Chapter 1: Chapter 1 - Chronos
Ruins of Mari, Syria
August 2016
On a rugged plot of land, stray blades of grass sway uninterrupted as they pirouette to the tempo of a passing breeze. The serene ambiance the plant radiates is typical of this secluded environment. Countless days and nights pass, and with the transition of seasons, all temperature fluctuations are accounted for. Against all odds, the tiny bits of grass manage to survive. This peace abruptly ends, however, as a dozen steaming brass casings eject atop the pocket of earth, followed by the trampling of mud-covered boots. Though far from reaching its life expectancy, the grass is left to die, uprooted and isolated as it was in this small rocky wind tunnel.
The perpetrating militant races past the arrangement of rocks enclosing the plant's former estate, vaulting over a ledge before descending to a small platform barely visible above the surface. He pauses to pant, struggling to catch his breath.
"Snipers are pinned and Syrians covering our asses are dead. Hostiles are flanking around and trying to trap us in the excavation site!" the scout with unkempt facial hair shouts in Russian, forcing himself into the breathless state he had only just been freed from.
The remaining thirty or so compatriots receiving this message were positioned opposite of him, firing back upon an overwhelming enemy force. A distressed soldier turns to glare at the scout like a fierce animal. The truth of the doom-bearing words is almost incomprehensible, and the soldier's demeanor quickly shifts to reflect the frightened human he truly is.
"Kolya, get that air support before we all fucking die!" the soldier yells in desperation, tossing an empty magazine over the platform and into the depths below.
The radio operator in mention releases his rifle and frantically reaches around for his utility pouch, fumbling around with the transceiver cable before grabbing hold of it. He cries into the mouthpiece before the button on the side fully depresses, cutting a second off his young, fearful voice.
"Sokol Four, we are under heavy fire from the local insurgent forces. We aren't sure how much longer we will be able to hold this position. Requesting air support now!"
He stands alert, waiting for a reply. After a brief moment, the connection chime sounds and he presses hard on the earpiece, shoving it deep into his ear canal.
"Negative Gaduka Two. We hit anywhere near your position and the entire site goes under," a pilot states monotonously after assessing the structural integrity of the ground below him. "Hold tight for eleven more minutes; airborne reinforcements are en route."
The radio operator quickly terminates the connection and switches radio frequencies. He repeats the message in his heavily accented Arabic, calling for any Syrian reinforcements in the vicinity. Although he stands by for a significant period of time waiting for a reply, there isn't any.
He releases his receiver, allowing the earpiece to swing downward like a pendulum before joining the rest of the apparatus on the ground. He stumbles back, gasping from what is presumably a stress-induced panic attack. Another soldier from the company notices this, and without resetting his bipod, quickly backpedals to meet the youth.
"What's wrong? What did they say?" the visored soldier asks incessantly, turning to face the troubled private.
The operator, still fazed and not quite ready to accept the reality of the situation, doesn't reply. The visored soldier grabs the youth's face with both hands and jerks him around violently, letting his own weapon dangle mid-air from its sling.
"Get your shit together, son. What did our bird say?" he repeats. He is desperate but his tone is as calm as a man who had already submitted to his fate.
After another pause, the soldier retracts his visor, peering into the radio operator's soul with his cursed eyes. Shivering from the horror of seeing the man's vile face, the young soldier reluctantly returns his mind to the fight, coughing a bit from the cloud of dust that had been kicked up in the ordeal.
"Th-they can't give us any air support because they think everything will cave in," he stutters. "They said that another team will be here soon."
"And the Syrians? Have you tried reaching them?" the mean-eyed soldier probes, his facade of composure gradually withering away.
"They aren't responding. They've either prematurely pulled their assets out or have lost reception. Looks like we'll have to wait for our paratroopers' support," the young operator reports, his voice fading into a mumble as his head droops.
A stray rocket whizzes past the squad, chafing the rocks behind their natural chasm. The grizzled warrior pulls the radio operator away from the crag as a section collapses inward.
"How soon will our guys get here? Oh, just respond, dammit!" the visored soldier orders, ducking to avoid the incoming shrapnel and tumbling gravel.
"Ten minutes," the radio operator answers weakly, the combat intensifying to the point that he can't even hear himself speak. The soldier with the now-extended visor acknowledges his response with a nod, which he perhaps understood through lipreading.
"Ten minutes!" the visored soldier echoes sharply.
Amongst all the gunfire and explosions, the rest of the team manages to hear the situation report. He secures a small spherical object in blood-stained beige cloth and tosses it to the side. It rolls a bit before stopping near the broken body of a fallen ally.
After a slight pause, the radio operator gulps and picks his weapon out from a pile of dirt and sun-baked casings that had rained upon him from the platform above. Wiping the charging handle off his sweat-soaked telnyashka, he rushes to a spot behind a stack of sandbags, where he provides additional support as his team holds ground against the onslaught of balaclava-donning aggressors.
