Author Igor Nikulin, employee of the Federal Drug Control Service
From the Editor;
This story was written by the author long before the terrorist attacks on the territory of Russia. It so happened that he warned and predicted. Who heeded the warning saved the lives of many ...
The events I describe are, of course, fiction. But the war in the North Caucasus, despite the sworn assurances of generals and politicians, is far from over, and the threats of Chechen extremists to roll a wave of terrorist attacks across Russia are becoming louder and more than serious today.
R O L O G
By the end of April, the second Chechen campaign entered its final phase. By that time, the most numerous and combat-ready detachments of militants had been defeated, or partly dispersed. A handful of survivors, left without centralized control, wandered through the forests turning green with the first spring foliage in hard-to-reach mountainous areas, waiting for the arrival of heat and snowmelt, which means the opening of the only pass leading to the Akhmetovsky region of neighboring Georgia. But while the ancient ridges were hidden by a glacier cap, and it was almost impossible to cross the cordon without the risk of falling under an avalanche, they made daring sorties, inflicting painful blows either on the dusty army columns crawling along endless serpentines, or at night, getting close, fired roadblocks, commandant's offices and temporary police departments.
The army did its job, large scale fighting are over. The rest is up to the secret services. But even they did not eat bread for free and did not sit idly by, as happened in the last war. The first significant operation was the unexpected capture of a well-known terrorist, the commander of the so-called Army of General Dudayev - Salman Raduev. Having bought into a trick with the purchase of a large batch of weapons, a man "with a bullet in his head" migrated from Novogroznensky to the Lefortovo pre-trial detention center; agents, meanwhile, collected information about the whereabouts of other, no less odious leaders of gangs.
On the morning of April 20, a secret cipher message was placed on the desk of the commander of the Southern Group of Forces, Lieutenant General Ashurov.
According to intelligence information, on the mountain range of Kalkhila, in the Itum-Kalinsky district, at the moment, the rebellious president of Ichkeria was hiding in a secret base with the remnants of the guard, which had thinned in battles with the federal troops.
It was ordered to transfer troops to the indicated area, carefully comb the area, and then - according to the situation ...
The general was accustomed to following orders and advanced the battalion of the 138th motorized rifle brigade to the ridge.
An hour after the start of the cleansing operation, a company of motorized riflemen, checking a dense forest at the foot of the mountain, ran into a dense fire.
A confrontation began, which lasted for the fifth day.
The troops moved towards the summit slowly but steadily, paying for each step they took with spilled blood. The oncoming fire was so strong that the attacks often came to naught, and then in the sky with a piercing frightening howl, attack aircraft rushed by, shaking the rocks with missile strikes. The heavy artillery did not lag behind. And the earth groaned, uplifted by ruptures, and no stone was left on the stone.
Part one
He sat in a secure concrete bunker at a table on which the "bat" burned dimly. On the edge lay a Stechkin pistol, fastened to a textolite holster, with the fuse removed and a cartridge sent into the barrel.
The bunker shook once again, clods of earth, rustling and crumbling, rolled down the steps. The faltering, smoky flame of the oil lamp twitched, as if alive, and fluttered - it did not have a protective glass cap.
The bombing of the bunker is not terrible. Everything here is done to last: monolithic walls a meter thick, pierced by a dense weave of reinforcement, and powerful ceilings that can probably withstand an atomic bomb. Even the outer communication passages are finished with concrete formwork! Burrows they went into the rock; in these man-made caves, his guardsmen sat out during the shelling.
... Less than a year ago, he approved the project of the future base, designed to become the southern outpost of independent Ichkeria.
The work was carried out by real professionals. Explosives, checking with cunning calculations, tore rocks. Bulldozers hummed for days, raking out unnecessary rock. Even at night, jackhammers thumped loudly, disturbing the sleeping neighborhood; trucks were constantly bringing up a special strength of concrete, flashes of welding with a white glow illuminated the gloomy silhouettes of trees.
In less than four months, at an accelerated pace, the base was rebuilt. He, personally, with a small retinue, walked along the zigzag trench, tried on the loopholes, from where an excellent - from a military point of view - view of the slopes and the narrow ribbon of the road lay far below, at the bottom of the gorge; without bowing his head, he entered the command bunker, where there was a bed made with a fresh set of linen, and a work table with a working map of the republic. From here, the passage led directly deep into the mountain, and there, at a depth of five meters, food supplies, ammunition and uniforms were securely stored.
