The Steppes of Rehab

The Steppes of Rehab

Copyrighted

IL-76 cargo jet.  Taken in Iraq, circa 2004

It was the noises. You couldn’t escape them. Trust me, I tried. 

 

It was incessant, but still I was trying to embrace my “opportunity,” which is what he called it, that smug son of a bitch. After ruining me. “When in Rome” wasn’t cutting it at the bazaar, with the shamans swaying in loose tambourine pants and the chickens choking out their swan song. Work wasn’t much better, but at least I still retained a little control. God, there was no relief. 

 

I used to get pretty bent out of shape if I wasn’t in control. I had many people tell me this, some as an accusation (angry dish towel whipping up a special rage, peppered with hot angry tears), some with a tinge of pride and envy. Pilots are taught to be in control—it’s the whole point, right? Pictures of out-of-control, careening aircraft don’t sell too many tickets. 

 

I have to admit; they were pretty nice to me from the start. I didn’t know anything about Central Asia, mare’s milk or Turkmen Air, only that they were short on experience, and willing to overlook my record. The record was otherwise clear: never going to operate in the United States again. Never mind how I got there of course, nobody cares about that. 

 

Before I left I got the standard “call if you need” and “it’s just such a damn shame” from all my friends. It’s hard to call someone from beneath a pile of beer cans and stubble. My cycle was still 24 hours, but a large chunk of the pie chart consisted of infomercials, or anything capable of blurring reality. At least I hoped they would. I used to hunt out the most egregious, stupefying shows I could. Anything to ease the pain. 

 

Pain is like a teenager’s friend. Doesn’t really care about you, really, which is nice, because that means it’s not personal. The pain is tough but is better than being alone. That is the ultimate. And so, the infomercials were voted into power, where they proceeded to burn down the Reichstag. Actually, the flames may have been started with 80-proof whiskey. Something like that. 

 

Lisa didn't understand it, couldn’t understand any of it really: Ryan, now me. My parents kind of did, having lost a child themselves—my older brother— when I was an infant. Nobody can truly understand it though. It’s the black hole of understanding. It’s where understanding goes to die. Understanding is completely unnecessary anyway. You don’t need to understand to suffer. 

 

I thought about mentioning that at the Flying Review Board, my records strewn about the table like fish guts on the shore. Three pairs of grizzled eyes held me in their gaze; eyes that knew only control, despised weakness. They held my career delicately with wrinkled old man fingers, debating which hole to fling it down. Reinstatement or condemnation. Those were the choices. 

 

Those men also did not understand. How could they understand what it’s like lowering your lifeblood, your treasure— the same smile you see in yourself and raised for 7 years into 6 feet of cold dark earth? The Chief Pilot was especially profound, offering sage advice regarding a treatment plan; get me “back on my feet.” I thought of him getting back to his feet after I'd struck him down, a tiny bit of joy in my murky world. Or offering him a glimpse of my wallet photos and giving him some treatment himself. Run the grievance checklist for him right there. 

 

Little League- big bat, small hands. Check.

School photo- missing front tooth. Check.

First goldfish- clear plastic bag. Check.

But instead I stood there and listened to everything I already knew, while he and the others perched on a peak and hurled lightning to my village accompanied to gentle saline rain. Nothing in the village left to burn; I’d taken care of that already... In the end, he did as he’d said. He made the call, and a month later I caught the red-eye to Ashgabat. 

 

The Turkmens offered a decent compensation package, plus living accommodations. A concrete mid-rise seemed just what I needed. Treat my misery in the Soviet style. $40,000 a year doesn’t seem like much, until you figure that the average income’s $800. Whatever. 

 

Oh but the noise… During the flight in from London it began. Piercing tribal-esque music, complete with panging bells and unpleasant cries. The Turkmen equivalent of elevator music. They must have gotten a damn good deal on the music, because they piped it in everywhere. Bathrooms, restaurants, they even had it outside on the plaza of the rotating gold man. I was a little in awe when I first saw it. A two hundred foot golden statue has that effect, especially when rotating so that the face is always peering into the sun. 

 

I was already checked out in the 757, so there wasn’t much training. Did a couple of taxis around the airport, signed the paperwork in the cigarette-bathed office of the soviet-blue admin room. Got my lapel pin and name tag. I was quite the celebrity, giggles and red faces everywhere I went. All I wanted was some quiet. 

