general, that it did not necessarily bode well if someone suddenly started treating you like a human being, especially generals or other officers. It is better to answer them clearly and concisely, stay on your guard because today a general or colonel may be chatty and friendly, and the next morning let you have it in the neck so you won't know what hit you. Chapter Ten. Ambush The valley became crowded. Crammed with people and weapons, it breathed heavily on the threshold of battle. Maybe not everyone awoke that morning in a fighting mood. Some were shaken by doubts - would fate be merciful or not, but there was nothing to be done: a decision had been made up top, orders were issued, passed along the web of command like a flock of sparrows gathering around a handful of crumbs, orders to brigades, regiments, companies, platoons. There was no way back: someone omnipotent had thought up a battle, and the men of war went out towards the unknown, just as gladiators had done thousands of years ago in order to amuse a select public. The air forces had roared by. The aircraft dropped their loads of dozens of bombs and returned to base, making way for the artillery. The guns gave voice, methodically shelling quadrants as if preparing a potato field for planting, turning, turning the earth over. The officers in the command supervisory point, including general Sorokin, saw a compelling picture through their binoculars: nose dive - explosion, another round - another explosion; pillars of dirt and smoke shot skywards. It was frightening to imagine how the enemy must feel under such a barrage; probably it was like being in hell; everything living or inanimate that was ringed on battle maps was being fragmented and destroyed, sentenced to death by the movement of blue pencils wielded by headquarters staff. It was the artillery's task to work over all the slopes, villages and patches of greenery, to hit and kill, so that nobody would survive, to strip the valley and beat down the tops of the chain of hills, iron them out so that they would finally allow the alien infantry unresisting passage and accept the hand of a new master. Sorokin recalled the recent words of the commander: "The troops won't advance until the air force and the artillery don't wipe everyone out -I don't need extra losses-" Everyone says that, thought Sorokin with a sigh, until there's pressure from the top. It is always worse if someone from the Moscow brass turns up. They invariably demand quick results. So they can return all the sooner and give a good account. If the Minister of Defense arrives, then losses increase several times over. That happened in Pandjshir, in Kandaghar. In this case, things weren't going too badly, "daddy" was conducting the operation well, exerting no pressure on the commander, everything had been worked out in advance and the operation was going to plan. Unfortunately, thought Sorokin looking at the scene of activity through his binoculars, it is never possible to kill absolutely everyone. The spooks would go to ground in caves, irrigation tunnels and sit out the bombardment, even vacuum bombs wouldn't affect them. There will be losses, inevitably there will be losses. War is never without victims- The troops moved forward towards the foe. Like spawning trout, choppers spread out all over the place, disgorging handfuls of men here and there. The army machine began to move, rotate, crawl in the direction of the spooks' fortified area, unit after unit. It was always like this in war since times immemorial; someone waited in the train for the outcome of the battle, someone watched from a distance and someone fought and died. Senior lieutenant Sharagin figured among those who fought - his platoon was to be dropped into the hills under cover of darkness, last preparations were being made, among the observers was general Sorokin and a clutch of headquarters political staff who were all bored but managed to hide their inactivity by looking important, serious, indispensable. A rotund lieutenant colonel was doing an especially good job of this subterfuge. He leafed through an exercise book, made notes from time to time and, in order to impress general Sorokin, occasionally turned to his colleagues and read out bits from some book or other about the manners and mores of the Pashtun tribes, against whom this whole operation had been planned. "Brass on the way!" cried a lean lieutenant colonel bounding up to the observers, and then blanched slightly. "Sorry, comrade general, but a member of the Military Council is on his way over here with a camera crew-" Many generals like to see everything snap into action and hear loud commands the moment they appear on the horizon, otherwise they feel that their high position is not being recognized sufficiently. The member of the Military Council belonged to this type of generals. Sorokin