It was a powerful outpost, ready for a long autonomous life.... Then, in July 1999, accepting turnkey work, he could not imagine that ten months later he would return here with the remnants of his army...
It turned out to be much more difficult to manage the people, although not numerous, than to fight. The republic was bursting with internal inter-clan contradictions; each princeling, barely gaining strength, tried to show his teeth.
Khattab, who successfully fought with the Russians, was in no hurry to leave for Jordan after the end of the war, muddying the waters: he organized field training camps for saboteurs, replenished the ranks at the expense of maturing Chechens and alien criminals, who, in addition to their "federals", were hunted by Interpol. The scum of the human race, in a word. Went to him and Ukrainian nationalists and Russians, Uighurs and Tajiks, Negroes and Arabs...
Only by a miracle has it not yet reached an open confrontation with former brothers-in-arms who got out of control. And he did not want a confrontation, because he knew that real power and real power in his hands - zero point zero tenths, and if it happened, under his banners he could gather significantly fewer supporters than the same Shamil.
... Now he cursed himself for that August weakness when he endured a spit in the face from Basayev and Khattab, wiped himself off and pretended that nothing special was happening, and declared the Moscow secret services to be guilty.
He unsuccessfully put on a good face with a bad acting game, when two thousand supporters of pure Islam invaded neighboring Dagestan, and then completely unreasonable, trying not to show his own helplessness, told reporters that only volunteers left to help the newly minted Dagestan shura, exactly the same as from Russia are illegally transported to Kosovo to fight against NATO.
It was necessary, oh, it was necessary to listen to the people, to catch their mood and, like the supreme mufti Kadyrov, to distance themselves from the Wahhabis. But he was afraid of being branded as a traitor, and the crack that was already spreading between him and the people in an instant opened up to the width of the abyss.
After a series of explosions that swept across Russia, he, stupidly, showed Moscow a blow, as a response to a demand to extradite the perpetrators who had taken refuge in Chechnya.
"We don't give out our own!" he blurted out rashly, and thus stood on the same level as the murderers and terrorists.
It's too late to repent. He is a man, and he made his choice. He made it spontaneously, fearing accusations of treason and cowardice, took a side to which his heart did not lie, latently, in his soul, realizing the mistake he had made.
Seemingly true, the expectation of a large-scale guerrilla war did not materialize. Sitting in the foothills, when Grozny was still under control, he was waiting - just about, and the population would rise from the lands occupied by the Russians. It will burn under the feet of the invaders. And you won't win much against the people. The Russians understood this the hard way in the last war.
He relied on daring sabotage raids, on the blood shed by soldiers, which would inevitably one day cause discontent among the Russians.
But everything went upside down. Not the way he expected. The federals surprisingly quickly recovered from the counterattack on Argun, Shali and Gudermes, although the journalists managed to raise hysteria about the catastrophic turning point in the course of the war; even earlier, without a fight, Gudermes and Shali surrendered, and Gantamirov's militia took Urus-Martan together with regular troops. Grozny fell, fell before the deadline set by him - the president! And he, having lost the best commanders, was forced to flee to the mountains.
With the fall of Shatoi, he decided to move to Georgia, from there to Azerbaijan, and through Turkey, to go to Saudi Arabia. There he will create a government in exile, through international Islamic funds will raise money for further struggle. And there will be people who are ready to fight for the idea of a single Islamic world. Or for money, anywhere and as much as you want.
With the help of the same organizations, they will start an information war against Russia, people are already working on it, and the April shame of Russia in PACE is only the first sign. Sometimes a word hits harder than a powerful bomb...
And in Chechnya itself, albeit occupied by troops, mercenaries will operate, and Russia will still choke on zinc coffins.
... But now he was seized by apathy towards what was happening. The people did not support the collapsed regime. Three years of independence did not lift anyone out of poverty. He failed to give any work, pensions, or the elementary right to a decent life. People did not like the Wahhabis, their manners and medieval customs. They were tired of wars and wanted only small things: to live in peace, fearing nothing, with faith in the future, in the future of their children...
Squeezed in the grip of federal troops on a mountain base, he suddenly realized that you can’t escape fate, and he was destined to die here from above. Sometimes death comes at the right time, only it can lift a trampled-down name out of the mud, so that one day it, like the name of Dzhokhar, becomes a banner of resistance. It's not scary to die for this.
And there is no other land for him, and there never will be.
* * *
Semyon Zhuravlev was squatting in the crypt of the pillbox, greedily puffing on his cigarette and grimacing at the smoke coming into his eyes. Tearing up the wrapping paper, he slowly drove the cartridges into the automatic magazine.