 

The flight schedule was incredibly simple, mostly because there were no other fields. Based out of Ashgabat, which is what the locals call capitol. Tallest points being the presidential figurine spinning like a coin on its side. They gave me left seat, said I had the flight hours—which was true. I think they just wanted the publicity of an English-speaking Captain. Three times a week we’d fly Ashgabat to Baku to Tashkent and then back. 10 hours, no big deal. The only problem was the maintenance, which rivaled the standards of a third-world country. Oh wait. 

Frankfurt am Main (near Sachsenhausen), Germany

 

Twice a month I got to do a “random” piss test for them, for my “record.” I knew when they were. 

 

Once a week I’d get the milk run: Ashgabat to Frankfurt, Germany. Had to really cram the fuel on-board, but the route was easy. I’d flown into Frankfurt hundreds of times, and now that I think about it, that’s probably why they gave me the Captain’s chair so easily. Their homegrown pilots were something else…

But that fucking noise. The only relief I had was once a week, crew resting in Frankfurt. The apartment I had in Ashgabat was constructed out of concrete for everything but the walls, which must have been balsa. The rest was solid noise. I could hear everything: the neighbor’s cat scratching her way through the shag area rug, the tea pot boiling, the conversation of what to get at the market. My other neighbor had a daughter who liked the techno. I did pretty well considering. I made it almost a month before falling off the wagon. 

 

I blame no one but myself and the nation of Turkmenistan. Do you know what it’s like to experience a cacophony of cymbals while you wait for a 50’s-era Soviet elevator? I asked several locals about the music. Said they liked it. Something about the strong winds and no music allowed until after 1991. The night I got that answer I bought two bottles.

 

During pre-flight they wanted me to greet the passengers, be a Caucasian emissary of goodwill to the rose merchants, gas barons and sheep farmers. I tried it but hated the effect I had; everyone wanted to shake my hand, practice broken vocab. I went back up front, but the cockpit was noisy too. The 757s Turkmen Air had were second-hand from Germany, who had decommissioned them for airworthiness concerns. Awesome. 

 

Truthfully they did fine, but were damn noisy. During the preflight with the auxiliary generator running you had to shout to be heard, and that was to the copilot three feet away. So, we didn’t talk too much. He did his thing, I did mine. 

 

It was a loud noise, but at least one I knew and didn’t feature the bleating of goats. Off duty I started paying the neighbor girl to get my groceries and weekly items. Delegate the bleats to her numbed ears. 

 

The day in question was like any other, but it was the milk run, and so I didn’t hate it with full force. Five months in and I almost had a routine going. That was a big deal going to Germany, not having to fly three approaches into the roach motels of the Orient. The radios the controllers had squealed like a stuck pig. When you did get through, the controller usually didn’t care, couldn’t hear or both. The one nice thing about that is you could do pretty much what you want, which was far different from my time in the states. 

 

Pre-flight went fine, although admin sent a thin little bugger down to remind me of the importance of “greeting the distinguished passengers,” as the chap put it. I gave him my best “uh-huh” head nod and went back to my roar cave. The copilot that day I’d flown with before, not terrible given the wide range we had at the time. I tapped him on the shoulder, and then tapped my watch. He nodded. 
 

Stepping back to the galley to drop my pickled eggs and rye bread into the crew fridge, I spotted a tall willowy stewardess that I hadn’t seen on my way in, which didn’t mean much after the bender the night before. The back half did a separate crew brief than the front end, and I usually just checked in with the head stewardess to get a nose count in case we had to evacuate. This girl was young, with sweeping cascades of raven dark hair. She had several bands tied around her thin wrists; a hint of rouge on her cheeks and could have been Native American royalty. She beamed a smile at me and I fled back to the cockpit. The feelings I had were foreign and strange; Lisa hadn’t felt overly amorous after the funeral and since the divorce it’d been solid drought. 

 

Oh, how the hands of fate work, slapping and pulling at each other to be the one who sets into motion the final spin. Do they gloat to each other, knowing full well what they do to us mortals? They’d already given me a healthy shove onto the toboggan of Hell, and now the rolling hillside was morphing to cliff. 

 

After calming down a bit, I got us our push-back clearance, the celebratory jangles in the terminal audible even over the noise and ear plugs. I called for engine start, and the copilot and I both looked in anticipation to Engine #1 after I cycled the starter. It stared right back, with no movement. 30 seconds later I canceled the start and tried #2, figuring we could use cross-bleed if we didn’t have enough from the APU. 

