V. Sidorov slowly stood up. His uniform rustled with a tense sound. He extended his hand. I grasped his hard, calloused palm. Our handshake was brief, but its meaning was heavy. With that moment, everything became official. It was no longer just a mission; it was a reckoning.
I left the room. I returned to the tavern with the explosives expert who was waiting for me. I moved all the weapons and ammunition I had placed in the car to my room. I made my selection for the mission:
1 SVD Dragunov — for long-range shooting.
1 AK-74 — for close combat and general security.
3 F-1 grenades — for area control and clearing barricades.
Once our preparations were complete, we quietly got into the vehicle. I took the wheel, and the explosives expert sat in the passenger seat. He was wearing standard NBC gear; his face was hidden behind his mask. I didn't even ask his name. Names didn't matter in this kind of mission. Everyone carries their own load; no one burdens anyone else.
We didn't speak on the road. Aside from the engine's rumble, the only sound in the cabin was the buzz of my own thoughts. The mission ahead was too risky to tolerate any tactical errors. Explosives, enemies, and silence… All as certain as death.
About an hour later, I pulled the vehicle into a clearing in the forest, approximately three kilometers from the bridge marked on the map. As soon as I turned off the engine, nature reclaimed its absolute silence. Only the rustling of the wind through the leaves of the trees and the alert chirping of birds could be heard.
The bridge was directly in front of us—a thick concrete structure from the Soviet era. Time had worn it down, but the stubbornness that kept it standing seemed to be etched into the concrete. However, what really caught my attention was the entrance to the bridge.
It resembled an improvised fortress. Scrap vehicles were arranged in a cross pattern, and barbed wire was stretched around the perimeter. The concrete blocks were not placed haphazardly but at calculated points. This was an ambush. This was a defense constructed by hands with combat experience.
I scanned the area with my eyes, looking for patrols. There were four of them. They weren't wearing camouflage, but the seriousness on their faces made it clear they weren't playing around. I slung my SVD over my shoulder, adjusted the scope, and began observing carefully.
The first man was carrying an AKS-74U. Suitable for close range. He moved quickly, frequently glancing around him. The second man had taken up a position further back with an AKM. His stance was cautious; clearly someone who had survived previous battles.
The third man had a PPS-43 in his hands—old but deadly. It fired quickly but had a short range. He was likely using it to counter an internal threat.
But the real danger was the fourth man. He was carrying an old Mosin-Nagant, but it had a scope. He was lying in a prone position, ambushing from the concrete embankment on the left side of the bridge. He didn't look like an amateur.
My first thought was:
> "This man is the first one we need to take out. Otherwise, it will be impossible to approach the bridge undetected."
I signaled to the explosives expert to "Wait." I moved silently and took cover behind a thick oak tree. I secured my SVD rifle to the ground, adjusted the scope, placed my finger on the trigger, and focused on the target.
The lookout was on the concrete platform. He had his Mosin-Nagant rifle resting on his knee and was taking a deep drag on his cigarette. The target was clear. I controlled my breathing, and the sight line was fixed on his chest.
I pulled the trigger.
The loud sound of the gun echoed through the forest. Birds took flight. The lookout's chest suddenly filled with blood. His body flew backward and hit the concrete ground.
While the bandits below tried to figure out what had happened, one of them tried to turn his gaze toward me. I waited for the moment he carelessly raised his head... And a bullet shattered his skull. Blood and brain matter spattered onto the barricade.
The rest were in a panic. The third bandit began to run in zigzags. I watched through the scope, held my breath, and pulled the trigger. But the bullet missed its target. The man jumped behind the barricade, picked up the Mosin-Nagant on the ground, and disappeared from view.
The fourth person was moving in a similar zigzag pattern. This time I was patient. I counted his steps. As soon as I caught the rhythm of his run, I fired. The bullet shattered his knee, severing it below the joint. The bandit fell to the ground with a scream, writhing in pain as he dropped his weapon and began to crawl. I silenced him with one final bullet.
Just then, a gunshot rang out. A bullet whizzed past my ear, shattering the bark of a tree. I immediately dropped to the ground and turned the scope to the side.
At the corner of the barricade, the third bandit, leaning his Mosin-Nagant against his shoulder, was watching me. His blue jacket, the sweat and blood on his face betrayed his fear. I acted faster than him when he aimed at me.
