Aggression: Chronicles of the Third World War - 1
The enemy is weakened, but does not want to surrender:
After all, the prisoners will be starved to death or killed outright.
The tired soldier sought salvation,
So give the broken ones peace and shelter.
Michel de Notredame (Nostradamus)
* * *
Russia. A section of the federal transit highway M-53 (Novosibirsk - Kemerovo - Krasnoyarsk - Irkutsk), about 70 km from the nearest populated area. July 22, 2011, 04:49 local time. Shift supervisor of the cargo transportation support group Anton Varlamov, employee of the Irkutsk private security company Bulat. Security and escort of the cargo convoy.
Driving at night along the cracked old bypass road is generally a below average pleasure. Usually we stop at night in some bug-infested place or go off the highway to set up camp. But in the last few years this has become impossible: the freight forwarding company sets strict deadlines, so every second is saved, every kilometer traveled counts. Our column consists of three heavy-duty trucks, more reminiscent of medium-tonnage ships, and one escort vehicle is my combat Zhiguli, painted in the white, red and black colors of the security agency. The crisis that broke out two and a half years ago hit everyone who did anything. And when enterprises, firms and small businesses began to close one after another, there was also nothing to protect. Two private security companies where I worked closed, with a break of a couple of months. But so far I’ve been lucky: I managed to get hired at Bulat. This office was famous for the fact that it was founded by former cops who held most of the large contracts for railway and road freight transportation in the region. But they, too, had a hard time: over the past three months, the staff was reduced by a third and we, who went out to escort cargo with a normal team of eight people, were now forced to work with four of us. However, work is work, even if you understand that taking risks for a measly fifteen to twenty thousand plus bonuses is scary. I had the chance to ride at the head of the caravan, and even alone, illuminating the ruts full of potholes with the liquid light of the headlights of the service “five”. With a map in one hand and a bouncing wheel in the other, I led the column. Occasionally he had to stop to radio the drivers of three trailers moving in the distance. The people swore, but followed, since this was the only way to avoid the traffic jam on the main highway caused by a major accident. An open tractor carrying used Japanese cars to Novosibirsk miscalculated its speed while trying to overtake a passenger car, overturned and blocked the entire highway. It only occurred to me that a real traffic jam would soon form and we would have to look for a detour. Having quickly reported to the dispatcher about the change in route, I gave the command to our small caravan to leave the highway first onto a small section of dirt road leading to some village about forty kilometers to the southwest. The drivers began to be indignant, but Mishka Ovchinnikov, or simply Mikhas to his friends, quickly calmed down the driver’s union and we moved in formation to take a detour.
...The “Five” shook on a bump, straightening the steering wheel and checking the map again, I finally taxied onto a crooked asphalt exit, again leading out onto the main highway. The drivers greeted the appearance of a smooth road with approving horns, as if they weren’t the ones who had sworn at me two hours ago. Mikhas reported on the radio that we were ten to twelve hours behind schedule. What is there left to do? So, we go to the campsite without stopping to make up time. Nothing special, this happens very often, I got used to it after five years. The radio crackled again:
- I’m “half a hundred and five”, the situation at the back requires working on the eleventh, “half a hundred and first”, as you understand?
Crap! This is Andrei Ilyinsky, our youngest artel worker, still scrambling around the code table and trusting the drivers too easily.
Alexey Kolentyev
Partisans of the Third World War
The enemy is weakened, but does not want to surrender:
After all, the prisoners will be starved to death, or killed outright.
The tired soldier sought salvation,
So give the broken ones peace and shelter.
Michel de Notredame (Nostradamus).
Russia. A section of the federal transit highway M-53 (Novosibirsk - Kemerovo - Krasnoyarsk - Irkutsk), a distance of about 70 km, from the nearest settlement July 22, 2011 04.49 local time. Shift supervisor of the cargo transportation support group Anton Varlamov. An employee of the Irkutsk private security company Bulat. Security and escort of the cargo convoy.
