Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

1981 Chapter IV—Home Truths 

June-July 1981, Mother Russia 

 

 

“I have read the report,” said the kommissar. “May I?” He sat down at the 

bed. 

Vadim, still dizzy from surgery, attempted to nod. The nose. They said 

something had been broken so badly they needed to operate so he would be able to 

breathe properly. He had forgotten the terms. It had made sense when the doctor 

told him. 

Everything was bandaged. His hands, his wrists, somebody had cleaned the 

burn wound on his throat, and his back was heavily padded and bandaged as well. 

He felt weak, but at least there was no pain. 

“You have obviously been tortured.” The kommissar didn’t smile, didn’t 

scowl, just presented him with the conclusion. 

Yes. Massive physical trauma without killing him. He looked beaten up, 

they could see he had been tied up. Dislocated shoulder. Wrists and ankles raw. 

Cigarette burn. Knife wounds. Too characteristic. One week out in enemy territory, 

returned without any of his kit, barely alive. His burnt skin told them of exposure 

to the sun, and some torture didn’t leave marks. Sleep deprivation. Hunger and 

thirst. 

“Now, I wonder, comrade, how could that happen?” The kommissar placed 

his fingertips together. “Not how you could fall into enemy hands. But how they 

could take you alive.” 

“I was knocked out before I could take countermeasures.” Like, committing 

suicide. 

“And your unit left you behind. Yes.” The kommissar looked at him, glance 

from his feet to his face. “I assume you resisted torture at first and gave in later?” 

Vadim swallowed. “Yes.” 

The kommissar looked displeased. “Who were they?” 

“They spoke English.” Vadim pressed his lips together. Being taken by a 

group of enemies was less humiliating than by one man. SAS. It wasn’t worth 

much, apart from restoring some of his reputation as a tough bastard. Being taken 

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by one man wouldn’t do. And they assumed by default it had been a group. “I was 

blindfolded.” 

“Did they mention names? Units? Any operational data? Surely, if you 

were meant to be executed, they would not be as careful.” 

“They left me just outside camp.” 

“How many?” 

“Best estimate is four or five.” 

“How many tortured you?” 

Vadim shuddered. “I don’t know.” 

The kommissar smiled. “But at least they gave you a shave.” 

Vadim’s hands formed fists. “With a knife. Threatened to cut my throat.” 

He felt the terror well up, despite whatever they had him shot full of. “They spoke 

English. Maybe Americans. I don’t know. I was too busy staying alive.” 

“You are supposed to stay resourceful under strain.” It sounded pretty. 

Resourceful. Tough, mentally intact, thinking, perceptive. Strain was a prettier 

word than torture. It sounded like a soft kind of pressure, and not like a 

competition between the capacity to inflict pain against the capacity to resist it.  

“A week is a long time.” Everybody would have broken. Absolutely 

everybody. 

The kommissar nodded. “We assume American mercenaries. It is 

interesting they operate so close to Kabul. It is unfortunate that they captured you 

of all people, but then, it could have been much worse.” After all, you know 

nothing, he seemed to say. “What did they ask about?” 

“Units, deployments, strategic information. Our intentions here.” 

The kommissar seemed thoughtful, but not surprised. “Do you assume you 

will be fit for duty in a month?” He paused. “Desk duty, for the moment. We will 

send you to Moscow for a few weeks to heal the worst, but we are short of 

manpower, and your skills are valuable in this place. You will do training.” 

No question at all then. Vadim felt he needed at least six months rest, or 

maybe a year, but that was really self-pity. Indulging himself. The worst of it all 

was how much he had wanted that other man. Insanity. Offered himself, offered 

things he wanted. To test the other’s nerve, resolve, prod him into emotions, away 

from executing him to keeping him alive. It made sense at the time, but now he 

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was ashamed. Ashamed that he could still see the face close beside him, half-

hidden by moonlight. Feel the Brit’s heat against his hand. “Yes, kommissar.” 

The man got up, put the cap back on. “Do not worry,” he said. Having 

misread his facial expression, Vadim guessed. “You will have plenty of 

opportunity to show us you recovered well.” 

