Berserker

The irony struck me as I sat on Andreyevsky’s bunk, now mine.  I was staring at his identity card.  I didn’t look anything like my friend’s picture.  I was nowhere near as tall as the 205 centimeters listed.  Kashuba said he would have a new card made, with my photo and statistics.  What hit me was the names.  I was born Evan Anthony.  Now I was Ivan Andreyevsky.

 

Evan and Ivan are the Welsh and Russian forms of the name John.  The last names began and ended with the same letters.  If Eastwood were here, he would have said, “If the shoe fits, wear it.”

 

When I stretched out in the bunk and drifted off to sleep, I wasn’t thinking about names.  I was thinking about how to track and kill Mongolians.

 

The next morning brought the first planning session for my upcoming mission.  It lasted all day.  Then, another session each day for three more days.  I had never been through anything like that.  My uncle and I did a lot of dangerous things together.  But there were just two of us.  And Eastwood liked to travel light.

 

I sat for hours at a table with eight other men, including Colonel Kashuba.  He told me it was my job to write everything down.  He said, “You will be the one who dies first if we overlook something.  I am certain your uncle taught you the value of proper planning.”

 

I had a massive headache by the end of each session.  Keeping up with the discussion, making notes, and answering the constant questions was exhausting.  Yet, each morning when I woke up, I was more confident in the plan we were developing.

 

None of the men I sat with were Eastwood’s equal as a soldier.  But when I got out of the UAZ, and headed down the trail towards the Chinese border, I had the same feeling I used to have with my uncle.  Kashuba and the rest of the team had my back.  I knew I could accomplish anything.

 

The essence of the plan was simple.  I was to hike to the Chinese border.  I would travel near, but not on one of the rough trails the rebels used as an escape route after their attacks.  I would make camp and wait.  I found a site high on a mountain ridge, facing north.  Every day, fifteen minutes after sunrise, an MI-8 helicopter would hover a few kilometers away.  It only took a few minutes for them to send the coded messages to me, and for me to reply, over the handheld radio.

 

The sunrise calls were mostly for them to check on me.  To make sure I hadn’t fallen off of a cliff or gotten mauled by wolves or dholes.  I was waiting for the radio to beep some other time.  That would mean that rebels had attacked, somewhere near enough that I could intercept them as they retreated to China.

 

On day ten, the radio woke me up at 1am.  The encoded message was short.  It contained a set of latitude and longitude coordinates, where the attack had occurred. And a phrase. “4 heaters.”  Meaning four men with automatic weapons.

 

I studied the map under lamplight.  There were two likely routes the rebels might take to get to the Chinese border.  I would have to pick one and hope I get lucky.  Both routes seemed equally likely, so I chose the closest one.  I geared up and began walking. 

 

The NPZ PN-8K night vision binoculars strapped to my helmet were more powerful and easier to use than Eastwood’s Starlight Scope.  With both hands free, I could travel almost as fast in the dark as in daylight. 

 

After some hiking, I came to the first trail.  I considered what I found to be a promising sign.  Four sets of footsteps, less than 48 hours old, were pointed north.  None were going the other direction.  There was no guarantee the tracks were made by the rebels.  Or that they would return on the same path.  Every hunter has at least one story about spending hours in the woods without seeing an animal.  I found a rock outcropping with a good line of sight to the trail, and settled in.

 

A few hours later, the sun was up, but obscured by the fog that often covers the mountains.  A man came into view, walking south on the trail.  I assumed the SKS strapped to his shoulder meant he was one of the men I was looking for.  That is a Chinese military assault rifle.  As he went around a curve in the trail, a second man appeared on the trail.  Also with an SKS.  They were traveling far enough apart that I could not shoot at more than one of them at a time.  Unless…

 

I watched the second man until he went around the turn on my right.  I pivoted back and the third man had just come into view on the left.  I practiced turning from left to right and re-aiming for a few moments.  Then I sighted my scope to the left and waited.