 

Nope, uh-uh, nyet. No Frankfurt today folks. 

 

Well, management was not exactly pleased about this, and pulled the maintenance conscripts in to fix it pronto. Being flight crew, we entered back into crew rest, and slipped takeoff 16 hours to the right. The sheep barons, rose tycoons and hooligani settled into the comfortable grime of the airport lobby.

I got my crew bedded down into the company rooms just off the terminal, and was walking across the scarlet red carpeting to my room when I froze in my tracks. She was in the lobby bar, drinking a coke. She still wore her uniform, and had a Mona Lisa smile—very demure. Drinking a coke, staring into me. Oh god.

I’d been in country five months, 150 days behind the wire. There’d been little comfort. Even in the damn lobby they had the wailing music. I ordered for me. Then I ordered for her. Still the music played. 

 

Eventually, I ordered her. 

 

Eleven hours later was a bitch. First off, I felt like death warmed over. Second off, I was late, so was she, and I had now officially violated two distinctly separate and sacrosanct Turkmen Air regulations. Oh, and also a stewardess. 

 

Being awoken by a blaring rotary dial phone is less than pleasant, as is hearing a thickly-accented voice inquire if I’m sick. I cleared my throat several times and said no, I’d just overslept. The dispatcher mentioned the rest of the crew was at the breezeway, but there was a problem—they couldn’t find one of the stewardesses. The pit of my stomach went into freefall as the voice detailed where the stewardess was not—not in her room, not at the breezeway, not in the dining facility. Apparently the entire country had been called in to organize her search and rescue. 

 

I fought down panic, which is saying quite a bit since my physical condition was not capable of much strength, and panic is a worthy competitor. I feared for us both, the Turkmens were oddly conservative in the off-duty matters of 20-year old stewardesses. No choice but to just go with it. I told her to get dressed and make her own way to the rest of the crew; maybe she could defuse the waiting bomb. Meanwhile I tried abbreviating a 20-minute bathroom routine into 60 seconds. 

 

I got back to the breezeway, popped some Tums and found some sparkling water. Voda C Gazom. Bubbles might cleanse some of the impurities from my system, and possibly my soul. I also avoided eye contact with everyone there—fearing the scarlet tinge would raise eyebrows. The jet looked to be in good shape. I dropped into my seat and checked my oxygen mask at 100% for 15 minutes, or roughly 14 minutes too long, just to make sure it was doing ok. The copilot did his thing. 

 

Finally it was time to get out of dodge. Push-back, engine start and taxi passed by like a train in the mist; more felt than seen. The plane was a little sluggish turning onto Runway 12R, but they cleared us onto the runway with no delay. No other traffic this early in the morning. The big runway was closed for repair, but 9800 feet is plenty for the 757, even at max weight. 

 

It was my takeoff. I felt like hell, but Buddy (I called them all Buddy. They ate it up) wanted the takeoff out of Frankfurt. I didn’t want to make a scene; I thought Mona Lisa and I might actually be able to just put the whole thing behind us with no one the wiser, so I said I’d do the takeoff. The sleepy voice cleared us for takeoff. I pushed the twin throttles up, watched the needles quiver like a girl on a date, and we started our roll. 

 

They always say you never want to out fly your own brain. It’d never made sense to me until that day. 

 

Takeoff run would be around 5400 feet. Passing 4000 feet I gripped the stick once, then twice, twitching my muscles. Passing 5200 feet we hit rotate speed. I pulled back on the stick and it fell all the way back, offering no resistance. The nose remained on the ground.

One summer when I was young I tripped over a wasp nest out in a field. That had been one of those moments where I knew something was wrong just not what exactly. This was exactly the same…

The control stick is not supposed to easily pull into your lap, even on a piece like this plane. My woolen mind struggled with the compounding issues that suddenly appeared like relatives to a lotto winner. I saw the “4” board fly by, and decided we’d better just keep this on the ground—four thousand feet isn’t a whole lot to play with. I brought the throttles back, slamming them as hard into the stops as I could, taking an extra second to make sure I brought them into Reverse Thrust mode. I also stomped onto the brakes like a man killing spiders. The pedals fell to the floor without any resistance, and my system took a hit of brilliant white adrenaline.

