Igor Yevtishenkov - The wrong war

«And how did they shoot it down?» asked the captain.

«Uh… well, „our younger brothers“ from a far yellow country helped a bit. They managed to successfully copy „FS-6“ MANPADS and sold them to the terrorists,» he nodded toward the window referring to the enemy.

«Really?» Nechyporenko was surprised but then he sighed and added: «Ivanych, so, if you’re joking, it’s not that bad then?» he asked hopefully.

«Who knows! I don’t want to evoke evil but my heart is restless,» Sergeyev said sincerely and this recognition made the captain grimace.

«Well, that’s not inspiring,» he said with a sigh. «And what about those „TV-jokers“? They’ll stay alone. They might be bombed or shot occasionally during firing. It’s not Latakia over here,» this question concerned the reporters.

«Gotta leave them to the local guys. They’ve got a few people who graduated from our academies. They speak Russian. So they’ll look after them, I hope. Lets’ go!» the lieutenant-colonel nodded when he saw that the Syrian leader had ended the conversation. «We have to see what weapons they have here. I would prefer «Kalashnikovs» and «Makarovs», he muttered to himself.

«Kalashnikovs» were available but pistols, alas, were not. There were Italian «Berettas» and a lot of ammunition available for them. They could take as much as they could carry. Helicopters were empty, so the «heavy» people were safe to fly.

«Not so many. What else can we take?» the captain Nechyporenko asked Sergeyev, filling the second bag with magazines. «Our guys can’t shoot. They are all drivers and typesetters for publishing, technology support staff, you know,» he said, with a vexed and disappointed voice and Sergeyev immediately made a decision.

«We’ll take only „Kalashnikovs“ then! And maximum cartridges. Let them sit and load magazines until they drop. We’ve got time. Also we’ll need water. That’s all, nothing else.»

«You’re that serious, I thought you’d order a cannon,» the captain tried to smile.

«Are you kidding? I would take a cannon, but there’s not a good one to take. They do not have a damn thing here. No grenades and grenade launchers. Okay, let’s be serious. Time to talk to our guys. What nicknames do they have?»

«What?» Nechyporenko’s eyes widened and several cartridges slipped out of his hands rolling on the floor. «Nicknames? Who?»

«Yes, their nicknames. Start with them first,» the lieutenant-colonel nodded at the soldiers.

«Hey, private Mustafin!» Nechyporenko called one of the soldiers. The young private looked up from the magazine. «The lieutenant-colonel wonders what nicknames you have. Tell him!»

«My nick is Mustafa,» replied the soldier, calmly.

«Well. It’s okay,» said Sergeyev. «All together, repeat his new name out loud ten times: Mustafa!» after the surprised soldiers complied with the order jangling discords, followed from others:

«Tolik Safonov’s is «Safon.»

«It doesn’t work. He’ll be Safar. Got it»? All recite ten times: Safar! Call him only this name from now on!»

«Pyriev Sergey’s is „Pyrchik“».

«It doesn’t work either. He’ll be Abgar. Is that clear? Say it again ten times: Abgar!»

«Edik Tsyba is called „Donut“. He’s a bit stout».

«Hmm… He’ll be Abubakr. Say it again aloud: Abubakr!»

«Isa Alarzoyev ’s name is Isa. What else could it be?» private Ravvil Mustafin shrugged.

«He’ll be Rayis,» concluded the lieutenant-colonel. «Altogether say it: Rayis!» when it was over, he asked: «What’s the captain’s nickname?»

«Me? Why me?» said surprised Nechyporenko.

«Wait! Mustafa, how do you choose a nickname for you commander?» interrupted Sergeyev.

«Sayid…» replied the private quietly and lowered his head to hide a smile.

«Why?» the lieutenant-colonel smiled too.

«He resembles Sayid from White Sun of the Desert ,» the newfound Abgar helped his friend.

«Okay. And mine?» Sergeyev saw them all just looking at each other and keeping silent. «Well, why are you silent? I also have to change my name. Speak!»

«You know, we call you by name, no change,» said again Abgar, who apparently was the bravest of them.

«Got it. Then you’ll call me Saraga instead of Sergeyev. Got it? Repeat out loud ten times: Saraga!» When they all finished talking, he knocked on the cartridge box and added: «Now listen carefully: we’ve got no names, no surnames. Only the new nicknames. Now we’re going to repeat them a hundred times more to memorize them. But before that, listen to what the mission is: it is necessary to find a downed pilot and bring him back. If we find him quickly, we’ll come back to the helicopters and fly here to „TV-jokers“ to help them carry their shit. If not, we’ll have to spend some time over there. Therefore, we call each other only our new names. Do I make myself clear?»

«Yes, you do!» a discordant chorus echoed in the large hangar. Sergeyev noticed that none of them said «Right you are’. The guys were tense.

«Okay, go ahead. When we’re back, we will all continue to use these new names before returning to main base in Latakia. There’s no need to blow our cover. The „TV-jokers“ shouldn’t know your real names either. I hope it is clear. Now is the most difficult thing what should we do, if we get stuck in there. Things happen. These radio-sets will be enough for five hours, no longer, so keep your distance, stay in sight, don’t go farther than a hundred paces. After five hours we’ll have to go, even if we do not find the pilot. And the last option is just a contingency.»

«Force majeure or a hell of a mess, so to speak», added Captain Nechyporenko but nobody smiled.

«You may say so,» agreed Sergeyev. So, if we are there without helicopters and any support, the third option comes into effect – we’ll have to return to the city on our own. It’s around a hundred kilometers. So, it’ll take a couple of nights to get here. That’s all. Any questions?»

The soldiers stared blankly at their magazines trying to insert cartridges with disobedient fingers.

«I have a question,» asked the captain. «Are they gonna feed us before departure or shall we arrange barbecue upon arrival over there?»

«Keep calm, don’t show off! It’s not the right time for jokes,» sighed Sergeyev. «They’ll feed us before departure. There will be no food at the site.»

«Of course, there won’t,» grinned Nechyporenko. He couldn’t help joking.

«If someone refuses to go, I won’t compel them to. You’ll just wait for the others coming back here. Remember, if you have questions or other issues, I’m always here. Ask me at any time.»

No one refused; there were no more questions. Before boarding they only managed to collect all the ammunition and eat Syrian combat rations because a sort of soup made in a big kitchen truck looked suspicious. Sergeyev did not want to take risks and eat the local hodgepodge fearing for their stomachs. So far everything went according to the plan and no one was worried. He had to just go to the helicopters and talk to the pilots. He formed that good habit of double-checking the equipment after two failed flights in Yemen. After he miraculously survived, Sergeyev started talking to the pilots and listening to the noise of the engine, as if it was a living organism, every time before boarding trying to catch the slightest strange or unusual sounds in its work. This time, everything was alright. Pilots as usual relied on the power of their god and repeated «in sha’a alla» – «with Allah’s help» – after which he amused them by saying: «Kullutamam fi ilamam, kullu hara min alvar» – «all good things to come, all bad things have gone». Then he banged his palm on the metal board keeping his fingers crossed and went for the captain and his soldiers.