Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

1988 Chapter XVIII—Flesh and Blood 

July 1988, Afghanistan 

 

Dan lowered the dark shades and squinted against the blinding sun, trying 

to make sense of the dust cloud on the horizon. It was moving, but difficult to 

make out speed and direction while it was that far away. He swivelled slowly, 

making best use of his elevated position while checking the proceedings near the 

Médecins sans Frontières camp. 

He’d advised the ambassador against visiting the camp, located in the low 

sloping bed of a former lake, but she had been adamant. She’d refused to bow 

down to threats from insurgents, unwilling to listen, not even to Dan’s professional 

advice. 

He raised the binoculars to his eyes, scanned the desert once more, drawn 

to the dust cloud on the horizon. Damn. Definitely advancing. His sixth sense was 

coming back with full force, shouting danger! Heat pooled in the pit of his 

stomach while trying to get a better picture of the object, but the goddamned sweat 

was blurring his vision. Dan wiped the binoculars, dried his sweating hands and re-

gripped the SA-80, before trying to focus again. Concentrating on the shape behind 

the dust, the moving and re-forming pattern of the yellow-reddish cloud and the 

dark line of the tracks that were left behind. 

“Fuck.” Muttered, the unknown object had just turned into a tangible threat. 

Vehicle, at high speed, racing towards the valley and the camp. He could make out 

from the trajectory of tracks and their angle that it had to be speeding in an almost 

direct line straight towards the Baroness’ limousine. 

Shit! He’d been right, the warnings and rumours of insurgents gone over to 

suicide killings were correct, and he had probably trained the goat herding fuckers 

himself, years ago. Dan activated his personal comm, staccato words while keeping 

the object in his focus. “Dangerous object approaching 15 degrees South East. 

Collision course towards the convoy. Get the target out of there. Immediately. Do 

you copy?” 

Nothing. He tried again. “Do you hear me? Get her out! Get the target out, 

suspicious vehicle approaching at high speed. Get her out now!” 

Checked the comm, still no answer, silence on the line. “Fuck!” Dan  

shouted, the bloody comm was fucked and the situation was rapidly turning to shit. 

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The car racing closer, straight line across the horizon, heading towards the 

Baroness’ car. Her two guards unaware, impossible to see the threat, down in the 

valley—the whole damned reason why he was on the elevated point as the 

coordinator! Dan could see the Baroness, her grey hair, standing in front of the 

camp, then walking back to her vehicle. It would never survive the impact of a car, 

presumably filled with explosives. 

Cars. Ambassador. Buggered comm. Terrorist suspects. Half a mile 

distance. 

Fucked-up knees. 

Baroness. 

Shit! 

“Get the fuck out of there!” Dan yelled into the useless comm, had to take 

the last chance in case it worked. Split-second decision. Threw the binoculars 

down, chucked the comm. Pushed the shades over his eyes, shielding against the 

glaring sun. Automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, safety catch off, he needed the 

weapon to be ready. 

Dan guessed the time and distance. Five hundred yards. Speed of car 

approaching? 70 miles? Two minutes. Tops. How long since he’d been able to run 

a mile in under five minutes? Not since his knees got fucked. 

Car versus human. No contest.  

Dan started to run. 

Sprinting against death, running for her life. Forced fucked-up knees and 

worn-out body to comply. Boots beating dust, desert air pulled into burning lungs; 

sweat running into his eyes. Breath panting, heat slicing red-hot fiery cuts into his 

lungs. 

Run! 

Muscles hurting, his body protested, but desperation and adrenaline 

pushing him further. Faster, harder, run you fucking piece of human scrapheap 

scum! Snapshot images: Guard opened limousine. Baroness stepped inside. Rear 

door shut. 

Dan reached the dip of the valley, felt rather than saw the deadly dust of the 

potential suicide car approaching. 

He tried to shout while forcing his way through the crowds that were 

lingering in front of the camp gates. Voice breathless, croaked: “Out! Out!” 

