— Daddy, aren’t you staying today either?
— No, Kitten…
— Why are you never with mom and me?
— Because I’m serving, Kitten.
* * *
The voice of the duty officer at the command post instantly becomes metallic and booms in the speaker:
— Ballistic on K! Ballistic on K! Personnel to shelter! Where is crew H.? Connection!
The room is small, and the noise of the staff, colleagues in gear, and green fatigues fills it as if trying to push out the windows sealed tight with black tape.
Dialogues mix into an endless jumble of meanings, each being an important line of the plot, together weaving into a dramatic picture of the confrontation between democracy and tyranny in the 21st century.
— In the air! Azimuth 270!
— Strike! Where is crew H.? Connection. What about the object? What about the people? Someone show the picture!
— More ballistics! I repeat, another ballistic on K! Everyone to shelter! — it’s clear that the strict yet measured voice of the duty officer, as much as the situation allows, belongs simply to a human being, who by the will of a single psychopath, thrown off by imperial grandeur, found themselves at the forefront of the information channels of a vast nervous system of the country’s air defense.
— Lift the board, show the picture. Turn around!
— What about H.?
— Duty T., come in.
— Azimuth 90. Two marks. Work!
— Connection!
— Everything is burning there. Very loud! I repeat, very loud!
— Board — land.
— H. is in shelter. I repeat, H. is in shelter… Everyone is alive.
— There’s the picture!
— Thank God…
We listen to this drama as if it’s a radio play from the pre-television era and examine the black-and-white footage from the thermal imaging of a drone, like a silent film from the 1920s.
— My God… How it burns… Look… Right to the sky…
— Sh.! T.! A.! K.! D.! In the air! Lift the boards. What about the marks?
— Duty K., come in.
— Connection.
— Target 4328 destroyed.
— Copy.
— Point Sh. not B.G.
— Why?
— Downpour. Flooding the equipment…
— Target 3217 destroyed.
— Copy.
— Keep working!
The radar screens turn red from the number of targets heading directly toward peaceful cities, where ordinary people rush to bomb shelters, rightly believing that the imaginary truce allowed the Russians to amass strike drones and missiles.
– It’s all set. Should I blow the hatch?
– Blow it.
– Damn… Get me a connection with Point D.!
– Connected.
– D.! You’ll soon have a lot of guests. Ten… twenty… thirty… a ton, D. Ready?
– We have only five planes left.
– In the air!
– Repeat?… How many?
– Only five planes left. I repeat, five planes.
– Is there a shelter nearby?
– Um… we’ll jump into the trench, just in case…
– Roger.
– Commander, there are 5 planes at D. I repeat, 5 planes left.
– Roger. I’ll send Z. He’ll bring the planes, detonators, and explosives.
– Will he make it?
– He must.
– Operator, target 2316 destroyed.
– Azimuth 150.
– K., skies!
– D., on the line.
– Connected.
– 4597 destroyed.
– D! Z. is speeding to you. He’ll deliver, he’ll make it. Hold on.
– Roger.
* * *
– Daddy, why are you serving?
– Because we’re at war with Russia, Kitten.
– Will you serve for long?
* * *
– Commander, adverse weather conditions. Will we be… okay if we lose more planes?
He’s barely over twenty. Got married six months ago. But has already shot down several drones. And his first target – a gerbera – he took down by ramming, because the weapon failed.
– Keep at it. Give it your all, Y. What planes are we talking about, if you see how many they have… Just keep working. Lift everything you have. Destroy. Remember what to do when the chances are slim?
– I remember. Get angry.
– Good job.
The screen is red with threats. North, Northeast, Southeast, South. Waves. Tsunami. An ocean of senseless aggression.
Yet, it’s held back by the rocks of deliberate fury.
Bright tracers tear through the night sky.
Unknown men, 50+, who have nothing left but “they have no business here,” because the economic fronts tire the mamas’ little cherries from the war, slashing trajectories with mighty anti-aircraft guns, filling the air with metal calibers twelve and seven and fourteen and five.
Here and there, massive towers of green Gepards following the drones, unleash short bursts of thirty-five millimeter shells.
The sound rapidly approaches.
The object desperately resists with everything it has – from four barrels of Rokach to the delicate Belgian calibers of seven six two.
– It’s coming in. To the shelter!
The wail is like from an old war movie, where dive bombers swooped on columns of vehicles.
A flash lights up the sky to the horizon.
The skin feels the warmth. Or is it just an illusion?
The shockwave arrives in a few seconds.
– Where’s the commander?
– Over there… with the rescuers.
– Oh…
* * *
– Will I serve for long?.. Long, Kitten.
– Until the end of the war?
– Yes, Kitten.
– When is the end of the war?
* * *
MG and WG fight to the last bullet in belts and boxes.
Old as mammoth dung, Strela-2 MANPADS spit rockets into the gray dawn sky.
The Tunguskas are moving to backup positions.
Somewhere nearby, ballistics are entering fields and groves.
The pilots drink coffee and energy drinks without tasting them.
People in helmets lift the heavy Mi-8s and rush toward the black remnants.
Come on, dear ones. You are our last hope…
* * *
– No one knows when the war will end. But not before we win, Kitten.
I lean over the mouse in the blanket, kiss its ear and whisper:
– Take care of mom, okay?
– Okay, Daddy.
* * *
Cities wake up.
Trolleybuses hit the streets.
Cafes grind fragrant beans.
Rescuers zip up black bags.
It smells of burnt plastic, concrete, and human grief.
Traffic jams slowly take over the streets.
Pale and exhausted people in Toyotas, Fiats, Titanos, and Ls wrapped in mask-nets crowd near traffic lights trying to reach Peh-1. To clean weapons, write reports, and get some sleep. Because the next night may be the same.
– I. to the duty officer.
– Connection.
– Control point confirmed – K. destroyed two more targets.
– Are you sure?
– Yes.
– Plus-plus.
– Redo the report and briefing.
– Plus.
* * *
– Kitten, you’ll understand everything when you grow up. Okay?
– Okay, Daddy.
– Sleep, Kitten, goodnight.
– Goodnight.
* * *
– K., you hear me. They credited you with two more targets.
– Seriously?
– Absolutely. Great job.
– Cool.
– But you know what? You’ll have to redo the report, – I can’t help but smile tiredly.
– Damn… I want to sleep so much. I’m so fed up with this, – but you can hear K. also barely smiling.
Damn, how much I love this job.
And I really love the people who do it.
We’re kicking ass, dear ones.
Have a quiet night and morning.