From a bird's eye view, one could see that the droves of hostiles approaching the position would realistically leave no chance for a successful reinforcement or extraction for this team, and that the team would be left to die in their little pocket of earth.
Suvorov Military School (Moscow, Russia)
Present Day (November 2016)
A television drones on in the background at half volume, spewing information tainted by a political agenda for a brainwashed public to ingest mindlessly. The station - a foreign outlet in a foreign language—is resplendent in red and white with bold black headlines. The ticker streams along the bottom of the screen like an old wartime telegraph machine and jabbers silently about stock fluctuations and the popularity of some "#notmypresident" trend online. As the scene transitions, an anchor appeared on screen and shuffles her papers, then launches into a report.
"It has been nearly an entire week since the shock wave that presidential candidate, now president-elect Donald Trump defeated candidate, former Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton. Riots have broken out across the nation as a means of voicing the people's concerns of fraud, and various reports indicate that Anti-Trump Movement supporters have been channeling their outrage through petty, though some would deem necessary, action. Human roadblocks and group chants outside Trump Tower in New York City are also becoming popular methods of protest. Some sources report more serious offenses, such as breaking and entering, shoplifting, and even assault on those who have either openly or discreetly mentioned their support of the new president. Back to you, Peter."
A graphic of the Middle East is suddenly thrust onto the screen, displaying a still frame of the region as a dark cloud creeps over and envelopes a large portion of the map representing Iraq and Syria. The headline changes to something about civilian casualties, but the subtitles seem to be poorly translated.
"Thank you, Katie. While the people of the United States are being distracted by the current state of affairs, let's slide over to our foreign news segment. Over the past few days, we have seen an increase of hostility in the Middle East as the Russians reform their offense in coordination with the Syrian Arab Army in the attempt to retake the city of Aleppo, which was conquered by the Islamic State in 2012. Since their initial siege, the Syrian Army and insurgent forces have been in a bloody four-year stalemate, resulting in the deaths of over 30,000."
The main headline retracts out of sight, then reappears to shriek in all capital letters about Russia's supposed human experimentation. An animated globe shoots to the center of the screen accompanied by a jingle, which expands to cover the entire frame before spinning into focus on the Russian landmass. A field reporter, on assignment and in character, appears from behind it, lifting a microphone to his lips. He takes in a gust of crisp air and begins to speak.
"In the more recent news, we have been hearing from our journalists in the Russian Federation of multiple cases of what seems to be human experimentation. Citizens willing to participate are being compensated with small rewards for the collection of their test data. Let's check it out, shall we?"
The camera bobs around slightly as the reporter traverses the busy streets of the Russian capital in a fast-forwarded montage. An abrupt stop is made before a crowd of people, who were most likely on a lunch break and willing to pick up a few extra bucks along the way. In front of them stands a large white tent with red Cyrillic writing across the top, designating the structure's licensing by the Russian government. Brandishing his media ID, the reporter is able to filter through the congregation and duck under the thick red cordon sectioning off the comparatively clean atmosphere from the external environment.
After being directed to a seat, a cute nurse pulling a clothed medical cart fitted with spare needles and tubes comes to assist him. She rolls back his sleeve and skillfully pops the seal of a sterilized syringe. The thin needle pierces the field reporter's skin as the American's voice rambled on. From a reclining chair located only a few miles from the broadcast, a pair of eyes move rapidly between the lines of Russian subtitles floating across the screen and the images the American evidently finds disturbing. It does not bother them in the slightest, as this procedure falls well within the monthly routine for the secondary boarding school they are accustomed to.
The American winces at the extraction of a small volume of blood, making an offhand remark about the small dribble following the withdrawal. The student chuckles to himself, finding the man's fear of such a tiny prick ridiculous. The nurse applies pressure to the site using a gloved hand to prevent additional blood loss and swelling.
"You're good to go, Vasily," a male voice sounds.
This statement was not projected from the screen; it instead seemed to originate from the remote, uninspiring realm. I blink in slight confusion, the video momentarily breaking my grasp on reality. Like a dazed animal, my attention switches back and forth between the television—now showing the anchor in her studio again—and my own arm, the real bandage, the real blood, the real aftermath of a very real rendition of the action on screen.
I boost myself out of the reclining seat, nod, and walk to the door. I hear the school nurse call for the next student, in the meanwhile ripping the seal off from another sterilely packaged syringe. Observing the line of uniformed students transitioning between chairs seamlessly, I quietly shut the door, removing myself from the scene.
Kotelny Island, Russia
A Few Days Later
A tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man stands in a wide hallway, watching the second hand go full circle on his designer wristwatch. He occupies this quiet space alone. He sighs - resigning himself to whatever immense stress he's anticipated - and makes his way to a massive wooden door. He stalls for a moment in front of it and runs his hand through his gray-tipped hair, ostensibly to straighten it but really to settle a nervous tic that's followed him from his less stable younger days. He adjusts his tie, reaches for the door, and proceeds on with schedule.
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