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Raising the rifle, set on automatic, he crossed the open space, the sight of the 

weapon scattered humans like panicking birds. 

The dust cloud came suddenly out of nowhere, hell-bound on destruction, 

racing towards the limousine. Dan aimed while sprinting, the SA-80 firing a hail of 

bullets into the oncoming car. No hope to stop the vehicle’s momentum, too close, 

too fast, saw it veer diagonally off its target under the onslaught of automatic fire. 

The guards, one of them the driver, seemed to have finally caught on. Too 

late. There was still movement behind the blood splattered windshield in the four-

wheeled bomb, which kept sliding towards them. Dan stopped the fire, reached the 

limousine, impact imminent. Tearing the rear door open, he grabbed her arm, 

anything, just pulled, yelling, “Out! Get out!” Dragged her out of the car, threw the 

slight body as far away from him as he could. 

Saw the Baroness stumble to the ground in a corner of his vision, the near 

head-on collision happened while he raised his weapon. He stood wide open, no 

cover, except his own body in front of hers. Soft fucking target. The second guard 

tried to escape, screaming, yelling, but the cars exploded into a firestorm of 

deafening sounds. 

The impact of the explosion’s blast wave threw Dan backwards into the air, 

lost in the flaming inferno, stumbling over something on the ground. He fell on top 

of the object, and then an unbearable pain tore into his guts. 

Dan didn’t know if he screamed, nor when he dropped the rifle, his hands 

pressing down on the pain by instinct. Fire, detonations, shrieking and horror, 

distanced wailing amidst black smoke, and pain. Just pain. 

Something moved beneath him. He couldn’t make out direction, meaning, 

sound nor senses. Only unbearable pain. Couldn’t raise his arms, nor feel his hand 

amidst the unspeakable agony. Lay speared, crossed, nailed and damned. 

Suddenly her face in his vision. Everything else gone. Blood running down 

her temple; the perfect coiffure dishevelled and dirt encrusted. 

Dan stared at her face, uncomprehending, except that it was all wrong. Her 

lips moving. Shouting? Couldn’t hear a sound, nothing made sense. Nothing but 

pain. Flaring from his guts through his body, brain, limbs, every fibre. His vision 

narrowed, blackness creeping in from the sides, the tunnel closing and his muscles 

locked. 

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Dan tried to speak, moved his lips. No sounds. No thoughts left. Nothing 

but pain. 

He lost focus of her face. Just the mouth, still moving. No more strength.  

Pain. Darkness. 

Nothing. 

 

* * * 

 

“Dan!” She yelled, had managed to scramble from under him. He had been 

sprawled on top of her, shielding her body with his own. “Oh my God, no, Dan!” 

Unconscious. His head had fallen to the side. Arms slipped off, revealing 

the true extent of horror. Blood. Gore. Torn guts and entrails spilling out of the 

terrible tear across drenched camo fabric. 

“No!” As if her refusal could wrench him away from his fate. Pushing her 

own hands onto the wound, forcing intestines back into the body. 

The doctors who came running from the MsF camp found her covered in 

his blood, shielding his body with her own. 

Tit for tat. 

 

* * * 

 

How ironic that the attack had happened in front of this particular camp, if 

the Baroness had not been adamant to go through with the visit despite Dan’s 

warnings, there wouldn’t have been several doctors and nurses running out to the 

carnage, trying to save what they could. Two guards dead, and one dying.  

Dan. Unconscious, drenched in blood and with the Baroness’ hands trying 

to stop the spillage of intestines and torn guts. Shrapnel embedded in the lower part 

of the stomach, and his left hand stapled to the wound—a sharp piece of metal 

from the blown-up car, gone through the hand and into the abdomen, right above 

the large wound. 

Emergency treatment, racing against time while there was still life left in 

the body. Equipment brought from the camp, materials and expertise piling around 

him. The medevac plane was already on its way. The casualty needed intensive 

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care and extensive surgery, within the shortest time possible, but even so, his 

chances were close to nil. 

