Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

attention, his hand got torn away, voices shouting at him, but he couldn’t 

understand what they were saying, just the need to fight, frantically trying to 

breathe and move, pain shooting through his body, the bleeping got faster and 

louder and then his hand was forced down and fixed into position.  

Something warm flowed into his veins, taking him back down and away, 

dragging him beneath the blanket of sleep once more. 

 600 

Night and day had no meaning, he was lost in confusion and paranoia. 

Whose hushed tones was he hearing? Who was touching his skin? Who was 

working on his body—or tried to steal his mind. 

The doctors decided they needed to lower the morphine dose and they kept 

him strapped down. Adding to the growing paranoia and the pain of withdrawal. 

Who was there, what were they doing, who came in? He could never find the 

answer. 

Sedatives kept the mind dragged under and the body still, allowing the 

wounds to heal and the infection to subside. He suffered from amnesia induced by 

sedation, remembered scraps of reality like nightmares; those touches, sounds, the 

inability to move, and the underlying dulled-down pain. 

He hardly reacted to the punctual regularity of nurses coming every two 

hours, changing his position to prevent infection from bedsores. Taking pressure 

off one side, cleaning the skin, massaging to stimulate circulation, and keeping him 

moisturised. Lying with lamb’s wool skin protectors under the hip, lower spine, 

heels and elbows. Like a doll in its cot, limp in the care of his handlers. 

 

* * * 

 

Two days passed for Vadim and no news. No names. Nothing. The Brits 

didn’t give up the men’s identities. They remained a number in a news item. That 

was it. It made sense, that way, nobody cared. Vadim tried to pull strings, asked 

questions, never directly. But he was too subtle. Without going straight for the 

truth, there would be no truth. 

He went to one of the safe houses, after duty, gathered himself up enough 

to change. He would never pass for Afghan, but at least nobody had to see a Soviet 

soldier go into the British embassy. The promise gnawed on him, the promise to 

bring back Dan’s body from the mountains, given in a dingy hotel on the edge of 

desperation. 

Civilian clothes. Hadn’t worn them in Kabul forever. Wrapped his head in a 

rag, red-faced Caucasian in nondescript clothing. His accent would give him away. 

The pride was the worst, but he felt so nauseous he couldn’t sleep. Dan’s death was 

like a rotting tooth, it hurt, it hurt so bad nothing could stop this apart from pulling 

it out, and that would take a bullet. 

 601 

Vadim headed towards the embassy. He got in with a mix of sheer bravado, 

begging, and the hint he might have something that would be of interest to the Brits. 

A bald-faced lie, or maybe not, he’d say and do anything to get in. Was searched, 

spread-eagled against the guard house, at gun point. A member of staff took his 

name. He gave Platon’s name, his rank as lieutenant. Officer, but only junior. Not 

one true word. 

Asked to see the lady ambassador, only her, said he couldn’t trust anybody 

else. Expected to be kicked out, but the Brits seemed more civilised than that. He 

was so tired he felt like death on his feet. Sat down, was handed a water bottle, 

rested his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. Tried to catch a moment of sleep, 

strangely intimidated by the place and the shit he had jumped into. He was in 

trouble. 

He waited less than half an hour, left undisturbed but never alone, when a 

quiet but authoritative voice was heard behind the doors, which opened. Then the 

tack-tack of sensible heels before the sound stopped. 

“Lieutenant Ivanov, you wished to see me?” 

Vadim stood, felt ill at ease, then put his hands on his back to stop them 

from giving away how nervous he was. “Yes.” Platon’s name would fit badly, the 

kid posthumously promoted, Vadim had the feeling he wouldn’t be happy. If he 

was in a place where he could even care. Two dead men he’d held. Don’t think 

about it. 

“I am aware it’s unconventional procedure, Ma’am,” he wasn’t sure about 

her title, or how to address her, hoped that was alright, and it wasn’t Miss or Mrs or 

Lady or whatever, he was too tired for decorum. “Dan. Daniel McFadyen. He was 

part of your security detail?” 

The ambassador’s brows rose, her expression even more guarded than 

before. “Please do sit, Lieutenant. We do not often get such illustrious visitors.” 

Ignoring the question for now, while she sat down opposite, studying him. 

Vadim sat, reached for the water bottle to keep his hands calm. Illustrious. 

Like: important. Grand. What a word to use. He felt nothing like it, not grand, not 

important, not even self-possessed. He was completely out of his depth, helpless, 

reduced to begging. If she played it right, she’d ask him for things he couldn’t tell 

her. Maybe she wouldn’t. 

 602 

She finally spoke again. “Why, Lieutenant, why do you wish to know about 

Mr McFadyen?” 

“I need to confirm whether he’s dead.” I need to touch his body. I need to 

smell his blood. I need to do all that before you send him back in a metal tin, back 

home. He drew a long breath. “Not...in official capacity.” 