seemed relatively unaffected by such fussing. While the television people were recording an interview with the Military Council ace, Sorokin noted that the journalist was breathing very heavily. In the newscasts on "Vremya" this always seemed very impressive, introducing a note of urgency as though the journalist had accompanied a reconnaissance patrol up the mountainside and remained alongside the outstanding fighters of the Limited Contingent in battle. I feel like I want to be in the picture, too, thought Sorokin fleetingly. The other officers probably got in, fussing around in the background and unfolding maps, pretending to draw lines on them, holding their binoculars to their eyes and turning this way and that. The whole country will see them. "Finished?" asked the Military Council general, running a hand over his hair. The wind had not affected his hairdo during the interview. "Did it come out well?" "You described everything perfectly," nodded the journalist. "So, what now?" "I'd like to get some footage of a platoon of paratroopers, remember we talked about it? The last hours before battle, that sort of thing." "Hmmm-" pondered the member of the Military Council. The lieutenant colonel with bushy eyebrows looked eagerly at the Mililtary Counselor, trying to catch his eye, his whole demeanor expressing devotion. He succeeded. "Boris Alexandrovich, contact the paras. Who's in command there?" "I've just been speaking with Bogdanov." "Is he all set?" "Yes." "Boris Alexandrovich will escort you. Once you're through filming, we'll have dinner. I hope you'll join us too, Alexei Glebovich." "Yes, of course," assured the journalist. Sorokin inclined his head gratefully: "Thank you." The group of political officers returned to discussing the military and political situation in the province with serious faces, putting on a good show for the general, analyzing the circumstances aloud. Pashtuns, Tadjiks, Khazars, Uzbeks, Parcham, Khalk, Amin, Taraki, Babrak Karmal, Akhmad Shah Masood, Gulbeddin - everyone and their aunt Ermyntrude's here, thought Sorokin, what a devil's brew! Everything's hopelessly mixed up. How many memorandums had been written, how much he'd read both in Moscow and here at the residence, but how on earth could you be expected to remember it all? In any event, it's a rather futile occupation to sit around discussing the customs of tribes which have just been bombed. On his way to wash and have a rest, the general spotted bare-chested medics, bellies hanging over their belts, playing backgammon between some army vehicles. Soldiers incapacitated by heat stroke lay on stretchers behind them. The general passed by without stopping at this temporary medical point, or he would have seen how one of the medics finished a game, went over to the bodies on the stretchers and dribbled a thin trickle of water on the slack faces of the unconscious young soldiers, then hurried back to the game to recoup his losses. - Andersen is here, the great storyteller-if only you'd say the truth for once! Back in the Union people watch his reports, believing every word-fables, utter garbage! Hans Christian Andersen would have envied your ability to fantasize!- The officer looked suitably solemn as he shook the hand of the journalist who was as fat as himself: "Lieutenant colonel Bogdanov." "Pleasure." The journalist threw a beady eye over the small parachutes, which decorated the experimental uniform, as if making sure that the officer was from the paratroops and not a substitute, then clapped the lieutenant colonel on the shoulder. "Let's have a look at your lot." The journalist addressed generals with the official "you", but he didn't stand any ceremony with colonels and lieutenant colonels, not considering them his equals. The familiar "thou" would do for them. "Where are your eagles, then?" -Got to get out of this-all I need is to be forced to make stupid comments for the whole country to hear-I'll be a laughing-stock- "Comrade senior lieutenant!" called Bogdanov. Sharagin cursed silently. "No, his face is too Slavic," pronounced the journalist decisively. "And he's an officer. I'd like you to gather a group of ordinary soldiers of various nationalities, to show friendship of the peoples, so to speak. An Armenian with an Azeri, say, someone from one of the Baltic States, someone from Central Asia." "Senior lieutenant Sharagin reporting as ordered!" "No, you can go," Bogdanov waved dismissal. "Where the hell can we find so many different faces? We do have one Armenian. Is that right? And a Lithuanian. Or is he a Latvian?" "A Latvian, comrade lieutenant colonel!" "What if we ask among the neighboring units? Or do you need only paratroopers?" interrupted the beetle-browed lieutenant colonel escorting the journalist. "Fine, see to it!" agreed the journalist. "You'll sit in the middle with your paras," he instructed Bogdanov, pointing to the spot where he wanted him. "Make sure we can see their striped undershirts. The "chocks" can sit over here-. - whew!