 

* * * 

 

Dan couldn’t think, stir, let alone wake. Dragged under by darkness, 

terrified. Existing in a plane less than alive and more than dead, his very own 

purgatory of treatment, movement, being lifted, transported. Torn apart by 

nightmarish monsters, flailing uselessly, limbs restrained by pain so great, he 

couldn’t breathe nor scream. Powerless, weak, dying—alone in the darkness of his 

unconscious mind. 

 

* * * 

 

Margaret de Vilde was sitting at the edge of the scene, deafened by the 

explosion, forlorn. Lost for the first time in her life and staring at the frantic action 

in front of her, bloodied hands on her lap. She could not grasp what had happened, 

despite the warnings, the signs of danger, she had believed she was invincible. An 

old battle horse, never one to be afraid, but this time…her iron will had cost the 

lives of several others. Occupational hazard of overpaid worn-out soldiers, but two 

guards, dead. A third, the one who had saved her life against all odds and whose 

advice she should have trusted, that one was dying. Torn apart and limp like a rag 

doll, the pool of blood in the dust growing by the second. She should have listened 

to his professional concerns, but had gone with her own decision instead; arrogant 

belief in superiority of a lifetime of being in command—refusing to listen to 

another’s counsel. 

Fool! 

She stood up, unsteady at first on her legs, felt the stickiness of drying 

blood on her hands, and looked down at herself. She was a mess, but like the 

wrong decision she had made that day, it couldn’t be helped. She saw a shadow 

approaching, could hardly hear the engines of the Falcon plane over the ringing in 

her ears, about to land. 

The Baroness shielded her eyes against the glaring sun, then ran past the 

medical team that came rushing out of the small airplane. She went straight to the 

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cockpit. Shouting at the pilot, even though she could hardly hear her own voice, 

“Take that man to the closest hospital. India, Kashmir, the Royal British Hospital. 

He is a private patient, no expenses spared. He is one of mine. See to that.” 

When the cars appeared on the top of the low valley, to take the 

ambassador back into the safety of the embassy, they were taking the stretcher with 

the unconscious man into the medevac plane. The Falcon was already taking off 

before the Baroness’ aid had reached her, and she watched the dust cloud for a 

moment, trailing behind the plane. Ignoring the concern around her, before turning 

away from the carnage. 

She shook her head, gesturing to her ears when they tried to talk to her. She 

couldn’t hear them, but she could talk, with the same vehemence as ever. “Dan 

McFadyen saved my life. See that everything possible is done to save his life in 

return. I will personally fund his treatment.” She turned and walked to the waiting 

car, smelling the drying blood on her hands. 

One wrong decision, and now a man was dying. A man who had come as 

close to being a friend as she could afford to allow him. 

The limousine doors closed quietly behind her. 

 

* * * 

 

Machines all around the still figure on the bed. Hooked up to keep track of 

heart rate, blood pressure and oxygen saturation through intravenous catheters. 

Others, that transported and monitored waste back out of the body. Lifelines 

curling from torso and limbs to bags with nutritional solutions. The chorus of 

bleeping sounds echoed along the hallway. Every vital stat transmitted from the 

machines into a central computer, displaying the patient’s live graphs. 

A large window span the width of the room, allowing full vision of the 

patient, a puppet on strings which kept his vital functions alive. Alarms would go 

off at the slightest disturbance, causing frantic movement and the change from 

hushed tones to hectic shouts, before they calmed again and the quiet voices 

returned to the hallway. The constant bleeping and whistling interrupted by the 

regular suctioning of the breathing tube that removed secretion from the patient’s 

throat and mouth. 

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Arterial lines and probes measured temperature, blood pressure, heart rate 

and respiration every fifteen minutes, part automated invasion of the body, part 

nurses touching, checking. The abdominal wounds were dressed frequently, packed 

with sterile gauze and disinfected religiously to keep them clean. 

