Balázs Pataki: S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage

No matter of his once-great looks, Captain Maksimenko drew most of his charisma from being the commander of a famed spec-ops division of the SBU, call sign Search Two. Even a fraction of what he was allowed to disclose about his missions to the secret laboratories in the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone was enough to make Spetsnaz rookies shudder and female cadets get moist.

But now, as he stops at the end of the corridor in front of a white, bullet- and fire-proof door, he nervously looks into a window and looking at his reflection, checks his tie and bird-nest officer’s cap. His hand on the copper door knob, he takes a deep breath as if he were about to enter a mutant’s lair. Then he clears his throat and opens the door without knocking.

“Captain Maksimenko here to see Colonel Kruchelnikov.”

Either it’s the effect of the still steaming coffee in the elderly secretary’s cup or the faded remains of the captain’s virile beauty, she smiles at him. With her fat finger, she adjusts a strand of dyed blonde hair behind her ear. In the reflection of a glassed-in cabinet behind the secretary’s desk, Maksimenko sees that she has the orange and blue interface of Odnoklassniki open on the screen, the Russian version of Facebook.

“You are to go in at once, Captain,” she replies and jerks her head towards the door on the other side of the room. The strand of hair again starts misbehaving.

For a moment, Maksimenko wonders why a man like Colonel V.M. Kruchelnikov, the commander of all of Ukraine’s special forces from embassy guards to elite Spetsnaz units, doesn’t have a better-looking secretary. But then it comes to his mind that the SBU’s prettier female employees have more challenging, and probably more pleasant jobs to do than sitting behind a desk and chatting.

Maksimenko’s heels clack as he performs a perfect salute in the colonel’s office.

“Dobroho ranku, tovaryshu polkovnyk! Captain Maksimenko reporting as ordered.”

Colonel Kruchelnikov is standing at a window overlooking Volodymyrska Street with the heavy Friday morning traffic below.

“Shut the door, Captain,” he replies. After a minute he adds, “Sit.”

Maksimenko has an uneasy feeling as he sits down in the leather chair in front of the colonel’s oversized oaken desk. He stares at his superior’s back, broad shoulders and gray hair, cut down to stubs. The noise of the street below is muted by the bullet-proof window glass. All he can hear is a faint, scraping and screeching noise of a metal spoon squeezing a lemon in a cup of tea.

“I guess you know why I wanted to talk to you, Captain?” the colonel asks.

Maksimenko clears his throat. “My promotion is overdue.”

“Indeed. We haven’t forgotten what you did during Project Truth in 2012, before Strelok messed everything up.”

The colonel is still standing with his back to Maksimenko, stirring the tea. The screeching sneaks into the captain’s brain and he can barely suppress the feeling of ants crawling along his spine. He would sooner prefer the roar of an attacking bloodsucker.

“It was… an exciting mission,” he says.

“By any means, you should be a major by now.”

“I… based on my years of service…”

The colonel turns around and gives the captain a piercing look from his cold grey eyes.

“Sorry to say that promotions are not as easily given as some half-renegade officers think.”

Maksimenko swallows before asking his question. “Does the Service doubt my loyalty?”

Kruchelnikov’s mouth eases into something like a smile. “I was meaning Degtyarev and the promotion he gave to a certain… anyway, I didn’t approve of it but that’s none of your business.”

“If you allow me to mention it, sir, I thought maybe I was assigned to desk and training duties because of my injury… but I am still a crack shot using my right eye! First I was left out from the siege of the CNPP, then Operation Fairway too, while another captain…”

His superior abruptly interrupts him. “I get your meaning but you’d better be thankful for missing out on those operations. Rest assured, the Service still counts on you. That is, unless the time spent as a lecturer in officer’s school have softened you too much for a new assignment.”

Maksimenko protests. “No, absolutely not!”

“Indeed, I heard that your lectures about… hardness and deep penetration tactics were quite popular with female cadets. Now, if you’re for once willing to lubricate your way up the career path instead of female cadets’ clits, maybe your time has come.”

“I am listening,” Maksimenko replies with a blush.

Colonel Kruchelnikov takes a red folder from a folder in his desk and shows a photograph to Maksimenko.

“He is your objective.”

Taking the picture from the colonel’s hairy fingers, Maksimenko tilts back in his chair. The colonel notices his surprise with amusement. “It seems you know this man, Captain.”

“Everybody knows him, sir. He’s a hero… a legend actually!”

“Keep your enthusiasm low. Seen from our perspective he’s a loose cannon. He did perform valuable services but that’s in the past. Frankly, trusting him was one of the biggest mistakes this Service has ever made.” The colonel opens a small wooden box on his desk. “A Cohiba, Captain?”

“Thank you, sir,” Maksimenko says accepting the cigar. “With pleasure, sir.”

“Do you like cigars?”

“I actually do, sir. But—with all due respect, I think Major Degtyarev might be better qualified for this mission than I am.”

The colonel moves around his desk and lets himself half-way sit on it.

“Top brass wants to leave Degtyarev out of this,” he says fishing a box of matches from his pocket, “and I couldn’t approve more. Personal connections cloud proper judgment. It happened to him in the past but won’t happen in the future. Not during this operation.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Besides,” Kruchelnikov adds lighting his own cigar, ”Degtyarev has been assigned to an undercover operation.”

Kruchelnikov ignites another match. Maksimenko moves closer to reach the burning match but it remains an inch too far from him, as if the colonel would hold it deliberately away. Maksimenko stiffens in this awkward position. The colonel leans closer and lowers his voice.

“Your target went off the radar but you are to find and bring him back. You probably guess it’s about intel he refused to share with us.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for him, sir.”

“You can start by offering a few days of extra leave and a little cash to your grunts or anyone who leads him to you… but that will not likely help you much. For God’s sake, your file says you’re a resourceful officer, Maksimenko. Could the Service be wrong about you? Find him.”

Maksimenko stares at the match, now halfway burnt, its small flame licking the skin on the colonel’s palm and fingers. Not as much as an eyelid stirs on Kruchelnikov’s face.

“I—I think I know of a way to do that,” he whispers.

Colonel Kruchelnikov’s thin lips jerk into the triumphant grin of a wolf closing in on its prey. He pats Maksimenko’s arm.

“That’s my boy.”

His hand holding the match moves an inch closer. Before it extinguishes between his burnt fingers, the last flicker of the match lights up the captain’s Cohiba.

A bitter taste runs down Captain Maksimenko’s palate as he draws on the cigar.

In a decrepit house smelling of trash and decay, a lonely candle burns. Only the hands of the man scrawling into a tattered notice block are visible in its light. The barely legible scribble tells of despair, the shaking fingers of drug deprivation.