- sighed Sharagin. - it's bad luck to be photographed before battle. -and more so to be filmed -even though Lena would have liked to see me on television.. but then she would worry even more - Sorokin enjoyed a hearty meal; they finished off a bottle of vodka, exchanged courtesies with the television reporter and set off for a few hours' rest. After-dinner laziness is inexorable. He recalled fleetingly that the camera must have caught him in the background several times and thought how nice it would be for the family to see him on the evening news even so. On this thought he drifted off to sleep. When he woke up, he began a mental comparison of the current operation and those which had taken place at the start of the Afghan epic. For some reason this particular tour of duty in Afghanistan, a short visit to the war, kept turning his thoughts back to the time Soviet troops first entered Afghanistan. He kept wondering if there would be anyone to tell the tale of the 40th Army, or would its history remain classified as "top secret" forever? It hurt. Nobody would be able to recreate all the events, all the battles, he told himself. Because there are so many untruths in the papers written and sent to Kabul and Moscow. Just out of interest, he decided, I'll read up the reports on this operation when I get back to Kabul and compare them with what I've seen with my own eyes. For sure there'll be discrepancies. Had the reports sent to command from the division he had served in been all that much different? The distortions began at company and battalion level. Reports were so often a far cry from reality! And the further, the worse. An account sent from the division to army headquarters it would be stated that so many rebels had been killed, so many heavy-caliber machine guns had been taken, so many rifles, a recoilless, but the physical trophies presented would be about five rusty rifles which looked suspiciously like those taken a few months ago. Deception? By the looks of it, yes. Why seek any further for evidence when he, Sorokin, had personally witnessed straight-out farces of this kind? Yesterday a sharp lieutenant colonel, one Bogdanov, had staged an attack and battle, reporting in against the sound of the voices of his subordinates, laced with swear-words: "They're having a go at us!" He was even commended by the divisional commander and the overall commander, because he immediately ordered return fire and claimed that his lads had taken out all the rebel firing positions, emerged without a single loss from a spook ambush and taken the positions they were aiming for right on time. But only this morning, Sorokin heard about all this from an eyewitness from that column. It emerged that nothing of the kind had happened. No spooks, no ambush-So most likely nobody would ever write the truth about this war. And if later anyone were to attempt an analysis of this operation, they would come across an incident which never even occurred. Several days into the operation, Sorokin was summoned back to Kabul. The general was already in the helicopter when an order came through from the Military Counselor to delay the flight. They took off later than planned, which annoyed the general intensely. The hospitable Counselor had spent all this time plying the journalist with food and drink, and this caused an hour's delay on departure. Two people loaded "Andersen" into the chopper with difficulty. He reeked of alcohol. He was in no condition to think or even recognize anyone. "Greetings to our valiant officers! Let's go!" he managed to say, and promptly began to snore. The shuravi moved deeper and deeper into the Afghan meat-grinder; - we're hordes and hordes and hordes - It turned them over, squashed them, killed them; insatiable death demanded new victims; people resisted, but not always with success. After debilitating combat, seizure of the heights and pursuit of scattered spook groups, the battalion was moving towards the main camp, to the armed group. Sharagin's platoon brought up the rear. -only our soldiers can go scrambling around these mountains loaded down with weapons and rations for some idea and ten coupons a month, fight like hell and die with a feeling of "duty discharged" in this damned Afghanistan!- is this a platoon? -a handful!- what's this for a platoon, fuck it?! Twelve men-.the slopes of that mountain look like an unshaved chin, scattered with bushes-I need a shave, too- Sharagin took the rifle off his shoulder into his hands. Now his short shadow was armed, too, just in case. - twelve men in the platoon-so what?-it's been worse-that's right, there were times when we'd scale these mountains and laugh with joy that we were at least ten-as for now - a whole twelve!