“I assumed that.” She immediately answered. As prim, precise and proper 

as her whole appearance. “It does not seem appropriate for a soldier of the Soviet 

occupying forces to enter the British embassy in any kind of official business that I 

am not aware of.” 

Soviet occupying forces. Vadim inhaled. He didn’t have the strength to 

argue his point. He didn’t even know what kind of war it was, only knew it was a 

war and too many people had died. One too many. Bit back the party line, couldn’t 

have spoken it without starting to laugh or break into tears, or both. Didn’t trust 

himself not to. 

She arranged her finely manicured hands on her lap, the grey hair coiffed as 

impenetrably as her non-committal expression. The stitches at her temple hidden 

by lacquered hair. “I repeat my question. Why do you wish to know?” 

Vadim stared at the bottle, thought, needed a good answer, but couldn’t 

come up with anything better than what had been his first idea, yesterday. 

“McFadyen and I have history.” He looked up, hoped he still appeared somewhat 

dignified, herded the stoicism into his face, gathered his resolve. “We had tea 

together. You might call it unlikely, but we have grown to respect each other.” 

“And that is all?” She queried, sitting with legs perfectly slanted to one side. 

The epitome of British upper class. “Why should this give you such an 

unparalleled interest in the life and death of Daniel McFadyen?” 

Vadim forced his face to not show anything, stared at a place too far to see, 

far beyond the walls, saw her in the corner of his eye. Her way of speaking  much 

different from Dan’s. Odd vowels. Unparalleled. What the fuck was that supposed 

to mean? 

 “I know he worked for ambassador. And I know there was attack on 

female ambassador. If I understood that wrong, I’m sorry to have wasted your 

time.” He looked at her, remained sitting, though, knew he couldn’t bait her that 

easily. He needed more than that. “I do not want to compromise him. It’s bad 

enough I compromise myself.” Put on a show of reluctance, needed to satisfy 

 603 

curiosity, needed to make it appear real. “I know I have nothing to bargain. I ask 

for kindness, Ma’am. I know that is not something I can expect from West.” Kept 

his eyes on the floor, now. “I should not be here, but I am. I owe that man lot. I 

need to know whether he’s dead.” 

“What do you owe him.” Unaffected by his performance. “I repeat, 

Lieutenant. Why do you wish to know.” Like a bulldog, once bitten into flesh, she 

did not let go. Teeth lodged and jaws locked. She held the key to the knowledge, 

and that key was dear to her heart. 

He nodded and gave a smile. She had given herself away by forcing his 

hand. “He did guard you. He does that to people. Gets best out of them.” And the 

worst. “He spared my life. He did not kill me, when he should have. I asked for 

mercy, and he gave me my life. My wife and children did not lose me on that day, 

because he did not pull trigger on me.” Looked up, used Katya again, but that 

should do it. Had shown his open side, lured her to commit into an attack, now 

would bind her blade. 

She said nothing for a moment, seemed to ponder. Her eyes steadfast on 

him. “If he were dead, then there would be nothing for you to do. No wreath to 

send, no flowers to wilt.” Nothing in her bearing nor her voice showed even the 

slightest hint of emotion. 

Vadim frowned. “I do not understand, I’m sorry. I believe my English 

doesn’t reach that far. What do you mean?” Didn’t get it. Of course he had to do 

something. She sounded metaphorical, but he didn’t get it. Had never spoken with 

somebody like her, only knew he couldn’t bind the blade, slipped out in a 

compound attack, circular motion that made the next angle of attack very hard to 

predict. Insecurity. 

She got up, took one step closer, no more. Stood and looked down at him. 

“Lieutenant—if that is what and who you are—if Dan McFadyen were dead, what 

difference would it be to you? Dead, a corpse, and gone. I asked a simple question 

that demands a simple answer.” She stepped to the side. “I ask you an even simpler 

question. If he were alive, what would you do?” 

He nodded, signalling understanding. “If he is dead...” I’d go insane. I’d 

scream and kick and shout and finally cry, maybe, if I get tired enough. “I need to 

see him. I’ve seen...so many bodies that were not identified, or wrongly identified. 

This war taught me to not trust anything but my own  eyes. I need to see body and 

 604 

confirm he’s dead.” Giving away an unhealthy fixation on the dead body, hoped it 

would pass. “If he is alive, I need to know where, and find him.” 

She, too, nodded. “And if he were alive, and if you were to know where, 

then why would you find him?” 

Vadim pressed his teeth together. Why. Why indeed. Owing a life – was 

that enough to brave hell and military prison to see a wounded man? He couldn’t 

say. Everything was blown out of proportion, everything skewed, the world had 

lost coherence. “To tell him how I feel.” Now, that was the naked truth. The words 

hurt him, he was getting too close, embarrassed himself, embarrassed her, opened 

up again to get her to do the same. Risky manoeuvre, and not even a feint. “Does 

that satisfy, Ma’am?” Couldn’t help but ruin it, lashed out. 