 The patient could not see nor hear the surgeon at his bedside, changing 

bandages, cleaning and caring, assisted by a handful of nurses, rotating shifts 

through days and nights. His shattered left hand thickly dressed and held into 

position, the bones realigned to heal. A secondary infection weakened the body, 

battling against death with high doses of antibiotics and the patient’s lucky star: his 

toughness and physical fitness. 

Dan was fighting a fight most others would not have survived. 

 

* * * 

 

Vadim came in from an exercise, his body burning with pain, mouth, mind, 

soul parched, he couldn’t remember what water tasted like, but he grinned. The 

Colonel called this state “gun-fucked,” blasting the countryside and the mocked-up 

Mujahideen convoy with everything they had, excellent work by the pilots, fucking 

Hinds worked like a charm, and he was happy in a clearly malicious, gun-fucked 

way. 

“Get cleaned up, Vadim Petrovich,” said the Colonel and headed to the 

debriefing, while Vadim went to the quarters. A bunch of lieutenants hung out, and 

there was cheering at something that had just been said on the radio. 

“Fuck them, they finally got a taste of their own medicine!” said a young 

guy who’d come with the latest shipment of kids from Moscow. Had seen no 

combat, but bragged about how tough he was. Vadim expected the other officers 

would show him just what exactly they thought of that type. Taste of medicine, 

indeed. If that didn’t help, Vadim would make sure the guy got his head tucked in a 

shitter. For a minute, or two. 

“Who would that be, comrade?” 

The LT turned around, eyes glowing, face so young, so polished. “The 

foreign mercenaries. A bunch of the turkeys had it a couple hours ago.” 

Amazing, only two weeks here and the LT already spoke the lingo like he 

was a grandfather. Vadim stepped closer, reached for the half-empty bottle of 

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vodka on the table, poured himself a glass. Civilisation. Not drink from the bottle. 

Not when he came in like this. This took force of will to not go wild and keep 

doing what he’d been doing. Kill. Even if only in his mind, only dummies. 

The lieutenant grinned. “Fucking bandits blew up some ambassador-bitch, 

and her guards had it. Three men down. Saves us bullets.” He laughed.  

Dan. 

The thought was like vodka so cold it had become cloudy. Cold. Then hot. 

The next thing Vadim knew was that the vodka in his glass travelled through the 

air, blinding the lieutenant, and the glass hit the braggart in the teeth. Then Vadim 

was on top of him, he took the man by his collar, lifted him up the chair, didn’t feel 

his weight at all, heard a growl fill the room, a sound like a tiger hunting, then 

followed, rammed the man against the wall, dazing him, driving the air from his 

lungs, then let him go so he could punch him with both hands. 

When the other collapsed, Vadim kneed him in the face, and then kicked 

him in the chest. Could hear again, heard the panic, curses, but nobody dared to 

stop him. The lieutenants knew better than to interfere. He was an officer, and a 

granddaddy by all rights, and he could fuck this bastard and nobody would be able 

to touch him for it. 

He stopped because he was tired. Because one thought burned its way 

through the red haze that was about killing and maiming and inflicting pain. 

Dan. Dead. He was breathing hard, looked around, quick glances, but the 

other lieutenants were just staring at him like girls. You don’t fuck with Spetsnaz. 

Vadim heard the other whimper through the smashed-up face. Still needed a reason 

to have done this. 

“Mind your fucking language,” he growled. “Bitch.” A final kick, was 

itching to kill the man, but held back. Dan. He wasn’t worth it. Wasn’t worth 

killing. Everything else paled. Dan. 

He left the room, headed towards his bunk, was amazed he could find it. He 

could see nothing. Blind fighting. Night fighting. His mind wasn’t clear, seemed 

his body could work by itself. The same flesh and blood that had held Dan. 

He stripped out of his kit, his knuckles hurt. A quick wash. Felt himself 

pause in mid-motion, forced himself on, forced to wash with what little water there 

was, rationed, never enough. 