-we'll do a bit more fighting yet!-an hour more, and we should be out of here-fucking mountains! Time for you to go home, Sharagin- He wiped his forehead and eyebrows with filthy hands. His hat had been saturated with sweat, but had now dried out and drooped sadly, white traces of salt all over it. The hat held back the sweat, but trickles would still get through and roll down sunburned face and neck. -it's hard going, the lungs can't handle it, and my troops are tired, like dried fish-mouth dry, throat scratchy-we can't stop, we've got to get out of here-I don't like the feel of this ridge - He cast a look at his men - they were moving along in file, still game. -Savatyev's tired of lugging that machine gun-.he carried a wounded comrade exactly like that once-Burkov's limping, probably rubbed his feet raw-Well, Gerasimov, this is all a bit different to writing combat reports for the political officer, isn't it?-Myshkovsky's keeping everyone moving-hmmmm, wonder if it's mined here? Too late now if it is, should have thought of that sooner-now we'll just have to take our chances-.but no, nobody's been here-I hope- Two walking in front of him. Rear view of heads and backs. Dried sweat stains on the shirts. So what, he doesn't need to see their faces. He knows all his men even from the back. - you can see Sychev's cheeks sticking out even from the back, he'll be a fatso in ten years' time, for sure-Chirikov's pants are flapping around, he's round-shouldered and sway-backed-"never mind my sunken chest, take a look at the bend in my back"- - a shower, a good shower, that's what I need, a glass of water after the bath-house-I don't like this gorge-I'll spend an hour under the shower-clean clothes-.there's got to be one of our positions somewhere, up on that crest, I think-quit worrying, there aren't any spooks here! There can't be. There shouldn't be, what would spooks be doing here?-we've left them all behind-we killed all the spooks-we'll get down to the riverbed, and it won't be far after that-I'm dying for a smoke- -damned sun's broiling-hang in there, pal!-everything behind me is in order, in front, too-I'm tired, everyone's tired-.prickly nervous faces, sour, drooping-.replacement, replacement soon-don't think about that!-a bare ridge to the left, I don't like that ridge-where's the promised outpost? -it's too quiet-where are our people?-I'll buy a double cassette player, just like Zebrev's-just as well I've bought just about everything for my girls-must make a trip into town after the operation-what's he talking about, a break!- "No stopping! Keep moving! Look lively!" - the sun, this blasted sun, cold and snow would be better than this heat, and when you sleep in the mountains at night you freeze and wish it was warm, can't wait for the sun to rise-. -the faster we're out of here the better, away from trouble, rotten place, none of our positions to be seen, we've got to get out of here-clouds over the sun, the sun's gone- cloud shadow over the whole gorge- More than two kilometers away, company commander Zebrev stood in the shelter and through his binoculars saw small figures with matted greasy beards. At this distance, they looked like toys. Sure-footed men in turbans and Pashtun hats swarmed over the crest and scattered in different directions, taking up positions behind huge boulders and waiting for the tail platoon to appear; Zebrev saw Sharagin's platoon walking into the ambush, but there was nothing he could do- Machine guns chattered, the paras fell like tin soldiers which a boy playing at war tips over one after another, crying out: "Bang-bang! You're dead! Lie there and don't move! And you're wounded!" Sharagin fell after the first shot and explosion. He breathed in the bitter taste of the explosion, lost his hearing, but rallied quickly, swallowed the bitterness and breathed deeply, as if surfacing after a dive, "sobered up." The flash of the explosion nearby seemed to spear through his eyes, penetrate his brain, pierce his consciousness more painfully than an injection, and receded just as quickly. He thought that he had jumped himself, hiding from the streams of fire raining down the slope, and it was partly true, he struck the sand and felt himself soaked in blood. However, he could not tell for sure how much time passed since he heard the shots and explosion, when he became wounded, threw his backpack and sleeping bag off and saw the streams of blood as he tried to aim at the crest. The ambush struck him off course, snapped some inner regular mechanism, time went out of kilter and began to contract and expand in some mysterious way. -Someone omnipotent threw the dice and HIS, Sharagin's number came up. But that same omnipotent being seemed to hesitate at the last moment, as though distracted, or maybe the dice fell on their ribs and remained like