Driving at night along the cracked old bypass road is generally a below average pleasure. Usually, we stop at night in some bug-infested place or drive off the road to set up camp. By last couple Over the years, this has become impossible: the freight forwarding company sets strict deadlines, so every second is saved, and every kilometer traveled counts. Our column consists of three heavy-duty trucks, more reminiscent of medium-sized ships, and one escort vehicle - my combat Zhiguli, painted in the white, red and black colors of the security agency. The crisis that broke out two and a half years ago greatly crippled everyone who did anything. And when enterprises, firms and small businesses began to close one after another, there was also nothing to protect. Two private security companies in which I worked immediately closed, with a break of a couple of months, until I managed to get hired at Bulat. This office was famous for the fact that it was founded by former cops who held most of the large contracts on the railway and road freight transportation in the region. But they too had a hard time: over the past three months, the staff has been reduced by a third and we, who went out to escort cargo with a normal team of eight people, are now forced to work with four of us. But work is work, even if you internally understand that taking risks for a measly fifteen to twenty thousand plus bonuses is scary. I had the chance to ride at the head of the caravan, and even alone, illuminating the ruts full of potholes with the liquid light of the headlights of the service “five”. With a map in one hand and a torn steering wheel in the other, I led the convoy. Occasionally you have to stop to radio the driver to encourage the three trailers driving behind him in the distance. The people swore, but followed, since this was the only way to avoid the traffic jam on the main highway caused by a major accident. An open tractor carrying used Japanese cars to Novosibirsk miscalculated its speed and, in an attempt to overtake a passenger car, overturned, blocking the entire highway. The fact that a real traffic jam would soon form and we would need to look for a detour quickly occurred to me only. Quickly reporting to the dispatcher about the change in route, I gave orders to our small caravan to leave the highway first onto a small section of dirt road leading to some village about forty kilometers to the southwest. The drivers began to be indignant, but Mishka Ovchinnikov, or simply Mikhas to his friends, quickly calmed down the driver’s union and we moved in formation to take a detour.
The “Five” shook on a bump, straightening the steering wheel and checking the map again, I finally taxied onto a crooked asphalt exit, again leading out onto the main highway. The drivers greeted the appearance of a smooth road with approving horns, as if they weren’t the ones who had cursed me out a couple of hours ago. Mikhas reported on the radio that we were ten to twelve hours behind schedule. What is there left to do? So, we’re going to the campsite without stopping to catch up on time. Nothing special either, this happens very often, I’ve been used to it for about five years now. The radio crackled again:
I am “half a hundred and five”, the situation at the back requires working on the eleventh, “half a hundred and one” how did I accept it?
Crap! This is Andrei Ilyinsky, our youngest artel worker, who is still working on the code table and trusts the drivers too easily. These cunning citizens had already realized that there would be no stop to eat, so they signaled to the “tail” so that it would “break.” And it may even be a real breakdown, our drivers are simply virtuosos and can even drive a three-wheeled cart without a motor, but we are all human. And the driver is paid not only for delivering the cargo, but also for the mileage, so he gets his salary anyway, they have no time to rush. And people are tired: we’ve been going for the third day with a minimum limit on rest. It even happens to be poured into a bottle so as not to fall behind the schedule. Personally, I haven’t noticed fatigue for many years now; work gives me the opportunity to simply let life take its course. Small and medium-severity problems are like snowflakes in a strong wind - they fly by, there is no time to notice them. Making a stern voice, I take the microphone from the passenger seat and press the PTT button for the umpteenth time and begin an argument.
Alexey Kolentyev
Aggression. Chronicles of the Third World War
Partisans of the Third World War
The enemy is weakened, but does not want to surrender:
After all, the prisoners will be starved to death, or killed outright.
The tired soldier sought salvation,
So give the broken ones peace and shelter.
Michel de Notredame (Nostradamus).
Russia. A section of the federal transit highway M-53 (Novosibirsk - Kemerovo - Krasnoyarsk - Irkutsk), a distance of about 70 km, from the nearest populated area July 22, 2011 04.49 local time. Shift supervisor of the cargo transportation support group Anton Varlamov. An employee of the Irkutsk private security company Bulat. Security and escort of the cargo convoy.