I managed a glance at the hydraulic readout and saw it flat as a Saturday frat boy—something I'd missed on the preflight. Easy enough I thought, wondering if I'd get that embossed on my tomb.

The “3” board was 3 seconds behind us and we still had 132 knots. That gave us about 2400 feet to go before conducting an experiment on aircraft off-roading. The runway lights up ahead turned to red in a thousand feet. The engines were still in forward idle. No way to get the exhaust sleeves down without hydraulic fluid. I tried to ignore all of the other distractions—flashing red lights, emergency sirens, screaming copilot—and focus on what was important: that we had about 8 seconds left on the game clock. 

 

Newton tells us that a body in motion tends to remain in motion. I will tell you that stopping a fully laden 757 with no brakes is a bitch and a half. 

 

I thought about collapsing the gear, but on this Boeing piglet that might happen one by one, bathing us all in flames. The only other idea I had was a ground loop.

Stock car drivers and skiers know the best way to stop is a controlled skid. Survivors know that doing so is tricky. The key to a ground loop is being slow enough not to shred the tires, but fast enough to get them to skid. Too fast or too slow: the rubber peels off, the metal gear showers the fuselage with sparks until it convinces the fuel to explode, and BBC ensures that everyone knows the Captain once blew a .06 at the gate for the red-eye out of Dulles and that’s why he’s in Turkmenistan. 

 

1800 feet remaining before smooth runway turned into the steppes of Central Asia. I drifted the plane left; I still had pretty good nose authority. My copilot did an okay job through the whole thing, just sat there, his screams eventually tapering. Sometimes they freak out and start grabbing for the controls. Thinking about it later, he might have passed out.

When I felt the left mains nip the outside of the runway, I reversed direction and brought the ground tiller full bore to the right. The nose of the plane yawed like a drunken sailor, and the force shoved me against the eyebrow window. This was the moment of truth. I looked down and saw we still had 110 knots of smash. 12 Right is only 200 feet wide, and I’d been almost all the way over the left side, so I started the turn with the nose wheels having about 185 feet of pavement to go. After a 90-degree turn, if we didn’t skid we were going to depart the right-hand side of the runway in exactly three seconds.

Three seconds is a long time. It doesn’t seem that way, but I was able to squeeze the tiller until it physically bent, kick the right rudder pedal into the floor, watch the airspeed and then wait for the next 2 seconds to pass. 

 

12 Right hadn’t been repaved in decades, which is a long time for Soviet-era planes to deposit fumes, drips and leaks onto the surface. The mains skidded like a champ, cheering on our performance with acrid white smoke. Even over the screech of the Michelins, the dry throbbing in my ears and chorus of demons in the back I could still hear that goddamn music. 

 

The last 25 knots dropped fast, and we slammed to a halt. The engines were off; the copilot had managed to do that much, and only the reddish hue of the emergency lights were on. With the electrics off and the passengers taking in the fact they were alive, it was dead quiet. 

 

So I just sat there, and enjoyed the silence.

Modesty

Growing up in rural northern Minnesota (guess that's probably a redundant phrase) we did a lot of camping.  At gunpoint.

Modesty

Copyrighted

I am a modest person. With that being said, I can state factually (not bragging, mind you) that my survival skills and outdoor knowledge run the full gamut of al fresco events—from alpine to zoology. As I always say upfront and without any fanfare: I’ll get us there and back, as long as a situation doesn’t develop from which it would be impossible to foresee and extricate oneself.

Such as a rain shower.

Oh, and just one more fact I might share is that I will even go out of my way to ensure others get credit for an accomplishment, even if my experience or ingenuity were the principal force in achieving it!! Don’t thank me—it’s just how I am.

This modest confidence can surprise some people—such as my immediate family, who often unveil their surprise through wild shrieks of laughter, thus proving modesty is not hereditary. 

 

It also proves that you should depend only upon yourself, as my family has also left me high and dry on several occasions with only my innate skill to save me. (Besides, it is well documented in the annals of science that short-hair tabby cats are wily fiends. Being treed by one is sometimes unavoidable and prudent, no matter what the peanut gallery of cackling family members suggests.) [EDITORIAL NOTE: Short-hair tabbies are especially treacherous after they have had their fury ignited by a declawing. I am far too modest to describe the scars…]

Now, where was I? Oh yes, let me share a (modest) story of when I took my wife on her first camping experience. Deep in the interior of a national forest, I good-naturedly showed her all of the techniques I have collected in my many years of braving the outdoors.

