«You take your printing group and get them ready to fly. Let them pick up all leaflets. Then you’ll go with Zaharov’s technicians to the Syrians. Check two MI-8. If our guys give the-go-ahead, you’ll take off at night. The whole group. You’ll be accompanying the journalists to Deir-ez-Zor and back. Keep an eye on them in the city! Keep up with them, don’t let them walk alone! You’ll work out the route on your own. It should be familiar to you. You did it, didn’t you?»
«Uh… That’s right…» frowned lieutenant-colonel Sergeyev out of habit. He had a lot of questions but decided to think further and ask them later.
«That’s great! When approaching you’ll drop leaflets,» grinned the Commander. «Alright, dismissed, go and gather your guys! You’ll get all instructions from Zakharov later and tell Basil out there to call the journalists,» he said at the end, when Sergeyev already opened the door. The adjutant heard his name and the last words and hastened to execute the order without entering the Commander’s study.
A hush fell over the room, and then two generals started discussing details of the operation. They knew nobody was perfect and tried their best to provide for everything just to be on the safe side.
Chapter 3
«Pack all the leaflets into bags and load on pallets!» ordered lieutenant-colonel Sergeyev.
«There are no pallets, Ivanych… they haven’t returned since the last time…» a strong figure of captain Nechyporenko came out of the shadows. He commanded a battalion «on the mainland», as they are now called Russia, and served in many military regions, but believed the most difficult period were his three years, spent in a unit under Bodaibo, where food and post were dropped from helicopters to prevent desperate soldiers from jumping on board. «Don’t be so harsh! What’s happened?»
«We should get them all packed and prepared by the evening.»
«Don’t worry, take it easy! We’re done packing. You see, we’re lying around, doing nothing, enjoying life,» Nechyporenko was smiling as usual.
«I see. Now I’m going to check two MI-8. If they’re okay, we’ll go onboard and fly to drop the leaflets,» said Sergeyev discontentedly, wiping the sweat from his brow. «And then gotta spend a week in Deir-ez-Zor. We’ll be accompanying the journalists.»
«You mean «TV-jokers», right?» the captain grinned derisively because he did not like to call them «reporters». He thought they were gawking instead of reporting. «Well, let’s give them a lift. That’s great! Why not? Are we flying together?«he asked, still smiling.
«No, we aren’t. The whole group is. All seven people are.»
«Oh, that’s it!» Nechyporenko took his cap off and scratched his head. “ Yes… Something’s wrong here. Why do they need all our guys? One camera to each soldier?
«Sort of,» the lieutenant-colonel’s reply was terse and a strange expression didn’t leave his face, as if he’s sunk his teeth into a piece of lemon. When he left the base along with General Zakharov’s several technicians, the captain realized that his commander was tormented by doubt. Usually Sergeyev was in a good mood and loved joking but today he was clearly not up to the jokes. They got acquainted four months ago, and the captain had not previously seen his new commander so worried. He was tense as a string but soon Nechyporenko forgot about this impression, distracted by the loading. He had to inform his subordinates about the news and tell them to carry forty bags to the gate. Also they were supposed to get their hand weapon. It might be useful under such circumstances.
Then, five journalists, happy and cheerful, were sitting in the Commander’s office and really did not understand why their flight of just a short 500 kilometers and primarily over desert, made the military men worried.
«It doesn’t look like they’re fighting here at all,» said the head of the group, Yuriy Tegov, somehow trying to smooth over the awkward pause.»
«Have you been to the coast?» asked the Colonel-General in the same tone, having raised his head from the papers with pencil inscriptions spread on his desk. Even at a distance of two meters, it was not possible to discern what was written on them.
«Yeah, cool! Like in Turkey. Very few people, some swimming. We also went swimming.»
«And the city has a lot of things too – food, fruit, shops are open,» added his friend pointing to his bag with bananas sticking out. «I haven’t seen or tasted such sweet grape! Ever! My fingers stick together! Nothing but sugar!
«Fructose,» corrected the grey-haired General. «But it doesn’t matter. Upon arrival to the city you will obey lieutenant-colonel Sergeyev. He will come back in the evening to meet you. Departure is late in the evening, after five or six p.m. Enough time to do your packing?»
«Plenty. Why is it so urgent, though? Can’t we fly in daytime? We could record the entire territory from the air. It might be exclusive footage,» wondered journalist Tegov. «Can’t we do without helicopters?» he asked hopefully but saw both generals’ faces darkening.
«No, you can’t,» came the short answer. «It’s not a beach in Latakia. That’s all! Get ready!»
«Yes, comrade Colonel-General!» joked the journalist, saluting him.
«You mustn’t salute without a service cap on,» noted Zakharov with displeasure.
«It’s out of habit. In Donbass I always wore a helmet, even slept with it on,» added Tegov with a cheerful twinkle in his eyes. «And here is just like paradise.»
«Okay, okay, go. Be careful out there – let nothing happen,» said the frowning head of the group. «And listen to Sergeyev! That’s an order!»
Chapter 4
Helicopters took off from the base of the Syrian Air Forces just after sunset. Big, roomy cars were packed with small but heavy bales, which, prior to departure, five soldiers wearing light faded uniform had been sweating whilst loading for a long time. The flight lasted for several hours but nothing of interest for the journalists happened. Recording was not allowed. Dark sky with bright stars no longer attracted them, the desert below was in solid darkness, no lights, and on board, too, everyone was so silent, as if it was the most secret operation of the century. Only upon approaching Deir-ez-Zor were «the press’ requested to get ready. Suddenly the side doors opened and five soldiers tore packing bags apart and dropped down thousands and thousands of leaflets. Correspondents were allowed to carry those bags from the far side up to the opened door.
«Agitation and propaganda in action!» exclaimed Tag, panting and wiping sweat from his forehead. Even cool wind that was rushing into the open door of the helicopter, did not help him cool down the work made all of them feel hot.
«So far these are just leaflets. It’s only agitation. I don’t think things will reach the propaganda stage,» the loud response felt like it was directly in his ear. The wind flapped the folds of the slim lieutenant-colonel’s uniform, who was holding onto a handle above his head and apparently preventing him from falling.
«Won’t they? Does it make any difference?» Tegov shouted back.
«Wrong time for lessons now, but in short, agitation means mere suggestion without logic, just emotions; propaganda means persuasion, conviction, an attempt to appeal to reason. Got it?»
«Got it. Then tell me what this is?» there was a small Quran in the side pocket of his backpack, which was presented to him at the market by a good-natured Arab. He wanted the Russian reporter to become a Muslim, and so gave him the tattered book. «Here you go, they can give their Qurans to everyone!» Tegov reached out his hand, took it out of his backpack and turned over in his hands intending to throw down along with leaflets. But the lieutenant-colonel grabbed his arm and stopped.
«The Quran is pure propaganda. Leave it on board. Nobody needs it down there,» the book fell on the bag, and Tag no longer saw it. He did not speak with the strange