Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

1989 Chapter XIX—No Man’s Land 

February 1989, Kabul 

 

“Trouble at home, Vadim Petrovich?” The Colonel handed him an official 

looking letter, which had been opened. They hadn’t even taped it back up. 

“Comrade Colonel?” 

“Don’t play dumb. Take it.” 

Vadim took the letter, opened it, saw Katya had filed for divorce. The 

address was in Budapest. C/o somebody he remembered. The fencer. Szandor who 

had been one of the few lovers he’d had. Proper ones. Good choice. Szandor would 

rather let himself be ripped apart than allow anything bad coming to her. 

Gentleman fencer, slightly effeminate, which the papers had called ‘old school 

dandyism’. He looked up into the Colonel’s face, who didn’t show any expression. 

“My wife filed for divorce.” 

“Why?” The Colonel stood, both hands still on the desk. “Tell me, Vadim 

Petrovich? You seemed very much the family man to me.” 

It’s none of your fucking business, raged a small voice in Vadim’s mind. 

You can’t control everything I do, every breath I take, every decision, including 

whom I fuck, whom I love. I did my duty, didn’t I? “There was a disagreement.” 

“Violence?” The Colonel seemed bemused. 

Vadim inhaled sharply, and gave a nod. Once. “She was being a bitch, with 

all due respect, comrade Colonel. Spoilt, and unfaithful.” He pressed his lips 

together, needed to summon memories to act the part of the wronged husband 

who’d lost his patience. 

“Then why didn’t you teach her a lesson and her lover, too?” The Colonel’s 

eyes narrowed. “You should be resourceful enough for that.” He straightened and 

came around the table. “To clarify, Vadim Petrovich, I find it hard to respect a man 

who doesn’t have his family under control. It’s part of his private life, and an 

officer with a chaotic private life loses his anchor. I can’t have a man with 

responsibilities just float out onto the sea because of his wife.” He was close 

enough for Vadim to smell his breath. “I believe in men controlling every aspect of 

their lives. That includes the wife and children.”  

Vadim swallowed dryly, blanked his mind so nothing of his loathing and 

anger showed in his eyes. “Yes, comrade Colonel.” 

 670 

“I expect you to clean up this mess. This doesn’t reflect well on you. Or 

us.” The Colonel gave him one of his trademark stares, then dismissed him with a 

motion of his hand as if he was about to bitchslap him.  

Vadim managed not to flinch. 

He still signed the papers, once he was in his office. Who could know what 

the Colonel implied. Clean up his private life? He’d do that. All he had to make 

sure was that Katya and the children got out and were safe. 

But he had to tread ever so carefully. The Colonel on his tail was the last 

thing he needed, and even though he’d been seeing Dan regularly—as regularly as 

he could make it—he worked hard to appear like a man without much of a life. 

One that was determined to make Colonel himself in a failing state, one so 

eager for the goodwill of his superiors that he had no will of his own. 

Dan had told him the Baroness would help him, would organise everything 

for changing sides. He assumed they had to run a check on him first, and he 

dreaded the visit to London coming up in their search. Leaving his country only to 

be incarcerated for murder? The irony. He’d come close several times to confess 

the story, tell Dan, but Dan seemed to hope for a better future in a way that Vadim 

didn’t manage. Britain likely didn’t forgive hit men, least of all those that had been 

offered a chance to defect and hadn’t. 

It was all hanging in the balance and in the void, not quite letting go one 

side, and not quite gripping onto the other side was more of a mental strain than 

Vadim had anticipated. He found himself staring at his paperwork when he was 

supposed to approve things and issue orders, and his mind only knew that once 

frantic dance: When? When? When? 

He sneaked out when possible, manoeuvring like a chased rabbit, feeling 

the stare of the hunter in his mind, and met Dan to check on him while he was 

healing and steadily gaining strength, exchange kisses and vows, tender sex until 

Dan was back to strength, and Vadim felt too petrified to make any plans yet, even 

though Dan sometimes did. Dan told him about his home, how he’d show Vadim 

places he called lochs and glens, how they’d be in the highlands, and of that castle 

on the mountain above Edinburgh. Dread mixed with hope. Eating at his soul, his 

strength, while he hoped for one thing he couldn’t force: mercy from the enemy. 