For instance, when it was discovered that we had no can opener I showed her many other techniques to open a can—this was both educational and necessary, since “I” had also forgotten a container holding the bulk of our food. [EDITORIAL NOTE: Upon first camping adventure, be prepared to accept any and all blame for the following: forgotten items, outside ambient temperatures and sleeping accommodations. Failure to do so may induce emotional and spiritual changes in your party such as: anxiety, panic attacks, or homicidal tendencies] Despite the challenges presented by leaving several containers, a road atlas and my wallet at home, my modest planning ensured that we had a reserve of nutritious food. Besides, SPAM is very nutritious, and we had just enough for our stay, as long as we didn’t have more than 5 cans a day. Each.

Well, after discovering she’d be eating nothing but processed spiced meats for 4 days my wife was not quite herself, but post-exorcism she consented to listen. This was good, because despite my evasive sprints through the forest she was gaining on me.

Humboldt State Park, California

We settled down and began our task of opening the can. I went through the whole list of entry methods: utilizing at one point or another my trusty jackknife (last trip for the poor fella, didn’t think the blade would snap that easily), a large pine branch, a football-sized rock, and a road flare. Mind you, each of these can be used as a stand alone, or in combination with the others. My favorite combination is a flare lashed to the pine branch, which can also double as a torch. This may not prove any more useful at opening cans, but could be the difference between success and failure when conducting an exorcism and sprinting through the forest. 
 

Luckily, the can maintained its integrity through our freshman-level laboratory, and I was able to get into a more advanced discussion. This included using a tent stake and mallet in tandem, although the back of an axe head is easily substituted. While the can remained closed, I was able to open a large gash in my thumb, which provided an excellent segue into self-aid buddy care. After binding the wound with the sterile remains of a used napkin, I continued.

Following several hours of theory and practice, we did succeed in opening the can, but only after I had dismissed the class. I also dismissed the can by hurling it at a large spruce. As I am a modest person, I of course allowed my wife to take credit for eventually getting the can open. I wish to add that my wife has far to go on the road to modesty, as her shouts of glee at the end were in very poor taste, although she’ll fit right in with my family.

Besides, who has ever gotten excited by opening a can with the pop tab anyway??

On this same camping trip there were many more moments of me coaching my wife to eventual success, with little to no gratitude displayed for my troubles!! However, my modesty prevents me from sharing more than one. Luckily it’s the most dramatic.

We had set up the site until only the tent remained. My wife had proven herself quite capable, but…still—the tent can be quite a challenge. So, I showed her how to select a flat patch of ground that would still provide enough elevation to prevent water from pooling. Then we laid down a surface tarp, unrolled the tent onto it, and spread it out. The tent is of a quaint design that has a series of woven guides along its exterior. Into these are placed long flexible poles, which are then attached to the bottom, providing the framework of the tent. I explained the idea, and we got to work. Shortly after the first pole was seated, it was evident that one of two possibilities had occurred. Either the fabric had shrunk, or those rascally poles had increased in length. (Now, I reserve judgment on who’s to blame, but let’s just say that I took precise measurements of those poles after this little outing…)

Never one to give up lightly, I attempted stretching out the tent, all the while giving my wife instruction on how to maneuver the pole. After several failed attempts, and more than one puncture wound to my sternum, we were approaching the end of my vast plain of knowledge. Then a light breeze came up, inflating the tent and stretching it out. Seizing the moment, I took the reins and maneuvered the tent so as to catch more of the wind. Fortunately, the wind helped pull the tent up out of the stakes that we had painstakingly applied—I modestly admit that without the wind I could not have freed the tent alone. In fact, only after my feet had risen 18 inches above ground did I recognize how much lift the tent was producing. Modestly curbing my fear, I commented to my wife that by us holding on to one end, and the wind pulling on the other, we might be able to stretch the fabric enough to insert the poles!!!

Her silence was deafening.

Undaunted, I quickly tied one end of the tent to a sturdy sapling and began feeding out line. The tent was completely inflated by now and actively strained against the rope, and slowly stretched. I exclaimed loudly “It’s really working!”

When the sapling snapped I modestly began to panic. Quickly I looped the rope around our barbecue, lawn chairs and me. I prayed that the combined weight of 207 pounds would be enough to stop the tent.

It was not.

