Training camp.
20.sep.2119.
Training camp of the Volunteer Guard of the SFS.
Zavirdyaev pushed aside the canvas doors and entered the airlock. A sharp smell of tar and some kind of antiseptic hit his nose. Having pushed aside the inner curtains of the airlock, he saw in front of him a sloppy pile of cardboard boxes and plywood crates. Some rags, apparently related to a uniform, were thrown on top of this one and a half meter high wall. It stank of tobacco.
Having walked along the rampart of junk, Zavirdyaev came out to something like the central space of this huge tent. On different sides of the open space there were several beds, placed as if in a circle around a platform, in the center of which was a shabby kitchen table. On three of the five beds sat a half-dressed man, two of whom were eating from pots, and the third was looking at something on a tablet and was clearly enjoying himself.
All three turned their heads towards Zavirdyaev and silently stared at him.
Well, go ahead, ask me, - thought Zavirdyaev, maintaining a stony face. - Ask something like "where are you from, man". Go ahead, just blurt out something now... The men turned out to be not such simpletons as not to understand that the man in civilian clothes had appeared here for a reason, that this was not a case of someone stumbling upon the camp while walking through the forest.
There was some commotion behind them - the deputy head of the camp, who had crawled through the airlock, had joined the conversation. It was he who met Zavirdyaev, who had arrived for this sudden inspection.
The deputy chief was a red-faced fat man with a disheveled moustache, looking less like an officer and more like someone who had gone fishing. The kind of guy who takes a swig of vodka before he starts fishing. And after and during. It wasn't that he was drunk, that wasn't the point. It was the state of his uniform - his sleeves rolled up carelessly and his cap lost somewhere in the back of his head.
Apparently seeing the deputy chief, the three fighters jumped up and stood at attention. Considering how they were dressed, it looked comical.
Meanwhile, Zavirdyaev looked away from the three "partisans" and began to slowly examine the interior of the tent. During this time, he managed to notice the rows of bunk beds hidden behind some sheets and bedspreads hanging on ropes tied to fasteners. There were piles of some junk in cardboard boxes everywhere, shoes scattered everywhere, and 20-kilogram tins of cereals and flour stacked separately.
On the table in the middle of the platform stood a portable gas stove surrounded by dirty dishes, including several pots.
What's with the uniform? - the deputy chief's growl was heard from behind. - Just because you're on leave doesn't mean you can walk around like that. Where's the orderly?
- Yes sir! - the three soldiers answered in chorus.
- I don't get it, the deputy chief hissed in response: the answer "yes sir" was clearly out of place.
Zavirdyaev put his hands behind his back and continued to look around the inside of the tent-hangar. The other two inspectors, whom he had taken with him for some kind of group, were standing somewhere near the entrance heat-saving airlock without much interest in what was happening.
- The orderly has left for the medical unit, comrade captain, the voice of one of the half-dressed men rang out.
In general, Zavirdyaev was aware that the training camps of the Volunteer Guard often looked somewhat unsightly, but even he was not prepared for such a pigsty. This camp was the third since yesterday and it had one advantage, which was its location - the territory was located right next to the river and you could choose a good place with a beautiful view of the left bank. It was not known whether it occurred to the chief himself, or whether someone had suggested it to him, but as far as Zavirdyaev understood, it was decided that it would be very desirable for Senator Harlington to be able to gracefully go out to some clearing or cliff in front of the camera and examine the LBSF bank through binoculars. It was also supposed to capture Harlington examining the camp and communicating with the fighters. And then this.
One of the previous camps was quite tolerable, but it was far from the river. This did not work. The other was by the river, there was a little better discipline there than here, but it was further north. In this case, Harlington would have to spend additional time on the road - it was assumed that he would move along the ground.
Suddenly there was a cracking sound, which turned out to be snoring, and the creak of a metal bed hidden behind one of the curtains. Zavirdyaev strode toward the curtain, walked around the dark green bedspread hanging on a rope, and saw a bed on which a huge, bald-headed fellow was tossing and turning, clearly sensing that something was wrong. The smell of fumes was wafting in.
- Park and maintenance day? - Zavirdyaev asked mockingly into the air. Or a day of zoo? Maybe a cuttle-farming one?
He heard the footsteps of the red-faced deputy chief behind him. Meanwhile, the fellow, moving heavily, rose and sat up on the bed. He weighed almost one hundred and fifty kilograms, had a bald head, and a wide face, into which his small eyes were sunken and his mouth stretched out in an attempt to say something. He heard the footsteps of the approaching Deputy Chief.
In the few seconds that remained before the Deputy Chief began to sort things out, Zavirdyaev began to examine the swollen, hungover fellow. Above the right tit of this bestial creature were tattooed some runes, or rather an inscription stylized as runes. To his credit, the usual accompanying swastikas were not visible. Zavirdyaev's gaze lingered on the runes in an attempt to make out what was written there, and eventually succeeded. The inscription in English read "born to win".
In the SFS there were also separate camps for the Foreign Corps, and such disgrace was not observed there. However, it was not a matter of some special culture among the foreigners. This difference was explained by the fact that the locals knew that they were at home, and therefore felt more relaxed than the foreign draft dodgers who had fled to an unknown Siberian land, fleeing from one war, the Big One, and drawn into the orbit of another, local, confrontation. An unexpectedly ringing "Good health, comrade captain" was heard from the bestial creature. Instead of the expected conversation with the skinhead, the Deputy Chief came at it from a completely different angle:
- Comrade Zavirdyaev, this tent is for those on leave. We are planning a series of events to strengthen discipline... Formally, they have now left for their place of residence...
