Spock lives up to his nickname with the occasional hand gesture when saluting and impersonations, and he signs his Christmas cards, “Live long and prosper.” He’s a solid operator. “If we go in, we already know a lot of why we’re going in. It’s not going to be a small job, even if we’re just recovering Donetsk. If we enter from Belarus as well, that’s two fronts. There could be more. We just focus on our area, our team, our force. If we get the punches in the right places then we’re doing the right job. The bigger picture is what it is.”
“I want to make sure that we are fully focused on discipline and situational awareness.” Razza chipped in. “Flexibility can lead to confusion and total fuck ups. ‘I flexibly chased down a target, got separated, got dead.’ ‘I flexibly released rockets into the wrong block of flats and did Jabat-al-Cuntbag’s work for him then had to pray for forgiveness.’ That shit’s biblically serious. It’s gonna be like Syria, with civvies all over the place. We know these fuckers will drop shells on civvies. That means, when we come along, they’ll get worse. That’s the way the proxies worked in Syria. This is the same sponsor and these are fucking Nazis.”
“Yeah, hang on. Some of them are Nazis.” I corrected. I felt a bit worried about tarring everyone with the same brush, but the distinction and whatever it meant rapidly gave way to combat pragmatism. “We’ll roughly know who we’ll be dealing with when we get target packages in area. Nazis or not, if they’re shooting at us and we’re cleared, we end that fight. Going down in there is the same or worse than going down in Syria. Ultra hostile. One thing about these Azov fucks: the simple fact that they exist, have grown and that the government is actually letting them do their shit tells you there’s no law. Kick things off in there and Rules of Engagement only applies to us. Those fuckers spell ROE ‘K-I-L-L’.”
“Yeah…” followed Yaz, “We need to use full datalink and drone patch throughout the whole exercise. Plus, we need to press for the infantry to be using Dynalink. When that’s up the boys downstairs just ping targets to any platform that can strike and they’re safer. What’s the point in sharing our space programme with a bunch of cowboys if we don’t use our satellites when we need them? This is what it’s all been built for.”
I was writing it down. Yaz was a thorough and clever guy, but he could rant. However, this meant he made very convincing arguments after his initial rant was refined. My notes were the only record that would leave the room and go straight to the boss. That was our way of using this session to register our information and ops concerns so that prep and briefings could factor whatever “creative” thoughts of actual value came out of the blow off.
Afterwards, I felt I understood, in my way, how Artyom had felt when he had said, “I just wanna go and do some fucking fighting.” Now we all felt the same way. Whatever this was and whatever this would become, it was going to be the biggest test of my career and life to date. It wasn’t like Syria. Not only were we acting on immediate orders to go to a massive exercise on the Ukrainian border where shit had been going down for years, but we all felt that the potential future orders were long overdue. Bad stuff was happening to people who didn’t deserve it and for illegitimate reasons, as far as most of us could tell. This was on our doorstep. The fight had come to us. Again. Bullies must be dealt with.
On the way back from base I swung by an expensive deli and loaded a basket with the ingredients for a fine meal.
Alone at home that night, I laid the table to the sound of Swan Lake. I set places for Max, mum, dad, Artyom and myself. From the cabinet I took the bottle of Jewel of Russia Ultra Black Label, Max’s favourite. The store had had what I was looking for - a bottle of red wine from the Massandra vineyard on Crimea. I knew of it but had only tried its dessert wines. I laughed when I saw the name on the bottle - “Bastardo”. That would do, no matter what it tasted like.
I started with caviar. At the table, I poured the vodka, starting with mum, then dad, Artyom and Max. Max knew why he was last. It did not diminish him for Artyom to be recognised as a brother by choice. Love by birth was strong enough to make room.
I bowed my head.
The poor shall eat and be satisfied, and those who seek the Lord shall praise Him; their hearts shall live forever!
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.
After thanks by common prayer, I asked the Lord for his blessing.
Father, grant your servants at this table your mercy, strength and wisdom. Blessed to me are those who are blessed to live with you. May I honour them and you in my words and deeds and judgement. Give me the strength and will and wisdom to know and do that which is right and good. Protect us from our own darkness and the darkness that we fight against. Forgive us our sins that we have committed and may yet commit. Know that in my heart, I desire peace but I must seek it in the world of men, by man’s means and through suffering, that we may find your grace and love. Amen.
The tears had wet my cheeks as they should. I raised my glass to the centre of the table.
“For you, whom I love,” was my toast.
Max had good enough taste in vodka. The caviar was so fine that there was only the food and Tchaikovsky in those moments. I was briefly free to enjoy a simple pleasure and a second vodka. Theirs would remain until I returned.
Steak followed with the Bastardo. I laughed again. Artyom and Max would have too. I drank of my unknown brothers’ wine, and toasted all the brothers that I knew.
