Struggle. Taste of power - Владимир Андерсон

think of a nickname similar to ours. Nobody's gonna call you Vanya. — the mercenary told him right away.

— Then they can call me Tarantula. They won't make a mistake. — Tikhomirov answered at once.

The prefect warned that his man thought and acted quickly. Quick to understand, quick to make decisions. And that in return for their gratitude, the miners would show Cobra's man the details and intricacies of the underground transportation routes, including track sheets, to make it easier for him to plan his movements from one sector to another.

Cobra's main base with its central headquarters was located on the western outskirts of Gorlovka. It was a former shopping center, where inside the building along the central aisle there was a view all the way to the ceiling of the fourth floor. Right in the center of this aisle stood a BRT-80 with a cannon pointed at the entrance. The lighting from the diesel generators was sparse, but sufficiently supplied and allowed even the far wall of the building to be seen. Life inside was quite lively and resembled more like one of the mines, only with a clearly more active population and more armed — almost everyone was only in military uniform with the exception of some engineers and repairmen dressed in gray overalls.

The former pavilions were equipped with various kinds of barracks, warehouses, storage rooms for weapons and special means, and offices, but all without any signs or placards. Sandbags and small concrete blocks had been set up as firing points everywhere. Cobra's office was exactly in the middle of the building on the second floor, which had apparently once housed a clothing boutique. Across the passageway from it stood a powerful Utyos large caliber machine gun, staring menacingly at the entrance. In case of emergency, it would keep the entire central passage under continuous fire, and it could only be reached from the outside by destroying the entire building with large-caliber artillery, for which the Maquis would not have the means.

The commander's office itself was divided into several separate rooms, the central of which, the private room, was furnished with a long table with the chief's seat at the head of it. A row of chairs stood on either side of it. In the near corner sat a pretty assistant at her small desk with a typewriter placed on it. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, illuminating everything around.

Cobra sat down in his chair and pointed to the seat next to Tikhomirov:

— Straight to the point, before I forget, maybe. Any questions about anything around here?

— In this room, I understand they used to sell clothes?

— Right. Clothes. Underwear, to be exact.

— Why was it chosen? Best sheltered from outside influences? And allows you to see everything from here? Or is there some other reason?

— Yeah, you said it right. Those two reasons and there's a third one I'm not gonna tell you. Any other questions?

— How long have you been here?

— I'm the one who's been here six years. Before me, they were here for a long time. But it wasn't a base like this. Before me, it was quite modest.

— Do the Maquis know about this place?

— I don't think so. Despite the scale and how long we've been here, the Maquis are unlikely to know anything. You know, they've been emphasizing the war on the plagues. And they don't tell their own people that there are any chiwis at all. — Cobra smiled as he had when he first came to visit the Mountain. — Do you have any idea why they hide from their own people that we exist?

— I think the answer is simple enough. — answered Tarantula and after a little look at the situation around him, he finished. — So that they don't defect…..

Cobra literally froze. Indeed, what a strikingly obvious and understandable answer to such a complex question. After all, many people who could not tolerate the humiliation and deprivation at the enterprises controlled by the plagues fled to the Maquis. And these people were not so much afraid of change and the unknown as they were of the plagues themselves. As opposed to those who stayed at the mine, who were more afraid of the unknown… I can see now why Gora was so eager to send this man here….

— Uh-huh. That's an interesting idea you brought up… So, put flyers out there and half of the Maquis could be seen on your team?

— I wouldn't idealize it so much… After the flyers, we'll see half the Maquis dead in the ravines. Especially considering their current leader.

Tikhomirov spoke in a very restrained, precise and measured manner. It was obvious that he was able to analyze situations from different angles and think in depth, taking into account a number of different factors at once. At the same time with an understanding of people's psychology… A very rare combination of the ability to calculate well in terms of all possible options and the ability to understand human nature and psychology. It's strange how the Mountain let him go unguarded. Maybe he thought that the guards would only draw attention to him?

— Zubkov… I suppose you've long been aware that this rat is in charge now. — Cobra got up from his seat, walked to the far corner, poured brownish liquid into two aluminum mugs, came back and sat back down, putting the second mug to Tikhomirov. — Well, dear Tarantula. Here's our tea for you… And as a kind of gratitude for such an interesting idea that you just threw me about the leaflets, here's some more news about this Zubkov… I didn't call him a rat for nothing.

Tarantula gently touched the mug to see if it was too hot, then picked it up carefully and sipped a little. He was in no hurry to ask or hint that he was waiting for an answer. He knew that the best way in