Driving at night along the cracked old bypass road is generally a below average pleasure. Usually, we stop at night in some bug infestation or drive off the road to set up camp. Over the past couple of years, this has become impossible: the cargo carrier sets strict conditions on deadlines, so every second is saved, every kilometer traveled counts. Our column consists of three heavy-duty trucks, more reminiscent of medium-sized ships, and one escort vehicle - my combat Zhiguli, painted in the white, red and black colors of the security agency. The crisis that broke out two and a half years ago greatly crippled everyone who did anything. And when enterprises, firms and small businesses began to close one after another, there was also nothing to protect. Two private security companies in which I worked immediately closed, with a break of a couple of months, until I managed to get hired at Bulat. This office was famous for the fact that it was founded by former cops who held most of the large contracts on the railway and road freight transportation in the region. But they too had a hard time: over the past three months, the staff has been reduced by a third and we, who went out to escort cargo with a normal team of eight people, are now forced to work with four of us. But work is work, even if you internally understand that taking risks for a measly fifteen to twenty thousand plus bonuses is scary. I had the chance to ride at the head of the caravan, and even alone, illuminating the ruts full of potholes with the liquid light of the headlights of the service “five”. With a map in one hand and a torn steering wheel in the other, I led the convoy. Occasionally you have to stop to radio the driver to encourage the three trailers driving behind him in the distance. The people swore, but followed, since this was the only way to avoid the traffic jam on the main highway, which had formed due to a major accident. An open tractor carrying used Japanese cars to Novosibirsk miscalculated its speed and, in an attempt to overtake a passenger car, overturned, blocking the entire highway. The fact that a real traffic jam would soon form and we would need to look for a detour quickly occurred to me only. Quickly reporting to the dispatcher about the change in route, I gave orders to our small caravan to leave the highway first onto a small section of dirt road leading to some village about forty kilometers to the southwest. The drivers began to be indignant, but Mishka Ovchinnikov, or simply Mikhas to his friends, quickly calmed down the driver’s union and we moved in formation to take a detour.
The “Five” shook on a bump, straightening the steering wheel and checking the map again, I finally taxied onto a crooked asphalt exit, again leading out onto the main highway. The drivers greeted the appearance of a smooth road with approving horns, as if they weren’t the ones who had cursed me out a couple of hours ago. Mikhas reported on the radio that we were ten to twelve hours behind schedule. What is there left to do? So, we’re going to the campsite without stopping to catch up on time. Nothing special either, this happens very often, I’ve been used to it for about five years now. The radio crackled again:
I am “half a hundred and five”, the situation at the back requires working on the eleventh, “half a hundred and one” how did I accept it?
Crap! This is Andrei Ilyinsky, our youngest artel worker, who is still working on the code table and trusts the drivers too easily. These cunning citizens had already realized that there would be no stop to eat, so they signaled to the “tail” so that it would “break”. And it may even be a real breakdown, our drivers are simply virtuosos and can even drive a three-wheeled cart without a motor, but we are all human. And the driver is paid not only for delivering the cargo, but also for the mileage, so he gets his salary anyway, they have no time to rush. And people are tired: we’ve been going for the third day with a minimum limit on rest. It even happens to be poured into a bottle so as not to fall behind the schedule. Personally, I haven’t noticed fatigue for many years now; work gives me the opportunity to simply let life take its course. Small and medium-severe problems are like snowflakes in a strong wind - they fly by, there is no time to notice them. Making a stern voice, I take the microphone from the passenger seat and press the PTT button for the umpteenth time and begin an argument:
- “Half a hundred and one” - “Half a hundred and five”! Tell the driver that even if he carries the load on himself, we’ll go according to schedule! And if he performs, tell him that then he won’t even get a mileage allowance, I’ll help myself...
Varenukha, you old dick! - A cheerful voice intervened in our conversation, it was Mikhas. - Again, you fooled the young man. Was it said: port wine and whores are only in Novosibirsk, or is it just impatient?!..