that for a while before rolling over on the table, and this gave a few extra moments of life, nothing compared to infinity- He evaluated the situation at once: they'd made their move well, the spooks, the entire platoon was exposed. Sharagin tried to estimate how long they could hold out, how far off was the battalion, would they be able to establish contact with them quickly over the radio, and wondered bitterly where the hell the supposed shelter really was. Junior sergeant Myshkovsky was the first to spot that the commander was wounded. He ran, and Sharagin could see spurts of dust under the soldier's feet. He did not recognize his own voice, it was as if someone else was shouting over the noise of the battle: "Back! Go back!" Myshkovsky stopped suddenly, as though he heard the order, jerked, spun on the spot and froze for a moment, unnaturally, as if he was about to run back, away from the ambush, but then changed his mind and crashed to the ground. He fell face-forward on the sharp fangs of stones, one of which pierced his eye; an outside observer would have thought that it must be unbearably painful to fall face down on stones and lose an eye that way. But Myshkovsky had felt nothing, he was already dead on his feet when a volley of bullets stitched accurately, like a machine seam, through his heart and lungs. The panama fell off his head and rolled away with its red star, hammer and sickle. The dead face, turned towards his commanding officer, seemed somehow child-like, naively surprised, and at the same time seemed to be waiting for a last order, because his commander had called something to him a moment ago. Myshkovsky's remaining eye was frozen in the reflection of death. - death chose him, I'm next- As soon as Sharagin took his hand away from his neck, a thick stream of blood, broad as a finger, spurted out into the dust, dyeing surrounding small stones. He licked his palm as if to make sure that it was really blood, and tasted its warm saltiness in his mouth. He spat. Overcoming the pain, which constricted his neck and burned, Sharagin managed to take cover from the spooks behind a rock. - I need bandaging as quickly as possible - He tore open a pack of dressing, but realized that he could not bandage himself properly. Turning on his other side he called: "Sychev! Sychev!" Sychev could neither see nor hear the commander. - my shoes are wet-why are they wet?-boots full of blood, I can move my toes, but it's slurping inside-my shirt's all wet, sticky-the wound has to be plugged!- "Sychev!" The soldier was busy reloading but finally noticed that the platoon leader was wounded, crawled up crabwise, keeping a frantic eye on the crest, saw his friend lying behind Sharagin. "Myshara!" "He's dead," husked Sharagin in order not to lose time. "Sons of bitches!" yelled Sychev. He grabbed his assault rifle, but Sharagin restrained him. "Right, comrade senior lieutenant, we'll have you bandaged in no time-" He tore the rubber packaging of the dressing with his teeth, and began bandaging Sharagin's throat. The dressings, absorbing blood like a sponge, stuck together, allowing thin red trickles to pass through. 'We've had it," said Sychev fearfully as a grenade exploded nearby, but Sharagin's eyes snapped him back. He was about to say something when the sky above them seemed to quiver, keel over sideways and turn upside-down- - if the jugular vein's ripped, it's curtains, I'll be dead in a minute- The bleeding won't stop!" yelled the soldier, cringing away from flying bullets. "It's not stopping!" he shouted straight into Sharagin's ear. "The wrapping! Plug it with the bandage wrapping-" guessed Sharagin. The result was a huge bulge on his neck. The bleeding stopped. He turned his head, and blood began to trickle again. Sychev listened to Sharagin's rasping voice and passed on his orders. Did the other soldiers on the slope hear them? "Don't waste ammunition!" cried Sychev at the top of his voice. "Hit the crest with the heavy fire! Cover the left flank!-Single shots!-Don't waste ammunition!-" Sharagin rolled over on his stomach. He could clearly see a spook coming down the slope. - about the same age as me - He kept the spook in his sights. He had such a good aim that it would be disappointing if someone else beat him to it and shot his "prey." - time - The bullets hit their mark. The spook fell, but Sharagin kept his finger on the trigger because spook heads were poking up to left and right from behind rocks. He had used up most of his magazine when his rifle jammed. Almost at the same moment, everything went black. - this is it-I won't let them take me alive, I'll wait until it quiets down and then I'll blow myself up, when the spooks come closer I'll get them too- He pulled a grenade out of his vest, clutching it in his hand like something infinitely precious, something that would bring instant