10.apr.1992
The car stopped at a dead end opposite a Khrushchev-era building. The building they needed was located a little higher up - the porch was a couple dozen meters away, but they had to make their way along a path littered with melted dog shit. A common thing. In previous years, the situation was corrected by clean-up days, but they were communist! What would happen now? With these thoughts, Bragin put his bag on a concrete slab and began to clean his boots on last year's grass. Someone had managed to light a cigarette.
The building was relatively modern, and the entire area had been built recently. Bragin remembered the times when this was an open field. Nearby, a sixteen-story residential building towered over everything else, but the device was located on the roof of this one, which was half as high.
When everyone was ready - some had cleaned their shoes, some had smoked, some had cursed, the group moved toward the glass door. In the basement there was a spacious lobby - it was an administrative building of some long-distance telephone service. The group headed for the stairs - although there was an elevator here, it was not working. From the lobby, filled, one would assume, with more strikers, a TV turned on at full volume roared. Judging by the music intro to the news, it was the "Liberation" channel.
- New satellite images were received and provided to us by NASA's hydrocarbon pollution monitoring service. Apparently, in the region that declared itself outside of Russia's jurisdiction, a number of acts of sabotage occurred at industrial facilities. A coal reserve is burning. A representative of the State Department categorically denies US involvement in the events, which, according to him, should be considered a provocation...
The voice of the simultaneous interpreter was drowned out by the booming stomping on the stairs, which ran between two walls made of solid glass and opened up a view of the city as they rose. The wide, once busy avenue had been transformed – it was not empty either, but little was moving. Every couple of bus stops, that is, about half a kilometer apart, obstacles were set up, created from trucks and buses placed close to each other. They called it a "checkpoint." The purpose was, apparently, to hinder anything that moved quickly – this disgrace could easily be driven around through the courtyards. This was not serious. Plus, the documents that were issued to each of the units did not arouse any interest in the awkward sentries. Several incidents had already occurred when the barricades hindered the "tough guys", new Russian gangsters. The outcome in all cases caused bewilderment and gloating at the same time. The sentries, who initially had no weapons, could do nothing to counter the shooting, but at the next checkpoint the car was faced with a military "Ural," which, with certain skills, was a very effective means of reprisal. Judging by the conversations, those in the car were finished off by reversing and this several times.
Finally, the flights of stairs ended and the next landing led straight to a roof covered with relatively fresh roofing felt. The device, resembling a huge bucket, more than two meters at the top, was standing right there. This "bucket" was not on the surface, not on roofing felt, but on a frame welded from fifty-inch angles. A slightly peeling metal box with two separate compartments was attached to the side of the frame. It housed a transformer with a rectifier, as well as a control unit. That unit was nothing secret and was essentially a time relay that made the emitter emit a series of pulses up to thirty seconds long and then fall silent for five minutes. There was also a humidity sensor, so when the summer air was dry, the device did not turn on at all.
Bragin put down his bag and headed towards the others, who were standing thoughtfully by the frame.
- Fuck, they've shit here too - he heard the plumber's voice.
- Shit? - Bragin shouted questioningly, walking around the ventilation duct exit.
- Not that they've literally shit, like in the youth center, - the second, low-current guy answered - the lock is just broken and the wires are torn. I need to look at the emitter itself.
- It seems like just anyone can't get in here, - Bragin said thoughtfully.
- Well, yeah, - answered the low-current guy, who had managed to crawl under the bucket-shaped casing, - If the youth can't get in, then "Uncle Vasya"-watchman himself... your mother! They even tore the entire coil apart. Were they looking for precious metals or something...
- Three out of five in minus - Bragin announced, - Yesterday there were also about thirty percent working... That's probably how it will be.
- That's all, - the low-current guy who got out announced, - We're writing it down, the emitter is completely out of order. The cabinet with the equipment is damaged. The cable...
- I'll check the voltage now, it looks intact, - the mechanic responded.
- So it's a smoke break, - Bragin announced and headed to the edge, to the side a little higher than waist high.
Down below, life went on of its own. Snatches of voices and the crunch of footsteps on broken glass could be heard. Another grocery store was being emptied. A year ago, there was nothing to buy in the store halls themselves, but people would have been very interested in the utility rooms and warehouses. All these saleswomen and merchandisers would have squealed like pigs, trying to save the deficit hidden for sale under the counter. Now, although there is more regular food, not much, but there is import. You can't live on Snickers for long, but if things are going so well, why should they sit in the shop windows? That's what people were thinking.
Suddenly the shouts sounded somehow more intense. At this time, Bragin looked somewhere towards the right bank.
- Look what's going to happen now, - said the mechanic.
- Meanwhile, a KamAZ with an awning drove up to the store. Judging by the original paint, the vehicle was military. Now a white star was painted on the roof of the cabin. The English letters "MP" were painted on the side door. The same abbreviation meaning "Military Police" was painted on the tarpaulin awning. In the meantime, a rather impressive group for a patrol jumped out of the truck - a dozen, if not more
Soon, several people appeared at once from around the corner of that building and scattered in all directions. When the first wave of fugitives disappeared from sight, new ones followed - these ran out one by one and also rushed in all directions. Finally, two people in some kind of helmets appeared, who were leading a resisting and kicking man by the arms. There were another five people behind them, walking more calmly, without showing any resistance. This was not surprising - they were walking to the tent accompanied by a larger number of patrolmen. The latter were dressed in some kind of winter military suits, obviously also not entirely legally borrowed from some warehouse, for example, the same civil defense.
- Military police, damn it, - the weak-current man drawled thoughtfully.
- Yeah, that's great, - Bragin agreed.
Meanwhile, the sound of a helicopter began to make itself known more and more clearly. At first, none of the others paid the slightest attention to the sound - helicopters were constantly flying around the area, rushing over the city for some unknown reason, as if the pilots just wanted to fly. Now the roar was so close that it began to sound threatening. Soon a dark silhouette appeared from behind the multi-story buildings – the helicopter, as it turned out, was flying low, perhaps unacceptably low. The threatening silhouette was heading towards the building. Bragin remembered the encounter with the helicopters on the tower. Again, they just wouldn't calm down and leave him. What was going on…
The helicopter hovered twenty meters above the roof and began to descend. At some point, Bragin thought that the wind would knock over the bucket of the installation, but fortunately it was firmly attached to its frame.
Finally, the side door of the helicopter slid open, and some militants jumped onto the roof. Or fighters. Judging by the painted sides of the helicopter, on which, in addition to the white star, playing cards were painted, they were militants after all. They were all wearing black masks. Ignoring those present, all five ran to the stairs and, without even looking back, disappeared into the concrete box.
Bragin managed to notice that each of them also had the white letters MP on their backs.
Weak-Current Man cursed. Bragin looked away from the stairwell and glanced at the helicopter – it was already going up.
- Do you know what's in those booths, or rather under them? – Weak-Current Man began. He nodded down, towards a metal booth without windows that looked like an enlarged shipping container. An antenna, apparently a VHF one, was sticking out of the roof of that booth.
- A weather station or something else… – Bragin answered.
- A descent into the underground utilities, and there's a neat little niche with a seismograph.
- A seismograph?
- Well, I think so. Those are rumors.
- Ah. Rumors… I see.
Bragin himself had heard about the "perimeter" system, which in principle could not function without an extensive network of sensors recording various parameters - temperature, ionizing radiation and seismic tremors. And you can't hide it anywhere - it must be here, in the city. Well, maybe in some guarded building. If something happened, it could give the command for a retaliatory nuclear strike.
- Maybe they are the same as us... On their own business... - said the mechanic.
- It would be good if so, - answered Bragin.