So my partner defused the situation, now the cunning fifty-year-old Vitaly Varenukha, who is driving the trailing truck, will be ashamed. He had his own ambition, his own code, according to which everything is bullshit, the main thing is to show your skill and prowess. And then they pierce him for a “net”, which in principle is very offensive. Therefore, now his objections regarding all sorts of knocking and wheezing in the engine of the iron horse are not taken seriously. Mishka helped me out again, saving me from at least a half-hour squabble with a cunning driver. It’s not that I don’t like drivers in general, but this particular team was only our second time on the road and we hadn’t really gotten used to it yet. You can also understand them: the car is someone else’s, the salary is meager, and the risk of being buried under a roadside bush after an attack by road bandits is very high. They travel and are afraid, and even tremble for the safety of the cargo, for which, if anything happens, they will have to answer to the owners...
- “Half a hundred to the first”, answer “half a hundred to the second” - A friend’s voice, hoarse due to static interference, tore me away from gloomy thoughts - How is the situation ahead?
I had known Ovchinnikov for a long time, Mishka moved with me from one company to another as soon as it closed, and for ten years now we have been pulling the security strap as a couple, constantly covering for each other. He was six years younger than me, he came to the guards straight from the army, hoping to hang out for a while, but he ended up stuck. Dark-skinned, black-haired, with a stiff brush of mustache under his snub nose and cheerful eyes like olives, Mikhas looked a lot like some Soviet actor from the times of perestroika. The friend spoke quickly, blurting out words, which made any, even the most serious, thought come out as the seed for a funny joke. Mishka served somewhere on Far East, but he didn’t tell anything about his service, he said that he went on a military patrol boat along the Amur River and that’s all. Right there, apparently. He learned to deftly fight hand-to-hand, which is why, no matter what office we ended up in, he received a bonus for mentoring in the area of beatings. We became friends by chance when we were on shift at some pharmaceutical warehouse where drug addicts were trying to get into. Mikhas deftly twisted one, but did not notice the second “narc”, who was aiming at his back with some kind of gunshot gun. Then I didn’t hesitate to shoot the burglar in the head with my service “fly swatter” - IZH 71. Shooting at the limbs, this is all for an excuse in front of the cops: the stoned drug addict could well have shot, even if I had riddled him with a machine gun. Even from my service in the army, I remember how a contractor sergeant, pricked with promidol, stopped shooting only after half of his skull was blown off by a fragment of a nearby mine. It was a long time ago, but the experience remained, so I myself am alive and Mikhas remained safe. There were an awful lot of replies to the cops, but in the end they released him, dropping the case for lack of guilt. My partner appreciated what happened correctly and since then, he often invited me to barbecues or just to watch hockey in a sports bar. At first I refused, but after another refusal, Ovchinnikov’s wife, Tamara, called me. So I realized that I accidentally saved a man’s life and now, willy-nilly, he became my responsibility. I’m not a very sociable person; I prefer to live as a hermit, albeit among people. But friendly relations somehow began on their own and now I was something like a family friend in Mishka’s family.
Partisans of the Third World War
The enemy is weakened, but does not want to surrender:
After all, the prisoners will be starved to death, or killed outright.
The tired soldier sought salvation,
So give the broken ones peace and shelter.
Michel de Notredame (Nostradamus).
Chapter 1
Russia. A section of the federal transit highway M-53 (Novosibirsk - Kemerovo - Krasnoyarsk - Irkutsk), a distance of about 70 km, from the nearest populated area July 22, 2011 04.49 local time. Shift supervisor of the cargo transportation support group Anton Varlamov. An employee of the Irkutsk private security company Bulat. Security and escort of the cargo convoy.
