Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

1987 Chapter XVII—For Queen and Country 

August 1987, Great Britain 

 

Dan had been out of the hospital no more than a day before they called him 

in. He’d expected that, since he’d sent off his PVR, the request for Premature 

Voluntary Release, to his unit barely a week after the surgery, and they wouldn’t 

have wasted even a day. 

They’d hauled him in, to stand—or limp—his ground in front of his CO 

and a panel, deciding if they let him out in six weeks flat or if they made his life 

hell by delaying anything they could before they had to let him go after paying a 

fee for the privilege. Complete with pension for twelve years service, despite his 

twenty years in the Forces. 

Pension. If he survived until fifty-five. If. Good question. 

He felt uncomfortable in the bog standard uniform, but figured he’d be 

worse off in his No2s. Should be thankful. The sand coloured beret itching above 

his ear, and the camo set of tunic and trousers felt restricting. Perfectly ironed 

creases in his kit, but why the fuck would he need that? Where was the point in 

shiny brass buckle and smartly worn webbed belt; why the bulling of boots and the 

need for roll-your-fucking-sleeves-up on such and such a date and button-your-

fucking-sleeves-down on another, regardless of climate or temperature. Pathetic. 

He’d be dead if he’d followed the rules of the drill-book. 

Dan could hardly remember the last time he’d been in full kit, felt as if he 

was wearing a uniform that was alien to him with its badges, rank-slide and flag, 

when there was a string of lapis lazuli prayer beads in one trouser pocket. Rank, it 

had never meant much, not out there in the field, let alone in the endless mountains. 

Rank, to him, meant nothing but a difference in wages, and wages didn’t mean 

much either. No chance to spend it, and the money invested in houses for rent, so 

Dan had the luxury of not giving a damn. He was called into the room at last, stood 

leaning on his crutches, saluted the CO and his cronies. Realising he had a hard 

time accepting authority as easily as he used to in a former life. A life, before he’d 

vanished into the mountains to become part of yellow-red dust and infinite skies. 

They asked him if it was true he wanted to resign his position and leave Her 

Majesty’s Armed Forces prematurely. 

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“Yes, Sir.” Dan stood at ease, legs braced, weight on the crutches. Didn’t 

matter he was in pain, and that they offered him a chair, he preferred to stand. The 

whole circus seemed more bearable that way. Felt like the protagonist in a freak 

show, because this place wasn’t his world anymore, he’d been on his own for too 

long and he’d got too close to the enemy. 

They questioned him akin to an interrogation, the why and wherefore, the 

reasons and the consequences. A whole hour of cross-examination, during which 

he eventually sat down. Their worries were obvious: an SAS soldier, behind enemy 

lines for years, in close contact with Afghan militants, training Mujahideen and 

working with Pakistani soldiers. 

Potentially dangerous to let a man like him go, but they had nothing to hold 

against him. SSgt McFadyen’s slate was clean. Model soldier, a chest that glittered 

with medals and awards that spoke of his exploits, but none could ever replace the 

vastness of the Afghan sky, the majesty of barren mountains and the touch of a 

Soviet soldier. The smell and taste of his ‘enemy’s’ body, and the way Vadim 

kissed him and made him human. His home. Afghanistan was his home. 

You’re my home. I will find you. 

“Sir, I have made my decision. It is time for me to leave the Forces.” 

They pleaded with him that he would throw his pension away, had to wait 

until he was fifty-five before he received anything, unlike if he stayed for twenty-

two years, and he should know the statistics. His chances to ever reach that age 

were slim, he should not be such a fool, and they would find a cushy job for him 

for his remaining two years. Dan listened, but he had made his decision. Nothing 

could change his mind, nothing except… 

“Sir, are you willing to send me back to Kabul?” 

The answer was negative but Dan showed no reaction. No flinch, not a 

word of protest. He’d tried all of that before, when he’d received his orders: desk 

job, possibly training recruits, but never again posted abroad, let alone to Kabul. 