The tent launched skyward with its payload of miscellaneous steerage, clearly bent on an impromptu lunar mission. I resigned myself to a quick ride into the stratosphere and quicker reentry. I also forced my body limp. This was both for impending collisions with foliage and as a last-ditch effort to trick the winds into thinking I was just a carcass, and moving on in search of live prey. This had once worked on a notoriously fearsome tabby and I thought it worth a shot.

It was at that moment the rope snapped. Tumbling to the earth, I looked up in surprise to see the tent sailing off, and my wife holding a knife with which she had cut the line…

Even now, years later, we rarely bring up this story.

Modestly speaking, it’s probably for the best…

The Knocks of Midnight

This story is the result of an education in Russian history, growing up during the Cold War, and a very lively dinner conversation at a friend's house.  All the photos on this blog are my own, unless otherwise noted. 

Knocks of Midnight

Copyrighted

ВТОРНИК

Alex and I were ahead of the others—they lived closer and could walk whereas I had to take the streetcars—clanging my way through the ancient cobblestone streets that have seen everything and yet reveal nothing. Their mood was somber, I thought, reflected in the still pools gathering between the rounded stones. For me it is either arrive twenty minutes early or ten late, the schedule is not concerned with the needs of one, and even a man of my dark powers can not affect the machinery in this manner. Alex arrived early too, never said why and I didn’t ask, just gave him a curt nod in the day’s fashion and rested my pack of Delegatskiyes on my hat, then it on my knee. I felt a moment of panic when I couldn’t find my matches: if I didn’t have those I’d also left my papers. Then I smiled knowing Elena had taken the matches from the breast pocket, in which I also felt the comforting worn edges of my mandate, burrowed like an insect in a cotton cocoon…

Peter and Paul Fortress, River Neva.  St Petersburg, Russia.

Late at night, after I’d left, I knew she lay fully clothed on the bed, a solitary wavering column of smoke rising above her delicate hand. During the days—though she’d never admit it—she liked the perks: fresh ham and fewer lines. Real tobacco. And possibly more, such as the way our neighbors would not keep eye contact with either of us. Late at night however, was a different story.

Rostov was third to arrive, his pear-shaped form gliding through the yawning door on his still shiny calfskin shoes. He had a new watch, it was fixated on his beefy wrist like a cold silvery eel chasing its own tail. Rostov’s wife was no longer with him, and we speculated he had done well on the black market. He had menacing gray eyes.

That shit Peter had to arrive with the Boss. Alex and I shared a look, as I ground the remnants of the cigarette into the bare cement floor. There was a trace of moisture in it, seeping in through the basement walls giving the air a smell of earth. Peter was tough, tough to deal with unless you were the Boss in which case he’d cut up his dacha into halves and present it to him as a wonderful podarok. He was tough on our marks too, but not because he enjoyed it. Peter had places to go, and wanted to get there fast.

The rest of us greeted the Boss in the Slavic method, three quick pecks on the cheek, alternating sides. This was one of the few nods to the old system still allowed. The Boss always looked tired, his fleshy skin gray and drooping—rancid butter that needs a good stir. We’d usually sit and all share a smoke before heading out, but he said there was no time tonight.

We all piled into the jet black Lada, Rostov drove. He had light-brown driving gloves and made us all wait while he pulled them onto his sausage-like fingers. The Boss always sat in front and never spoke the address, just pointed which way to turn. This time of night there was no traffic, no pedestrians, we were the only thing moving, a solo wolf on wheels proceeding surely through the night. The drive was not far, and as always we parked a block back. Rostov was an expert at it, drove the last three blocks with the lights out, then killed the motor and drifted to a quiet stop, resting one of the hard rubber wheels against the curb. Rostov crawled out the Boss’s passenger-side door, and we in the back went out the rear right door; less noise to alert anyone. Even the light sounds of our footsteps seemed like a parade, the echoes dancing off the cobblestones and cinderblocks.

The Boss knew the assignment, would get the call earlier in the day with the address, the arrangement of the apartment and how many lived there. Never information on their infraction, but always how many males expected. We were the Volk, the wolf, fangs bared, choosing our time to descend upon the Barrashki, the sheep. Rostov, Alex and Peter would go up the front entrance this time, and I got the fire escape. The Boss gave us three minutes to get in position.