I pulled the trigger.
The man, hit in the chest, staggered as if he had lost his breath. The gun slipped from his hand, and his body fell behind the barricade.
There was a moment of silence. No footsteps, no whispers... Only the wind rustling the leaves lightly.
The explosives expert came over to me. "Clear?" he whispered.
"Clear," I said, still looking through the scope.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, lined up the plastic explosives in his hand, and showed them to me. Then we started walking toward the bridge.
The bridge still looked strong despite its cracked concrete, but the rusty iron pieces on it were like a decaying monument from the past. As our feet slipped on the mossy ground, the hazy sunlight from afar fell upon us.
The scrap vehicles and concrete pieces used by the bandits as barricades had completely blocked the entrance to the bridge. The explosives expert approached me, holding several bundles of plastic explosives and a remote control.
"Brusilov, we need to place the explosives carefully here. Any mistake will take us with it," he said in a quiet, determined voice.
We began carefully attaching the explosives to the supporting beams beneath the bridge. I placed the first bundle on the left side of the bridge, inside the concrete. The expert connected the wires and performed safety checks. Then we moved to the right side, where I securely fastened the bundles between the beams.
Under the shade of the trees beside the explosives, the wind blew gently. I pushed my hair back from my face and surveyed the area again. Everything was ready. The expert beside me checked the controls, confirming that the signals were transmitting smoothly.
"The bandits will arrive on patrol in half an hour," he whispered.
I walked over to the car and sat down in a corner without taking my eyes off the bridge. My heart was racing. I waited alertly for any sounds or movement. After what seemed like a long few minutes, the small red light on the remote control began to flash.
At that moment, I moved away from the bridge, got into the car, and started the engine. As I waited for the explosive to detonate, I felt the noise surrounding my ears and the shaking ground. With a loud explosion, concrete pieces flew into the air, metal construction pieces were shattered, and a huge crack opened in the middle of the bridge.
The barricade in front of the bridge was blown away, and dust clouds spread around. The ground shook from the impact of the explosion. The only access point to the bandits' camp had been completely destroyed. I felt a sense of relief. The mission was complete.
We jumped into the car and I started the engine. The explosives expert was still silent, staring into the distance. Perhaps what had happened on the road had affected him too. Or maybe he had just done his job. Who knows?
We said goodbye to the forest and drove on the old asphalt road. The cold air seeped in through the windows, and my fatigue weighed even heavier on my body. My thoughts were on the bodies on the bridge, that last shot, and the echo of the explosion.
When we entered the police station, dawn was breaking. The sky was a pale gray, and the city was still silent. After parking the car in the garage, I left without saying a word. My steps led me directly to the commander's office. I knocked on the door.
"Come in."
I opened the door and entered. Colonel Valeriy Sidorov lifted his head from the map-covered desk. His eyes fixed on me, but this time it was not a questioning gaze, but one of careful scrutiny.
"Report," he said briefly.
I stood up straight, straightening my back.
"The mission was successfully completed, Colonel. The target bridge was successfully destroyed. The bandit patrols were neutralized. The explosives expert returned safely."
The colonel looked at me for a few seconds. Then the corners of his lips turned up slightly. There was a faint glow of satisfaction in his eyes.
"It was a faster and more effective operation than I expected," he said. "This is a great relief for the city. The route for dozens of caravans is now safe. You did a good job."
"Well, Colonel Sidorov, I have a few questions for you," I said, placing the red-covered notebook I had taken out of my dusty backpack on the table. The cover had faded over time, but the faint embossing of the Soviet coat of arms was still visible. The loud thud of the notebook hitting the table broke the silence in the room. Then I fixed my gaze directly on Sidorov's eyes. In his weary gaze, I could see the weight of the years, the scars of war.
"What happened after the Soviet Union launched its first nuclear attack during the Great War? What really happened?"
Colonel Sidorov reached for the notebook, opened it carefully, and flipped through a few pages. His stern jawline relaxed for a moment, and a smile mingled with pain and fatigue appeared on his face. He then closed the notebook slowly, clasped his hands together, and took a deep breath.
"This notebook... the information inside," he said in a low voice, "was once classified. I don't know whose hands it fell into, but it clearly contains a piece of the truth. I'll tell you what I can."