 

* * * 

 671 

 

Months moved on, during which Dan worked ceaselessly on his strength. 

Doing every exercise he could, only held back by the nurse on occasion, keeping 

him from overdoing the work on his body, until she, too, left. Time passed, through 

late autumn and winter, and Dan was getting more desperate every time he spoke 

to the Baroness, asking if there were new developments in helping the Major to 

defect. Nothing, though, no final decision. No ‘yes’, and not even the dreaded ‘no’. 

Complications, she explained to him, refusing to elaborate on exactly what those 

complications were. Foreign Office, immigration, government and internal security, 

and whoever else might be involved in the business of offering refuge to a 

desperate man. 

When Dan had asked for her help she had agreed readily, surprising him 

with her lack of questions and objections. He knew she was working on trying to 

get a deal for Vadim, but what did he have to offer? The question kept churning in 

Dan’s mind, while the worries grew. Who was Vadim, of what importance was he, 

and what did he know? Not much, so why should Britain want him as defector, and 

take any risks? Vadim was nothing but a small fish in a big pond of upheavals in 

Eastern European politics. 

Christmas came, and Vadim told Dan that he had received and signed the 

divorce papers, but that was all he knew. He had been told that Katya and Vadim 

had talked, back in autumn, during Vadim’s R&R in Moscow. Dan never lost the 

niggling doubt that there was somehow more, but he gave up prying a long time 

ago. 

Kabul was cold over New Year, as freezing a winter as it had always been 

and Dan’s duties mostly consisted of staying inside, with the occasional foray into 

the outdoors, once he was fit again. Guarding the lady ambassador whenever she 

had dinners, soirees, matinees, and whatever other fancy shit they called those 

functions. He was bored, the goddamned small talk, genteel faces and polite 

manners around him just didn’t feel right. In the beginning he had relished the 

luxury and the ease of his job, yet it began to wear on him, the more desperate he 

became for news on Vadim’s status. Hoping he was granted political asylum 

before the last soldiers of the Soviet forces were pulled out of Afghanistan. 

 672 

January passed and then February made its way into the year, with almost 

all of the troops out of the country, and still no news, despite the Baroness’ 

endeavours. 

The time had come, Dan could feel it in his blood, drilling down into his 

bones and rushing into his lungs. He could sense it in every cell, and taste it in the 

wind that blew snow and dust up his nostrils. Smelling the scent of finality, and 

cutting himself on the serrated, rusty blade of The End. 

He didn’t need to be told, nor had to read the news. He already knew the 

Glorious Soviet Army had pulled its tail between its legs and was leaving the 

country. Beaten, defeated. There were no winners in this war, and he dreaded the 

day Vadim received his marching orders. 

 

* * * 

 

Wrapping up after a too long day, Vadim crossed the mostly empty 

barracks. The air of frustration, of tiredness, of worn out minds and hearts was 

palpable, and he felt nothing, only drained. Ten years of his life. Many people dead, 

displaced, many conscripts forever haunted by this place, and what an extravagant 

waste of time and effort. Making sure the small wheels turned, learning how to 

wage war in a country where all the odds were staked against the invaders. 

Vadim paused, stood there in front of the placard. 

From the grateful Afghan people to the Soviet brothers. 

What now? He had no idea. No idea at all who would be wielding power 

here. If there was power to be wielded, and Afghanistan not just a waste of 

everything. He kept the piece of paper in the front pocket. 

He, too, would be gone. He could feel the unease, the shudders of tectonic 

shifts in Moscow. Growing unrest in Europe. The ice was thawing, and made 

everything treacherous. Things were moving. He had no idea where they’d send 

him. To Moscow, first, with the rest of his unit. And after that? There were enough 

places where he expected trouble. 