- Why haven't they left? - Zavirdyaev asked with distrust in his voice.
- Some don't see the point in traveling a hundred or two kilometers, some don't want to... They don't want to for various reasons. For example, many are not local. Some have nowhere to go - their families and relatives have left the region, and the soldiers did not want to leave their small homeland in difficult times. But leave is required in any case. That's how it is with us... So they spend their free time here.
Zavirdyaev turned around and walked back to the area with the table. The disheveled, red-faced deputy chief turned out to be quite a sly-ass. At least, if he had made up this whole story about the dismissal on the fly, then how else could he be than sly-ass?
Zavirdyaev began to demonstratively examine various little things - the same table, the inscriptions on the boxes, the beds behind the curtains. All to the attentive silence of those present.
Then he glanced at the deputy chief and silently walked to the exit.
A tall, thin man in a deliberately unbuttoned camouflage uniform and a striped shirt visible underneath was already waiting at the exit. A sort of classic image of a Russian or Soviet soldier. The classics added a black mustache with graying on a weather-beaten face. There were three more officers standing next to him, one of whom looked very much like the red-faced deputy chief, except that his face was not red, but rather yellowish.
- Good health, comrade Zavirdyaev! - the gaunt soldier said crisply, - I have the honor, Captain-Colonel Balakov - "Classic" continued the greeting cheerfully and amiably, standing at attention, addressing the SCSE officers who had already come out after Zavirdyaev.
Balakov, the camp chief, was a retired major in the Russian army. He had joined the mutiny at its very beginning, and then, as events unfolded, he had chosen the side of the right-bankers. Like all servicemen of the RF Armed Forces who had joined any SSSF formations, he had been dishonorably discharged from the ranks of the Russian armed forces.
Now he was a captain-colonel. At the very beginning of the local conflict, according to the stories that were going around, some managed to appropriate the titles themselves. Of course, this was not so. The system of these titles here was really unique.
Zavirdyaev nodded broadly and waved his hand behind his back, pointing to the tent with the "vacationers".
- Sorry, I didn't understand, - Balakov said cheerfully, glancing sideways at the deputy chief who was leaving.
- As you probably know, US Senator Harlington will be visiting us next month, - Zavirdyaev announced dryly. The senator's program of stay will include a visit to the facilities of the Volunteer Guard and the Foreign Corps. We decided that your camp is suitable for such a visit. I don't know the technical details of how the camp will be brought to the proper state, but it will be brought to it. The location itself is important to us...
Zavirdyaev wanted to add that he already had an order and a ready plan on how to disperse all this rabble and bring the Foreign Corps here, but decided for now to simply stop at the fact that the camp had already been chosen for Harlington's tour.
- Comrade Zavirdyaev, gentlemen! - Balakov began rather emotionally, - You can be sure... That's all, - he waved his hand towards the tent, - We'll scatter it in one day.
- That's not enough, we need you to show something... You have a shooting range - we need to select fighters who shoot well and generally look different.
Sorry, I didn't get it, - Balakov answered once again.
- We need to make a picture that wouldn't be embarrassing to show on world television. And some of your faces are like that... It's clear that these are yesterday's... civilians. But it wouldn't hurt to have some of these in the frame with the senator... Like in the newsreel from the Big Front.
- That's not a question, - answered Balakov, - we'll get rid of all the crumpled ones, there won't be any of these in the frame.
- Do we need to talk about order on the territory? I really won't list what exactly needs to be done... For example, mow the grass... Paths...
Balakov started to talk nonsense about how easily this task could be solved for him and his units. Zavirdyaev wanted to hint that in this case it would be worth doing it without any visits from the American senator, but he kept quiet.
In the two previous camps, he didn't dare to lie so stupidly that the camp had already been chosen, but here, firstly, there was a convenient location, and secondly, he had already come to the conclusion that without this trick, trips from camp to camp would end with the crossing out of yet another object from the list of those possibly suitable for a senator's visit.
Suddenly, a siren sounded over the field, only it was not a standard howl, but a series of beeps lasting two or three seconds. This meant that the zone of the supposed raid or strike was at a great distance, and the attack itself was airborne. The device on Zavirdyaev's belt vibrated. In the northeast, where the lower clouds were parting in ragged shreds, a whitish trace of a rocket tearing upward appeared.
- Percival? - said Zavirdyaev.
- Most likely, - answered Balakov.
The group of inspection visitors and Balakov and his assistants stopped, and everyone began to peer into the gloomy sky in the northeast. Zavirdyaev put on his glasses. Most of the people around him did the same.
A second white thread began to rise into the sky. Everything happened silently, except for the sounds of the air raid alarm. Most likely, it was the missile launch site defense, repelling some kind of hypersonic attack.
If it were ballistics, the anti-missiles would have gone up much faster, and it would have been better not to look in their direction without glasses - sometimes, especially in cloudy weather, instead of the laser selectors included in the AEX AMANDA complex, they used selective exoatmospheric detonations the old-fashioned way. This thing is pretty bright.
After exchanging silent glances, everyone moved on.