An automatic rifle with an optical sight lay leaning against the exposed zinc, and it was impossible to touch the hot barrel.
About two minutes after the fierce firefight ended, and he landed all the ammunition on the soldiers who were getting close.
At a nearby embrasure, leaning on a machine gun, Ukrainian Oles Prikhodko was smoking. The bullet-yellow ribbon hung down to the concrete floor as it touched his knee. The same one, shot, lay in the corner.
In battle - Zhuravlev saw it with his own eyes - Oles took off four "federals" who were climbing with grenades recklessly. He crossed out at once with a juicy burst and left it lying on the damp April ground. Their comrades, who were waiting for a feat behind, became discouraged and did not dare to go to the smashing dagger fire.
A young officer, no older than a lieutenant, judging by his age, tried to pick them up, shouted something and brandished his pistol.
Zhuravlev waited until it opened, leaning out from behind a pine tree, caught his head, wrapped in a scarf, in the crosshairs, and without regret pulled the trigger.
The officer waved his arms, as if trying to keep his balance, and rolled down the slope.
The soldiers, having lost their commander, were completely at a loss and began to crawl back ...
... And, as a gift to them - who held back another attack - a long-awaited lull, albeit not as long as we would like. A little time will pass and, in retaliation, artillery will rain down on the pillbox.
With a click, Semyon drove the magazine into the machine gun, pulled the bolt and closed his eyes in a relaxed manner.
Shooting at Russian boys, he did not feel either hatred or remorse. He is a professional, and has long learned to manage his emotions. And emotions in his case are only a hindrance.
Mercenaries are not born, and he grew up, preferring calm games to war as a child, did not like to fight, did not spend his free time in sports or shooting sections. It's hard to imagine, but once he was a quiet, downtrodden kid who was often urged on by older or stronger ones.
Semyon endured mockery until the ninth grade, then he pulled himself together and began to walk to the rocking chair equipped in the basement. He did not build up Schwarzenegger's biceps, but the figure became cast, from a narrow waist a wide back left a cone, on which, during movements, muscles played; hands filled with strength, and at the draft board the doctor, having examined the good guy with pleasure, put a note in his personal file with which he landed in the airborne troops.
There was a war going on in Afghanistan. After two months of training, the young sergeants were airlifted to Kandahar, hot from the merciless sun.
The company commander, receiving replenishment, shortly before that, having lost a third of the reconnaissance platoon in a skirmish with the Mujahideen, understaffed it with newcomers ...
The heat was unbearable. Sweat ran down from Semyon when, in bulletproof vests and helmets, with a machine gun on his chest and a duffel bag behind his back, the platoon commander drove them along the surrounding hills, after the races he took them to the regimental shooting range, and from there straight to the gym, forcing them to converge in sparring in brutal direct contact.
His body ached like one giant bruise, and there was a constant taste of copper on his broken lips. His head was noisy from the missed blows, but it was impossible to fall. A fall is tantamount to defeat, and the loser will have an evening ten-kilometer cross around the perimeter of the military camp and a new duel, this time with the platoon commander himself, Lieutenant Sviridov, a wiry, lean guy, besides a candidate for master of sports in boxing. Fighting him is like fighting a robot, indifferent to his own and other people's pain.
After a month of exhausting training, the reconnaissance platoon was dropped from helicopters in a remote gorge, tasked with defeating a caravan with weapons and drugs coming from Pakistan.
It was that first battle in his life that became the starting point for Semyon. From behind a pile of stones, he scribbled over rushing spooks and roaring donkeys loaded with heavy boxes; he was not shy when the return bullets hit the stones very close by, and the broken stone crumb cut his face to the point of blood.
Sasha Vasiliev, a Muscovite and friend from school, was wounded in the shoulder. From loss of blood, Sashka lost consciousness, and the Mujahideen, realizing that Shuravi was out, rushed to his position. Semyon killed two - the rest splashed to the sides - running up to a friend, he crossed the insensible body over his shoulder and dragged him to his own. Machine guns belatedly roared after them...
The day's trouble injected a fair dose of adrenaline into the bloodstream, at night he did not sleep, tossing and turning on the armored bunk. The gorge scorched by the heat continued to stand before my eyes, the bullets crushed the stone, and Sashka, who had come to his senses, groaned long-drawn out ...
Four days later, when Sviridov was recruiting volunteers for a risky sortie to the rear of the Mujahideen, Semyon was the first to step out of line.
