Struggle. Taste of power

Commander-in-Chief

Seversky stood in front of Zubkov, reporting on the last mission. The light was rather dim, for there was only one kerosene lamp burning. He did not want him to see the sleep-deprived eyes of his chief.

Frankly speaking, he was getting quite fed up with this Spetsnazov: he was always too eager to fight, and with his own notions of heroism and military duty. At least it became clear what Bolotnikov could have disagreed with him — he was stubborn about his own ideas, and did not want to see other sides of the case.

— We need a full operation. I'm just gonna lose people one at a time. We work as a team, that's our strength.

— And you would have lost the group then, not one person… Don't be a fool, the group wouldn't have gotten as far as one person did. And he almost made it.

— Comrade Commander-in-Chief, if we had a group, we'd have mowed down every last one of those lousy miners.

— Why would we want to weed out every last lousy miner? — Zubkov got up from the table and walked around to his side. To hell with him, let him know that he reeked of yesterday's alcohol, which he'd had a little too much of. But at least he'll know there's nothing to argue about. — Nobody wants dead miners! Are your men going to mine coal and ore? Well. Tell me? Are you ready to do it?

— Negative. — Seversky pressed his lips together, realizing that he'd overreacted a little. His hatred was turning into stupidity, and he was already realizing that it wasn't doing him any good.

— Exactly. There's no way. — Zubkov continued and headed toward the minibar. There's nothing to lose. If he already smelled his stink, he could have a drink. He took out two glasses from the minibar, took a bottle of old Armenian cognac and went back to the table. — Here, have a shot for a fallen soldier.

Seversky looked at the shot glass, then picked it up and raised it before his eyes. And began to gaze into its contents. It looked as if he were remembering, remembering in great detail this fighter and everything that had touched him before. And then, as if he was remembering those who had passed away before him… The Spetsnazov drank the shot glass in one fell swoop and put it back on the table.

"At last," Zubkov thought. He was beginning to doubt that it was worth pouring this shot glass. But no, it turned out that this decision is even better than he had assumed in advance. After all, he knows how to judge people properly. Not like that old geezer Khmelnitsky, who treated everyone like a "big daddy". You have to be a commander, a boss, a big boss. Then it works. Then you are not only respected, but feared, the main thing. And only then you can show a bit of humanity, like this shot for peace.

The fact that Seversky's man had failed to take out the Mountain was not particularly surprising. It was, in fact, more expected than a possible success. The point of the action was not to achieve the immediate goal. It was to make Gora more suspicious, more suspicious, more fearful. Now he will be afraid of every shadow in every pissed corner, and more cautious in accepting any offer. He's got all sorts of people out there who want to succeed him: hewis, plagues, even his own. He ain't got nothing on the Maquis to think about. Maki doesn't even need him, he doesn't interfere with anything.

Even on the contrary, one could decide that only the Maquis would benefit from his elevation. That only the Maquis will remain his loyal friends, trying to make life better for ordinary people. Not just fighting for influence like everyone else. He may well think so… And the fact that he didn't leak us an informant at all, but someone who fell into his hands, it's not known at all. Maybe he was sure who he was leaking, maybe he wasn't. But it is unlikely that he knows that in the end we let Ranierov go, having found the real traitor. Gora doesn't need to know that. Let him believe that he supplied us with good and timely information.

And the big problem is that now he's got the heebie-jeebies backing him up. Together they might even have a very successful symbiosis. As long as he feeds them economically and provides his, albeit meager, transportation capabilities, the quiwi will successfully defend him from any dangers. And it would be best if he thought of the act he had just made in the form of an assassination attempt on him as an act on the part of the hivi who want to take his place and control everything themselves. There's not much hope for that, but it's still better than just waiting for their conglomerate to gain momentum.

And I think that once the Jackal did not tell everything he knew about his own people and the prefect. I don't think you should have trusted Seversky, who knows nothing else but brute force, with this job. His abrasions healed in one fell swoop while his head was cut in half. He could still be useful. If only for a visible exchange… They had approached him through closed channels with an offer to exchange Jackal for thirty of our fighters. And we had nothing to give … On the other hand, and our 30 fighters would have to give all of them to the Penal Corps and only strengthen Khmelnitsky … Everything always has two sides. There is no one side…

— I'll kill him myself. — Seversky said, sitting menacingly in his chair and looking at the empty shot glass.

— Who?

— The Prefect. I'll come and slit his throat myself.

No, he's a sick fuck. He doesn't think about consequences or reality. They'll know who he is, where he's from. And it'll be clear to everyone who authorized him to go there. All the conspiracies and intrigues for the miners will be forgotten.

— Someone will recognize the commander of the Special Forces of Detachment 14… — the Commander-in-Chief started.