Grateful Afghan people. 

Shaking his head, he moved on, towards the place in Kabul. He was pale 

and silent when he closed the door behind him, bringing the February frost with 

him into the room. 

 673 

Dan turned round, he had been in the main room, doing…nothing. Just 

standing, flexing his knackered hand around scissored steel, building muscles and 

strength. Something to do while deliberately not thinking. 

“Vad…” Dan never finished his greeting. He could see it in the other’s face, 

knew it from his stance and understood each unspoken word from every movement. 

“When?” 

Vadim pulled the ushanka off, began to unbutton the greatcoat. He couldn’t 

look at Dan now, his own mind blank, a dark place with hectic movement that 

made no sense. Run away? Where to? Disobey? How? “Monday.” He shook his 

head. “Already. I can’t...imagine not being here.” 

“No!” Dan dropped the device, swivelled around. “That’s four days.” 

Impossible, it couldn’t be. There was not enough time left, they had never had 

enough time in the first place. 

“Yes.” Vadim felt defeated. It was becoming a habit. In war, in his private 

life, in love, too? 

“Maggie is trying, I know she is, but there is something that’s cropped up 

and that I cannot make any sense of. Something about security issues, 

complications, but I’m not told what it is. They are vetting still, but there is 

something they are worried about, something that is holding up the process. They 

just don’t believe that you are genuine, it seems.” 

Vadim shook his head. He’d never been more genuine. He’d had more 

control with Dan’s muzzle between his teeth, on his knees, hurting, expecting to be 

executed. This feeling was worse. He’d be destroyed by a force he couldn’t see nor 

fight. 

Dan stepped close, until his chest touched Vadim’s, which made Vadim 

look up again. “It’s because you are fucking Spetsnaz, isn’t it?” Anger blazing in 

Dan’s eyes, fuelled by nothing but desperation. “And you’re more than that, aren’t 

you?” 

“Yes.” Spetsgruppe Vympel. Killers, assassins, counter-terrorists. Strike the 

counter. They’d kept him there to strike, every now and then, so they had a man in 

Kabul, kept him in waiting like a mole, used him like any other officer to do his 

duty. Keeping him ready in case he was expected to storm the presidential palace 

again. “A special detachment.” 

 674 

Dan nodded. He’d always known, but he didn’t want to hear anymore. 

“You cannot leave.” His voice was suddenly quiet, and he felt as if each word 

turned into death. “You cannot, Vadim.” Shaking his head, his hands digging into 

the other’s shoulders. “You might never return from behind the Iron Curtain, no 

matter how much the East is falling apart.” 

“I think it could be Eastern Europe next. I speak some German, 

remember?” Vadim’s face twitched, it hurt badly to think about it, worse to accept 

the facts. Out in the cold. Defeated. Dan did not yet see that there was no place to 

run. “Fuck, hold me.” 

Dan’s arms moved around Vadim, he had his strength back, and was 

holding him with all that he ever was and ever would be. “No.” As if his refusal 

changed anything. “You’ve got to get out of there.” Hopelessness was worse than 

anything, even that night in Kabul, nine years ago. Desperation, and the deepest 

darkness. It couldn’t be, there had to be another option. “Something, anything? 

Vadim…” Pressing the other’s body to his, two men, once enemies, now equals—

lovers. “There must be something.” Dan whispered, but he was no fool. 

“I...just can’t think,” said Vadim, fighting the despair. Not resourceful, war 

weary, drained, bleached out, unable to tap the strength he’d once possessed, the 

anger, the cunning bastard Spetsnaz seemed so far away. 

“Maybe...wait. Till I get posted somewhere else. Maybe I can get to a 

British embassy if they’ve made up their minds.” 

“Aye, that would work.” Dan couldn’t think of anything else. Nothing 

except for desolation. It couldn’t end like this. Just...over. Vadim divorced, free 

from that woman and her children, away from family and anything that could keep 

him from being with him. “You’re mine.” Whispered, beginning to kiss along jaw 

and down the neck. “You’re mine, not anyone else’s.” Lips, teeth nipping, tasting 

skin. “Not even Mother Russia’s. You’re mine.” 