After a short pause, he began to tell his story: "But a few hours after the nuclear bombs were dropped, NATO detected the missiles and launched a counterattack, firing their own missiles. Unfortunately, this was not a game of chess. The game was over before the pieces left the board. NATO launched a counterattack within just a few hours. As you can see, they took us with them before they were destroyed. It was the same for them; even though they had radar systems installed in all countries, they couldn't stop the inevitable. Hundreds of nuclear warheads were heading toward our territory over the North Pole. Kaliningrad, Moscow, Leningrad, Sverdlovsk, even the area around Lake Baikal were targeted. Our S-300 and A-135 air defense systems managed to shoot down some of them, but most of the warheads hit their targets."
The colonel paused for a moment, tapped his fingers on the table, then continued:
"The Central Command in Moscow had gone underground, but a few megaton-class strikes had destroyed its systems as well. According to the latest reports, the Kremlin fell silent almost instantly. In some cities, especially those with strong defenses like Leningrad, the people had taken shelter in metro stations. But for how long? Radiation, starvation, and chaos... within a few days, civilian order collapsed. After the radio silence, only scattered military signals began to come in from some regions."
His eyes drifted off into the distance for a moment. Perhaps he was lost in a memory from the past. Then he shook his head slowly.
"Still... Not everything was lost." There was a glimmer of hope in his voice.
"The Grand Soviet Navy... survived. Part of the Northern Fleet had anchored at the Novaya Gavan Base off the Franz Joseph Archipelago. That base had been built nearly 40 meters below ground. It was like a fortress carved into a granite mass, not concrete. It was camouflaged against satellites and protected against electromagnetic pulses. It still had the power to intervene in the Bering Strait, Greenland, and even the Atlantic."
When I heard that the navy was still alive, a chill ran through me. I couldn't believe my ears. It was as if, after years of absence and silence, someone had come forward to say that a part of the past was still breathing.
I looked at Colonel Sidorov in astonishment, my pupils dilated.
"The fleet? How is that possible? In that hell… how could they have survived?" I said, my voice trembling with both astonishment and disbelief.
Sidorov leaned back in his chair, his back creaking against the wood. He closed his eyes for a moment, then began to speak with the weariness of the years, but also with pride:
"Most people don't know this," he said. "But the Soviet Union had begun moving the navy away from its central bases months before the Great War began. The mastermind behind the operation… was Admiral Sergey Georgyevich Gorshkov. A genius. The man who revolutionized the navy during the Cold War. He knew NATO's nuclear strategy. He had predicted that the first targets would be air force and naval bases. That's why, before the war began, he evacuated most of the Soviet Navy from the mainland, especially from Murmansk and Severomorsk."
He tapped his fingers slowly on the table, choosing his words carefully as he continued:
"All heavy assets—Typhoon and Delta-IV class ballistic submarines, all aircraft carriers, Kirov-class battle cruisers, Slava-class missile cruisers—were all directed north to a special deployment zone off the Franz Josef Archipelago. This is a frozen hell, nearly covered in ice for most of the year, and difficult to detect by radar systems. But it is perfect for defense."
He took a deep breath, his eyes wandering through memories, and remained silent for a moment. Then his voice grew slightly softer, but even heavier:
"Most of the nuclear missiles launched at Europe were fired from submarines and Kirov-class cruisers in that region. So in that first attack, the navy was already in combat position on the open sea. Electromagnetic suppression systems and new-generation camouflage were used to reduce radar signatures. After the missiles were fired, they immediately changed positions. When NATO responded, the land-based bases had been destroyed, but they couldn't pinpoint the navy's location. This... was Gorshkov's foresight. The navy was cut off from land but survived."
My astonishment was growing exponentially. But Sidorov's words were not yet finished. He leaned slowly, pointing to the thick cables in the corner of the room.
"And now this city... owes its existence solely to that fleet," he said slowly.
"An unfinished giant... the Oscar-II class submarine 'Belgorod'. Normally, it was developed for submarine intelligence and special missions, but when the war broke out, its construction was halted at the Severodvinsk Shipyard. Its hull was completed, but its weapon systems could not be installed. Nevertheless, its 380-megawatt nuclear reactors were activated. That massive machine now supplies electricity to this city. The heated water drawn through pipes is combined with hydroelectric converters. So these lights, these air systems, the table in front of you... all of them are powered by an artificial heart beating within Belgorod's slowly decaying hull."
