Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

1983 Chapter XI—Up Close and Personal 

October 1983, Afghanistan 

 

 

There was nothing chanced about this. No happenstance encounter, no 

bumping into convoy, patrol, or whatever the fuck the Russkies were doing in 

October in these mountains. Not a scrap of convenient ‘by chance’, nor a smidgen 

of lie he could tell himself. No fibs, no nothing. 

The only goddamned reason why Dan was hiding in this godforsaken part 

of the mountains, that only motherfucking reason, was the Russian. His Russian. 

His very own Spetsnaz soldier. Holed up too close to tank-levelled villages 

that had once been inhabited by goats, black-draped women and tea-cosied men, 

and far too near to a Soviet outpost. He had no other business in this place, was 

expected back in Kabul by now, but fuck, he hadn’t had his hands on his Russkie 

for too many weeks. 

Hiding. Waiting. Watching. Listening and patiently cowering behind 

several rocks. He’d seen the patrols before; knew Vadim was part of that unit, and 

he’d be buggered if he was going to leave his post before he’d had his fill—and the 

other’s. 

Damn. Dan was cursing himself and his inability to follow anything but his 

cock. Painfully aware of the irony of it all, how he had accused the other of being a 

stupid fuck who was ruled by his cock, now proving for the umpteenth time he 

wasn’t any better. 

It would be getting cold in a few hours once night was falling, but he’d 

come prepared. Bergan packed with everything he needed to survive out there. The 

mountains—his mother and father and saviour and friend and unforgivable foe—

and his most precious possession at all, a tub of Vaseline. Sod gun oil, he’d be 

doing the luxury thing. First a hotel room, now a proper lubricant. He was turning 

into a romantic. 

Dan brushed hair out of his forehead, still short from the shaving four 

months ago, about to rifle through his bergan, when he suddenly heard noises. 

Froze. Peered carefully over the top of the outcrop of rocks, and was hit by the full 

force sucker punch of desire. 

Vadim’s voice; Vadim’s body. 

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His Russkie was here. 

 

* * * 

 

Crude jokes, and a relatively uneventful patrol, which didn’t mean anything, 

only that there had been no all-out battles for a couple of days. Largely, Vadim 

thought, because they didn’t take any fixed route across the mountains. 

Dima sat down to peel his boots off, while another comrade got a fire going 

for tea, and there was the usual talk, banter about girlfriends and families. Vadim 

looked over the mountains, the landscape of grey and light brown, sun-bleached 

bones of the earth. 

Dima groaned as he massaged his feet, which looked pretty swollen even at 

that distance. Vadim stepped closer and put a hand on the medic’s shoulder. 

“Should be back in two days.” 

Dima nodded and gave Vadim his typical exasperated, somewhat irritated 

glance. Dima had issues with being the medic. But he had been smart enough, and 

had studied medicine before joining, craving adventure, and most of all get out of 

that town somewhere in the Urals where he came from, only to end up studying 

emergency medical procedure and, of course, walking patrol in the Afghan 

mountains. Dima was proof in point that, if a cosmic intelligence existed, its sense 

oft humour was sarcastic at best. 

Vadim saw the guys needed a rest. Dima was as tough as everybody, even 

though he tended to be more careful about his physical limitations, and took cuts 

and bruises more seriously than any of them, constantly reminding them that 

negligence wouldn’t do. He also made sure that things were as hygienic as possible, 

and entertained them, at times, with stories about typhoid and leprosy. Which he 

likely did out of spite, knowing him. 

Water was getting boiled, Alyosha lay flat on his back and seemed ready to 

sleep, hat pulled into his eyes to shield them from the sun, while all Sershka cared 

for was whether the tea would taste more like sweat or tea, as the leaves had 

apparently caught moisture. 

Vadim tapped Alyosha into the side with his boot, rousing him. “Thanks for 

volunteering for the guard, comrade,” he said. “I’m off to take a piss.” 

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Alyosha muttered something obscene, but got up, pushing the hat back over 

his head, and reaching for the rifle. 