No active service anymore. He belonged to the scrapheap after they’d cut open his 

knee, drilled into cartilage and worked on the joint. The British Forces were 

thankful for his loyal twenty years of service and Her Majesty would send him 

home with a good pension in two years’ time. The British legion would even fight 

for him to get an additional, invalided pension, for the damage to his knees in the 

course of duty. 

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Fuck that. 

He didn’t have any other plans than going back to Afghanistan, hoping 

Vadim was still alive. Dan had a vague idea where to find a job, but no definite 

leads. He was good, damn good at what he was doing and he would figure out how 

to earn his keep. Bodyguard, he could do that one-handed and earn shitloads of 

money for easy work. Or merc, dog soldier for anyone willing to pay for his 

expertise, as long as it was in Afghanistan. He’d get fit, sit out the six weeks of 

PVR, hand in his military ID and then get his arse back to Kabul as soon as 

possible. 

He’d find Vadim. It was all that mattered. 

 

* * * 

 

It was less a question of luck than one of knuckling down. Dan was grazing 

his contacts, checking with old mates, listening to the grapevine, and looking out 

for opportunities for old battle horses like him. Turned out his best bet was 

bodyguard, or ‘close protection’ as they called it these days. Not just a way back 

into a job for him, but a much better paid one to boot. No endless ranks of 

superiors, no uniform, but neither medals. Only one boss, and the target to keep his 

employer alive at all costs. Sounded good to him, straightforward. As long as it 

took him back into Kabul. 

The six weeks in Blighty dragged on, but at least he didn’t have to stay in 

camp even though he couldn’t leave the country. The MoD might require his 

presence while the PVR paperwork was going through. Still a soldier, but no 

longer in uniform. Dan visited his brother, organised finances and paid his duties to 

the remaining family, all the time itching to get away as soon as possible. 

It all felt wrong. He didn’t belong there, was tired of deflecting questions 

about settling down and when he was going to be too old for this life of adventure 

and adrenaline, and if he were ever going to find himself a wife. No fucking way 

Dan could tell them he was gay, any possible connection to the Soviet army far too 

dangerous. Especially for Vadim. 

Dan asked for a temporary room in the Mess, too antsy to travel around the 

country, and too busy with rehab and physio, working on regaining his strength. 

Spent his days in the gym, tried not to overdo it, eager to burn off the excess 

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energy that was coursing through his veins. Afghanistan. Kabul. Vadim. Trapped 

in goddamned Britain, in a sardine-tin sized room in a concrete barracks block. 

The day he handed in his military ID, Dan made a tick in his mental 

calendar, then got himself the earliest civilian flight he could catch. His luggage 

the customary bergan and a couple of bags, laden down with his few worldly 

possessions of clothes, cash, and whatever kit he could take with him. The rest was 

food, drink, medication and utilities. Every damned bit of usefulness that would 

keep and be appreciated. 

It was late October when Dan finally took his seat in the plane on the last 

leg of his journey, after he’d left Kabul in May. 

Half a year. Six fucking months. Would his Russkie even be alive? 

 

 

 

October 1987, Kabul 

 

The sun was gleaming over Kabul when Dan stepped out of the plane, 

gathering his bags. A brand new thick ski jacket over his arm, late October was 

pleasantly cool in the day, but he’d need the warm clothing soon enough. He 

shouldered the heavy bergan, took hold of the two bags, squinting into the sun 

before dropping one of the bags to fish for his polarised shades. He’d followed a 

tip from a mate, found the useful gear in a tackle shop, and was the proud owner of 

two pairs of black-rimmed, reflecting shades that made him stand out of the crowd 

far more than his natural height and built ever could. 

Didn’t matter anymore, no need to blend in. Dan slipped the shades over 

his eyes, scratched the stubble on his chin and lifted his face to grin into the sun. 

He was a civilian. No more, no less. No soldier, no enemy, no SAS. Just a 

goddamned civilian. 

