I shook Colonel V. Sidorov's hand, and as I left the room, I heard the door slam shut behind me. My footsteps echoed in the corridor, as if carrying me toward my impending fate. With each step, my mind became clearer, and my heart beat slowly but strongly.
I left the building, felt the cold wind on my face, and got into my UAZ. I turned the ignition, and the engine roared to life on the first try. When I gripped the steering wheel, my fingers trembled slightly—I didn't know if it was from excitement or tension. In my mind's eye, the enemy positions marked on the map reappeared like ghosts. I shifted into gear and drove away from the outpost, heading toward the "Free Russia" tavern. I climbed the stairs and entered my room. I locked the door behind me. Inside, there was a dim light. The clock read exactly 8:00 PM. From that moment on, there was only one thing on my mind: preparation.
I slowly opened the closet door. I carefully removed my military equipment, neatly arranged inside, as if performing a ceremony. First, I took the new model 6B3TM-01 armor vest. The front was protected by thick 6.5mm titanium plates, while the back was protected by relatively thin 1.25mm titanium plates, but even though they were thin, they still provided complete protection against TT and Nagant bullets. The Kevlar layer inside was sturdy. As I put on the vest, I carefully adjusted the straps to ensure it fit my body perfectly.
I put on a Belt A/B type tactical vest. This vest was specially designed for vital equipment such as ammunition magazines, hand grenades, first aid kits, and knives. I checked each pocket one by one. I attached the special holster for my TT-33 pistol to the waist area and placed the weapon inside. I placed the magazines in the special pockets on the vest, ensuring each was easily accessible and balanced.
Then I took my ZSH-1-2M ballistic helmet out of the closet. I cleaned the visor and connection points. The helmet was heavy, but it was the only thing protecting my skull. I tilted my head and placed the helmet on, securing the straps tightly. Finally, I pulled on my black, eye-opening balaclava-style face mask. My face was now completely covered. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I saw not an ordinary man but a ghost ready for battle. Then I attached the PNV-57EM night vision goggles to the helmet for night combat. I wiped the lenses with a soft cloth.
I opened my weapon case. Inside lay my AK-74 assault rifle. Its metal body reflected the light with a metallic sheen. This weapon was loyal to me. I had prepared it with my own hands before every cleaning and every mission. Before attaching the GP-25 underbarrel grenade launcher to the weapon, I checked the connection rings. Then I mounted the 1P78 "Kashtan" optical sight on the sight rail. This sight provided a significant advantage in medium-range engagements. I tested it by aligning the settings with my eyes.
Since a long-range engagement was not expected this time, I decided not to bring my SVD sniper rifle. Speed, mobility, and close contact were important. Therefore, the AK-74 and GP-25 combination was the most efficient choice.
I carefully placed seven fully loaded 30-round magazines for the AK-74 and four VOG-25 grenade capsules for the GP-25 in the vest. To maintain balance, I distributed the bullets toward the center of the body and the grenades toward the sides.
I chose two RGN fragmentation grenades and two F-1 grenades as hand grenades. I placed these in the pockets with the steel ring pins facing upward.
I exited the room, carefully closing and locking the door behind me. As I placed the key in my pocket, I felt an odd sense of calm—like the stillness before a storm. The weight of the armor pressed down on my shoulders, and with each step, the equipment on my body clanged. I descended the stairs slowly, my footsteps echoing, the wooden floors groaning deeply with each step.
As I approached the entrance to the tavern, I made eye contact with the woman at the reception desk. Her eyes widened suddenly, and her mouth opened slightly. The expression on her face was a mixture of shock and horror—as if she were facing not a man, but an armored Spetsnaz soldier returning from war, or a KGB Alpha soldier raiding her home. The black ski mask, ballistic helmet, and tactical gear I was wearing must have seemed surreal to her. She couldn't take her eyes off me, but I continued walking without even glancing at her. I quietly opened the door, stepped outside, and got into the UAZ. I started the engine and drove toward the police station in the cold, metallic air of the night.
As we approached the station, the tension in the air became palpable. The soldiers at the entrance recognized me now, and no one stopped me. I pulled the UAZ into the large parking lot and turned off the engine. When I opened the door and got out, the first thing that greeted me was the mixed smell of engine oil, gunpowder, and exhaust fumes.