Vadim was amazed he actually felt the need to piss. These mountains 

sucked a man dry just from the sweat, and his kidneys hurt for lack of water. 

 

* * * 

 

Dan’s hand was moving silently while his body remained frozen to the spot. 

No sound, except for the faintest rustle as he slipped the tub of Vaseline into his 

hand, arm moving minutely while watching the Soviet patrol. Unscrewed the top, 

dug deep into the grease with his left. Still no sound. 

There, movement. Vadim was standing, then seemed to be walking in his 

direction. Fuck, yes! For once the gods were smiling at him, or perhaps the 

mountains had a gift for their lover, presenting his Russkie on a plate. Silver 

cutlery, crystal glasses, and all. 

Dan was snaking sideways, stayed hidden, intent on the sounds the other 

man made. Reckoned Vadim was walking round the corner, out of the patrol’s 

view. He’d bet the other was about to take a piss or shit, hoped he’d catch him with 

BDUs conveniently around his knees. 

Vadim found a good place, just out of sight, heard Alyosha and Sershka 

exchange pleasantries, and smiled lightly to himself. All Spetsnaz, all professionals, 

one of the best units he’d ever worked with. Great soldiering, all the way, and 

discipline, too, which they only allowed to relax a little when they were reasonably 

safe. 

Dan was moving as fast and yet as stealthily as he could, greased left hand 

by his side. One mistake, one sound, and he’d be caught. Killed by his cock, and 

he’d deserve that death. 

Vadim opened his fly and pulled out his cock, silently pissed, thought of 

nothing much but the lessening of pressure on his bladder and that he’d grown used 

to the mountains, somehow. On patrol, they saw sights nobody did, dramatic 

gorges, the way light reflected off a deep valley, an unexpected speck of green in 

this desert of rocks, or how the sky tore open after rain. 

Dan saw the other’s back, broad, known, as familiar as the scars that were 

hidden beneath the uniform. Knew what the body could do and that he’d get 

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himself killed by his own favourite enemy, if he weren’t fast enough. Heard Vadim 

pissing, thanked the mountains for his luck. 

One more step. One yard to cross between rocks, and he’d reached his 

target. Adrenaline pumping, heart racing, and fuck, he was hard. Had been too long, 

too lonely, and right now the danger an aphrodisiac beyond his wildest 

expectations. 

Dan took the step, used more speed and strength than he needed, crashed 

his body into the other’s, pushed Vadim into the rocks, impact muffled by flesh 

and blood. The full length of his body against the Russkie’s, Dan’s right flew to the 

other’s face, covered his mouth before he could let out a sound. One sound, just 

one measly sound that reached the idle chatter of the rest of the patrol, and he’d be 

dead, greeting Vanya in hell. 

The sudden terror made Vadim dizzy, too fucking surprised to fight the 

onslaught, taken by surprise like a fucking goat-herder, and his hand went to the 

knife on instinct. 

“No sound.” Dan breathed into the other’s ear, “I’ve been waiting for you,” 

grinding his cock into that arse, feeling the Russian struggle. “I’m here to fuck you, 

Vadim.” 

What? It was Dan. Vadim’s hand released the hilt of the blade, instead tried 

to turn around. Patrol leader. Officer. Fuck. The others were what? Ten, fifteen 

yards away? He shook his head, but could feel Dan’s hands already on his BDUs, 

and pull them down, holding him there with the weight of his body. He wouldn’t 

listen. He’d do it. The holed up lust, gathering inside, the fucking need for a cock 

up his ass, for the other’s raw power, weeks and months and fucking months. No 

way, impossible. Just impossible. 

“No sound.” Dan repeated again, no more than a breath against the other’s 

ear. Used his right to open his own trousers, pushed briefs down, wore underwear 

in the mountains, then pulled out his cock with his left, lubricating himself. All the 

while pinning Vadim’s body against the rocks with his own. Whispered once more: 

“Silence, or I’m fucking dead.” 

Dan’s left hand dropped between Vadim’s arse cheeks, pushed slick fingers 

into the hole, breaching the muscle. Nothing took more than a few seconds.  

