I shudder and wake up because the boxes outside are moving.
“Get up!” I push the Frenchman who is buried in my shoulder. “We’re here!”
We get to our feet. A couple of minutes later, the wooden wall moves aside and bright light hits our eyes. A fighter in a balaclava and an Eastern European-style uniform without insignia points a Kalashnikov at us hospitably and invites us to come out. There are two more guys like him outside.
We get out. I feel my adrenaline level rising inexorably. The situation is becoming really dangerous. But suddenly, a strikingly familiar voice rings out behind me:
“Tsikuta! Holy shit! It’s really you!”
“Holy shit is in your ass, Harper!” I turn around and fall into the arms of a smiling curly-haired blond with a pronounced American accent.
“Damn!” he hugs me, “If you didn’t come here to kill me, then I don’t understand anything. I refuse to understand!”
“Do you think I would have come here in such an idiotic way?” I laugh.
“So, this is really a private visit?”
“Absolutely…”
“And who’s causing you such problems? This guy?” Harper looks at Jean-Pierre with a cheerful squint.
“He is,” I nod.
“Neil Harper,” the American shakes Jean-Pierre’s hand.
“That is the ‘Mockingbird’?” the Frenchman asks, slightly excited.
“He knows our call signs? How does this journalist get information out of you?”
“I had nothing to do with it. He did it all himself,” I wave my hand dismissively.
“Damn!” Well, in that case, if you’re still alive, buddy, you’re a real lucky guy!“ The American puts his arms around my neck and Jean-Pierre’s. ”Well, guys, let me give you a ride! And you tell me how things are going and why you came here.”
“Why are you greeting and hugging everyone here? Or are you just putting on a show for me?” I ask grumpily as the three of us get into a beat-up Niva and leave the Hungarian soldiers to continue dismantling the truck.
“Come on… I’m kind of a military consultant and scout leader rolled into one,” Harper smiles as usual, without taking his eyes off the road. “The yellow-bellies are coming from Western Europe, wanting to play revolutionaries and shoot at live targets. Anarchists, left-wing radicals, red skins… We have to take them in and train them so they don’t become completely useless cannon fodder. Hungary always needs fighters… NATO has been putting a lot of pressure on us lately.
“So now you’re against your own people?”
“My people are still as crisp and green as ever. And now I’m for the New Great Yugoslavia,” Mockingbird laughs.
“You’re pretending to be Che Guevara. I see…”
“Well, what about you? Still in the Legion? How are the guys? Steve? Black Jack? I see you’re not coming here.”
“Not interested… Steve is taking a break. I don’t know where. And Jack is died.”
“Seriously?! Fuck…”
“Yeah, in Syria, last year.”
“Damn, Jack… I never would have thought that anything could get that nigger… I thought he’d outlive us all… Rest in peace, Lord…” Harper crosses himself.
We drive in silence for a while. The car leaves the forest, crosses a field, and enters a small settlement. Apparently, this is one of the strongholds of the integralists. Here and there, we see Neo-Yugoslav flags with eagles and people with weapons. However, the civilians do not seem frightened or concerned. At least, it is not noticeable. The Niva approaches a cracked two-flored building, above the entrance of which the same coat of arms with an eagle is painted through a stencil. Several armored personnel carriers and tanks are parked nearby.
“Things seem to be pretty serious here,” Jean-Pierre remarks, glancing at the military equipment.
“You bet!” Harper replies cheerfully. “Hungary has big plans… And when you’re doing things like uniting several republics into one, you can’t do without grown-up toys.”
“Do you think the Americans will let you restore the country within its old borders?”
“Don’t confuse the Americans with the American government. There are enough tough guys from the Midwest here to kick Uncle Sam’s ass in Washington.”
Harper turns off the engine, gets out, and starts unloading some small boxes from the trunk. We follow him.
“There’s a civil war going on here, right?” the Frenchman continues with his inappropriate journalistic questions. “Part of the population is against you?”
“Well…” Harper glances around. “A pathetic bunch of renegades and traitors who sold out to the Yanks!” If it weren’t for the support of NATO thugs, we would have taken over the whole country long ago.”