Both bags back in his hands, he made his way into the centre of Kabul in a 

‘taxi’. Finding a room was the most urgent thing, but Dan still knew enough people 

who’d be able to find him a place that even had running water—most of the time—

a bed, a chair and a table, as well as sufficient exits, shuttered windows and 

lockable door, to be as safe a bolt-hole as it could be. It took him no more than a 

couple of hours before he’d found exactly what he needed, one of the former safe 

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houses from long ago. He had a quick shave, locked his possessions away, stashed 

the cash on his body and rushed towards the tea house. Hoping it hadn’t been 

bombed to shit. 

The city was quiet, it was still Ramadan, and the chaikhana was there, as 

was the owner, who greeted him like a long lost friend, welcoming Dan back into 

the place with the offer to wait for baklava and sweetened tea, to be consumed after 

sunset, but Dan declined, wanting to know only one thing: The Russian. The Soviet 

soldier, the man who had been frequenting the tea house for as many years as Dan 

had. 

A security hole, no doubt, but if the owner hadn’t talked for six years, why 

the hell should he now. Dan’s Pashto felt rusty at first, but he got back into the 

language as quickly as he’d slipped back into his skin in Kabul. He was home. For 

now. As fucking ridiculous as that sounded. Home. Where the heart was. The 

owner nodded, eager to help and knowing he would get rewarded in return, he told 

Dan what he knew about the Soviet’s schedule. Two Saturdays in the month the 

blond man could be found at a place—a hotel—in the city, nearby. Saturday. The 

second and the last one. The second, exactly the day that it was right now. 

Dan could hardly force himself to stay a second longer. He wanted to run, 

see, find, to be, but the owner’s last words came crashing down like a ton of bricks. 

The message was four months old. Four fucking months. The whole world could 

have gone to shit in the meantime and Dan wouldn’t even know about it. 

The string of lapis lazuli prayer beads flashed around his wrist when he 

rummaged in his shirt pockets for some dollar notes, appreciating the welcome, but 

he shrugged off the last of the well meaning comments. No, he had not become a 

Muslim, and no, he was not here to pray, but yes, he could not let go of 

Afghanistan. Promising he would, before Eid and the end of Ramadan, return to 

the tea house to take part in iftar, the breaking of the fast, with the owner and his 

sons. 

Some US dollars and a promise later, Dan more ran than walked towards 

the ramshackle hotel that Vadim might possibly be in. The sun was setting, but 

Dan didn’t feel the creeping cold. All he could think of was Vadim. He found the 

building, but the moment he stood in the entrance, forced to negotiate with a native 

who demanded to know what he wanted, he didn’t know what to ask for. Was it 

safe to mention Vadim? Fuck. 

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* * * 

 

Vadim knew he was drinking too much. Only ever off duty, but hardly a 

free hour he didn’t spend in a drunken stupor when nothing else dulled the pain. He 

was recovering on duty while doing his paperwork, the routine mind-numbing, 

painfully boring, and it left too much time to think about things, too much time for 

missing and longing, and consequently, he was half-drunk when working out, and 

stone drunk afterwards, dulling everything, pain, boredom, and longing with vodka. 

A superior had politely enquired whether he was having problems in his 

marriage, and there had been a hilarious moment when Vadim had thought about 

telling him, that yes, it had been forever since he’d seen his lover, but he just 

managed to hold back and brood instead of spilling the dirty secret. They didn’t 

know him like that. He partied like they did, but they could tell he had crossed the 

line. The Spetsnaz was losing it. Afghanistan wore even men like him down. Some, 

thought Vadim, likely felt relief at the fact that even he had a weakness. 

The hotel had become a habit. Originally, he’d planned to find a way to 

blow off steam, find an Afghan who’d take it up the ass from a Soviet oppressor, a 

male whore. He knew there had to be people like that, but he couldn’t work out 

how to ask for it, and when he did, he pulled back. Too dangerous. Officer, major, 

fuck you, Vadim, don’t. You don’t want an Afghan. He’d very briefly considered a 

comrade, but he had no taste for violence. That was over, something he’d done as a 

younger man, more reckless, with nothing to lose.  