Before my eyes was a system operating like a bustling hell. Just ahead of the area, two BMP-2 armored combat vehicles had their turret hatches open for ammunition loading. Personnel were checking the electronic systems inside the vehicles and refueling them. The BTR-70s next to them were stationary, with new radio antennas and smoke grenade systems being mounted on them. The operation consisted entirely of motorized and mechanized infantry units, and green military trucks were lined up in rows.
A little further ahead, two BM-21 "Grad" multiple rocket launchers were positioned. Each was being loaded one by one—long, gray 122mm rockets were carefully carried by technicians and placed into the barrel chambers. Next to the loading area were D-30 122mm howitzer guns. The guns' muzzles were pointed skyward, silent, but there was serious preparation around them. Ammunition boxes were stacked; explosive-filled HE and HE-FRAG shells, signal ammunition, and even a few illumination shells were carefully separated. There were so many empty boxes that they had formed a small mountain in one corner. As I walked around the area, most of the soldiers had their hands full. Some were oiling their weapons, others were placing ammunition and grenades in their vest pockets. Various weapons such as AK-74s, RPKs, PKMs, and RPG-7s were lined up on cleaning tables. Cotton cloths were being wound around rifle barrels, and weapon mechanisms were being oiled. The seriousness of the upcoming operation was evident on everyone's faces.
My gaze fell on a group of young soldiers. There were between twenty and thirty of them. They were new recruits—their faces still had a childlike quality, and their hands were still unsteady when holding weapons. They had gathered around the experienced soldiers, observing how they loaded their magazines, disassembled their weapons, and pulled the pins on grenades. Some of them trembled as they drew their own weapons, but they were determined to learn. They were about to enter their first real battle, and it was clear from their faces. How many of these men would survive until morning? How many would fall to the ground before firing their last bullet? Only God, whom I did not believe in, and death itself knew the answer.
After observing for a while, I saw Colonel Valeriy Sidorov checking the equipment lists and unit formations with a thick field notebook in his hand. His uniform was worn out, but every movement still exuded discipline. His face was furrowed, his eyebrows knitted together, and he was taking notes on every line. The discipline of a colonel keeping a notebook in battle was different.
I quickened my steps and approached him. I snapped to attention, saluted, and spoke in a clear tone:
> "The overall plan for the operation seems sound, Colonel. However, I must point out one observation: Grouping all the rookie soldiers into a single unit seems risky to me. If that line breaks, the entire front will collapse. If you distribute them among the experienced units, they will learn more, and you won't take the risk of having a weak line."
Colonel Sidorov first glanced at me over his glasses. He couldn't tell who I was behind the armor, tactical gear, and black ski mask covering my face. But the badge attached to the front pocket of the 6B3TM-01 he gave me didn't escape his eye. His face suddenly relaxed, and a familiar smile appeared on his lips. He nodded slightly and replied:
> "Ah, it's you. I didn't recognize you at first glance, forgive me. What you said is very true. We won't make the mistake of randomly assigning newcomers to a unit. They will be distributed evenly among experienced squads. The opinions of those with field experience like you are important. By the way... There's something that should interest you."
He tucked his notebook under his arm, his voice growing serious:
> "We plan to assign you to the vanguard unit. The battle that will determine the direction of the operation will take place on that front. It's risky, yes. But you're the perfect fit for this job. Will you accept?"
When I heard the colonel's offer, I let out a short laugh. I could see him looking at me suspiciously through his glasses. Then I replied with a slight mocking tone:
> "If you think I'm just an infantryman, you're mistaken, Colonel. I may look like a special forces operative from the outside, but I studied Armored Units and Mechanized Tactics at the 'Frunze' Military Academy. I know the systems, limits, and even the power transmission ratios of tanks and BMPs by heart. It could even be said that I drive better than some of your armored vehicle operators."
Sidorov chuckled lightly but waited for me to continue without interrupting. My eyes took on a serious expression, and my voice was firm:
> "But I don't want to be behind the wheel of an armored vehicle in this operation. I want to be one of the infantrymen inside the BMP. Because we will be the first to break through the enemy lines."
Sidorov nodded silently. He didn't speak for a moment after I finished speaking. It was as if he was weighing me up in his mind. His eyes deepened, then he replied calmly:
Colonel Valeriy Sidorov raised his finger and pointed to an armored vehicle in the eastern part of the headquarters, where ammunition was still being replenished. The vehicle had an old but reassuring appearance, with its Soviet-era green and brown camouflage. The number "131," clearly painted in white on its side, indicated my position in the mission.