“Boys, let’s get down to business,” I interrupt this empty propaganda chatter. “Harper, can you share the map?”
Mockingbird smiles silently, takes a folded map out of his pocket, and hands it to me. I spread it out on the hood of the car.
“Look… We’re interested in this point,” I point with my finger. “Who’s here now?”
“It’s a tricky spot,” Harper grunts, “a gray zone. NATO troops are stationed further away, and our guys are here. We make shallow forays into this area. And here… there are minefields. It wouldn’t hurt to find a local guide.”
“Anyone you can recommend?”
“Sure,” grins the Mockingbird, “but I’m not a taxi or a free information service. Let your Frenchman help me haul this junk upstairs, and then we’ll see…”
We help Harper carry the boxes up to the second floor. Despite their compact size, they are very heavy. They look like some kind of anti-tank ammunition with uranium cores. Or some other shit like that.
Back down in the town square, the Mockingbird, as is his tradition, hugs me and Jean-Pierre, then gets in his car and drives away. Of course, he doesn’t recommend a guide to us. However, his public hugs turn out to be a much more valuable acquisition for us. Going under the awning of a wide building with a completely destroyed wall, something like a local saloon, we immediately feel it.
A local guy who has noticed us quickly approaches and offers to sell us weapons and equipment in broken English. We follow him through some dark corridors and find ourselves in a room filled with wooden and steel boxes.
After learning the prices, Jean-Pierre enthusiastically begins rummaging through the ammunition.
“More interesting than your ‘Auchan,’ right?” I laugh.
I take one AK and two MP-5s. Who knows what will be in this “gray zone.” Jean-Pierre pulls a light bulletproof vest out of the pile and picks out a uniform for himself.
“These Frenchmen have long since turned into fashionable young ladies,” I think to myself.
At the same place, at the local peddler’s, we find out where we can spend the night and get a guide. Across the square lives either his sister or his sister-in-law, who rents out a room to visitors, and her son can show us how to get through the minefields. I generously throw him another 50 euros on top of that for the information, and quietly pocket a couple of spare magazines.
The building we are sent to turns out to be some kind of dilapidated dormitory or something like that. Two two-flored wings, joined around a central staircase with corridors and small rooms, seem to be occupied by some kind of Balkan gypsy camp. Most of the windows are broken and covered with thick plastic. Laundry is drying on a rope stretched between the railings directly above the stairwell. Dirty children are running up and down the stairs. Several tired old people are lying and sitting on rags right in the corridor. Someone is cooking on a makeshift stove made from a steel barrel. The appetizing smell of soup with tart spices wafts through the air between the walls covered with peeling paint.
“Would you like some onion soup from our chef?” I turn to Jean-Pierre, who is dragging bags of weapons behind me, but he remains silent.
However, after walking a little further down the corridor, we realize that things are not so bad. Our room has a relatively intact window and a working shower cubicle with peeling tiles and sluggishly flowing yellowish cold water.
“How much did we pay for this?” asks the Frenchman, looking sadly at the two lonely mattresses lying at opposite ends of the square room with broken parquet flooring.
“It’s better if you don’t know. But they promised to feed us in the evening.
“All inclusive…” Jean-Pierre sighs, falling onto his mattress. “And you, I see, are not uncomfortable…”
“No,” I reply, unrolling my sleeping bag, “When you’re traveling on contract, you have to sleep in the worst places. And it’s not always bright barracks with clean sheets. And here… These people live like this themselves. And they feed off mercenaries.
The hostess isn’t deceiving us. Her son, a 12-year-old boy who looks like a gypsy, brings us two large aluminum bowls of rather fragrant and tasty stew for dinner. I ask him if he knows the area well. He nods affirmatively. I show him a map with our destination marked, and he responds with another nod and a splayed, dirty hand. For 5 euros, he agrees to guide us, but it will take all day. We agree.
It’s getting dark. The Frenchman cannot settle down for a long time, tossing and turning on his mattress. I can hear singing coming from the hallway. It doesn’t bother me. Something inside makes me feel calm and peaceful. I fall asleep as usual at 10:31 p.m., as if falling into a deep sleep and not dreaming at all, which has been quite rare lately.