He’d rent always the same room, twice a month, to sleep somewhere that 

was not the barracks, as if pretending he was still seeing Dan – and ‘seeing Dan’ 

sounded like dating, when there were no words for what they did, only that 

sickening feeling of loss. He’d eat, in silence, and drink, in silence, and eventually 

collapse on the bed, so exhausted and so drunk he didn’t even think, or miss, just 

endured the time as it was slowly grinding him down. 

Couldn’t be bothered, couldn’t care, all the carefully drilled-in paranoia 

about insurgents wanting to earn the money on his head. No avail, felt directionless 

and hopeless, and would recover enough the next day to return to the barracks. It 

had become a way to get out for a little, pretend there were still options. But 

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without Dan, there was nothing, just the army, and he was sick of that. Tired. So 

fucking tired. 

It was getting cold, and Vadim lay there, his great woollen coat draped 

across him. Not heavy enough to pretend it was an arm, or even just a hand. He lay 

on his stomach, feeling cold, but too drunk to move. Too drunk to miss. 

 

* * * 

 

Dan decided to just ask, straightforward. Figured if he had anything to lose 

then it was Vadim’s safety, but he couldn’t lose that, for if his Russkie was in this 

shambles of a hotel, then he’d already lost his sense of healthy paranoia anyway. 

Dan confused himself with his arguing, consequently almost staggered backwards 

when the answer was a simple “yes”. The Soviet soldier was here, like he had 

always been, without so much as a single fail, for the last five or six months. 

Dan took two steps at once, forgot the pain in his knee, remainders of the 

recent surgery, and ran upstairs to the room, as if chased by Baba Yaga herself, or 

a whole bunch of irate insurgents. Then stopped, stalled, careful. He knew Vadim, 

he’d barricade himself for safety. Knocked, called out the other’s name and hoped 

to hear his voice—but nothing. Dan frowned, tried the handle, cautiously staying 

out of the firing line, expecting at least a chair to be wedged underneath, but 

nothing. The door simply opened into a dingy room, as grimy as any of the ones 

they’d ever met in, and his eyes fell onto the bed.  

Right there, in front of his eyes, while the smell of cheap vodka hit his 

senses. A Soviet greatcoat draped across the bed and the shape of a man 

underneath. Tall body, still. Sleeping? Blond hair, short-shaved, as always. 

“Vadim?” 

Nothing, not a stir, no reaction. Closing the door behind him, Dan pulled 

the only chair close, wedged it beneath the door handle, where it should have been 

when he’d entered. 

Dan opened his mouth, wanted to say the name again, but stood without a 

sound. Remained at the foot of the bed, staring down at the man who seemed 

passed out. He couldn’t move, frozen, when an onslaught of images, thoughts and 

sensations battered his senses. He wanted everything. All of it at once.  

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To touch, hold, kiss, fuck, feel the skin, arms and hands and limbs, lips and 

words, breath and feeling. All of it. And he did nothing. Couldn’t move. Wanted 

too much. 

“Vadim!” Louder. Waiting. 

Name. Name and voice. Not ‘Vadim Petrovich’. Not a superior. Not an 

enemy. Vadim opened his eyes, bleary, feeling still dulled and uncaring, not sure 

what the disturbance was about. Felt how cold his face was, and his hands, also 

sticking out under the coat. Back in Russia? 

He glanced over his shoulder. Vision blurred. Dark haired man. 

Dan.  

Possible. But Dan. Back, finally, back. 

Vadim’s hand reached out. “Come...come here.” 

Dan was thawed from his frozen state by Vadim’s voice. Alive. Reaction, 

and the absurd thought crept into his mind that for a split second he must have been 

worried that the man beneath the coat was dead. 

It took a mere couple of steps before he sat on the bed, looked at the face, 

and no more than another intake of breath before he bent down, his hand in 

Vadim’s cold one, and his lips found the stubbly cheek before sliding down 

towards the mouth. Kissing and tasting. Fuck. Bliss. Letting out a strangled sound. 