 

The fourth man walked into range, then fell to the ground when a bullet from my rifle hit him in the chest.  I spun and found the third man in my sights.  He had crouched and turned toward the sound of my first shot.  He was raising up and turning to run when my second shot clipped his shoulder.  He went down, then immediately got up and tried to run.  My third shot hit him in the middle of the back.  He did not get up again.

 

There were two men remaining, but now I had lost the element of surprise.  If I pursued, they would have the advantage.  I assumed they were doing one of two things.  They were either moving south as fast as they could, or they were hunkered down, waiting for me to come after them.

 

At that moment, I realized there was something not right about me.  Instead of thinking about the other men, I paused for a moment.  Some hunters mount deer on the wall in their den.  Some carry a rabbit’s foot in their pocket.  I went to the first of the men I had killed.  I pulled the multi-tool out of my vest and cut the pinkie finger off of his right hand.  I wrapped it in an empty food package and stuffed it in my pocket.  I repeated the process with the other man.

 

I decided to veer east and climb up the slope.  When it felt like a safe distance, I turned south.  After a couple of kilometers, I turned west and worked my way back to the trail.  Depending on whether or not I found two pairs of footsteps heading south, I would know if the men were ahead of me, or behind. 

 

When I got to the trail, I could tell the impressions their boots had made were fresh.  They were no more than a few minutes ahead.  They were also getting close to the Chinese border.  Kashuba had made it clear.  Under no circumstances was I to cross the line.  Of course, there wouldn’t be a “Welcome to China” sign on the trail.  I had used my compass and map to determine my location after I had settled into my ambush spot.  I knew I was four kilometers from the border when I shot the first two men.  I estimated I was two kilometers away now.  I would not have much time if I wanted to intercept the men before they made it to sanctuary.

 

That was when I made a rookie mistake.  I assumed that since the men were on the move, they would not stop until they crossed the border.  I should have paid better attention during the planning sessions.  Kashuba and the others were adamant.  These men possessed all of the skills I did.  They were intelligent, ruthless, and not afraid to take chances.  And they knew the terrain better than I did.

 

You can stalk someone quickly, or you can stalk them safely.  You cannot do both.  I was running out of time.  I did my best to minimize exposure as I followed the footsteps down the trail.  I had already crouched behind a man-sized boulder when a hail of bullets surrounded me.  The rock was big enough to shield me from their line of fire.  But there was no way to fire back without exposing myself.

 

I realized, with two men, one of them could keep me pinned down while the other advanced on me.  I listened carefully.  I should be able to make out the crunching sound of boots on snow, in between the bullet fire.  If they moved towards me, I would have no choice but to raise up and take my chances in a two against one firefight.

 

I was lucky.  After a few minutes, the bullets stopped.  Despite the ringing in my ears, I heard the sound of boots moving away from me.  I had survived.  But not without paying a price.  One of the bullets had hit the ledge just to my right and a spray of rock fragments hit me in the face.  Some had gotten in my eye, one made a gash across my cheek. 

 

It took an hour to get the specks of rock out of my eye, and for the tears to stop flowing enough for me to be able to see.  I cleaned the wounds and bandaged the cut on my cheek.  By now, the men were safely across the border. 

 

My orders were easy enough to understand.  This mission was over.  I should head north on the trail to the nearest evacuation point.  Eastwood used to say, “Sometimes the most important thing a soldier can do is live to fight another day.”  But I was not Eastwood. 

 

A psychologist would say something like, “Evan has unresolved anger issues due to his uncle’s death.”  All I knew was this:  As I cleaned the debris out of my eye, I became consumed with rage.  Everything that was wrong in the universe, was caused by the men who had shot at me.  Somehow, it was their fault that Eastwood had a heart attack.  It was their fault I went crazy, and came to Siberia.  It was their fault I was on this trail, cold, hungry, and in pain.

 

My radio started beeping.  It had been four hours since I had communicated with the helicopter crew.  If I answered, the commander would order me to retreat.  I turned the radio off, and began walking south.  This time, I travelled off of the trail, slowly, and with extreme caution.