..... The moon in Afghanistan shadowed things weirdly, all angles and obscurity, and left the land somehow jagged and flat looking at the same time - dangerously undistinguished, bare as Mars, and covered in shadows. Under the spill of light, Sergeant Nicolai Chiernenko kicked a pebble aside, teeth champed around a cigarette, and wondered how many of those shadows had a dushman in it waiting to blow his ass to hell.
..... Nic thought idly about the possibility of death in the way that every soldier did, but the immediate problem in front of him had most of his attention. Private Urenkov, six-foot two and still plush from good city living, lay in the dust with his limbs contorted and swollen. The bugs were already getting to him. He had been fished out of a ditch, stinking up like roadkill and covered in dirt.
..... Nic's thin, nearly lipless mouth drew to one side as he surveyed the sun-rotted corpse in front of them. He was no cop, but he knew what he was seeing, and it wasn't what was coming out of the Sergeant Major's mouth.
..... "...the patrol swears that they didn't see any dushmen past the wall, dedushka. We have people searching, the last call was th-"
..... "Won't find any Mujahedin." The wiry man sighed. "Fragged."
..... "Fragged?" The Sergeant Major froze, considering that. "This far out of the camp? No no, comrade soldier, look at him... "
..... "I am." Nicolai crouched down, cigarette wagging as he drew on it deeply, burning a good fingernail's length from the end. "I know what I'm looking at."
..... The two of them were the only living people on the road. He ignored the NCO seething behind and to the side of him to lift up Aleksander Urenkov's turned head. He was barely stiff, but the state of decomposition told him that he was past rigor, not heading up for it.
..... The private had a second smile drawn across his throat, into the carotid artery and up. The knife had hooked in so deeply that the remaining wound was sunken, bruised and crusted around the edges.
..... "Someone here did it." Nicolai threw a gloved hand up, taking the cigarette in the other so that he could exhale smoke out of his mouth and breathe in away from the body. No sense taking in the reek. "That's a cut out of the manual. Textbook perfect."
..... The other soldier's worn face creased for a moment. The Sergeant Major was a good man, a good NCO, though he was young. He reached into his pocket and tapped a roughly rolled cigarette out of a narrow case held together with tape. Back straight, he lit it, puffed once and turned a third of the length of it into ash with a single, powerful drag. "I just... fuck."
..... "Yeah." Nic looked for any other signs of injury, turning the man over on the road with a boot. There was a single puncture on his lower back, straight into the kidney. The paralyzing strike... so painful, it killed sound when it was properly executed. It had been. No one had heard a damn thing. "This guy piss anyone off?"
..... "Private Urenkov was a fine serviceman. Obedient. We're going to find out." The officer frowned. "I'll kill them twice over."
..... It was an empty threat. Nic knew it depended on who had done it and how much they had to trade for the death. Food was running low. The officers, commissioned or otherwise, didn't really care.
..... Standing and brushing himself off with wiry hands, Nicolai turned and sighed. "Need to get this man into a grave. Can't tell much, except that it looks like a pro job. Something out of the book. No tracks for me to use."
..... He paused, gathering his words - this one night, he had spoken more than he usually would in a week. "If you want me to find the guy, write me info. His tentmates. Who he hangs with. Probably over something personal."
..... "Well, he was bunked with Efrieter Demenk-."
..... "Write it down?" Nicolai looked over at him with cloudy blue eyes, hard, but full of mute appeal. He was sick of hearing the man's voice.
..... The NCO glared at him, then exhaled sharply past his cigarette. He pulled a pencil, smattered with tooth marks, then a small, dust-and-bloodstained flipbook from his coat. The Sergeant Major scribbled down a few names with their ranks and tent numbers. "If you're convinced it's someone in the camp, I should be handling this."
..... "No. You did right."
..... "Did what right?" The other man looked up through the smoke, eyebrows arched.
..... Nic paused, and irritably scruffed his hand over the pale stubble of his head. He was often annoyed by how many words people seemed to need, as though they couldn't make a rational conclusion based on a couple of cues. "Did the right thing calling me in. I'll fix it. It'd be a loss of face otherwise."
..... The Sergeant Major looked aside for a moment. Nicolai technically deferred to him. But the NCOs and officers knew, most of them, who was a Dedushka, a Grandfather, and who wasn't. The ones that didn't make the distinction would find a grenade rolled into their tent at night. The Sergeant Major had wisely come to him first.
..... "Get a few guys here. Nothing else we can do 'cept bury him." Nic kept his sigh down, and reached out for the slip of paper. They were both huddled into their collars and gloves, tucked into their heavy sand colored jackets. The Sergeant Major tore it from the book and extended it to him. It was taken up between the thinner man's pinched thumb and forefinger, before it disappeared into a pocket.
..... "What do you want for trade, comrade?" It was mandatory that he offer.
..... "Don't know yet. Hold on to your next parcel." Without saying anything further, Nic turned and walked off back up the road. He heard the other man exhale sharply behind him, but paid it no mind. There was nothing more to add - anything else was just a waste of their time.
..... He checked the paper the NCO had given him after he had trudged a ways up the road. A jeep crackled past him on the dry ground as he read, the occupants oblivious to him. Where they were stationed, in the plains near the border of Pakistan, there was precious little other than dirt. Lots of dirt and mountains, interspersed with steep precipices, drops, and gullies. At night, far away from the heart of the failing war, there was little sound beyond the limits of the camp. Urenkov had died in perfect silence.
..... Nic's first port of call was the man's quarters. Thanks to his bunkmate's seniority and the depleted platoon, Urenkov shared a solid room with Maksim Demenko in a bombed out, abandoned house, one of only a few not being used by the officers. Both of them were probably officials' sons. Dutifully, the wiry ranger made his way through the retreat camp and knocked on the stone doorway, poorly covered by a curtain made out of an old sand poncho.
..... No one answered. With a small grunt, Nic brushed the door flap aside and glanced in before kicking on into the room. The pair had rigged a gas lamp over one of the beds. He lit it and turned his head, rheumy gaze flicking from point to point.
..... The room was dirt strewn, like everything in the miserable sandy shithole. The worst of the debris had been swept aside with brooms when the retreating unit had moved in. The stretchers had their blankets on them, the heavy wool in disarray. Urenkov's field kit was missing - his single roommate was nowhere to be found. He was a dembel, scheduled for discharge. Nic was not surprised to find him missing.