Inside. Was that...cock, or? Vadim felt his heart stop, just stop, a sharp pain 

in his chest, what a way to die, bent over a rock, opened up, something up his ass 

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and an enemy going to fuck him within earshot of his own men. In. Broad. Day. 

Light. He shook his head, just that, couldn’t plead, but the other didn’t listen. 

Couldn’t even fathom what the other Spetsnaz would do to Dan, after 

weeks in the mountains, running like the wolf pack. And him, the ranking officer, 

been taken and fucked. The kind of thing that broke careers and people. Only way 

to deal with this would be putting a bullet in his own head. 

Dan’s right hand went up to cover Vadim’s mouth, fingers gripping hard. 

Left guided his own cock, knew the arse as well as his own, probably better, 

twisted hips, pushed, slid and forced, thrust harder to breach the muscle with his 

cock this time. Groaned, bit into the fabric of Vadim’s uniform, had to keep 

himself from making a sound. 

Vadim’s heart began to beat again, painful now, raced, raced with fear and 

need, a measure of pain, because he didn’t want this, didn’t want to take that risk, 

not at these odds, no way, but the cock hit him just right, and he knew it, knew 

what would come, and the pleasure came and doubled because it was as brutal as it 

was. Because Dan just took, knowing he wanted. And he did. 

Reckless, fast, they had no more than a few minutes, if all. Dan pulled out, 

snapped his hips forward, rammed his cock up that arse. Desperate. So 

motherfucking reckless with need, he could cry or scream with the sensations. But 

no sounds, just fabric against fabric as his body moved, harsh, vicious, fucking his 

Russian; his cunt. 

Left hand dropped to Vadim’s cock, stroked as frantic and relentless as he 

drove his cock into that body. 

Vadim moved back, couldn’t help it, cock hard and ready and pulsing, 

unable to deny his own lust now, the pain just perfect, just as he needed this, 

blowing his mind with the fear and danger and how perfect it was. Clenched hard 

down, feeling Dan’s hand on his mouth, fuck, yes, the closest thing to rape, his life 

and career and everything on the line, but yes. Just yes. He came within what felt 

like only heartbeats, into that hand, against the rocks, hardly breathing so he 

couldn’t make a sound, dizzy with lack of oxygen. 

Dan followed a fraction of a second later, his cock gripped in the other’s 

convulsions, sensed the cum splatter against the rock, his hand wet, sticky. Bit hard 

into the uniform, caught some skin and flesh as well, his whole body shuddered as 

he came, wanted to scream, the sensation blew his mind, taking his senses and 

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wringing them out over an acid bath, leaving him empty, shaking with tremors of 

aftershocks, as his cock remained hard and deep within the other’s body. 

But he had to move. Leave. Vanish from sight and sound. Took the liberty 

to stay for another couple of seconds. “Until next time.” Breathed into Vadim’s ear, 

hardly able to speak. “Guess I’m the one who’s ruled by his cock.” 

Chuckled tonelessly, pulled out, reluctant and wanting to groan with the 

loss. Hands sticky, greased, he was a mess, but fuck, a sated mess. 

Vadim turned, quickly, felt the cum run down his legs, face burning, breath 

catching in his throat because he wasn’t even sure he should pant. Heard, from too 

fucking close, the other Spetsnaz debate whether the tea tasted like shit or not, 

whether it was still within limits, and pulled the rag free to wipe himself down, ass 

raw, but he needed to hide the evidence. “Suka,” he mouthed. 

Dan smirked as an answer, pulled up briefs, closed his trousers, sticky or 

not, no time. Every second the others could turn round the corner. 

“Vadya?” called Dima, and Vadim’s face twitched. “Here.” 

Dan blew a mock-kiss at Vadim. Turned and vanished behind the next 

outcrop of rocks. Vadim shook his head, but couldn’t suppress a grin. Nice and 

truly fucked. Shit. 

“Fell into a hole?” 

Vadim pulled his trousers up. “No, just waiting for you, darling.” 