Vadim groaned at the touch, the pledges again, vows, ownership, caring, 

claiming him when he felt detached from anything, everything, hanging in the void. 

Dan pulled him in. Anchored him. Secured him, like one mountain climber the 

other, rope and irons and nothing but the abyss if the rope failed. “It’ll work. I 

haven’t got this far to give up. Fuck Moscow.” 

“It will work.” Dan’s kisses grew more intense. “It must.” Because you are 

mine, and you belong to me. 

 675 

Because we survived and we will continue surviving. 

 

 

 

19

th 

February 1989 

 

It was Sunday, the last day. The final day. 

The last supper and all of that, but Dan was not a believing man. Instead he 

had pleaded, searched, gambled and finally found a room in the best hotel in Kabul. 

The last one standing throughout the war that offered a modicum of luxury. Vast 

bed, bathroom, proper hot running water and clean sheets. The Baroness knew 

where he was, had even helped in finding the place, as covert an operation as 

possible. 

Vadim. The end. 

Dan was waiting for Vadim, like a condemned man, a prisoner in the hotel 

room, waiting for his execution. The morning would come too soon, and it would 

be over, except for the hope that somehow, someday, Vadim could make it out. 

Dan sat on the bed, waiting. They had until dawn, eight precious hours. 

 

* * * 

 

‘Don’t make a mistake on the last night. We need you, Vadim Petrovich’, 

the Colonel had said, and smiled at him, as Vadim had turned down the invitation 

to eat and drink. The officers left in style, getting pissed on the last night away 

from home. Vadim had politely declined the company. He’d be fucked if he wasted 

his time with those bastards. 

Instead he took the other invitation. The one that would carve out his heart 

and make it tonight’s dinner. He was aching inside, a pain that told him it was, 

indeed, love. He’d known it, said it, confessed to it, but now that it all was at risk 

again, maybe for years, maybe forever, the pain was so keen that he knew it was 

the real thing. Only the real thing could hurt so much. 

Cheer up, he admonished himself. Don’t fucking make this a funeral. It 

wasn’t. It was a start. Rapped on the door, pulled up his shoulders, and forced his 

lips into a smile. 

 676 

“The door’s open.” Dan stood up, hand hovering close to the small of his 

back. Despite knowing who had knocked, the pistol was never far away. He’d lived 

in luxury—and mostly in peace for the last two years, but old instincts died hard. 

Vadim entered, carefully, closed the door after slipping in. Hadn’t had any 

chance to shed the Soviet uniform, everything else in his room in the barracks was 

packed and ready to go. His books. Presents for friends and family. Photos of dead 

and departed comrades. Dima’s address. The medic had told him to be in touch, 

and Vadim had sent tentative letters. Told him what was going on, while Dima 

served in the Caucasus. He might become a friend, over the years, if Vadim 

managed to keep the contact alive. Lesha was still a friend. They were in touch, 

because Lesha had sent the first letter and told him to answer it – now that the 

contact was established again, reasoned Lesha, it would be too much of a shame to 

let it slip once more. 

“I’m right here.” Dan’s lips curved into a smile he did not feel. He had 

really groomed this time. Standing in his best clothes, the string of prayer beads 

wound around the wrist of his fucked but functional hand. Hair washed and 

brushed, gleaming. Wild, still, too long as always, but he knew how much Vadim 

liked that. Freshly shaved, above and below, and he’d even tried not to smoke too 

much, so as not to taste and smell of nicotine. Food and drink stood on a table 

nearby, exquisite snacks, provided by the embassy, and the best vodka and whisky, 

together with a bottle of wine from the Baroness’ personal stash. 

Vadim looked over the feast and smiled. “Ah, good, I haven’t eaten much 

today.” He pulled gloves off his hands, cast them onto the nightstand, the ushanka 

followed, running his hand over his shorn hair. “Our two man party, Dan?” 