Decreeing his recovery. Planning ahead. Ordering him to recover. Like he 

was some kind of mechanic that had to meet a target. 

 “And even more opportunity to go out hunting mercenaries interfering in 

our brotherly aid to our socialist brothers.” The kommissar gave him a curt nod and 

walked out. 

 

* * * 

 

Vadim couldn’t even carry the suitcase. He stood at the bottom of the 

staircase and wondered how he could get up there. Felt two hundred years old, 

nothing in his body that had kept even the slightest amount of strength. Placing a 

hand on the railing, he pulled himself up. One step. The journey had been bad, 

waiting for the connection flight in the Urals. There were direct flights, but he 

couldn’t get a place on one of those. It could take more than twenty hours to get 

from Kabul to Moscow. Tired and in pain. Somebody had run into him in the 

Metro station, which nearly doubled him over with pain. The bastard had run past, 

trying to catch the metro, while Vadim stood there, one hand against the wall, and 

fought the pain. 

An old man had watched him, both hands on a cane. Read the full story on 

the front of his uniform. Paratrooper. Captain. Afghanistan mission. Valour. Vadim 

looked at the man, impossible to say anything, that man was probably a hero of the 

Great War for the Motherland. Might have shot Germans in Stalingrad, hungered 

and frozen in Leningrad. Escaped annihilation at Kursk. The great names of that 

war. A life and death struggle. A proper war. Vadim had always felt that that war 

was much better than a long distance war by proxy in a dozen countries. It wasn’t 

face to face. He could be old fashioned like that. 

First landing. He rested, standing there, staring at the wall in front of him. 

Seeing mountains. Moscow was grey and glum, this place smelled of mould. 

Three more floors. 

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Another step up the staircase. He could feel his back. Every shift in his 

body was taken up by the muscles left and right of the spine. Everything. Even 

completely still, he needed to breathe with the broken ribs. Nothing anybody could 

do about them, apart from painkillers and rest. Difficult to remember a time 

without pain. And the man who had done this still in his mind. The man that had 

nearly taken his life, then handed it back to him. Covered his escape. 

Second landing. 

They had applied for a bigger flat. Two children. It might take another year 

or two. No way to bribe an official. No money for it, and Vadim always felt 

vaguely self-conscious about wrestling for an advantage. Not in the army, but he 

knew people there. Outside, it seemed more complicated, much more arcane, and 

his rank counted for nothing. One of many paratroopers. Nobody important. Spies 

everywhere. Spetsnaz were secret, and certainly didn’t get anything resembling a 

bonus. Like he should be thankful he was something different. 

Third landing. He was in pain, his heart thudded, chest burned. 

Katya could have made a difference. She still fenced, but she had two small 

children, and her mother and aunt depended on her. On them. It was always the 

whole family. Parents, sisters, brothers, children. One struck it rich, they all shared. 

No nerve to let anybody down. 

Fourth landing. 

Turn left. Knock. People were talking inside. He felt nauseous, didn’t want 

to hear anybody, see anybody, just wanted to lie down and sleep. 

The door opened. Katya. Her eyes widened, she reached for his hand and 

almost pulled him inside. Yes, her mother. No sign of the kids. Already asleep. 

Vadim accepted tea, drank it, he was back, in one piece, grateful chatter, 

nothing important. No questions, only about the flight. He couldn’t have told them. 

He made a point of not telling anybody anything. 

Finally, her mother left, pressed his hand, Vadim couldn’t lean in to have 

his cheeks kissed. She noticed when he tried and told him off. 

He sat down on the bed, looked around. All the stuff that marked a civilian 

life. Bookshelves. Pictures on the wall. Decoration. Her epee, wire mesh mask, her 

kit on coat hangers, drying between the kitchen and the corridor. She’d been 

fencing. His kit was stored away somewhere – in a carton on one of the 

bookshelves. He doubted he’d fit in there anyway. Too much weight-lifting. He 

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had actually increased in muscle and strength, a fair sixty pounds. He’d look like a 

gorilla in the white. 

