Hellfire

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Russian General Vasily Groshenko dreamed. He was in the hills, bivouacked with his men. He was a junior officer, one only recently trusted off on his own, and this was his first mission in command of his company. He had been careful, so careful, in his planning — every detail examined, every potential problem anticipated. Or, at least he’d thought so.

It wasn’t like he was entirely on his own, not like he would be on a real mission. Certainly, he had radio contact with higher authority, and could call for a helicopter should a medical emergency arise, or some other unforeseen incident. Unlike the earlier days of the Soviet Union, today’s Russia had the luxury of training time. In fact, it was almost all they had. Less money, less fuel — the only thing they had was time and terrain.

Overhead, the stars were blinding. He had never seen them so close or so bright, large pinwheels of light against the blackness. There was no moon, no light from a nearby city. Just complete, utter blackness and the stars reaching down at him.

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