Dan wanted to scream, or kill and maim. He was still SAS, inside, and as a 

soldier, he would keep going on. Until the final day, when it was all over. ‘Never 

give up, never surrender’. 

“Sure.” He tried that smile again, but it threatened to falter. “We’ve got 

eight hours, I thought we’d better make the most of it.” 

Vadim shed the greatcoat, hung it up on a hook near the door, then paused. 

“Dan...promise me one thing? Will you bite and fuck me so hard I’ll still feel you 

in Moscow? Please?” 

 677 

“Shit.” Dan’s bravado faltered, and with a couple of steps he crossed the 

distance, arms around Vadim, pressing his lips against the other’s, murmuring, 

“Anything. Fuck, anything you want from me.” 

Vadim pressed him close, just kissing him so hard it hurt, but he didn’t care 

when all he could feel in his heart was a raw, throbbing pain like from amputation. 

“I want...” He forced their lips apart, placed bites on Dan’s chin, down the soft 

flesh between throat and chin. “I want you to fuck me as hard and deep as you 

can.” Leaving red traces, bite marks with every movement, hand going to Dan’s 

groin, pressing him through the cloth. “I want you to tell me how it feels fucking 

me, and ask me if I can feel you deep enough. I want to feel you in every joint of 

my body, with all your power, I want to hurt, and I want you to come inside me. 

Then...” He grinned, feeling the reaction his words had on Dan, the grin that of a 

predator, “Then I’ll make you feel my pain. I’ll have you, Dan, and if you scream, 

that’s good because that’s what I want to hear. I want to hear you scream my name 

while I press you into that mattress over there. I don’t care tonight. Tonight I want 

all your pain, and all your lust. Do you copy, soldier?” 

“Copy.” Dan groaned, shuddering under touch, bites and possessive words. 

Insanity, and it was just what they needed. “Nine years, and you’ll feel all of them 

tonight.” He was steering towards the bed, while working on getting Vadim out of 

his uniform. How he hated the cloth that had become more familiar than his own 

uniform had ever been; how he loathed the sight. It was the uniform which would 

take Vadim away, that, and the Soviet people. Mother Russian was in his eyes a 

fucked-up aging whore, scrabbling to keep her sons and former lovers around her 

on her death bed. 

Vadim felt the bed against the backs of his calves and grinned, helping Dan 

to shed the tunic and shirt, cast away everything, undershirt, watch, only leaned 

down to get rid of the boots, felt Dan’s hands pull down his trousers, and was hard 

already. Fell down on the bed, moved to get in the middle of it, grinning up, 

stroking himself while watching Dan undress. 

Dan had never got himself out of his clothes that quickly before. Tore at his 

shirt, threw it into a corner, belt, trousers, boots, socks, all in a jumble, discarded. 

His body groomed: shaved, scrubbed, smoothed, as if he were the last meal himself. 

 678 

Vadim’s eyes were wide, staring at Dan, his lover, bared like that, trusting 

him, prepared for him, how he liked him. “Come here,” Vadim murmured, throat 

suddenly parched. 

Dan crawled between Vadim’s legs, one arm on either side of the other’s 

head, looking down. “Do you know what you look like when you lie like this? Do 

you know what it does to me?” His cock answered his own question, but still he 

asked, eyes darker than ever. 

“You do the same to me…” Vadim ran his fingers up Dan’s arms, traced 

the lines of muscle that stood out, up to his pecs, down towards his abs and the 

lines of ragged scars. 

“When you are like this, Vadim, I want to own you, and taste you, burrow 

all the way into your body until I feel so much it fucking hurts in every fibre, and 

your scent clings to every pore. I want to hurt you, tear you apart, fuck you until 

you plead and scream and bleed, and all that, because I can never get enough of 

you.” Dan’s breath caught in his throat, allowing himself to feel. Anything, and all 

of it. “You’re in my blood, Vadim, and I want you to bleed for me again, tonight.”