She stood and watched for a long time. Studied and considered. Patience. 

“Daniel McFadyen is alive. At least he was when I last checked. This morning. 

Royal British Hospital, Kashmir, India.” 

Alive. Vadim felt tears well up, fucking eyes, closed them quickly to not 

give it away, breathed, until he could trust himself. He was too tired, should not 

have come here this tired, shouldn’t have exposed himself like this. Dan alive. 

Kashmir. He only had to cross half of Afghanistan and all of Pakistan to get there. 

Enemy territory, all of it. 

Last I checked. Dan was wounded badly. On the brink of death. He wanted 

to break into a run and start on his way there, right away. Go AWOL, try and find 

him, try and see him before he died. 

“Is he stable?” Any limbs torn off? He’d seen bad shit, massive burns, lost 

pieces, bodies that were nothing but minced meat and still breathed. Could feel his 

chest tighten. He needed to see him, visit him. Whatever the cost. No other thought 

in his mind, just that. Dan alive. And he was on his way, had to be. 

She paused, silence in the room, longer than comfortable. “Mr McFadyen 

sustained considerable injuries in the blast and in the course of his duty. Extensive 

shrapnel wounds to the abdominal cavity.” And a hand, but who needed a left hand. 

“He has been receiving all humanely possible care in the private hospital.” Her 

hands folded behind her back, standing straight. 

Vadim nodded. Abdomen. Hospital. They could deal with the infections 

there. Still. India. A fucking long way. And it meant Dan might still die. He needed 

to be on his way. Needed to see him. Before he died. Vadim stared at the ground 

 605 

near his feet, the carpet had a pattern, and he studied it, eyes not really seeing. “I 

will go and see him,” he said, softly, gathered himself up, squared his shoulders. 

He stood, took the rag from his shoulders, formed a ball, a tight ball of it 

with his hands that wanted to strangle and punch, the country, fate, destiny, wanted 

to force to not feel so fucking helpless. 

“Thank you for your time. I am grateful.” And it means nothing, because I 

am an enemy, and you don’t even know what or who I am. They might work it out, 

Dan had identified him, after all, many years ago. He had changed, but he didn’t 

exactly have an everyday face. She could work it out. They might be working on it 

already. She had implied she didn’t believe him. 

She nodded. “My secretary will see you out.” Raising her hand, she all but 

pointed to the door. “Godspeed, Lieutenant.” 

Godspeed. Another strange word, sounded like some kind of blessing. He 

nodded, deeply, bowed almost to keep his eyes from meeting hers, and left. 

Nobody called on his hints he might have something to trade. Had come here as a 

potential traitor, left with a gift. 

But it made it worse. He had imagined Dan’s body, dead, and him seeing it, 

finding it, touching it. Here, in Kabul. Kashmir, too far away. Too fucking far 

away. Still, started to work on his plan, desperate measures. Get a mission in the 

south, be sent away. Maybe kill somebody in Pakistan. Strike out against the 

fucking secret service. No. He was in no state to fight. His mind was elsewhere. 

Applying for some volunteer stuff would get him killed, definitely if it was an 

operation. The Pakistanis weren’t beginners, they were good, and they’d get him if 

he made a mistake. He couldn’t trust himself, now. 

 

* * * 

 

Dan’s condition was finally getting more stable. The healing process had 

been slowed down by the secondary infection, but he was improving at last. 

Sedation was slowly decreased until he was weaned off completely. They kept the 

patient’s good hand restrained, even when the breathing tube was removed at last, 

replaced with less invasive oxygen. The nose drip had to be kept, to feed nutrients 

directly into the stomach, and with Dan’s signs of aggression they could not risk 

 606 

the danger of him trying to tear any probes and sounds out of his body, while still 

disoriented. 

Dan was aware of dull throbbing pain throughout his body despite the 

morphine, but at least he was feeling something at last. Something other than being 

dragged into nightmares that had no name and made no sense. He tried to move his 

hands a few times, but one was in too great pain, the other wouldn’t budge, and he 

gave up. 

Couldn’t open his eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness, dozed off only 

to be yelled at within thirty seconds. “Breathe! If you don’t breathe we can’t give 

you anymore pain medication!” The foreign accent strong, somewhat familiar from 

a long time ago. It was just so difficult to remember the reflex of pulling in air and 

expelling on his own. Still lost in darkness and dulled-down terror. 

A day later and he finally managed to open his eyes for a minute at a time. 

Began to take interest in his surroundings, eventually tried to understand the 

regime and the rigmarole of the machinery. Nurses, doctors, a constant flow of 

endless people that touched him, tested him, checked him, turned him. The oxygen 

mask began to itch and he became aware of the discomfort of the catheters. He 

didn’t manage to count the IV’s, gave up at the tangle of tubes and wires, but felt 

the oxygenation clamp on one finger and the electrodes that monitored his heart. 