— Let them find out! I'll cut them too.

— Well, as you know… When you put your head down, I'll have no difficulty in putting Bolotnikov in your place. He's a good soldier. He won't let your boys get hurt.

Seversky gave his commander a rather menacing look and stood up:

— I'll still find a way to get the prefect… Permission to go.

— Permission granted.

Seversky bowed out. At least for a while he would be quiet and think about not only his future, but also the future of his favorite special forces, which he no longer separated from himself. There are still times when grown men play with something and begin to treat this something not quite objectively. And as to his brainchild… In short, Khmelnitsky again… He also treated Unit 14 as his brainchild and was afraid of its split. That's weakness, not strength. When you're afraid that the business will burn out, so you give it to someone else… Strength is in the fact that the business does not live without you. Then you can hold it together properly.

Even Bolotnikov's pointing to the right place was good. Of course, I'm not such a fool as to put the disgraced Bolotnikov in the place of the commander of the special forces. But besides, he knows what's on my mind. It can be done out of spite. I'll do it or I won't. No one knows what I will or won't do. Except me. But you can always threaten consequences. Especially for empty-headed soldiers like Seversky…

And it was high time to talk to him too… Since they had so successfully found this traitor to their own disadvantage. The traitor was from the penalty battalion, and even though they found him themselves, they were reprimanded for the fact. Fair? Fair enough. They won't complain… But at the same time we can ask this….

Zubrilov picked up the telephone and ordered his adjutant to call Major Bolotnikov to him. He appeared in a couple of minutes, just a moment before Zubrilov had time to drink another shot and put the bottle with the trimmings away in his desk drawer.

— Major Bolotnikov has arrived on your orders.

— Come in, Major. Have a seat.

Bolotnikov walked over and sat down in the chair opposite. His face showed no anger, no hatred, not even some kind of censure. He was definitely in control of himself and, apparently, was ready for anything.

— Do you know why I called you, Major? — Stroking his chin Zubrilov said.

— I can't know, Comrade Chief.

— That's all right… That you can't know… But I want to ask you something… You've just identified a traitor among your own. In the punishment battalion… He was knocking on the plagues… Is that right?

— That's right.

— That's right… — Zubrilov stretched out, and his hand was about to reach for the bottle in the bedside table to pour himself another drink, but stopped in time. — And tell me, Major, what's worse than snitching to the plagues or working for them?

— Both are crimes. There's no point in making a distinction. No matter how much you help the enemy, if you do it, you are an enemy yourself.

— Yes… — the commander-in-chief realized that it would be impossible to bend the major in the right direction, and decided to switch to another tactic. — That's all so… But come on… I'll ask you directly. What do you think, what is happening now in the group "Donetsk-Makeyevka", when they are extracting and supplying twice as much to the plagues as before. Is this a betrayal?

Bolotnikov looked at him directly and confidently. It was very original that this was the second person in a row to look at him in some such way. They look more like fanatics than soldiers fighting the plagues. You have to realize that the world is not black and white at all, but has many shades. And whoever doesn't realize that will always be at a loss with all their ideals.

— There are many things that can be called treachery, Comrade Glavkom. — replied Bolotnikov. — But I wouldn't call the work of people who get stoned for failing to fulfill a plan treachery. Grisha surrendered his own, being among his own. Miners do everything to survive, that's all.

— Are you not aware, I believe, that it was Gora who wrongly turned Ranierov in to us? — I know. Gora turned in someone he thought was a traitor, based on his calculations….

— That's right… You're right… Based on his calculations… And what calculations does he have when he went from being a brigadier to being a prefect. And when he became a prefect, he got not one mine, but seven… Tell me, what's his calculation now?

Bolotnikov's eyes showed that he understood what Zubrilov was getting at. He understood, and he couldn't help but understand. Because from a certain moment it had become clear to everyone. He who gains power and influence will only want more of both with time. And it is absolutely inappropriate to deny it, when in the course of time you only see the only evidence of it.

— I don't care about his calculations. — Bolotnikov answered as calmly as before. — I am at war with the plagues to free the people. I can have no other goals.

— Are you going to tell the chiwis you're fighting for the people too? Or do you think they also get stoned for not fulfilling the plan? In Kremenchug, it was the Kiwis who fought you. How did it feel? Did it seem like someone was forcing them?

— If you want to give an order, Comrade Commander-in-Chief, then give it. And such talk is not for me. — The major stood up and stared straight ahead. It was clearly impossible to convince him of anything. But at least a seed of doubt, we clearly planted him. How long they have to grow.

These seeds.

— You have one task for now, Major. — said Zubrilov, stroking his chin. — Find a place. A place in the Donetsk-Makeyevka group, where you can still fight with plagues, not people.