I knew this area, had known acquaintances that lived nearby. This section had been built after the war, and the designs were a little more varied than where Elena and I lived, but ours was much more spacious. Each building was five stories, with one central stairwell, which was now being ascended by men with intent, bipedal beetles approaching a burrow. Each floor had five or six kvartiri, depending on the size and layout of each. It was important to get inside fast, otherwise the barrashki could scatter or worse, think they still had a chance and try fighting back. Rostov carried a mini sledge for this purpose, which could knock aside the smattering of locks each door wore like so many medals on its chest.

Cold tonight, and my breath fogged in front of me, tiny stars jetting through the deep. Hugging the wall was necessary, less motion for someone upstairs to see, but it was very cold leaning against the quarried rock, no doubt set in place by men stripped to the waist chanting the Volga Boatmen. I actually had a smile from that thought when she sprinted past, her dress torn and an arm bleeding.

How she had been running so fast with little noise was apparent once I saw her feet, naked on the cold cobblestones. I pulled my pistol and shouted at her to stop, which she did, surprising me. I ordered her to turn, and she rotated slowly like Venus on exhibition, her locks jet black with a few strays clinging to crimson cheeks. She was a doe, slender and graceful, meant to roam free in the distant countryside, not here in the city. Her eyes were smooth as pearls, shiny and shimmering—pools of translucence that knew not where the depth ended. She was still panting, and held her wounded arm to her belly, which had a small yet telling outcrop. Her other hand she held out towards me, paused and then took a few short steps, like a drunken marionette approaching its master. Her outstretched arm made several downward motions.

I swallowed quickly, told her to stop. She took another step. I licked my lips, then brought the hammer back, the metallic click achieving to do what my voice had failed. She was so majestic, despite the cold, her wound, the events, she held herself in great repose. A moonbeam transited from parts unknown and fell upon my head, and I thought of releasing her into the dark safe night. What had her crime been, I pondered, taking in this queen, regal and refined. A night out with the wrong commissar? Turkmen condoms? Each explained her quiet maternity.

If I did it, it would have to be fast. I lowered my weapon and gave her a sharp motion with my head. I dared not say the word, to do so would mean that I was actually letting an enemy of the state go, and certainly this was not that. It was not that, could not be that. I was merely setting loose a woman; a nymph; a doe. She stared back at me, her velveteen lashes blinking a semaphore’s acknowledgment, and her tiny foot turned slightly: a ballerina readying for the pirouette.

The shot was fired from behind me, while I was still looking at her, and I did not see it of course, just the spasmodic shake as she fell backwards. Peter strode past, grounding me back to reality as his shoulder grazed mine. Instinctively I brought my weapon back up to waist level; an embarrassed actor realizing he’s still onstage…

Peter was jerking, electric twitches that traveled his entire body up and down. He stood over the woman, brandishing the weapon several times and calling her names that are reserved for a séance. I noticed he was cut as well, and asked him about it.

“Eto nichevo…” he answered, masochistic to the ends of his being, despite knowing that I knew he was seriously injured, the deep gash in his ribs and the dark stain on his outer coat that looked like it had had a brush with the Spear of Destiny. Peter spat on the woman and shot her twice more in the face. I looked away, and fell against the cold brick of the nearest wall.

The ride back was short and yet eternal, Rostov gripping the wheel like the driver of a runaway troika, Peter gasping out short blurts as each bump slapped his newest orifice, and in the very back, the gradually cooling remains of the woman, and her still warm but crying husband.

The Boss said nothing, explained nothing, and just sat in his insular gray orbit, thinking what I could not imagine. I would have given anything to know Peter’s thoughts, and in fact, could have… How differently things might have turned out.

At the station Peter and Rostov left for the infirmary—only then did I see that Rostov had also been shot—and I helped Alex clean out the mashina once the man had been turned over, his limp form surprisingly rigid as I held his elbow. The woman’s body would be burned in the morning; along with whatever pieces they took from the man. We worked without talking, without looking at one another, and as best we could without a thought as to the horrors we were mopping up.

I got back later than usual, almost a third of the day gone already and the trams packed with workers and laborers off for another day in the socialist salt mines. I kept to myself, didn’t bother eyeing anyone or forcing them to look away first. Nor did I return my neighbors’ greetings in the corridor, or Elena’s in the kvartira for that matter. I could not even untie my shoes, just kicked them from my feet and struggled with my tie, then my shirt—popping several buttons off as I wrenched it over my head. The cold ceramic sound they made as they bounced to a stop on the cold tile is the last thing I remember before my mind shut down altogether.