Before dinner I’d begun assembling some of my personal effects that would accompany me to theatre. A whole case of Bastardo was in the hall. It would come and wait for the right time with the guys. For Yaz and I there was a big bag of tea I’d brought back from Syria, although it was probably Indian or Chinese, just like tea everywhere. Having fished it out of the back of the cupboard, I knelt on the floor with the big bag in front of me. My favourite Tchaikovsky piece, The Nutcracker, Act II: No 14a, Pas de deux, began to soar as I opened the bag to check the tea. In that light it was as black as I remembered her hair. I inhaled its scent. Dry grassiness, a sweetness with a hint of citrus that ended with a soft, bitter note; her character or perhaps our would-have-been fate encapsulated in that smell. As the music played and I breathed her in, we waltzed together through the empty market, past the coloured cloths, piles of spices, butchery, dessert stalls and tea bars. Without her hijab, her black hair flowed about her back and flung outwards as we spun. An imagined hint of tobacco from the hookahs that I swung her past on the way to a flower stall that had never really been there. In her black eyes were mine reflected; the void and the abyss become one.
While savouring the steak, I started to think more about where this could lead in big picture terms. It wasn’t about me or my unit. The big picture was always about the achievement of whatever political objectives we had set for ourselves. Over that I had no control but I rationalised that being as good a pilot as I could be was the only thing I could do to contribute to our political options and victory. If we won our fights, we could do more politics our way or vice versa. That simple. My choices had put me here, as a tiny cog in a political machine. If that machine was misused or didn’t work, then… I looked up Oppenheimer on my phone, when he quoted the Bhagavad-Gita:
Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.
I felt suddenly despondent. The earlier gravity from my chest was reversed. Now it was outside me, clutching at my heart or my soul, to drag me down to the floor.
In a way, we might be cornered. The fact that I and my unit felt that something had to be done about Ukraine was a warning sign that we could be blinded, like target fixation or kill rage. We all trusted Dmitri’s personal take that came straight from family on the ground, on top of flows of intel that had come our way and now coalesced in yesterday’s strategic overview. We were being drawn in because there were Nazis hurting our neighbours, brothers, sisters. Emotions. A bit too convenient a set up? That’s the politics of it all, and that’s what’s out of my control. That earlier sense of doom returned as I began to consider escalation but now it began to swallow me as well. My doom.
Her black hair became engulfing dark flames from the abyss that wrapped around my throat as we waltzed into the darkness, and the void in her began to smother my face… I dragged in a sharp breath and pushed her away before she could transform into a succubus who must be smote. Not her, not us. We are more.
I pictured being in flight with Yaz beside me. Looking up to see some massive streaking missile trail so high and fast that it was destined for other shores. My eyes welled up. What would I say to Yaz? In a flash the answer came from my heart. I knew I’d thank him for being the best brother-in-arms I could have ever wished for. I would learn the Arabic for that so well that he could understand immediately, if I needed to say it. I looked it up on my phone.
أشكرك على كونك أفضل شقيق في السلاح أتمناه.
'ashkuruk ealaa kunik 'afdal shaqiq fi alsilah 'atamanah
Hmm. Tricky. I’d have a few goes at that after dinner.
My thoughts turned from my brother-in-arms to my brothers. “We are more,” Max had said. I remembered that day in the summer house. Artyom in his blessed armour. We hugged each other to the broken sound of Artyom’s howling and I remember us all smiling and crying at the same time. The embodiment of bittersweet; the simultaneous joy and pain of love in the face of unknown fate and separation. I let the feelings and the pictures linger as long as they wanted. As Max and Artyom departed, they assumed the burden of my lonely despair.
With the steak gone, the Bastardo had proven to be a good enough companion. Half remained and there was more than enough time to finish it.
I left the table and took the bottle and my glass to the couch. I switched the track to Act II, No.10 Scene. Moderato and turned my mind back to the big picture and Max’s words.
Our nation was gearing up for potentially the biggest Russian manoeuvres since World War 2 because the political scale was global. In that, we brothers-at-arms would become more; more than even we knew. Hopefully that would be overwhelmingly powerful on enough levels.
I decided. As always, one can never be sure of an outcome, one can only hope and strive for a good enough outcome. As for what we might be about to do and why, I had shown God that I was not a mindless killer. In me bringing death to some, I might spare greater suffering of others who did not; my hoped for peace in some form may be achieved. There was illegitimate suffering there and through it, much greater issues at stake for our nation and others.
After 8 years there was solid intel all over the place of what was going on and the trajectory was bad and getting worse. History was repeating itself in a nose dive. We knew who was operating there and there were indeed a lot of - in Dmitri’s words - “cunts doing very cunty things, being paid by even bigger cunts and clowns.”
That’s never a good mix. Worse when they’ve got weapons.
If politics don’t work with cunts, you either quit or use your stick.
We are the stick.
Russians don’t fucking quit.
Wired: 'Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds'. The story of Oppenheimer's infamous quote
"Hiroshima as a world state.
With August 6, 1945, the Hiroshima Day, a new age has begun: the age in which we can turn any place, nay our earth as a whole, into a Hiroshima at any moment. Since that day we have become modo negativo omnipotent; but since we can be annihilated at any moment, this means at the same time: since that day we are totally powerless. No matter how long, no matter whether it will last forever, this age is the last: for its differentia specifica: the possibility of self-extinction, can never end - except by the end itself." Gunther Anders Günther Anders (1958)/1981: Die atomare Drohung. Radikale Überlegungen. Dritte, durch ein Vorwort erweiterte Auflage von „Endzeit und Zeitenende“, München: C.H. Beck, S. 93.