Struggle: The Path to Power - Владимир Андерсон

Victor sighed — it only took one person to lose the ability to destroy 'it' without 'difficulty'.

— Sergei, who asked you to? Who asked you to write this kind of bullshit?

— I don't understand you, Comrade Commander-in-Chief.

— What the fuck don't you understand?! You did everything right. The plan included the possibility of an early withdrawal. I told you, there's an informant in our group. You did?

— Yes, Comrade Commander-in-Chief. — Do you get it now?

— Yes, Comrade Commander-in-Chief.

Khmelnitsky grabbed his report and shook it nervously in front of him, "So, what am I supposed to do with this fucking thing now?" Silence.

— You should have shoved that report up your ass instead of handing it to me. Nobody would have seen it that way. And now they have. Fucking hell. What the fuck were you thinking when you wrote that, Major?

— I knew all the consequences, Comrade Commander-in-Chief… I'm a soldier. And my job is to destroy the enemy, not to chase rats… And if I didn't fulfill the task as it was in the plan, then I fucked it up.

And if I fucked it up, it's my right as a soldier to admit it right away.

Khmelnitsky got up from his chair and came close, so close that he could only be heard in a whisper, "Okay, Major… This is about to get fucked up… But know this. You're one of our best… I'd obviously need to learn to be a better judge of character…"

Victor patted him on the shoulder: "Go on, buddy." There was nothing more he could do.

***

Misha entered the hut. The same lovely homely smell that had been in Kremenchug had now migrated to Poltava. This is a peculiarity of a woman's soul: "to make coziness". When you come and "feel home". A place where you can feel differently. Natasha had been waiting for him here for half an hour. "Mish, are you ever in a good mood at all?" — she really couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Even when he'd gotten another star on his epaulettes, he'd looked at it as a miracle, as if anyone else deserved it more.

"Yes," Misha answered, and was about to leave; there were many thoughts, and I didn't feel like talking.

"Comrade Captain, please turn your face," Natasha was sick to death of this strained relationship:

whether she loved or hated, or something worse. And so it went on for a whole month.

Misha stopped and turned around, continuing to stare at the imaginary enemy outside the window.

There he is, standing there, outside the window. A big green chum with a nasty long fang sticking out of his mouth. His eyes are like two poisoned snake balls. Poisonous and cynical. And his hands… Claws grown over the years and necessarily with particles of human blood left there. Only the SSchekists were forbidden to show their paws smeared with a reddish substance, only they were disciplined by order, not by encouraging torture of the enemy.

"The Esekist, the imperial soldier — they're all plagues," Misha thought. — All of them would gladly eat my 21st squad. And they are all the same, no matter what leash they are kept on… They must all be destroyed…"

The 21st ward was no more, everything was left lying on the outskirts of Kremenchug. And in the whole department there were only girls no older than 25.

Misha had only himself to blame. He had taken them into his company half a month ago. If someone else had taken them, they'd still be alive. They could be standing next to him now. Could have smiled as sweetly. They could be wives to some and mothers to others.

Misha turned his head, wanting to tell him he had to go, and ran into Natasha's green eyes fifteen centimeters from his own.

"Did I do something wrong?" — it really did seem that way to her already.

"No…" — he shook his head lightly.

"What then?" — She was about to ask "do you want me or not," "me as I am?" but she couldn't, something kept her from doing so. Rather, he had to do it himself, not by asking, but by understanding her eyes.

And they both fell silent.

Everything seemed so disgusting, especially for a girl who is a member of the sanitary unit. She should save people from death, calm them down, comfort them so that they would go into battle without thinking that their comrades had already been killed, that of course they would be killed too, so that she would have to go under the bullets for the wounded of at least half, but not all, of the group sent into the attack.

And here in front of her stands one such military man who has already experienced dozens of times the stress that stuns the mind along with the silence that comes after a battle. He's survived dozens of deaths of his closest friends. Who has spent his entire free life thinking about killing more plagues. And she wants something from him?

Even if the war were to end today, he and everyone else in the Wilderness would only have to heal.

Yes, this is it, Wild Field, Natasha thought. It is its spirit that makes of them, someone's future husbands, endless soldiers who for the rest of their lives will be thinking about "deployment sites" and "advancing the right flank to a striking position". This black earth fertile field used to be called "wild" because of the constant nomads who did not let them work in peace, now it is called "wild" because of the most massive battles with plagues.

This strategy was invented by people, because the sun shines much stronger in the steppe than in the forest. And plagues don't react well to the sun. That's why the most serious clashes with the Maquis take place there. The danger is that the artillery, which the plagues use