the men, asking for their permission to push them hard. That, as far as he knew, was a first in the Soviet Red Army. And it seemed to work.
There was one image Radchek couldn’t shake, however, and it stuck in his mind like a bad song.
It was the picture of the red-faced monster jamming a gun in his face.
8
Kurskin snuffed out his cigarette on his shoe, then immediately lit up another one. In the dull green light of the radar room, the hot orange tip of the cigarette was brilliant, and Kurskin focused on it. He wasn’t much of a smoker when he got to Yenisey, but he developed an appreciation for black market Italian brands. It had to be a secret appreciation, though, because Barkov didn’t allow smoking on the grounds. Kurskin had never heard of such an outrageous thing before, but the colonel was adamant. Radchek and Vukarin hadn’t cared about the directive because they didn’t smoke. Most of the rest of the guys did, though, and it was common practice to sneak out into the woods beyond the perimeter fence to light up. But right now, Kurskin had other things on his mind.
“ It would be a shame to have to kill you, too. ” Tobolisk’s final words before leaving the radar room stuck in Kurskin’s head. Since then, he had smoked 14 cigarettes and paced a groove in the floor.
“Son of a bitch,” he said as he leaned against the cinder block wall and puffed away. “Son of a bitch.” Kurskin went back to the radio set, sat down and dialed in the correct channel. He picked up the handset and depressed the button.
And said nothing.
He released the button, stood up, and paced some more. “Son of a bitch,” he said. Over the past few hours, he had repeated the move to the radio umpteen times, yet couldn’t bring himself to call Vukarin. What would he say? What could he say? “Lieutenant, big dumb, ugly Tobolisk is picking on me! Tell him to stop!” Yeah, that’d go over well. Sure, it was a crime to threaten an officer. But he and Tobolisk were privates, and privates settled their differences with a nice game of cards, a vodka shot challenge, or a good old-fashioned fist fight. Kurskin didn’t know how to play cards, and there was no way he could out drink Tobolisk, who had more vodka in his veins than blood. As for a fist fight, well, the answer to that was obvious. Still…
“Fuck it.” Kurskin grabbed the radio handset and pushed the button.
Before he could say anything, the outside door flew open and private Vladamir Warnikov shot inside. An icy wind accompanied him, and Kurskin spun and dropped the handset all at the same time.
“Shit!” he hollered, more frightened than angry.
Though the room was mostly dark with green highlights, Kurskin could see that Warnikov’s eyes were bulging and that he was breathing heavy. The radar op didn’t really know him that well, but he did know that Warnikov was probably as worthless as Tobolisk. He was always flashing pictures in his wallet of numerous girlfriends back in Volgograd. Kurskin thought they were pictures he had cut from magazines.
“What are you doing?” said Kurskin, snuffing out his cigarette. They weren’t supposed to smoke on the grounds, let alone inside the buildings. He hoped Warnikov wouldn’t make an issue out of it.
“ It’s Mierkin,” he said in a timid voice. “Come with me.”
Kurskin immediately knew something was wrong. For one, Warnikov never spoke in a timid voice. And for another, he was no friend of Boris Mierkin, who Kurskin believed was consistently the foulest-smelling soldier east of the Ural mountains. Mierkin’s favorite thing to eat were onion and sardine sandwiches, and the combination left him with an ever-present stench coming out of both ends.
Kurskin put the dead cigarette in his coat pocket. “What’s wrong with
There was one image Radchek couldn’t shake, however, and it stuck in his mind like a bad song.
It was the picture of the red-faced monster jamming a gun in his face.
8
Kurskin snuffed out his cigarette on his shoe, then immediately lit up another one. In the dull green light of the radar room, the hot orange tip of the cigarette was brilliant, and Kurskin focused on it. He wasn’t much of a smoker when he got to Yenisey, but he developed an appreciation for black market Italian brands. It had to be a secret appreciation, though, because Barkov didn’t allow smoking on the grounds. Kurskin had never heard of such an outrageous thing before, but the colonel was adamant. Radchek and Vukarin hadn’t cared about the directive because they didn’t smoke. Most of the rest of the guys did, though, and it was common practice to sneak out into the woods beyond the perimeter fence to light up. But right now, Kurskin had other things on his mind.
“ It would be a shame to have to kill you, too. ” Tobolisk’s final words before leaving the radar room stuck in Kurskin’s head. Since then, he had smoked 14 cigarettes and paced a groove in the floor.
“Son of a bitch,” he said as he leaned against the cinder block wall and puffed away. “Son of a bitch.” Kurskin went back to the radio set, sat down and dialed in the correct channel. He picked up the handset and depressed the button.
And said nothing.
He released the button, stood up, and paced some more. “Son of a bitch,” he said. Over the past few hours, he had repeated the move to the radio umpteen times, yet couldn’t bring himself to call Vukarin. What would he say? What could he say? “Lieutenant, big dumb, ugly Tobolisk is picking on me! Tell him to stop!” Yeah, that’d go over well. Sure, it was a crime to threaten an officer. But he and Tobolisk were privates, and privates settled their differences with a nice game of cards, a vodka shot challenge, or a good old-fashioned fist fight. Kurskin didn’t know how to play cards, and there was no way he could out drink Tobolisk, who had more vodka in his veins than blood. As for a fist fight, well, the answer to that was obvious. Still…
“Fuck it.” Kurskin grabbed the radio handset and pushed the button.
Before he could say anything, the outside door flew open and private Vladamir Warnikov shot inside. An icy wind accompanied him, and Kurskin spun and dropped the handset all at the same time.
“Shit!” he hollered, more frightened than angry.
Though the room was mostly dark with green highlights, Kurskin could see that Warnikov’s eyes were bulging and that he was breathing heavy. The radar op didn’t really know him that well, but he did know that Warnikov was probably as worthless as Tobolisk. He was always flashing pictures in his wallet of numerous girlfriends back in Volgograd. Kurskin thought they were pictures he had cut from magazines.
“What are you doing?” said Kurskin, snuffing out his cigarette. They weren’t supposed to smoke on the grounds, let alone inside the buildings. He hoped Warnikov wouldn’t make an issue out of it.
“ It’s Mierkin,” he said in a timid voice. “Come with me.”
Kurskin immediately knew something was wrong. For one, Warnikov never spoke in a timid voice. And for another, he was no friend of Boris Mierkin, who Kurskin believed was consistently the foulest-smelling soldier east of the Ural mountains. Mierkin’s favorite thing to eat were onion and sardine sandwiches, and the combination left him with an ever-present stench coming out of both ends.
Kurskin put the dead cigarette in his coat pocket. “What’s wrong with
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