Struggle. Taste of power - Владимир Андерсон

silhouettes of a man in one position or another began to appear little by little. Cobra was more than certain that his men were no longer there. That someone had taken them out very quietly and pinpointed them… Plagues didn't do that: not the Imperial Army, not the SCK. The Maquis could in theory, but in practice… Their skills are far worse than the Kiwi's at this. They could fight, ambush or sabotage, but quietly exposing their flanks, especially against the Kiwi… No. They couldn't do that quietly. Not a single shot. Then who? The Inquisition's punitive drill? He'd never seen them in action, but to think that plagues could operate so stealthily was impossible.

But, on the other hand, since this metropolitan has only one drill with him, and he feels more than confident with it, who knows. Maybe they really have perfected their skills to such an extent that they have learned to operate silently….

A slight whistle was heard, as if from afar.

— Mines! — Cobra shouted to everyone.

A few moments later, the first one exploded nearby. It didn't seem to hit anyone, but a second one came right after it. Then another and another. In a minute it seemed as if this cannonade had been going on all day. The mortars on the other side were obviously few in number, but those who used them had chosen to equalize the intervals between them so as to keep their positions under constant fire.

— Everyone change frequency to 2… Charlie Group, take up positions on the right flank of the pokeweed (industrial pipe). Foxtrot Group, take up positions on the left flank of the pokeweed. — commanded into Cobra's radio, then switched to the first frequency, realizing what he was about to hear. — Bravo Team, report the situation.

A little silence. Despite the explosions all around, it seemed to be silence. And finally there was an answer:

— Change the frequency… You haven't done anything yet. You're already changing it. — The voice on the radio was happy and seemed familiar. — Well, hello to you from Unit 14. Your boys from that Bravo got minced to a pulp. And the mines are just for dessert… Actually, that's it, asshole, you don't have to try to take us in pincers….

The connection was broken. Still, the voice was familiar. Very familiar. The speaker tried to change it, and successfully enough, but still the feeling of familiar manner of speaking remained… He pretended that it was revenge from the Maquis… Unit 14 means. And with mortars… And they know about the retaliation plan right away. Interesting how the Maquis turned out to be…

— Groups Charlie and Foxtrot, team 177 (move very carefully, probably the area is mined) — commanded Cobra.

The mortar fire stopped. The Prefect lost one man killed and two wounded. Cobra none of those covering him personally and the entire Bravo group of 32 men. All killed, none captured or wounded. Somebody worked very well together. And knowing what they were doing and who they were dealing with. They booby-trapped the bodies, too. Not a single aisle, bush or branch, just the bodies. Bombs and grenades under the corpses. You turn him around and everything explodes. It's not for nothing that Cobra changed the frequency and gave the command 177, otherwise the casualties would have gone over a hundred.

When he received the report of the occupation of the industrial pipe and the complete destruction of Bravo's group, Cobra stood next to the prefect and watched as the miners repaired the road again and several men carried the dead and wounded toward the mine entrance.

Someone didn't need the road right now. — said the Mountain. — It was one of us. Or maybe both of us.

— You don't think it's a poppy right off the bat, do you?

— And look at the mines… 80 caliber… How far can you go with mortars like that?

The prefect was talking. He sure did. The road from Bakhmut to Gorlovka is not close, and even more so to the Diza sector. And we have to leave with all these weapons… And we have to leave even faster. And even further away… The prefect was talking. Those aren't Maquis.

Commander-in-Chief

Seversky stood in front of Zubkov, reporting on the last mission. The light was rather dim, for there was only one kerosene lamp burning. He did not want him to see the sleep-deprived eyes of his chief.

Frankly speaking, he was getting quite fed up with this Spetsnazov: he was always too eager to fight, and with his own notions of heroism and military duty. At least it became clear what Bolotnikov could have disagreed with him — he was stubborn about his own ideas, and did not want to see other sides of the case.

— We need a full operation. I'm just gonna lose people one at a time. We work as a team, that's our strength.

— And you would have lost the group then, not one person… Don't be a fool, the group wouldn't have gotten as far as one person did. And he almost made it.

— Comrade Commander-in-Chief, if we had a group, we'd have mowed down every last one of those lousy miners.

— Why would we want to weed out every last lousy miner? — Zubkov got up from the table and walked around to his side. To hell with him, let him know that he reeked of yesterday's alcohol, which he'd had a little too much of. But at least he'll know there's nothing to argue about. — Nobody wants dead miners! Are your men going to mine coal and ore? Well. Tell me? Are you ready to do it?

— Negative. — Seversky pressed his lips together, realizing that he'd overreacted a little. His hatred was turning into stupidity, and he was already realizing that it wasn't doing him any good.

— Exactly. There's no way. — Zubkov continued and headed toward the minibar. There's nothing to lose. If