He opened the belt, the coat, the boots. Couldn’t quite get them off his feet 

without bowing down and more pain. Katya leaned in and pulled them off. Her 

pale golden hair, cut at the chin. Honey. She pulled off his socks, helped to undress 

him. Realized he really didn’t want to wear the uniform now. How tired he was. 

Her hands paused on his feet, and he could see she realized what marches 

and that territory did to his feet. He had written her about the injuries, she must 

have expected something like that. 

She pulled his shirt off, he helped her with the trousers. It was all put over 

the back of a chair. Too rickety to sit on, that was why it wasn’t in the kitchen but 

served as a nightstand. Needed a paintjob. The whole place did. 

He lay back on the mattress, closed his eyes, felt her lift his legs and help 

him stretch out. The mattress was too soft. And worn through. Springs dug into his 

back, a woollen blanket kept the worst off, but they needed a new mattress at some 

point. 

“How are the kids?” He asked with eyes closed. 

“They wanted to stay up, but it got too late. Fell asleep right at the table,” 

she said. 

Nikol’. He was reasonably sure Anoushka was his. Katya had been a few 

weeks pregnant when she got silver with her epee. Precise like a surgeon, deadly 

with that thin, flexible piece of steel. If it had ever been real. Two hundred years 

ago, a woman fencer like her would have caused a sensation. 

She had beaten him several times, friendly matches, he’d been intrigued by 

her style. Highly mobile, and cold-blooded like a striking cobra. No, a king cobra. 

Snake-eater. He’d been drunk, high on freedom. The things he did when drunk. 

He’d never found a woman attractive. Some fumbling around  because he 

felt that was expected, that was how things were, but the interest was mostly 

scientific. 

His masseur had started fucking him way before the Olympics, jerked him 

off when he did that, and had an amount of control that made Vadim dizzy with 

lust. It always needed to be quick, the old man seemed wary and tense and nervous, 

but just couldn’t resist the temptation. Vadim didn’t want him to resist. Vadim 

wanted to feel the other inside himself, just an extension of the massage, of making 

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him feel special. It never felt filthy. Forbidden, yes, he had understood that from 

the start. But never bad. A man three times as old as he when they started fucking. 

He felt the other had held back with that, merely entered him with his fingers, once 

or twice turned him around and sucked him off. Told him how beautiful he was. 

Katya knew. They never talked about it, though. But even a stupid bitch 

would have realized that there were things missing in their marriage. He assumed 

she was shagging the occasional guy. Bored wife of a deployed officer. 

Seeing her with Sasha had felt right – face flushed, her body radiant, strong, 

lithe. Sasha probably hadn’t known what hit him. She had asked Sasha whether 

Vadim was welcome, and Sasha was too far gone to care much. 

Vadim assumed he didn’t mind much – maybe had been fucked before, 

maybe even desired him as well. He’d been careful, and gentle, feeling oddly 

mellow with the both of them in his bed. He’d had Sasha after that, the next 

morning. Fucked him nice and slow, with Katya watching. Absolutely screwed 

Sasha’s mind – the woman he wanted, and her husband. Vadim needed to 

encourage him. Katya had told him that there had been “one of your people,” 

meaning KGB, “asking whether I was happily married to you.” 

Or, short, whether their marriage was more than a scam. He needed a child 

to prove it. Used Sasha as a stallion, nothing more. 

Did her a favour as well; he would probably have been able to, had been, 

could bring himself to do it. There were always physiological reactions on which to 

rely. He was biologically healthy, enough friction, and things went alright. But it 

felt like fucking a sister. And her knowing that it was willpower, and not lust, made 

it more difficult. 

She deserved better than physiological reactions. 

He rested, felt her hands soothing on his neck, turned around and could 

smell her hair when she placed her head on his good shoulder. 

“I’m sorry about Sasha,” he murmured into the darkness. 

“Yes, he told me...what you said.” 

Vadim inhaled. I’ve seen how happy you were. I’ve seen how you looked 

at him when he stood there in the doorway, dark hair, freckles, those dark blue eyes. 