> "Alright," he said in a firm voice. "I'm assigning you to the mechanized battalion. Your vehicle is the BMP-2 numbered 131. After the artillery and Grad barrage begins, you will make the first move as soon as the bridge is established."
He continued, emphasizing his words:
> "The mechanized battalion consists of two BMP-2s and two BTR-70s. There are a total of 28 fully equipped infantrymen inside. As soon as the bridge is established, your unit will launch the initial attack. The enemy initially believes they will directly defend the bridge, but we will disrupt their plans. First, apply pressure in a narrow area, then expand."
The colonel unfolded the map he had taken from his pocket and laid it on his knees, crouching down to point out the battle plan with his index finger. The entire mechanized company had gathered around him. Under their steel vests, helmets, and camouflage nets, their eyes were weary but alert... Everyone was silent, only the colonel's voice could be heard:
> "When the attack begins, BMPs 131 and 132 will advance to the front line. We will concentrate the attack on the enemy's weak flank. Your objective is to break through the enemy trenches and penetrate them like a wedge. The BTR-70s will follow you in a second wave and expand on the right flank."
He continued, pointing to two different points on the map:
> "Once you enter, the force will split into two: BMP No. 131 will turn west, and BMP No. 132 will turn east. This will confuse the enemy and create space for the infantry reinforcements being transported by trucks to spread out. The objective is not a narrow line; it is a complete breach of the front. When the trucks infiltrate the area, we will demonstrate our strength with ammunition and manpower."
Sidorov stood up, his gaze sweeping over those around him. His eyes held both resolve and confidence:
> "This mission is of strategic importance. That line and its surroundings are right in the middle of the supply routes. If we take it, the enemy's entire defense line will collapse. At any cost, we will capture those positions. If necessary, we will fight street by street, room by room. But there will be no retreat!"
A murmur rose among the soldiers. Some bowed their heads as if in prayer, others gripped their weapons more tightly.
By 12:30 a.m., all units had completed their final preparations. The D-30 howitzers and deadly BM-21 Grad rocket launchers, concealed under camouflage nets, were aligned directly at the target. The muzzle covers had been removed, the sights adjusted, and the coordinates for the barrage fire checked one last time.
The mechanized company was lined up along the muddy dirt road. Two BMP-2s and two BTR-70 armored personnel carriers, with their engines silenced, waited in the darkness of the night to move out. The Ural trucks parked between the vehicles were filled with infantry; the soldiers were kneeling in their camouflage uniforms, clutching their weapons tightly. Some were taking their last puffs of cigarettes, while others stared blankly at the ground. For them, this night was one of survival or death.
A little further down the river, the MT-55A armored bridge-laying vehicle had taken up position with its engine silenced. The vehicle had been guided by infrared vision systems to the river and carefully parked in a position where enemy observation points would not notice it.
Meanwhile, on the east bank of the river, a little further on from the old stone bridge, a 30-strong improvised assault force lay in wait. Their mission was to deceive the enemy, drawing their attention to this side while ensuring that the main strike came from behind. Each of them was in the trenches, hidden in the darkness, on alert.
At 00:59, a single-word command came over the radio: "Fire!"
The sky split open.
The BM-21 Grads fired first. An 80-rocket salvo erupted into the air, slicing through the night's darkness. Immediately afterward, the D-30 howitzers began firing, their deafening explosions echoing through the air. The thunderous echoes of the artillery fire spread in waves across the valley, and the night suddenly lit up with orange and red flashes. Flames rained down on enemy positions. Each explosion sent earth flying into the air, shook the ground, and turned the trenches into hell.
At that very moment, the improvised assault force burst out of their trenches. Machine guns roared, grenades exploded. The enemy was in a panic. They turned their eyes toward the source of the fire, their coordination disrupted by an unexpected attack.
At that moment, the MT-55A, which had been waiting silently, sprang into action. The bridge opened with a hiss, forming a steel link between the two banks of the river. The engines roared to life. First two BMP-2s, then two BTR-70s crossed the metal bridge and reached the opposite bank. The tracks dug into the ground, and the vehicles quickly took up their positions.
I was inside the BMP-2 numbered 131. The hatch opened upon the radio command, "Land!" I was the first to jump out of the vehicle. Following me, our 28-person special assault team quickly spread out. While the BMPs and BTRs provided fire support, we advanced step by step.