release from suffering and the horror of being taken prisoner. His eyesight returned. At first everything looked foggy, but then cleared. He could see Sychev not far from himself. The only thing he could not understand was why had everyone stopped shooting? Could they have possibly driven off the spooks? -I must be deaf! It can't have finished just like this-such things don't happen- In fact, the battle had not stopped, it was just that the senior lieutenant couldn't hear a thing. He saw Sychev's face twisting, saw his rifle move, cartridge cases falling to the ground, but he could hear neither voices nor shots. The soft whiskers on the grenade straightened out. Sharagin pressed it to his heart with his right hand. - pain, I didn't notice it immediately - Pain. It took possession timidly, - like a fellow-passenger in a crowded bus- Crept up carefully, as if wanting to nestle up: only later, acquiring strength, it changed into something brighter, anxiety-provoking - into crimson, the color of blood issuing from a wound; it deepened, it took full control, became unbearable and wiped away, -the way unnecessary words are wiped off a blackboard- wiped away the bright colors and thoughts, feelings, diving into infinity, filling every moment with blindingly burning light-. "We need contact," husked Sharagin. "Call up the artillery-Get them to fire on us!" The first shell fell accurately on the crest. Sharagin did not hear the explosion, but felt the earth shudder. He peered out from his concealing rock in order to check where the hit had been made. The fire was precise, one shell after another neatly, as if someone was adjusting each one. - luck!-we called them to fire on us, but they messed up as usual-but how did they manage to establish contact and pass on the coordinates so quickly? I must have blacked out for a while-.did I? Sharagin had no way of knowing that the company commander had followed the entire battle through his field glasses. The position had been put up, but it was at least two kilometers away. Therefore it was Zebrev who gave the coordinates and corrected the trajectories. He saw the spooks coming down the left slope. They would have gone around the platoon soon and hit them directly. Sharagin heard the last explosions on the crest and volleys of gunfire: his hearing returned as suddenly as it had disappeared. He felt as though a tidal wave had washed over him, returning him to the world of familiar sounds. While the men dealt with the dead and wounded, Sharagin put the grenade back in his vest and began to check out the rifle, which had failed him so badly. He became immersed in this task, as if there was nothing better to do than get it in working order, as though he was not wounded, as though there were no waves of pain which rose and receded. "Comrade senior lieutenant, Myshkovsky and Chirikov are dead-five men wounded, Savateyev and Burkov heavily," reported someone. - yes, yes-sonafabitch, why did you let me down like that?- "Comrade senior lieutenant-" Sharagin jerked the breech of the rifle. With every jerk, the dressing on his neck slipped and blood began to run. He grabbed a rock and hit the breech with all his strength. The breech moved. Blood flowed faster. He felt warm streams of it running down his body under his shirt. "Comrade senior lieutenant-" Sharagin choked on a cough, saw sparks in his eyes. "Oleg!" called Zebrev. "Can you hear me?" - this is really it, I'm going - He must have been lying without movement for a long time. Blood ran from his ears and nose. Soldiers surrounded him, almost blocking out the sky. He understood that he was dead, that they knew it too and were saying farewell to their commander. The deep sky seemed to draw him, race to meet him, persuading him to break away from all earthly cares, to soar into the endless heavenly space and dissolve in it forever. And the last thing he was to see before he died was a plane high above, and he felt glad that it was an Il-76, which was possibly carrying away people who had survived the war. - somebody was lucky- Or perhaps it was returning from Tashkent, filled with new recruits and men coming back from leave. But at the last moment he hesitated, because looking at the plane intently he saw that it was a "Black Tulip." - what a prosaic end!- However, something held the spirit of life fast inside him, brought him back to the moment when Zebrev came up. Or did it just seem to Sharagin that he was alive? - people don't come back from the next world-it's a delusion-.how much time has passed?