IZHMEK Mechanical Plant/refortified fort, Izhevsk, Russia

November 21st, 1991, 02h26’

56.8619° N, 53.2324° E

Vice Commander Anton Smolov was too conscientious to fall asleep. He’d been awake every day since the start of the war, slapping his cheeks whenever his eyelids started to sag, taking battle naps at every given opportunity. Sleeping was something one learned to live without as they grew older. But the brave men under his stead were raw and young; they deserved their shuteye. They deserved to know peace before they knew death. The only way he could earn his men their sleep was to survive through this siege, and the only way to survive was to sacrifice his sleep.

On the other side of the desk, Commander Artem Dzyuba had been blankly staring at the sandstone light ever since Vronsky was escorted back to his warehouse. The signature pile of half-done documents had been replaced with Smolov’s chessboard for the night. Smolov was a man of possessions, and the custom-made silver chessboard gifted from his good friend and Supreme Leader Smolnikov was just the most fitting for the occasion. On another day, Smolov and Dzyuba might have enjoyed a cup of tea brewed inside the vice commander’s Tibetan teapot, or a strip of rare and delicious contraband biltong carefully concealed inside a steel box under his bed. But tonight, he paid tribute to the Leader.

Smolov placed his rook on the starting square of his king’s bishop, waiting for Dzyuba to counteract. “Your move,” he said with a smirk.

Dzyuba didn’t turn to face the board. He’d played enough times against the vice commander to know the moves he’d make, and to know he’d need to move his piece to attack the king’s knight’s post to revert to the Carlsbad pawn structure. He gripped his vodka bottle, resisting his urge to guzzle it.

I can’t get drunk now. But he should. With that thought, Dzyuba poured the alcohol into Smolov’s glass and watched as the man gulped it down.

“Make your move or I’ll checkmate,” said Smolov. “Have you grown tired of moving your pieces within ten seconds?”

“A man needs to learn to be calm before he reaches a point of no return,” Dzyuba replied as he dragged his piece to the targeted square.

“I know you’re still doubting that kid, but it’s better to clear your head. He can’t do anything funny with Petrov guarding his door.” Smolov swapped bishops, moving closer to Dzyuba’s bishop. For a man of temper, Dzyuba had been playing very defensively today. Smolov would have preferred to take his time, but now he wanted to know what the commander was really up to.

“I’m thinking about the Supreme Leader, in fact.” Dzyuba snapped his knight to chase Smolov’s Knight. The commander is bound to drown in his haste, thought Smolov. His left flank would be exposed in three moves.

“I know you’ve never looked at the Leader under his best light ever since Vyazma, but he is a good man. If he’s still out there, maybe there’s hope for this nation after all.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“You’re a well-traveled man,” said Dzyuba. “I surmise you’ve been to places much more worthy of living than this hellhole. Why did you come back and serve Tatarstan?” He tried to phrase ‘why did you choose death’ more nicely.

“Smolnikov is a good man, comrade Artem. And after twenty years away from home, I think I’ve eluded my fate long enough. Do you think you’ve been eluding your fate, comrade?”

“I’d told you to flee Izhevsk before Pavlyuchenko arrived. But you barred the gates and now we’re both here.” Dzyuba pushed his rook forward for a swift counterattack.

“Where are we running to?” Smolov glided his rook across the board. “Once the Republic takes over Russia, there will be no place left to hide.”

Dzyuba stayed silent. He was losing this game, and he was losing this argument.

“You’ve always been an enigmatic man, Artem. I’ve admired you ever since you won the Battle of Vyazma. You were sparkling with flair back then. Now, you still have that sleek manner, but the spark’s all gone,” Smolov said.

Dzyuba made his move, a move that sentenced his death. His army broke the deadlock to lunge forward, and the sturdy defense he’d been building crumbled in an instant.

“After the Supreme Leader returns, we will hold a hearing.” Smolov moved his other rook, removing Dzyuba’s pawn. “That vault; the assassin; and the glowing light inside your chest. You have much to explain, and I won’t let Vronsky be a scapegoat. For yours and the country’s sake, I figure it’s time you retire.”

They locked eyes for a second, and Dzyuba saw the fire in Smolov’s eyes. There was no point negotiating.

“Maybe I’ve gotten too jaded,” said Dzyuba as he lifted his bishop and placed it in front of his king. It didn’t matter if he was losing the bigger battle. As long as he hid his king inside his ultimate defense, he’d be safe.

“We all knew about the vault, Commander. Klokov. Akinfeev. Viktorovich. All of us. I’ll make it easy for you. Klokov has drafted a statement, and you only need to sign it. Then you’ll be free of all responsibilities, as a token of gratitude for what you’ve done to this country. There are fine young men who are more than capable, and more than willing to die for their birthland—”

Dzyuba grabbed the back of Smolov’s head and rammed his face onto the chessboard. He dragged Smolov’s face across the desk, and blood smeared on the surface, forming streaks as Dzyuba smashed the vodka bottle on Smolov's head. Dzyuba’s artificial heart wheezed as it pumped, and the white glow crept outside of his jacket.

Smolov without his pistol was like a man without limbs. Or so Dzyuba thought.

Smolov grabbed Dzyuba by the arm and threw him to the ground. The commander sprung up, green veins all over his neck and a sharp knife in his right hand. Blood spurted out of Smolov’s nose and dripped under his beard. His forehead stung and his left eye was a bloodied mess, but there was no time to groan in pain. Smolov grabbed the pistol on his hip, but the distance was far too close to pull out his gun.

Dzyuba lunged for an overhand slash, but Smolov read his movement through his crimson-flooded vision. The vice commander blocked Dzyuba’s attack, threw a hook under his armpit, and tried to tussle him to the floor. Dzyuba kicked on Smolov’s heel. Smolov had to drop him, but not before shoving him off-balance. Dzyuba jolted up again, but this time Smolov wrestled him to the floor, locking his hands and legs.

Smolov should have been able to restrain a man only three-fourth his size, but holding Dzyuba was a backbreaker. Must be because of those veins creeping from his neck to his forehead.

“You walrus dick! Have you gone mad? Sold your soul to the devil?” Smolov growled. “Or are you in fact a war machine?”

“You know too much.”

“You’ve tested my patience, vermin.” Smolov spat blood on Dzyuba’s face. “You’re no longer fit to serve the country. I’ll send you to the ditch, like the vermin you are.”

Smolov raised his fist. At that moment, the door to Dzyuba’s room flung open.

The vice commander twisted his body around to face the intruder. If he was twenty years younger, he would’ve been fast enough.

Maybe I should’ve slept, thought Smolov.

A shashka blade slashed through his brain.