Roaring laughter, and Alyosha’s and Sershka’s heads appeared, just as 

Vadim closed the belt. 

Dan was watching, hardly breathing. So close, he could smell the Russkies, 

mixing with the scent of lust, cum and sweat, but they’d probably think Vadim had 

just had a dump. 

“The things rations do to my guts,” said Vadim darkly, and returned to 

camp, it was one of the facts of soldiering life that rations – or lack of water, or a 

virus – upset digestion. It would explain why he walked stiffly. 

They poured him tea, and he decreed it undrinkable, then had a bite to eat, 

and rested, body remembering Dan, too well, too often, the slickness between his 

cheeks, oil or whatever he’d used, the raw feeling staying with him that day as he 

walked, and sat down, and how fucking twisted, but that dirty little secret made 

him smile. 

 

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March 1984, London 

 

“And what is this?” 

“Toothpaste. Surely, Soviet toothpaste is not dangerous goods, Sir?” 

Vadim heard something like “Commie smartass” from one of the customs 

officers. His passport was still being checked. It didn’t have many pages, and not a 

lot of stamps. And it wasn’t War and Peace. Still, it seemed to provide plenty of 

entertainment. 

They’d asked him out of the queue and escorted him into one of the rooms 

where they did the searches. Five men in the room, all armed and in uniform. 

Vadim was asked to sit down, and did, aware of the old trick of establishing 

hierarchy. What was missing now was a bright lamp shining into his face.  

So, this is democracy. Terrific thing to have. 

The man who dug into his pack wore gloves. Unpacked everything, even 

shook the book he’d bought in transit. Travel guide Greater London und Kent, as 

well as an A to Z for London. He had scribbled in the margins, underlined things 

that were world-renowned. British Museum. National Gallery. National Portrait 

Gallery. He’d be lucky if he’d make it that far. And no way he’d be able to explain 

those entry fees on his expenses. Culture was not exactly a thing the KGB 

cherished. And the sums were fantastic; at least as per the exchange rate in roubles. 

Next item. 

“Toothbrush.” Vadim forced himself to remain as stoic as during basic 

training. “Soap. I didn’t bring razors.” 

“Why not?” The door had opened and another man had entered. “If I may 

ask, Mr Krasnorada?” He held Vadim’s passport. Ah. Now, that was a professional. 

Vadim was pretty sure where his suitcase was at the moment, and what they 

were doing with it. He was no beginner. There was absolutely nothing they’d find, 

and plenty of places where they could plant something. Cold War games, just 

different weapons. 

The official wore a neat dark suit, as serious as cancer. Beautiful shirt 

though, excellent fit. One thing the KGB could clearly learn from their European 

colleagues. “Why no razors?” 

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“They were sold out.” 

The man leaned back with the easy arrogance that having a strong currency 

brought. “You must feel very unwelcome?” 

“Must I?” asked Vadim. 

The man paused and smiled, then thanked his colleagues for the “excellent 

work” and sent them out. There was still a camera, pointing from the corner of the 

ceiling directly into Vadim’s face. 

“I am sorry, I am tired. I might not understand what you are trying to say.” 

The man nodded. “What is your business in the United Kingdom?” 

“I’m invited by regional fencing coach, Sir.” Vadim pointed at the 

backpack. 

“It’s in the pack.” Not that that reason hadn’t already been given a dozen 

times. It wasn’t the greatest alibi and would have been much better if he’d had 

made a medal. If he’d actually been a fencer, and not just a pentathlete. “Mr 

Robbins. We met at Montreal, in Canada.” 

“You are a sportsman, yes? Major Krasnorada?” 

Vadim nodded. “Yes, sir. I could only become an Olympic fighter if I 

joined the officer corps.” 

“And you look very tanned.” 

Bastard. Vadim could feel his jaw muscles tense. “I have just returned from 

Afghanistan.” The word didn’t belong here in this small, dreary room somewhere 

in the bowels of Heathrow. This man’s boss probably used the same toilet in the 

same building where the man pissed who had briefed Dan. 

