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groznyj_grad[PANIDYELNIK, 27 YANVAR, 1964 0600 hours]
The Ocelots had made it to the range on time - a "piece of cake" as Isaev had so flippantly phrased it - though it was less Kassian's doing than it was simply that firearms drill was part of their routine. He didn't have to lead them anywhere, just follow as they marched out through the muddy snow.
It actually suited him just fine. Kassian preferred to be the last one in line, to have everyone in his field of view; to observe, but be unobserved.
He watched them mill about, with with purpose: all business now as they prepped their rifles and sidearms, with little chatter and talk between comrades. The confrontation with the cosmonaut had left them uneasy and unsettled, sentiments that Kassian actually shared. In his book, threats against one's commander could not simply be written off so lightly, not in favor of fetching a scarf to keep one's neck warm. Where the hell were Isaev's priorities, anyway?
If Kassian was in charge - and he technically was, thought not in the way that really counted - he would have made it his first priority to find the major and warn him, inform him of the cosmonaut's words, then plan a strategy to deal with the man.
Kassian pulled his Mosin-Nagant out of its case, stroking the stock with an affection most men usually reserved for their lovers or pets. The stock was stained dark from long years of use, with faded marks along the right side, remnants of when he used to mark off every kill. He'd stopped after that night in Berlin, but it hardly mattered - he knew the count like the sound of his own name, the sort of knowledge that followed one everywhere, even in sleep.
A bullet to the brain of a certain insane cosmonaut would bring that count up to two-hundred twenty-nine, he thought, idly.
The Ocelots had made it to the range on time - a "piece of cake" as Isaev had so flippantly phrased it - though it was less Kassian's doing than it was simply that firearms drill was part of their routine. He didn't have to lead them anywhere, just follow as they marched out through the muddy snow.
It actually suited him just fine. Kassian preferred to be the last one in line, to have everyone in his field of view; to observe, but be unobserved.
He watched them mill about, with with purpose: all business now as they prepped their rifles and sidearms, with little chatter and talk between comrades. The confrontation with the cosmonaut had left them uneasy and unsettled, sentiments that Kassian actually shared. In his book, threats against one's commander could not simply be written off so lightly, not in favor of fetching a scarf to keep one's neck warm. Where the hell were Isaev's priorities, anyway?
If Kassian was in charge - and he technically was, thought not in the way that really counted - he would have made it his first priority to find the major and warn him, inform him of the cosmonaut's words, then plan a strategy to deal with the man.
Kassian pulled his Mosin-Nagant out of its case, stroking the stock with an affection most men usually reserved for their lovers or pets. The stock was stained dark from long years of use, with faded marks along the right side, remnants of when he used to mark off every kill. He'd stopped after that night in Berlin, but it hardly mattered - he knew the count like the sound of his own name, the sort of knowledge that followed one everywhere, even in sleep.
A bullet to the brain of a certain insane cosmonaut would bring that count up to two-hundred twenty-nine, he thought, idly.
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