- "Hang on, don't move!" said Zebrev. "We'll carry you!" "I can mange alone! Help me up!" "Move out!" ordered Zebrev, and the soldiers from the platoon accompanying him began to gather up the dead and wounded. Sharagin found his balance, pushed helping hands aside: "I can manage!" -I have to walk, but there's no strength left-like a half-dead cockroach-legs shaking-cough- Only now did Sharagin feel that the bullet - or a fragment - was lodged in his throat. -like a foreign body inside, a tiny lump of lead- "Comrade senior lieutenant, let me give you a shot of Promedol," offered Sychev. "Negative!" - they give me a shot, I'll start to drift- "Give it to the wounded." Somehow remaining on his feet, leaning heavily on his rifle, Sharagin descended to the stream. There was a flat area ahead, where a chopper could land. He walked more than a kilometer, second to last in the line. In front of him, soldiers dragged two corpses in ground sheets and the moaning Burkov. He stopped several times, asked for his flask to be filled, greedily drinking the icy water of the mountain stream. It was like water from a sacred spring - it gave strength and froze and numbed the pain in his neck. At one stage he staggered, but managed to regain his balance and stopped. He wanted to jump into the water, let it carry him away into the unknown, escape from the tragedy, which had occurred. -if only I can hang on, not black out, not lose consciousness, not to succumb to self-pity-I'll walk to the end-I've got to get the platoon out of here!- "If I fall, catch me," he said to a soldier next to him. He could not see the soldier's face through the murk in his eyes. Stinging particles of dust whipped up by the chopper's blades flew everywhere, scratching and biting Sharagin's face, which was already raw from a week in the mountains. Probably his sunburned skin could be peeled away from his face like a sock. They carried Myshkovsky past, one remaining eye staring. -an empty, dead look on a cold, immobile face-when a fish lies in the bottom of a boat and flaps its tail helplessly, its glazing eye sees the sky above, and it probably thinks that it is seeing the deep blue of the sea-you spend a day fishing, looking at your catch from time to time-and feel no pity, no fellow-suffering-what's happening to me?-the sun dries out the fish's scales, the fish becomes hard, wooden- "Take them into the tail section!" Chirikov followed Myshkovsky. While the bodies were being dragged into the chopper, legs first, the canvas fell back, exposing the dead soldier's fair head and blood-caked face. Sharagin surged forward, pulled the canvas shut. "Now the wounded!" "That's it!" called Zebrev, helping Sharagin clamber inside. "Hang on, Oleg! Here, take these." A string of lapis-lazuli worry beads lay on his palm. "One of the spooks dropped these. He won't be needing them any more-" Exhausted, furious, half-deaf, Sharagin settled on the floor, back against the wall of the fuselage. Pain swelled to the volume of a roaring chopper, even more, perhaps, and filled all the available space, seen and unseen. The blades dragged the chopper up into the air. A pilot poked his head out from the cockpit: "Hey, guys! Somebody man the machine gun! This is bad territory! Pray God we can get out!" -Where's my rifle? How will I be able to shoot back? "Tighten my tourniquet, comrade senior lieu-" groaned private Burkov. Sharagin shook himself and got on to his knees to tighten the tourniquet around Burkov's machine gun smashed leg. And immediately felt that he was choking. Not enough oxygen at this altitude. The bandages seemed to constrict his throat. He fell forward on Burkov. The darkness that engulfed him immediately was not frightening. He gave way to it effortlessly, knowing that he could not resist. He had no strength to fight it. -and then-to sleep, perchance to dream-who said that?-Shakespeare?-can't remember-it would be a fine thing to go to Heaven, but my sins won't let me- He wanted desperately to understand what was going on, what was happening with his mind, but he could find nothing to cling to, nothing certain to stop him from sliding into the chasm; the past disappeared all at once, he did not dare suspect a future, while the present was filled with silence - not a rustle, not a sound, not even a distant hint of life. Then after a million years of all-pervading silence, something came to life, and he could have sworn that there was now a presence in the silence, probably the presence of Death, which was feeling around, seeking the bleeding, pain-wracked human being who huddled in a damp corner, hiding, unprepared, unwilling to die. -that's all-the end- A tidal wave of noise seemed to engulf him, a universe of terrible noise; he tumbled into those dark depths deeper and deeper, then hung, got stuck, unable to distinguish separate sounds: there was just a monotonous roar drilling through his skull. Sharagin did not know whether he had gone blind, or just had his eyes shut, or whether the spark of hope that had still glimmered a second, a minute, an hour ago that he would live, flickered out and left him here, in the empty darkness, in the waiting room of Death.