I can still see you sit on him, writhe, ride his cock, glance over your shoulder, hair 

falling into your face. That smile then. The way you lifted your ass to show me that 

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cock burrowing into you. You snake-eater. He placed a hand on her shoulder, 

pulled her a little closer. “We have Nikolai.” 

“Yes.” Her voice strained. “Nikolai.” She fought tears. He wondered how 

she could mourn her husband’s ‘comrade’ without betraying what she had felt. 

Nobody. As far as Vadim could tell, nobody knew. Even her mother had 

told Vadim that Nikolai looked absolutely like his father. With only the eyes a 

darker shade of blue. 

She was silent for a long time. “Don’t you get killed down there,” she said, 

pleading. 

It could have been so much easier without that feeling. He had opened the 

cage, but she didn’t leave. Just another prisoner in a web of lies. 

 

* * * 

 

Anoushka pulled on his arm like a plough horse, tiny legs pushing against 

the ground. Beautiful bright day, the sun was out, a mild, forgiving sun that didn’t 

burn his face. Katya had said he looked very tanned. Looked like after their 

honeymoon in Sochi. A gift from somewhere up, Katya’s trainer, probably. A 

mentor in the vast bureaucracy. Vadim had felt self-conscious then. He was the 

second-rate pentathlete who had impregnated a first-class fencer. Not bad at all 

with the blade himself. As if they expected Anoushka to breed true and become a 

champion in her own right as soon as she had grown up. 

Soviet model family, with properly proletarian background. Her ancestors 

near-starving peasants in the Volga district, his ancestors industrial workers in 

Moscow. Steel workers. That wasn’t the whole story. His father had been an 

intellectual before he was forced to work with his hands instead, his grandfather 

had been too close to the Whites during the revolution. But turned himself into a 

traitor, and was allowed to change sides. Denounce yourself, and the great leader 

will have mercy. Unless he sends you to a forced labour camp. He shook his head. 

Dark times. The lesson was clear: Keep your head down. Never become a target. 

He followed his daughter, who insisted on heading towards the goats. 

Plucked some grass and offered it to one of the small pointy snouts, squealing in 

delight at the rough tongue. “Look! He likes it!” 

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Vadim smiled and looked at Katya, who had Nikol ride on her hip, handled 

the heavy toddler with ease. He couldn’t even carry him yet. His daughter also had 

the unfortunate tendency to cling to him, and he had to push her away every time 

she tried to climb on his lap. That a child could ever inflict pain on him was 

unspeakably bizarre. 

“Look, the goat is from Afghanistan. A present from the government,” said 

Katya, pointing at a plaque. 

“That kind doesn’t taste so bad,” he said. 

Anoushka stared at him in horror. “Noooo!” 

Katya looked at him, frowning, then went to great lengths to explain that 

daddy had been joking. Anoushka was not convinced and frowned at him, darkly, 

and his daughter could look exceptionally dark when displeased. Vadim laughed 

and went to make amends with ice cream. 

 

* * * 

 

“I think we can take the plasters off now,” said the doctor and Vadim felt 

the urge to pull a knife and place it against his femoral artery. The doctor started 

pulling them off, a line of plasters, one for each letter. The doctor knew the word, 

he’d checked the wounds, made sure they healed correctly, given him painkillers 

for his ribs, not nearly enough, but he was talking about “withdrawal” and Vadim 

understood. 

His back felt naked. It felt as if people could see through the uniform. 

Everybody could read the word. No more cameras. No more swimming. No 

more sauna. He was determined to keep this hidden forever. Switched off 

the light before he took the undershirt off. He didn’t want Katya to see it. Didn’t 

want her to know he’d been tortured. And that he was only alive because she had 

given him the strength to ask for mercy. He needed to live to provide. As long as 

she stayed in her cage. As long as she chose to stay. 

And what if Sasha had been alive and she had gone to live with the freckled 

pilot who was head over heels in love with her? What if there had been no family 

in his mind when that bastard pointed the gun into his face? He couldn’t have said, 

couldn’t have thought, but there was despair at the thought. He pushed it away. 