Driving at night along the cracked old bypass road is generally a below average pleasure. Usually, we stop at night in some bug-infested place or drive off the road to set up camp. Over the past couple of years, this has become impossible: the cargo carrier sets strict conditions on deadlines, so every second is saved, every kilometer traveled counts. Our column consists of three heavy-duty trucks, more reminiscent of medium-sized ships, and one escort vehicle - my combat Zhiguli, painted in the white, red and black colors of the security agency. The crisis that broke out two and a half years ago greatly crippled everyone who did anything. And when enterprises, firms and small businesses began to close one after another, there was also nothing to protect. Two private security companies in which I worked immediately closed, with a break of a couple of months, until I managed to get hired at Bulat. This office was famous for the fact that it was founded by former cops who held most of the large contracts on the railway and road freight transportation in the region. But they too had a hard time: over the past three months, the staff has been reduced by a third and we, who went out to escort cargo with a normal team of eight people, are now forced to work with four of us. But work is work, even if you internally understand that taking risks for a measly fifteen to twenty thousand plus bonuses is scary. I had the chance to ride at the head of the caravan, and even alone, illuminating the ruts full of potholes with the liquid light of the headlights of the service “five”. With a map in one hand and a torn steering wheel in the other, I led the convoy. Occasionally you have to stop to radio the driver to encourage the three trailers driving behind him in the distance. The people swore, but followed, since this was the only way to avoid the traffic jam on the main highway caused by a major accident. An open tractor carrying used Japanese cars to Novosibirsk miscalculated its speed and, in an attempt to overtake a passenger car, overturned, blocking the entire highway. The fact that a real traffic jam would soon form and we would need to look for a detour quickly occurred to me only. Quickly reporting to the dispatcher about the change in route, I gave orders to our small caravan to leave the highway first onto a small section of dirt road leading to some village about forty kilometers to the southwest. The drivers began to be indignant, but Mishka Ovchinnikov, or simply Mikhas to his friends, quickly calmed down the driver’s union and we moved in formation to take a detour.
The “Five” shook on a bump, straightening the steering wheel and checking the map again, I finally taxied onto a crooked asphalt exit, again leading out onto the main highway. The drivers greeted the appearance of a smooth road with approving horns, as if they weren’t the ones who had cursed me out a couple of hours ago. Mikhas reported on the radio that we were ten to twelve hours behind schedule. What is there left to do? So, we’re going to the campsite without stopping to catch up on time. Nothing special either, this happens very often, I’ve been used to it for about five years now. The radio crackled again:
I am “half a hundred and five”, the situation at the back requires working on the eleventh, “half a hundred and one” how did I accept it?
Crap! This is Andrei Ilyinsky, our youngest artel worker, who is still working on the code table and trusts the drivers too easily. These cunning citizens had already realized that there would be no stop to eat, so they signaled to the “tail” so that it would “break”. And it may even be a real breakdown, our drivers are simply virtuosos and can even drive a three-wheeled cart without a motor, but we are all human. And the driver is paid not only for delivering the cargo, but also for the mileage, so he gets his salary anyway, they have no time to rush. And people are tired: we’ve been going for the third day with a minimum limit on rest. It even happens to be poured into a bottle so as not to fall behind the schedule. Personally, I haven’t noticed fatigue for many years now; work gives me the opportunity to simply let life take its course. Small and medium-severe problems are like snowflakes in a strong wind - they fly by, there is no time to notice them. Making a stern voice, I take the microphone from the passenger seat and press the PTT button for the umpteenth time and begin an argument:
- “Half a hundred and one” - “Half a hundred and five”! Tell the driver that even if he carries the load on himself, we’ll go according to schedule! And if he performs, tell him that then he won’t even get a mileage allowance, I’ll help myself...
Varenukha, you old dick! - A cheerful voice intervened in our conversation, it was Mikhas. - Again, you fooled the young man. Was it said: port wine and whores are only in Novosibirsk, or is it just impatient?!..
So my partner defused the situation, now the cunning fifty-year-old Vitaly Varenukha, who is driving the trailing truck, will be ashamed. He had his own ambition, his own code, according to which everything is bullshit, the main thing is to show your skill and prowess. And then they pierce him for a “net”, which in principle is very offensive. Therefore, now his objections regarding all sorts of knocking and wheezing in the engine of the iron horse are not taken seriously. Mishka helped me out again, saving me from at least a half-hour squabble with a cunning driver. It’s not that I don’t like drivers in general, but this particular team was only our second time on the road and we hadn’t really gotten used to it yet. You can also understand them: the car is someone else’s, the salary is meager, and the risk of being buried under a roadside bush after an attack by road bandits is very high. They travel and are afraid, and even tremble for the safety of the cargo, for which, if anything happens, they will have to answer to the owners...
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