There will be many operations: bloody and bloodless, with the loss of friends and completely without loss. There will also be a shrapnel wound in the back - having torn off the stretch, he will have time to get ahead of the explosion by a second, - there will be an escape from the hospital and two medals "For Courage", which will be awarded to him at the regimental parade ground every six months.
The war with the daily risk of getting a spiritual bullet sat in the liver, he rushed home and imagined his return in the most iridescent colors.
But, having returned to his native Ryazan, he did not experience relief, whether peace of mind. I got a job - it didn’t work, I changed my specialty, like a different lady gloves. He didn’t start a family, out of boredom he began to take a drink, and the booze would have completely sucked him in, if he hadn’t once said to himself: “Enough! Basta!”
And then the war began in Transnistria, and, having read newspaper articles where blood seemed to ooze between the lines, I decided: "Mine."
Having packed his things, without saying goodbye to either his mother or his sister, he left for Moldova.
Semyon managed to spend only three months in the Transnistrian trenches, fighting for an idea and a bowl of gruel, and when the 14th Army intervened in the conflict, he rolled up the little things.
Transnistria, however, gave him more than money. He became a military professional: he went to reconnaissance and took "language", learned to throw knives, axes and sapper shovels from any distance, fired from any type of weapon, competently mined roads and buildings, beat from the SVD no worse than an experienced sniper. In a word, I gained experience and matured.
But a certain place was prickling, with the mess in Abkhazia, he again fell ill with the war and soon appeared at the positions of the separatists, where he met with the Chechens and fought in the Abkhaz battalion of Shamil Basayev.
It was Shamil after a heated battle, when a platoon of "Abkhazians" put a battalion of the Georgian guard to flight, suggested to him:
- You are a standing man. Drop everything, go to Chechnya. There will be money, there will be glory.
He went there in January 1995 and soon realized that it was not difficult to earn dollars here. Frightened, often unfired soldiers became easy targets. It was boring even to shoot them, and Zhuravlev had fun with the Slavic mercenaries in his own way, dressing in a soldier's hebe and leaving for the epicenter of the shootings.
Having stumbled upon a group of feds, stunned by the close presence of death, making their way to their own, he offered to withdraw from the fire. And he led ... to the base camp of the field commander Ruslan Gelaev.
... The scattered light, colored pink by the sunset, falling into the pillbox through the rectangle of the doorway, was blocked by the overweight figure of Mohammed. Breathing hoarsely, with a wheeze - there was a bubbling cold in his chest - he peered at the dark silhouette of the mercenary for a long time and, recognizing Zhuravlev, waved impatiently:
- Get yours. And quickly to Aslan.
Left alone, Maskhadov plunged into his gloomy reflections.
He got used to the constant presence of death long ago and was morally ready to accept it sooner or later. But he wanted to die, as befits a warrior, and not in a warm bed, surrounded by grieving relatives.
Death will not be long in coming. The ethereal crackle that the Motorola emitted under his hand was interrupted by the sharp, jerky orders of his commanders, and he knew that the platoon holding back the Russian onslaught in positions had thinned so much that there would soon be no one to fight.
Then he will take a pistol, go out of the bunker into the trench, breathe in the last full breath of the clean mountain air, now polluted by powder fumes, and accept his last battle.
He will forever remain at this height, but Russia will gain nothing from his death.
over Ichkeria will become across her throat, make her fill her blood.
... You don't have to be a soothsayer to know ahead of time how everything will end. And he is a thousand times right that he managed to use the practical advice given a year ago at a personal meeting by Osama bin Laden, nicknamed "terrorist number one" by the snickering Yankees.
Osama had long laid eyes on Ichkeria and Dagestan, generously financed the militants Khattab and Basayev, and, wanted by Interpol, after the brothers in faith - the Taliban, for the sake of selfish gain, entered into an agreement with the Americans, promising to extradite him, at the invitation of Yandarbiyev illegally visited Chechnya.
It was then, in September, at Maskhadov's residence, that he directly stated: the Russians will not stop at the border, they simply have no other choice but to go deeper into Chechnya. And twenty thousand militants, no matter how professional they are, cannot resist a hundred thousandth group with tanks, aircraft and artillery.
But the Russians can be stopped. It is enough to carry out a tough action and warn afterwards: do not withdraw the troops, and it may happen again, and more than once.
He agreed with the strong arguments of the sheikh and made a deal ...