The initial contact was easier than expected. The enemy line was weak; those we encountered were either newly recruited young soldiers or scattered militia groups. We quickly seized their positions. They tried to resist, but they were disorganized. We neutralized them with our machine guns and grenades. Our BMPs advanced, and we walked alongside them. Reinforcement units disembarked from trucks and quickly filled the empty space behind us.
But things couldn't be that easy. Such ease... was suspicious.
As we advanced with the armored vehicles, I became alert. There was still no organized resistance. We passed through wooded areas, slipping between ruined stone walls. A deafening silence now prevailed. And then…
An explosion!
BMP-2 number 131 was hit on the right side of its turret. The vehicle burst into flames instantly. The soldiers inside tried to escape, screaming. Immediately afterward, bullets began to rain down from all sides. Automatic rifles, anti-tank weapons, sniper fire...
We had fallen into an ambush.
We were surrounded. Fire from between the trees combined with enemy forces emerging from behind piles of rocks. It was as if the ground had split open and enemies were pouring out from beneath it. This was a coordinated, well-prepared, and extremely deadly attack.
But this was impossible… Only our unit was aware of this operation. The plan had been prepared with the utmost secrecy. A leak was impossible. So how did the enemy know about it? It was as if we had been hunted while going hunting.
I immediately threw myself to the ground; as the coolness of the earth and the coldness of the mud caressed my face, I aimed my rifle over my shoulder and opened suppressive fire toward the enemy positions. As the bullets pierced the darkness, each shot from my barrel gave us a moment's respite. Though I couldn't see exactly where the enemy was, I fired in the direction the bullets were coming from—because the slightest hesitation was an invitation to death.
Slowly, crawling on my knees, I approached the damaged BMP-2 numbered 131. The vehicle was still hot, its armor smelling of burnt oil and fuel. The turret was pierced on the side, and the section housing the machine gun was shattered. The explosion hadn't completely incapacitated the crew, but those inside were dazed and panicking. I opened one of the hatches and pulled the coughing, wounded crew members out through the black smoke seeping inside. The young corporal sitting in the driver's seat was bleeding from his leg; I carried him to a safer position behind cover.
At that moment, the other BMP-2s and BTR-70s in the vicinity simultaneously fired smoke grenades. Suddenly, thick, dense white smoke enveloped us. Visibility dropped to almost zero, but in the chaos, it provided us with momentary protection. The smoke made it difficult for the enemy to target us; it also unsettled them because they no longer knew where the response would come from.
Our unit commander tried to make a distress call over the radio. However, only static and interference could be heard. The signal was either blocked or the enemy was using electronic jamming. We were the only ones left: we had to rely on our equipment, training, and instincts.
At that moment, a piercing metallic noise was heard. A silhouette emerged from the fog. The enemy BMP-1 appeared, its blinding headlights, the ground crushed by its tracks, and the vibrations from its hull. Its short, straight-barreled 73mm cannon was slowly turning toward us. It was probably the same one that had just hit our BMP-2. Now it was approaching like a predator eager to finish its prey.
I shouted to the soldiers beside me: "Bring the anti-tank weapon! Now!"
One of the soldiers taking cover in the ruined building five meters away lowered his RPG-7 from his back and began aiming. But the enemy BMP-1 had acted first. The vehicle had aimed its 73mm cannon directly at that building and fired with almost no delay. A deafening explosion was heard; the cannon shell landed directly on top of the soldier carrying the RPG-7 and detonated. I was thrown by the explosion, and everything went dark in an instant. My ears began to ring; a kind of muffled roar enveloped my mind, and after the explosion, the world seemed to slow down.
My vision was blurry; the visor of my helmet was covered in mud and soot. Instinctively, I tried to wipe the visor with the sleeve of my uniform. My arm was weak, my muscles were unresponsive, but eventually my vision cleared slightly. My hands were shaking, but I knew I had to gather my wits. By luck, I had collapsed to the ground at the moment of the explosion. That's why I was less injured, but I was still not okay. I looked at my body. My camouflage-patterned uniform was covered in blood. While my body armor and helmet had protected me from fatal blows, shrapnel and debris from the collapsed building had lodged in my arms and near my ribs. Some were superficial, but one seemed embedded just below the right side of my abdomen—each breath brought a burning pain.