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Dan. The way he had touched him. All the ways he had touched him. The 

pain was so bad it ate him alive, chewed on him, there was nothing, nothing that 

could make it stop, he changed, got the kit all in the right order, like it should be. 

Think, Vadim. Leaned his forehead against the wall, forced himself to think, 

fight the wave of pain and despair that was coming, threatening to crash. He didn’t 

know it was Dan. Explosion. They might not even be able to find enough to 

identify. 

That could take some time. He should stay put and wait for the next contact. 

Like fuck he would. 

He needed to verify the dead men’s identities. Better, see the bodies. He’d 

only be able to believe it if he saw Dan torn open, torn apart, or this would haunt 

him forever. He didn’t trust the Brits to give him the truth. Needed to see the body. 

Touch it. 

He shuddered at the thought. Touch what was left of Dan. Fuck. He’d 

handled bits of humans before. Had found shot down pilots in the mountains and 

brought them back. And those were already festering and swollen. Dan’s body 

would be worse, much worse, but he needed, needed to know it was him. 

“Vadim Petrovich.” The Colonel. 

Fuck. Vadim straightened, turned around, saluted, but the Colonel shook 

his head. “Good work out there.” He remained rooted to the ground, hands folded 

on his back, a wiry incarnation of death. Eyes were narrow, and Vadim felt his 

pulse beat up against the top of his head, from the inside. He didn’t meet the man’s 

eyes, couldn’t allow himself to think of Dan and what touching his torn body 

would do to him. But he knew. He would know what it would feel like, what it 

would smell like. His face twitched. 

“There will be wars after this,” said the Colonel, like that was thanks to him. 

Well, if the Colonel was sent to kill some head of state, who could say it wouldn’t 

be? “I’ll want you for the next one.” 

Vadim stared, felt nothing but Dan in his mind. The Colonel made no sense. 

Nothing at all. Dan. “I beg your pardon?” 

The Colonel smirked, an absolutely frightful expression. “You understood 

me.”  

Like that was some kind of joke. Sickening. He was out of his depth, didn’t 

get it, knew he was ruining what he’d been building with this man, who decided on 

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his career, judged solely by his performance, nothing else. “You were not much of 

an athlete, Vadim Petrovich, but you’re one hell of a killer.” 

 

A compliment. Vadim blinked, killing and killer, Dan, explosion, 

and this man wanting him in the next war to kill more people. It didn’t end. It 

would go on like this until the sniper’s bullet hit true. Until he pulled the trigger on 

himself. Until he rose so far up or grew so old that all he could do was come up 

with plans and strategies to kill and to train killers. He nodded, numb, hoped it 

would be mistaken for humility. Krasnorada and humble. Couldn’t speak. Felt like 

the Colonel had taken his hand and forced it down into a steaming pile of guts. 

 

* * * 

 

Dan had been in the ICU for over fourteen days, when it was decided to try 

wake the patient from the artificial coma. 

Darkness. Fear. Dull throbbing discomfort. Constant sound of whirring, 

bleeping; rustle of fabrics and voices holding unknown conversations in nothing 

but whispers. Dan was floating blindly in intangible blackness, unable to move, to 

think. 

Half-waking, growing more aware of his surroundings and the increasing 

onslaught of pain. Worst of all that thing, the obstruction in his throat. He tried to 

swallow, couldn’t, it hurt, he tried to make a sound, impossible. Discomfort grew 

and his drugged mind didn’t know what he was doing, only the 

overwhelming 

need to fight whatever was causing the intrusion into his throat. 

Enemy. Pain. Fight. Didn’t know where he was, nor what nor why, nor 

even who, managed to raise one hand, the other too heavy, unwieldy, wouldn’t 

budge. Dan gripped the ‘thing’ that was causing the pain in his throat, tried to rip 

the breathing tube out, fighting, starting to panic. 

The machines exploded into a cacophony of noise, bleeping, screeching for