here to the other side of the building. Then burn everything to ashes.”
With obvious relief, Rudenko turned and quickly relayed Mikhailov’s orders. The men of the platoon began to move quickly along the central walkway, keeping their eyes and weapons trained on the corn stalks and whatever might be lurking behind them.
* * *
Ryadavoy Pavel Ivanovich Sleptsev heaved a sigh of relief as he heard the whispered orders for the platoon to move forward into the next building and get out of this accursed place. The corn stalks, standing twice his own height, their shadows dancing in the moving beams of the flashlights, made his skin crawl. A native of Saint Petersburg, a city boy, this was as close as he had ever come to being on a farm. He did not consider himself a coward and would never admit it to anyone but his closest friends, but his stomach was bound in a tight knot of fear. While he had no better explanation, it was clear to his young eyes that whatever happened here had not been a terrorist act.
“Come on.” The man next to him, Kamensky, headed toward the central walkway.
Sleptsev turned to follow him.
“ Help me .”
He stopped at the whispered words, his head whipping around. The voice had come from behind him. From somewhere in the corn.
“Help me, please! I’m hurt.” It was a young woman’s voice, now barely above a whisper. She was obviously in pain. “I can’t move.”
“Kamensky!” The other soldier didn’t hear, and Sleptsev dared not raise his voice any more or Rudenko would cut his balls off for violating tactical discipline.
Kamensky’s silhouette disappeared into the darkness.
Sleptsev was alone.
Turning in the direction of the woman’s voice, he pointed the light of his weapon into the corn, careful to keep his finger off the trigger so he didn’t accidentally shoot her.
“Listen,” he said urgently. “I’m going to get you some help. I’ll be right back.”
“No, please!” She sobbed. “Don’t leave me! Everyone else left me. I’ve been here all alone. If you leave me, you’ll never come back!”
“Yes, I will! I promise. It’ll just take a moment.”
“Please, just take me with you. I can’t stand it here.”
He tensed as he heard a rustle of movement. A hand emerged from the corn. An arm, then a face as the woman, barely more than a girl, dragged herself toward him, panting with exertion. Her face was dirty and caked with blood, her blond hair matted. She looked at him, a desperate expression on her face, with one bright blue eye; the other was swollen shut by an ugly blue-black bruise that ran from her forehead to her cheek.
That clinched it. He couldn’t just leave her here in the dark. “Okay,” he told her, slinging his weapon over his back. “You’re going to be fine. Give me your hand, I’ll carry you.”
A stinger as long as his hand whipped out of the corn and plunged into his upper neck, just above the collar of his uniform.
Eyes wide with shock and surprise, Sleptsev tried to raise his arms to pull the thing out, but couldn’t. His arms were useless, paralyzed, as a wave of burning agony swept through him. He collapsed to his knees, then slumped forward, his last breath gurgling out of his ruptured trachea as the scrotum-like base of the stinger continued to pump poison into his body.
The stinger pulled away, and he heard a sickly, wet sucking sound in the darkness above. Someone knelt beside him, and for a moment he dared to hope it was Kamensky. Then he felt his rifle and the RPO-M rocket being unslung from his back, and his clothes quickly being stripped off. The flashlight was again flicked on, and in its reflected glow the last thing he saw was the image of his own face as his body was dragged into the rows of corn.
* * *
“Sleptsev,” Rudenko called as the young soldier passed by, the last one of the platoon to file by, “what the devil took you so long?”
“I am sorry, starshiy serzhant . I thought I heard
With obvious relief, Rudenko turned and quickly relayed Mikhailov’s orders. The men of the platoon began to move quickly along the central walkway, keeping their eyes and weapons trained on the corn stalks and whatever might be lurking behind them.
* * *
Ryadavoy Pavel Ivanovich Sleptsev heaved a sigh of relief as he heard the whispered orders for the platoon to move forward into the next building and get out of this accursed place. The corn stalks, standing twice his own height, their shadows dancing in the moving beams of the flashlights, made his skin crawl. A native of Saint Petersburg, a city boy, this was as close as he had ever come to being on a farm. He did not consider himself a coward and would never admit it to anyone but his closest friends, but his stomach was bound in a tight knot of fear. While he had no better explanation, it was clear to his young eyes that whatever happened here had not been a terrorist act.
“Come on.” The man next to him, Kamensky, headed toward the central walkway.
Sleptsev turned to follow him.
“ Help me .”
He stopped at the whispered words, his head whipping around. The voice had come from behind him. From somewhere in the corn.
“Help me, please! I’m hurt.” It was a young woman’s voice, now barely above a whisper. She was obviously in pain. “I can’t move.”
“Kamensky!” The other soldier didn’t hear, and Sleptsev dared not raise his voice any more or Rudenko would cut his balls off for violating tactical discipline.
Kamensky’s silhouette disappeared into the darkness.
Sleptsev was alone.
Turning in the direction of the woman’s voice, he pointed the light of his weapon into the corn, careful to keep his finger off the trigger so he didn’t accidentally shoot her.
“Listen,” he said urgently. “I’m going to get you some help. I’ll be right back.”
“No, please!” She sobbed. “Don’t leave me! Everyone else left me. I’ve been here all alone. If you leave me, you’ll never come back!”
“Yes, I will! I promise. It’ll just take a moment.”
“Please, just take me with you. I can’t stand it here.”
He tensed as he heard a rustle of movement. A hand emerged from the corn. An arm, then a face as the woman, barely more than a girl, dragged herself toward him, panting with exertion. Her face was dirty and caked with blood, her blond hair matted. She looked at him, a desperate expression on her face, with one bright blue eye; the other was swollen shut by an ugly blue-black bruise that ran from her forehead to her cheek.
That clinched it. He couldn’t just leave her here in the dark. “Okay,” he told her, slinging his weapon over his back. “You’re going to be fine. Give me your hand, I’ll carry you.”
A stinger as long as his hand whipped out of the corn and plunged into his upper neck, just above the collar of his uniform.
Eyes wide with shock and surprise, Sleptsev tried to raise his arms to pull the thing out, but couldn’t. His arms were useless, paralyzed, as a wave of burning agony swept through him. He collapsed to his knees, then slumped forward, his last breath gurgling out of his ruptured trachea as the scrotum-like base of the stinger continued to pump poison into his body.
The stinger pulled away, and he heard a sickly, wet sucking sound in the darkness above. Someone knelt beside him, and for a moment he dared to hope it was Kamensky. Then he felt his rifle and the RPO-M rocket being unslung from his back, and his clothes quickly being stripped off. The flashlight was again flicked on, and in its reflected glow the last thing he saw was the image of his own face as his body was dragged into the rows of corn.
* * *
“Sleptsev,” Rudenko called as the young soldier passed by, the last one of the platoon to file by, “what the devil took you so long?”
“I am sorry, starshiy serzhant . I thought I heard
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