When Sidorov's voice trailed off, the fluorescent lights in the room flickered slightly. In that moment, everything felt suddenly more real, colder, and more tragic.
"Thank you, Colonel."
"We need men like you, Brusilov. Maybe the city can still be saved."
I slung my armor over my shoulder, carefully took the binoculars, and put them in my pocket. I got into the car and started the engine. The rumbling sound of the old VAZ tore through the silence of the night. The headlights barely allowed me to make my way through the fog that had settled on the road. As we approached the city center, the sky began to lighten, and the streets grew busier. There was still a glimmer of life among the piles of rubble. Women were selling food or old parts at stalls they had set up at the base of collapsed walls, and children were playing football with empty tin cans in the narrow alleys. Perhaps the war had not been forgotten here, but they had learned to live with it.
A short time later, I came across the "Free Russia" tavern. The five-story historic stone building looked as if it had been restored. The exterior was clean, and a few old Soviet flags hung on the walls, fluttering slightly in the wind. An old ventilation fan on the roof creaked as it turned.
I approached the wooden door. It was heavy, and I stepped inside with the sound of the hinges creaking. A dim light and a woody warmth greeted me. The faint smell of smoke and old tobacco in the air suggested that this place had retained its character for years. The walls were covered in wood, with some Soviet-era propaganda posters hanging on them. On the left side, there was a polished bar counter; a few men were sipping their morning drinks. On the right side, a narrow corridor led to the reception area.
I approached the woman at the counter. She looked to be in her thirties. Her dark brown hair was neatly pulled back, and the gray jacket and ironed shirt she wore gave her a serious yet tidy appearance. She glanced at me; her face was expressionless, but she spoke with a polite smile:
"Welcome. Did you make a reservation, or are you checking in for the first time?"
Without answering, I pulled my green passport out of my pocket. It was from the Soviet era, stamped with military transit documents. I handed it to the woman. She examined the document carefully. As she flipped through the pages, her eyes paused for a moment, then her smile widened:
"Sir, your reservation has already been made. Your room number is 306. Your reservation includes a five-day stay, all meals, and basic health services. If you wish, you can also go to the restaurant floor, which is right next to the hotel."
She pulled a metal-engraved key from under the counter. It was thick and heavy. The number "306" was hand-carved into it. As she handed me the key, she pointed to the stairs with her other hand.
"Third floor, the room on the right at the end of the corridor."
I took the key. As I weighed the cold metal in my palm, I bowed my head slightly in thanks. Then I walked slowly toward the stairs. Each step creaked softly under my boots. The armor on my shoulder was pressing against my tired spine, but now I could finally leave that weight behind for a few days.
As I climbed the stairs, I thought about how tense and deadly the day had been. But now I had a few days of rest ahead of me, perhaps even a chance to escape the war for a short while—or so I hoped.
When I reached the third floor, a long corridor lit by dim light greeted me. Gas lamps mounted on the walls illuminated the wooden panels with their warm yellow light. At the end of the corridor, a rusty brass plaque read "306."
I turned the heavy key. The door creaked slightly as it opened. The scene that greeted me when I stepped inside exceeded my expectations. The room was spacious; it carried the weight of the Cold War era but had been meticulously preserved with an aesthetic touch. On the floor lay an old but spotless rug in shades of red and navy blue. The dark walnut furniture placed on the carpet gave the room a serious yet comfortable atmosphere.
The large bookshelf on the left wall housed a collection of Soviet classics; some of the books were worn but carefully preserved. In the corner of the room was an old-fashioned record player, with a collection of vinyl records beneath it—some labeled with names like "Shostakovich," "Okudzhava," and "Alla Pugacheva." In front of the window stood a cast-iron radiator, quietly humming; the soft warmth it emitted contrasted sharply with the darkness and cold outside.
The bed was double, neatly made with white sheets. On the nightstand next to it stood a brass-legged bedside lamp. In the other corner was a door leading to a small but clean bathroom—hot water flowed from the taps, a luxury in itself.
