The plan required two people. McCormick, obviously, was one, since his desire to rescue his friend was the reason we were undertaking the mission at all.
I asked, “Any volunteers for the second position?”
No one spoke up. Douglas said, “It's your bloody idea, Dietrich.”
Dietrich shrugged. “I have no special affinity for Sergeant McCormick's comrade in arms. I signed up to fight a war.”
Douglas asked, “Priest?”
Priest said, “I am still a member of the Taiwanese military, and we have promised not engage in operations of this kind. To do otherwise could invite reprisal.”
“Taleb?”
The Palestinian thought for a moment. “No. I no longer do the kind of work this operation would require.”
“Brook?”
The British lieutenant swallowed. “After what happened on the pilot raid… I don't think I can do it.”
No one challenged Brook's courage. “Grant?”
“No, sir. If it were a more orthodox operation, I would be fine with it. But not something like this.”
“Volodya?”
Volodya said disgustedly, “I'm fighting Mr. Cortez's war, not McCormick's.”
“Jed?”
“Yeah, sure thing, I'll do it.” The American fairly brimmed with enthusiasm for the task. “How often do you get a chance to work with a damn Knight?”
That elicited a resigned sigh from Volodya. “I've had a change of heart. Sergeant McCormick, I would love to go on this stirring adventure with you to save your little Nepalese boyfriend.”
Unsure whether Volodya was joking, McCormick asked, “What changed your mind?”
“I would prefer to tell you in private.”
That piqued my interest. “You will tell Douglas and me as well, Sergeant Ivanov.”
We stepped out of the living room and into the kitchen, Volodya shutting the door behind us. Then, he walked up to McCormick and angrily jabbed a finger in the American's chest.
“I dragged that child Jed down the dirtiest fucking river in the world and then kidnapped a doctor to treat him because he was my comrade. I won't sit back and watch you waste that young man's life on a vendetta.”
McCormick replied hotly, “I'm not making him do anything, Sergeant Ivanov. He volunteered.”
Volodya scowled. “Jed's a fucking child, a babe in the woods. He was going to do it just because he hero worships you. He can't handle a mission like this.”
“And you can?” McCormick asked contemptuously.
“You're goddamn right I can. I've been doing shit like this for almost twenty years, since you were still staining your sheets at night thinking about what it would be like to kill a man.”
I interjected, “That's enough. Sergeant Ivanov, can you maintain your professionalism enough to carry out this mission?”
Red with anger, Volodya visibly tamped down his emotion. “Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant McCormick, it's Volodya or no one. What'll it be?”
McCormick considered the issue, then said flatly, “He'll do.”
And so it happened that Volodya and McCormick were the ones who implmented Dietrich's plan. An hour into the drive to their target, Volodya and McCormick finally began to talk. I listened intently to the feed from their microphones, wishing I could see their expressions. Neither was wearing video-glasses on this mission. No one wanted the public to hear about this particular operation.
McCormick, obviously trying to bury the hatchet, said, “I appreciate you coming along, Sergeant Ivanov. I know you don't approve of it.”
Volodya replied, “Just don't get us killed, like you did your old unit.”
Well then. Silence. Finally, McCormick said, “The Knights volunteered. I didn't force anyone to do anything.”
With a snort, Volodya replied, “Yeah, right. Just like I volunteered for this mission out of my fondness for Americans. Let me tell you a story.
“The first mission I had out of Spetsnaz training was a snatch-and-grab in Chechnya. I was part of a three-man team: me, Sergeant Zhukov, and our lieutenant. The lieutenant was just some officer, but Sergeant Zhukov was a real life hero, a legend.
"In Afghanistan in 1988, he carried a wounded squad member twenty miles through mountains filled with hostile tribesmen. He single-handedly wiped out a Mujahideen camp in '89. He snuck chemical weapons out of Iraq in 2003. You name it, he'd done it. He'd carried out so many assassinations in Chechnya that Putin consulted with him personally for the '99 campaign there.
"Anyway, the mission was a sabotage in Chechnya, taking out a fuel dump controlled by a pro-independence Chechen politician. The fuel dump was smaller than we had expected when we got to the site, just a couple teenagers guarding it. We killed the guards, destroyed the target, mission accomplished.
"The lieutenant wanted to go interrogate locals til we found out where the rest of the fuel was. Sergeant Zhukov, he tried reasoning with the lieutenant. He said the Chechens would already be on their way in force. For all we knew, there might not even be another fuel dump nearby.
"The lieutenant was having none of it. 'Think of the mission, sergeant. Think what it will do for these people not to have the terrorist crooks ordering them around.'"
Volodya snorted derisively. "Well, Zhukov still said the Chechens would be coming, we had accomplished our mission, time to bug out. The lieutenant says, 'I'm going to find that fucking fuel dump, but if you're too scared, return to the evac point.'"
Volodya paused in his narration. "The Chechens came alright. They set up an ambush in the second village we checked. The lieutenant died in the first three seconds. Zhukov told me to get out while he kept the Chechens pinned down. I said I wouldn't leave him there."
"He just growled back at me, 'If we both die here, it'll be for the lieutenant. If just I die, it'll be for a comrade. Now get the fuck out of here.'" Volodya shook his head sadly, remembering the disastrous conclusion of that first Spetsnaz mission.
McCormick asked, "You're saying I'm like that Spetsnaz lieutenant, Sergeant Ivanov?"
Volodya's hand tightened on the wheel. "Goddamn right you are. And I might not be another Sergeant Zhukov, but I'll be damned if I let a comrade die for your personal mission, Sergeant McCormick. Especially not a comrade I had to drag miles down a river and kidnap a doctor to save."
The two sat in silence for a time after that. Then McCormick said, "You'd do the same thing for Gurung if you were in my shoes."
Volodya grunted his agreement. "Yes, but I wouldn't force someone else along to help with my dirty work."
McCormick shot back, "Yeah, you Spetsnaz guys never needed help doing dirty work. You only needed help with real fighting.”
“What do you know of the Spetsnaz?” Volodya asked dismissively.
“I ran into a few Spetsnaz in Colombia a few years back. They were delivering explosives to the Maoists. You know, the ones who set off all those school bombs.” McCormick adopted a sarcastic nostalgic tone. “Too bad your guys didn't pay attention in jungle warfare school, maybe I wouldn't have been able to kill three of them with a silenced pistol in the night."
Volodya sighed. “Ah, Clay, you are still a very young man if you think you can provoke someone like me with your little story about killing three men from my former unit. I don't give a shit about Spetsnaz. Yes, I had friends there, but most Spetsnaz are assholes, and the people giving them orders are even bigger assholes. I don't really care how many of them you killed in Colombia. Let's see if I can show you how to rile someone up a little better.
“I read that manuscript of yours, Stand of Knights. A very self-important title for a book about war. I read all your platitudes about Taiwan. But anyone with half-a-brain can see what this is really all about for you. You think if you fight here long enough, your country will stop being a bland, post-modern shleptocracy, your life won't be a waste of time, and that little old girlfriend of yours will come crawling back, all while the media showers you with praise and victory laurels. That sound about right?”