Vadim found it hard to turn over, dizzy with alcohol, disoriented, head 

swimming, and he thought, fuck, what a disgrace, he’s back and I’m fucking drunk, 

worse than a sailor back on land the first night. He felt shame, oddly intense, 

stretched to get more lips, more Dan, turning around and to pull him closer. 

“You’re good. I knew.” Just grateful. He’d been worried Dan might not have made 

it, hadn’t woken up from the operation, had died in a car crash, or found somebody 

English over in his country to sleep with, somebody who wasn’t married, wasn’t an 

enemy, and wouldn’t return to Russia in what? A couple years? 

“Aye,” Dan murmured against Vadim’s skin and lips, “of course I am. Told 

you I’d be back, that I’d find you.” He could smell and taste the booze and the 

desperation. Sliding fully onto the bed, he burrowed under the coat to be as close 

as he could. Fully clothed, just like the other, but he could feel the body and the 

man in his arms. 

“I left…traces.” Vadim murmured. Sharing warmth? It wasn’t that simple 

anymore. He should pull himself together, and banter, but he was too drunk for 

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words, almost too dulled for thoughts. “You know your recce, and I…I know you 

know.” He gave a grin, felt absurdly happy in Dan’s embrace, warm body, warm, 

firm, alive body. He pressed his forehead against Dan’s chest, breathed in. Yes. 

Glanced up again, eyes blurred, and he blinked, a reflex more than pride. 

Dan smiled, hiding the niggling feeling of worry. The man in his arms, the 

drunken, dejected soldier, was not the Vadim he knew. “You look like shit, 

Russkie.” Murmured, before kissing those lips again. 

Vadim opened up to the lips, thought, fuck, he was too drunk to get aroused, 

well, could always get fucked, it wasn’t important, important was to have Dan back. 

“Charming bastard...” 

“I told you many times before, I resemble that remark.” Dan chuckled 

quietly before he fell silent, kissing, feeling those lips open up against his own and 

the invitation was too welcome to resist. Fuck the taste of vodka, didn’t matter, just 

the heat, as his tongue slipped between teeth and joined once more into the 

intimate dance he had rediscovered only such a short time ago.  

Vadim’s hand slid up Dan’s hand, over his shoulder, to his neck, not sure 

why, to pull Dan close or to steady himself, to feel Dan’s strength, to get more 

touch. Kissing, felt uncoordinated, dreamlike, easy, much easier and less self-

conscious than before. 

Dan broke the kiss after what seemed forever, looking at Vadim while his 

hand roamed up and down the back, their bodies pressed together. He was hard, of 

course, he’d been wanking for too many months, but felt no arousal in return. 

“What the fuck happened to you while I was gone?” 

“Nothing. Just...duty. Duty and drinking.” Vadim shook his head, slowly, 

realised he should pretend he was alright. He was, now, nothing else mattered. 

He’d found a state without pain at the bottom of a bottle, and how disgraceful was 

that. “Sorry. Should...not. But easier this way.” 

“I understand.” Just that. Their lives did shit to them, turned them inside out 

and left them raw at the seams, unravelling. He could see the loss of focus in the 

pale eyes, the dizzy expression of a drunken man. Some things were easier without 

feeling them, and what did he know about feeling anyway. No family, no wife, no 

kids, no worries, except for one: if Vadim was still alive. 

Vadim gave a wry grin at that, his pride stirred, Spetsnaz, pride of the 

Soviet army, he should, really should try and give a semblance of control, of being 

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sober, of deserving that reputation. But it didn’t matter. Right now, he had to prove 

nothing. Dan did understand. 

Dan didn’t know what else to say, couldn’t offer words that would make 

anything better, so he just said the first thing that came to his mind. “I left the army. 

I’m not a soldier anymore, no enemy. Just a fucked up civilian. Fancy that, eh?”