I removed my armor and placed it carefully on one of the chairs. I took off my military uniform, removed the magazine from the AK-74, and leaned it against the wall. Then I entered the bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a moment: tired but alert eyes… As I stepped under the hot water, my mind began to relax before my body did. As the smell of gunpowder, sweat, and death faded, the weight on my shoulders grew lighter.
I put on my clean clothes and went downstairs to the restaurant area. As soon as I stepped into the restaurant, the warmth and liveliness of the atmosphere were immediately noticeable. The dim lights, candles placed on the tables, and lamps on the walls combined to create a peaceful atmosphere. The people sitting at the tables were laughing, talking, and clinking their glasses. In this world darkened by war, the restaurant was a kind of timeless refuge.
In one corner, an old woman was feeding soup to her grandchild. At the table across from us, two men in suits were heatedly discussing something; in the background, a crackling Soviet chanson played on the radio, whispering memories of Moscow nights long past.
I moved to a quieter table at the back of the restaurant. This table, near the wall and in the dim light, was a peaceful corner away from the buzz of the crowd. As soon as I sat down, a young waiter in a black jacket, with hair cut like a razor, quietly approached me. With a firm yet gentle expression, he placed a leather-bound menu in front of me:
"Here you go, sir, our menu. Today's hot soup is made with beetroot and bone broth," he said.
I took the menu in my hand. As I flipped through the pages, forgotten dishes from the old Soviet cuisine flashed before my eyes: "Kulesh," "Tefteli," "Rassolnik," "Vareniki"... But at that moment, my eye caught on one dish.
I turned to the waiter:
"I'll have the shashlik kebab and a bottle of Nemiroff vodka."
The waiter bowed his head slightly and said, "I'll bring it right away," then turned and walked away silently.
About ten minutes later, the waiter returned, carefully carrying a large metal tray. He began placing the items on the table one by one: a Shashlik kebab made of large pieces of meat still sizzling from the coals, a mixed salad with tomatoes and onions, a special sauce with sour cream (smetana) on a plate, and a bottle of Nemiroff vodka, chilled to the point of being ice-cold, with its glass bottle gleaming. The presentation was meticulous.
"Enjoy your meal," said the waiter and quietly walked away again.
I picked up the fork, leaned over my plate. I cut a piece of kebab and put it in my mouth. The outside of the meat was slightly crispy, but the inside remained tender and juicy. The spices didn't overpower the flavor at first; instead, the natural taste of the meat took center stage. There was a masterful blend of onions, garlic, a touch of vinegar, and bay leaves in the marinade. As I chewed, the flavor spread across my palate, temporarily easing all the tension in my body.
I poured a glass of vodka. There was no ice in the clear liquid—because real vodka is not a drink that cools you down, but one that burns you inside. I downed the glass in one gulp. At first, I felt a slight burning sensation in my throat. Then the warmth that spread throughout my internal organs seemed to vaporize the fatigue of battle within me.
I returned to my meal. Each bite felt like a reward for the danger I had left behind. The scent of the meat, the rich thickness of the hot sauce coating my tongue, and the slight dizziness from the vodka... these were small but real rewards a warrior deserved.
After the meal, I leaned back slightly in my chair. My stomach was full, but this was not just physical satisfaction—there was an odd sense of peace within me. The burning heat of the vodka was still lingering in my stomach, and the rich taste of the meat had left its mark on my palate. My shoulders had relaxed, and another layer of the day's weight had been lifted from me.
As I watched the surroundings in the dim light of the place, the waiter approached me again and asked in a soft voice:
"Sir, did you enjoy your meal?"
I looked up at him. There was an expectation of satisfaction in his eyes; this wasn't just a customer interaction, it was almost like a test to see if his work was appreciated.
I smiled and nodded:
"Enjoyed? It was perfect. The doneness of the meat, the seasoning, the sauce on the side... Everything was just right. I haven't had such a good meal in a long time. Thank you."
The waiter bowed slightly and nodded gratefully. His eyes sparkled for a moment, then he turned to the other tables.
I stood up from the table. My legs felt heavy but determined. I felt a post-drink coolness and a sense of relaxation from the meal. As I stepped out of the restaurant, a clean and cool evening breeze greeted me. I took a deep breath. The sky was cloudless, and the stars were faintly visible despite the city lights.