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He felt her in the night, long limbs, close, Nikol’ mewling in his sleep. The 

kid was a little ill, nothing serious, but his bed was in their room. This had saved 

his life, not mercy, not strength. He placed his face on her arm, chin against her 

elbow, felt her fingers brush his cheek. 

In the morning, she brought him tea and buttered, fresh bread. He’d been 

awake at five, as usual, then forced himself to sleep on. The medics told him to get 

as much rest as possible. He could stay in bed all week. He reacted too late, too late 

to cover himself. Her left hand, deadly instrument with a blade, shook as she 

served him tea. 

He couldn’t eat, but took the tea. Sat up in bed, leaned against the wall, to 

hide the healing wounds. Saw shock in her face, speechlessness. She looked at him 

as if trying to grasp what she had seen, or what it meant. He hoped she hadn’t seen 

the whole word. Hated the SAS bastard in that moment, felt his chest constrict 

under the weight of her pain. “It’s nothing.” He winced. “Important.” 

She accepted the lie like all the other lies. Black is white, and up is down. 

As long as we both understand the code. “An enemy?” 

“I hurt him, too.” 

She nodded, eyes narrow. “Good.” 

He could have loved her in those feral moments. 

 

* * * 

 

He was reading when she came back. Dostoevsky. Crime and Punishment. 

He would have to fight hard to finish it before going back to Kabul. He didn’t take 

books with him. First, he still couldn’t carry much beyond a glass of tea and 

secondly, he could just see what the others would think of a collection of the 

classic writers. It was nice, however, to immerse oneself into language that was 

free of all profanity – beyond the things it described. Poverty, despair, darkness, 

and humanity. It made him think, and it was as far removed from the war as he 

could make it. The occupation. Raskolnikov broke over the fact he had killed one 

old woman – almost insane with guilt. It was nice remembering what that could 

have felt like. 

She vanished in the kitchen, stored away whatever she had bought on the 

market. “Can you get a conscript out of the worst?” 

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He glanced up. Now, that was unusual. “In theory.” 

“A son of a friend was just sent to your place. She is worried.” 

“What kind of friend?” 

Katya stepped into the room, a slight smile on her features. “A useful 

friend.” 

Influential. Able to pull strings. Get things done, or get things cheaper. 

Maybe a new flat. If she felt it was necessary. He did need a new driver. The last 

one had been transferred to a different barracks. “Can he drive?” 

She nodded, the smile grew wider, and she produced a photo. Typical 

clueless conscript, looking still shell-shocked from the hair-cutting. Dark green 

eyes. Broad, flat features, lips too pretty, too curved. When he would have filled 

out that frame, he’d actually turn out good looking. 

“Why is she worried about him? Looks alright.” 

Katya’s smile grew a little darker, and she leaned in closer, as if to kiss him. 

Her lips on his ear. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t find something to...not 

talk about.” 

And turned around to fix up some blinis in the kitchen. 

 

 

August 1981, Kabul 

 

After a decidedly non-remarkable welcome, Vadim changed. Changed back 

into his normal gear, weapons everywhere on his body. This was fucking Kabul. 

Welcome back. 

Things hadn’t changed much. He sorted his clothes into the locker, took the 

ring off his finger, returned the dog tags to their place around his neck. Another 

excellent English word. Dog tags. 

Got to work right away, met other officers, had a chat, mentioned Gavriil. 

Pulled strings. After a signature, the young guy was officially his. Had him come 

into the office, to tell him of his good fortune. No mine sweeping. No truck driving. 

Instead, make sure Vadim and another officer got where they wanted to be. 

The door opened, and the boy showed up, saluted. Correct assessment. 

Dark hair, dark eyes, a mouth that was more girlish than that of Anoushka. Vadim 

shook his head. Fuck, he needed to get out of daddy-mode. He stood to circle the 

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kid, assessed that body. Lean, bony, good frame, he had done a lot of running, his 

knuckles looked a little swollen and red, like he had been plucked fresh from a 

fight. 

Gavriil tried to evade his gaze. Meeting somebody’s eyes was asking for a 

fight. He figured Gavriil had learnt that lesson in the barracks. Not much different 

from any kind of prison, really. 