Incredibly irritated by the blood pressure meter, that automatically, every fifteen 

minutes, filled up the plastic sleeve around his arm. 

He couldn’t speak, his throat sore from the breathing tube and the mask 

closing off his face. Even when they changed the mask to the twin-lines that 

streamed oxygen straight into his nostrils, he wasn’t able to utter a sound. Too 

much effort, and he didn’t have the strength. They did not ask him to communicate 

either, except for regular checks on his alertness, and then he blinked when spoken 

to. 

Dan felt numb, empty inside, the morphine turning his mind into a flat 

plane of nothing, until he had forgotten his name. Was of no great matter, he was 

just a puppet, strung up on machinery and kept alive.  

He couldn’t remember why he was kept alive, and no one ever came to 

remind him. 

 

* * * 

 607 

 

Vadim began to work, began to pull strings, to get into a southern province. 

He could call in a favour there. Old debts and old friendship. Hopefully. He needed 

a good story, a reason why he’d been gone, but he could find one. One week later, 

he was on a truck south. Managed to keep up a semblance of sanity, got into 

smoking weed, so he could laugh and joke with the others. The Spetsnaz mystique 

unblemished. 

Several days – and one aborted attempt at an ambush – later, Vadim’s boots 

made contact with the ground again, and he rolled his shoulders while the kids 

behind him bustled to get the trucks unloaded. 

The commander of this garrison cum mountain fortress crossed the space in 

front of the main building, looking prim and proper as if Vadim were a visitor from 

Moscow. Full Christmas tree, and, Vadim noted somewhat taken aback, medals, a 

whole bar of them. Major Alexei Petkov had been wounded. Courage under fire. 

“Vadim! Fuck, seeing you is great!” Vadim was suddenly embraced and 

kissed, one comrade to the other, too stunned to even tense at the sudden touch. 

Lesha. Shaved meticulously, smelling of soap, like he’d shaved just five minutes 

ago. “Come. You must be hungry. And...” Lesha gave him a wink. “Thirsty, I 

assume.” 

It was an evening for memories, tall tales, catching up and boasting. But 

they didn’t speak about one thing. 

 

Vadim was putting the AK back together. Off duty. Dark outside, sitting on 

the bunk, hands working blindly. He just wasn’t fast enough. Of course, no bullets, 

no magazine, but he was still slotting dark greased steel together, not nearly 

natural, still took concentration, feeling for the mechanical grooves and places, 

and he had his teeth gritted. One of the skills the officers kept repeating would save 

his worthless life one day. Like belly crawling under life fire, the roar deafening, 

making his body respond, too threatened to just lock up while moving forward. The 

sound of bullets froze his blood, shortened every tendon, and what his body really 

wanted to do was curl up and wait till it was over. Like some cowardly cocksucker, 

as the officers called it. 

 608 

We’ll make you a soldier, suka. Wait and see. Even if we have to drag you 

kicking and screaming. You will become a soldier, or the nearest excuse for one, 

you useless piece of shit. 

Not fast enough to be a swimmer, they sent him off to do his military service 

before they decided whether to let him join the Pentathlon team. He wasn’t good 

enough to compete with the top swimmers, but he might still win points in modern 

pentathlon. Basic training would give him some shooting practice, too. 

The last two pieces. Vadim forced the metal in, cursing the design under his 

breath, even if it was, by all standards, a fine weapon, superior for its time, 

arguably the weapon that had won a good part of the Great Patriotic War. Still a 

bitch to put together when every muscle burnt from the last few days’ ‘exercise’. 

And he wasn’t fast enough assembling it. The irony of his life. His hands were 

shaking with the cold and exhaustion and he could hardly think straight. All he 

wanted to do was collapse and sleep, but he just knew that there would be another 

drill, in a few hours, when most other recruits would just have dropped and were 

comatose with exhaustion, and he figured he could spend the time waiting for it to 

happen. 

He jammed the last piece in, checked the AK, and it worked, well oiled, 

then began, mechanically, to take it apart again. He’d have to do this blindly, 

under fire, on his belly, on his back, in any fucking position including a handstand 

or both legs torn off. The AK was the reason why he existed. Why he was around at 

all. 

The door burst open, a comrade came in, another of the young ones, same 

platoon. Misha. He was drenched in the rain, face glowing, which looked 

unhealthy with the haggard features. “He’s killing Lesha!” 

The pieces of the AK scattered across the floor as Vadim was on his feet, 

following, before the comrade had even mentioned it, running at full speed where 

the other was leading. They were beginning to function, Vadim realized. They 

didn’t need that many words anymore – and Misha didn’t have the breath left in