ВОСКРЕСЕНЬЕ

Five days have passed and the nightmares worse, except that they occur while awake and sleep brings nothing but darkness and strange noises—the plaintive cries of whales trapped beneath ice. Elena in the kitchen; I can hear the metallic scrapes and whistle of chai. She let me sleep, of that I was thankful, though the sleep was useless. Just thankful as it may have meant she has rethought our talk.

Others have done it with success, and as I explained we had a good shot, especially with her relations in Berlin. She has always been stoic, but never so much as she was that day, her granite features softening just a little as she took in the cigarette. You want to risk all this she coolly asked, brandishing the white weed like a majorette’s baton. Round and round we’d gone, voices rising into the danger level, carrying into others' domains and their finely tuned ears...ears that twitch like rabbits at the slightest sound of danger. Or twitch like the whiskers of a fox when sensing opportunity. Before the conversation is resolved Elena pushes herself from the table and strolls away, leaving me alone with my burden.

She assures me that Peter knows nothing, that he was crazed and even if he did think something, so what? The team already down one with Rostov out, and Peter himself only somewhat useful. Elena’s logic sound, but it is still wrong, flat, disharmonious. She would not leave, even if Peter would creep into the kvartira late one night and perch on the end of the bed like a raven, cawing his intent to inform on us in the morning. Even with an event such as that, hard and true as November rain, she would never leave… Even with the way that Peter looked at me Friday, telling me with his smug expression that the job is canceled due to a situation. Staring into my face, slowly annunciating “situation” twice. I nod calmly, and after walking clear of the room vomit in the washroom, catching the janitor by surprise. He looks up and then winks at me and taps his throat with a single finger, nodding in friendly camaraderie over what he assumes is binge drinking. I tell him to fuck off and speed home, where I confronted Elena for the first time with my plan.

We eat in silence that Sunday. Storm clouds gather in the west.

Late evening and I prepare to leave, it takes longer than usual to convince my arms, neck and legs to go into the gaping cavern of clothing that longs to swallow me up and consume my very essence. Elena kisses my cheek, whispers good night and slips into bed before I pull my hat down and wind the hallway clock. Thoughts betray me and make me slow, each step takes a firm guidance from my moon-beamed head, and I barely make the second streetcar in time, despite myself slowing down and consider taking the streetcar the other direction, taking it to the end of the line… And to what? There are no answers, only questions, swirling maddeningly within me, ducking my head under the water and I cannot breathe. I stop myself and head to the rendezvous. To my destiny.

Late I arrive, Peter standing next to the Boss who is slouched in a wooden chair, his dull gray hair plastered to his skull like blades of dead grass. No eye contact. No excuse. Get in the car and Peter drives, squealing the tires as he locks the brakes at the destination.

Boss says the number, points at me and tells me the back. Points to the others and says to the front. Points to his watch and says five. As I walk away I see Peter speak into the Boss’s ear, they both stare down, down into the depths of the cold dark street, as if using it as a board on which to lay a plan. The boss looks up suddenly. Straight at me, no smile in his eyes. He points me to the back.

Standing below the fire escape, wondering what it will be tonight, whose lives we will reach out and touch. Wondering what the looks on those faces are, faces who are sound asleep adrift on dreams of comfort and joy, suddenly shaken awake by the knocks of midnight. Wondering about the faces…what they look like, what they think. How they feel. Surprise? Relief? Do they know? Do they long for the relief that reality may suddenly bring a dark car to fling them away, so they can escape their fears?

Suddenly I climb the short steps of the fire escape and look into 4A, the number for the night. The kvartira appears empty, aside from a naked dining room and heavily laden bookshelf. I break the glass, stepping inside. A voice asks who’s there, a man in a white shirt and groggy expression staring at the gun I point right to his face, not understanding the first time I tell him to get out, take the fucking fire escape.

Dragging a wooden chair, I knock over the table, bring the chair near the front entrance and seat myself upon it. Directly in front of the door, from which the knocks will come, they are destined to come...they must come. Palpitations in my chest, and for a moment I worry they will give me away, but then I know better and adjust my seat, careful to make sure I can see my own face in the entryway mirror… I stare at my reflection, and feel comfort, the recognition of something familiar, and the relief—it's relief—that soon it will be all over.

Peter should be knocking any minute.