***
Over the next few days, something of an evening ritual was established between Olivia, Suslov, and Malinovsky. At the end of the day, she was often so tired that speaking coherent Russian was almost impossible for her. Instead, while she worked to repair sensors that were broken or malfunctioning, one man or the other sitting beside her silently might hand her a part or a tool to which she had pointed. It had begun as a vital curiosity about what she was doing and had come to be very peaceful and calming.
Olivia had three types of sensors to test. One, carrying dual infrared/audio capabilities, was meant to be emplaced as a surveillance device, their transmissions monitored over short distances. Two were hand-held, meant to be tossed around corners or into rooms in tactical situations, not carefully emplaced. One was infrared/acoustic, the other audio only. They were not what she wanted, nor what she hoped to be able to deliver in a few months. But they were a start. They were far better than nothing. And they were already saving lives.
Olivia looked up from her improvised work table, took off her magnifying glasses, rose and stretched, her back making awful sounds that Malinovsky noticed. She began to make tea. “Where is the Kombrig this evening?”
“Dealing with deserters.”
Olivia handed Malinovsky a mug and muttered, “Conscripts driven to desertion because their officers and sergeants beat them, not train them.” She was astonished by the effort it took to speak.
“Not in this brigade,” Malinovsky said flatly. “Here, we have real officers and sergeants. But this is not a regular unit, not that the Kombrig would ever tolerate the behavior that is sadly, these years, tolerated even in some Airborne or Spetsnaz units.” He did an affectionate impersonation of Suslov. “ ‘Do not be drunk on duty. Ever. Do not engage in relations not covered by regulations. Ever.’ ”
Olivia looked a question at him. Malinovsky smiled. “ ‘Relations not covered by regulations’ is a polite way of saying, dyedovshchina. Many militaries use or tolerate hazing, whether ugly or benign, to initiate new recruits or to bully them as a deliberate means of uniting them in hatred of their drill instructors. Dyedovshchina,” he sipped his tea, “is neither of those things, but simple, pure abuse. It’s common enough in all of Russia, but when you fuse it with military rank and discipline, it is intolerable and destructive. Kombrig will break anyone for being drunk on duty or engaging in relations not covered by regulations. Four months ago, he sent away for ten years to a strict regime labor camp a highly decorated warrant officer. The warrant officer had made the mistake of thinking the Kombrig soft, so he made a draftee give him his pay, and when the draftee did not give all the money the warrant officer wanted, the warrant officer beat the lad. The Kombrig heard the shouting and came running and it took six men to pull him off that warrant officer.”
By now, Olivia was staring at him, wondering just what sort of an army she had gotten herself into. Then she sipped her tea and prepared herself for the answers to the question she was going to ask. “What happens to deserters?”
“Usually, if their officers find them, they execute them on the spot, along with any Chechens who have given them shelter. The soldiers, for deserting; the Chechens, usually the entire family, for holding prisoners. That’s the way we avoid the truth. If their officers do not find them, well, what the Chechens are doing now is telling their mothers, we have your sons, come get them.”
Olivia struggled for coherence. “Russian soldiers desert to the enemy in the middle of a war, and their captors tell their mothers to come get them? And they believe that if they go home, the local authorities will not notice?”
“Sadly these deserters believe just that. But we do not take kindly to misbehavior in the face of the enemy. When the authorities find them, as they always do, they are invariably executed for desertion and treason.”
“How will the Kombrig deal with them?”
“Offer them a choice. We need casualty replacements, not meat for the guns. If they refuse to return to the colors, which means in this case, this brigade, not their old units, they will be shot on the spot, along with the male Chechen head of household who has sheltered them. If they accept, they have a chance to redeem themselves and, if they live, an honorable discharge. To the Chechens, Kombrig will give his thanks that in the midst of this terrible war, they showed humanity to a lost and demoralized enemy soldier.”
“The Kombrig is an unscrupulous humanist,” she muttered. “How many accept his offer?”
“Not all have. Surprisingly. We shot those who didn’t. But most do. And most of them make good soldiers. They are not disloyal and they are not cowards, but they do not understand why we are killing our own people. Not that we Russians usually consider the Chechens our people, but they are. And we are not just killing fighters; we are killing innocent people. The Chechens are not some mythical nation in arms. Nor are they all fanatics. They are human and many of them would simply like to live peacefully within the Russian Federation, and we are killing them and Russians, too.”
Olivia brushed against her soldering iron and grunted as she realized she had forgotten to turn it off. “We executed only one man during World War Two for desertion. At least, that is the official story.”
“Different army. Different culture. We sent survivors of German POW camps to the Gulag. That is our official story.” Disgust in Malinovsky’s clear tenor voice.
“We did persecute one of our greatest boxers for draft resistance during the Vietnam War. Everyone knew that he would never have been assigned to a combat unit. He would have been sent around on exhibition matches during his Army service, living like royalty and fighting easy bouts. But this was a point of honor for him. Of course, it was not the Gulag or execution that he had to worry about. Just losing his title and the chance to do what he was so good at.”
Now Malinovsky was looking at her, intrigued. “He got them back. While keeping his honor. How do you, a lady of your background, know about Muhammad Ali?”
“Everyone in America knows something about Muhammad Ali. I had a special reason. I always wanted to learn to box, but never did. Girls didn’t do such things back then. I’ve lifted and run all my life. I’ve taken them up again, but it’s not the same as it was.”
Malinovsky nodded. He could tell from her carriage and movements that she had been badly injured, but it was too much of an intrusion to ask for details. Instead, he let her continue. “Right now, my evening recreation seems to consist of fixing my pets.”
“Your pets?”
“So I’ve come to think of them. The problem pets especially.”
“Would you still like to learn to box?”
She looked back at him, seeking a challenge or contempt in his black eyes, and found only a man perplexed by a sincere offer that he had not expected to make but did not regret.
“Yes. Yes, I would. Very much.”
“Then we begin.”
“Now, Major?”
“Now, Doctor. Now.”