Vadim stepped in front of him, leaned in closer, until those eyes blinked 

and focused on him. Could see the kid swallow and begin to sweat, could see 

tension in that body, and Katya’s word made sense. Someone to not talk about 

things with. Like they never talked about the one thing that could ruin them both. 

A friend. She knew that Gavriil liked men. That was why people were 

worried. A fag in the gigantic prison that was the Red Army. Gavriil would get 

stuffed so often he wouldn’t be able to move. And he could offer protection, pluck 

the boy from the ranks and keep him as a driver. And a toy. That part of the deal 

was the reason why Katya had smiled like that. 

Gavriil’s lips opened, he was nervous, wide-eyed, but Vadim could feel he 

wasn’t repulsed at all. 

That fucking cock of yours gets you killed one day, and if not that, then it’ll 

get you into shit so deep, your obligations won’t get you out of it. 

Vadim breathed. Entirely possible. He placed a hand against the boy’s neck, 

thumb brushing against his jaw line. Good he’d taken off the ring. The boy 

shuddered. Vadim could see him on his hands and knees. 

Too willing. This one didn’t have a single fight in him. But it was safe. The 

safest bet so far. He smiled, let his thumb brush the corner of his mouth.  

Gavriil stared at him, stared like he could hardly believe it. His luck. The 

fact Vadim might be interested. 

Gavriil closed his eyes, lips moved as if in silent prayer. 

“What?” 

“Whatever you want, sir.” 

Officer. Superior. Para. Gavriil was first class bitch material. Suka. He 

smirked. “Isn’t that the truth.” 

 

* * * 

 

 147 

And what a slut. At first he’d played innocent, but Vadim could tell Gavriil 

had had cock in his mouth before. He held him by the collar, not nearly enough 

hair to grab, but the uniform collar was fine. 

It was strangely, darkly amusing, how embarrassed Gavriil was about how 

horny it made him, but Vadim was in no state to go for the all-out thing. Blowjobs 

was the most they could do. Or, Gavriil could do. 

The boy’s body left him strangely unaffected, just not worth conquering. 

And his ribs still hurt like a bitch. He hooked a leg under Gavriil’s body when the 

kid was giving head, allowed the bitch to suck him and press against his leg, 

rubbing against it like a dog to get himself off. Vadim was an officer. And with 

Gavriil, that gap was wider than ever before. He didn’t care whether Gavriil came. 

Sometimes, he’d been nice to Vanya, but Vanya earned that with a fight. 

He did, however, like the way Gavriil flushed, liked the way he was panting 

for breath, liked the feeling of tongue, sucking and eventually trained him to take 

him down the throat. That day he decided he’d keep him as a driver. Men with that 

talent were rare and to be cherished. 

During the days, he did his job, inspections, military liaison with the joke 

that was the Afghan army. Could as well just stay home. A complete waste of time. 

The Afghans lost a third of their number to desertion, and everybody left who 

could or wanted to fight, leaving the bastards that were too scared to run. 

That made for brilliant fighters. Especially since the insurgents were their 

friends and family. Vadim often had the feeling they only stayed around so they 

could steal more kit when they finally did leave. He wasn’t going out of his way to 

be pleasant with them. He knew everything would crumble and fall to pieces again 

the moment he turned his back. 

Very difficult to stay out of the bottle after a day like that. Gavriil soothed 

him. Actively sought to give him a blowjob, like he couldn’t wait. Vadim was not 

going to say no. Six weeks later, his chest was much better, but nowhere near 

alright, he fucked him up the ass. Gavriil came from fucking alone. Another 

excellent trait for a bitch. Needy, easily aroused, even easier finished. He came into 

his trousers when fucked against a wall or across his desk. Not just a bitch, but a 

proper whore. Breathlessly pleading with him. Porn material. Harder, deeper, yes 

sir. It was arousing, but it was too easy. Vadim wasn’t even sure if Gavriil could 

understand what a proper fight was, even if he would try and explain it. 

 148 

Nothing but a doormat. Useful, in its place. 

Fucking boring.