Go out there, to that wild and barren place, and give hell to the Russkies. 

The man sat down opposite, crossed his arms and leaned back, regarding Vadim 

evenly. They were alone in the room, with just the camera. “Active duty?” 

Vadim shook his head. “I’m getting a little old for that. But I don’t think I 

can tell you more about my duties, with all due respect, Sir.” 

The man’s brown eyes caught interest now; maybe he allowed him to see 

that. It was hard to say with intelligence types. The same kind of nondescript faces, 

the same wits and smooth talk. “Your English is excellent.” 

“Thank you, Sir. It’s much better than my German.” He had the stamps to 

the German Democratic Republic in his passport. Nothing new. Speaking Dan’s 

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language in Dan’s own country, Dan’s own brand of intelligence officers in front 

of him. How strange. 

“Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. You will give a presentation?” 

 “It is important we learn to understand each other,” said Vadim, and, for 

once, meant it. Important to enter a dialogue of brothers. People of the world...talk. 

Talk and understand, and that would make war difficult, and the nuclear holocaust 

impossible. That was, at least, the hope. Party doctrine. Peace movement; much of 

it financed from the shadows. Render the enemy’s youth unwilling to fight. 

Amusingly enough, Dan had done more to that end than he could let on, but it 

made him a more convincing pacifist right now. Enemy territory. Preparation. To 

what end, he didn’t know, but he harboured a guess, and it was not a pleasant one. 

Who could know what the Kremlin was planning. Those men had only a few years 

of their lives left to live, anyway. “I can only hope to do my part in this.” 

“You seem to be an intelligent man, Major.” The spook gave him an 

altogether charming smile that looked genuine and honest. “Please, if you enjoy 

this country, I’d look forward to meeting you again.” He reached into the front 

pocket of his suit and placed a card next to Vadim’s pack on the table. “Just give 

me a ring. I am sure I can make time for you.” 

Vadim blinked. And this would be...an attempt to turn him. They knew he 

was military, he spoke English, he had expressed hope of helping to end the Cold 

War. The pointers were all in place. He had sounded like he wanted to be turned, 

and they had obliged. How very forthcoming. 

Did he? Vadim stood, the man stood as well, stepped closer and offered 

him a hand. “I’d be delighted,” said the man, and gave another sincere smile. It 

was all about leading people, making them trust you, spooks always used those 

dirty tricks. And what if they did background checks on him? What if they 

compared notes? What if there was a leak, higher up, and Vadim’s name was 

known? Even worse, what if Dan had used his name, in a report back home? Well, 

in that case, he might just as well be fucked, and not the good way. 

“Oh, I could give you your passport. Silly me,” said the man and handed 

Vadim the passport. 

Could. Now he was making it obvious. Passport, the right to travel. 

Freedom. What these people called freedom. And wouldn’t it be nice if he was 

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indeed nothing but an ageing ex-athlete, meeting other ageing ex-athletes for a cup 

of tea and a laugh about how serious they had taken medals eight years ago? 

“I will think about it,” said Vadim, took the piece of paper from the table, 

which only had a number on it, then began to pack his bag again. Toothpaste, soap, 

toothbrush, map and A to Z. He didn’t need more for the mission. 

 

* * * 

 

He read the A to Z on the train, cross-checked with the travel guide. 

Looking, to all intents and purposes, the Soviet visitor scared to get lost in all that 

freedom. But maps were powerful things. Information the weapon. Especially if it 

could be purchased cheaply anywhere. 

He hauled the suitcase after him through Victoria Station, an intriguing 

construction that place, like a plaza that had just a roof put on top. No real plan to it, 

no structure, it looked like the Brits just improvised, managing the chaos that was 

their capital. They needed a train station, they just haphazardly made all the trains 

stop in a place, and stuck a roof on top. There was their big terminal. 

Vadim headed deeper into the bowels of the station, found a woman that 

looked official, and had her explain to him where to drop off his luggage. In the 

row of grey lockers, he opened the suitcase, hands running over the seams of the