Immediately after bin Laden's departure in an unknown direction, he contacted an agent who lived in Tatarstan and gave the command to withdraw a container of poisonous gas from a secret factory for the production of the latest types of chemical weapons from Iraq. So venomous that if you had the chance to use it, Shoku Asahara, with his sarin attack on the Tokyo subway, would seem like a prankster boy in comparison.
The ominous flask migrated to Russia, and now only two people knew about its existence: Maskhadov himself and the keeper from the Siberian hinterland, alive only because he did not know about its contents.
And the courier who delivered the contraband cargo from Iraq tragically died a week later in a road accident. Maskhadov did not want his blood, but this man knew too much and left no choice. The secret must remain a secret.
To put the flask into action, like the last trump card left in his hands, he still did not dare. We continued to contain the internal barriers generated by the Soviet system. After all, he was not born in some wild province of the Middle East, where human life is no more expensive than a dried date, he studied at a normal school, where they preached good and branded evil, and in a military school they did not study the teachings of Dr. Goebbels.
The system nurtured him, and the principles that had developed over the years, brick by brick into a solid wall, could not be broken even by war. He could not step over them, cross the line separating man from Satan in human form, capable of putting hundreds and thousands of innocent human lives on the line to achieve the goal ...
…But the war has gone too far. And now he was ready to inflict a cruel blow on the enemy.
* * *
The bunker was noticeably thrown up. The radio on the table rocked, the door creaked. Mohammed entered silently retreated the corner, remaining in the shadows. One by one, the seven mercenaries walked into the middle of the room.
Maskhadov looked critically at their dirty clothes, their downcast faces.
The eyes looked at him with anxious expectation.
"Are you waiting for an order?" he thought. "You will have an order."
He treated the mercenaries with cautious disgust, because he could not, fighting for even a ghostly, but idea, understand their essence: killings for the sake of money.
And if the Russians paid more, would they go over to their side tomorrow? However, one cannot do without mercenaries in extreme situations. They have nothing to lose, they cannot surrender into captivity, because there is no future for them in captivity. Russians don't stand on ceremony with such Russians, they took them to the wall, and it didn't last long.
Of the seven that stood in front of him, he was impressed only by the tall, broad-shouldered Semyon Zhuravlev. A warrior from birth, in battles he is not a coward, he does not hide behind other people's backs, he is impudent and cruel, capable of an act. The rest are so-so, the third grade is not a marriage.
The one to his left, with his left shoulder down, shifted from foot to foot - a soldier of fortune from Ukraine, a drug addict. Courage breaks through him after a good dose of opium and in interrogations of prisoners.
... Maskhadov remembered the December incident in Grozny, when, having left for the outskirts of the city, he inspected the positions prepared for the meeting of the federal troops. Assessing the machine-gun nest on the first floor of a nine-story building smashed by shells, I suddenly heard a groan, muffledly coming from somewhere below, from under my feet.
There was something in that moan that made him shudder…
He turned to Mohammed, who, without waiting for a question, spat in disgust on the floor strewn with pieces of chipped plaster:
- Khokhol is interrogating...
Maskhadov restrained his fury and went out into the yard, to the cellar, which was curtained with a canvas canopy that had faded white in the sun. Pushing the tarpaulin aside, he stepped into the damp, musty twilight, seeing nothing in front of him from the light.
Then the vision fixed the flickering of a candle wick in the far compartment: something white, shapeless, hung on the wall and nearby, uttering an unintelligible muttering, someone's shadow was fumbling.
The eardrums were again cut by a painful cry ...
Coming closer to the obscure figure, Maskhadov pulled her by the shoulder, turning her around to face him.
The mercenary cursed, not immediately realizing who was in front of him. Pupils narrowed to dots gleamed drunkenly; sweat broke out on his wrinkled forehead, with cellar dust ingrained in the pores. In his hand, he continued to squeeze a hunting knife, the blade was stained with blood ...
The prisoner hung like a sack on the rack. The arms, intercepted at the wrists by a narrow trouser belt, are unnaturally twisted, thrown over a steel crutch driven into the wall. The narrow back - the back of a teenager, not a man - was cut with a knife, and Maskhadov recognized the five-pointed star from the bloody smudges.
The soldier wheezed, with an effort turned his exhausted face towards him. In his eyes, Maskhadov read such mute anguish that he hurriedly recoiled back, nervously, snatched a pistol from his holster and ended the torment with a shot in the shaved, thin back of the head.
The dead man was removed from the rack, laid on the dirty floor. Maskhadov looked into the half-open eyes losing their lively brilliance, into the graying, thinning nose; on her still hairless, sunken chest, where, dripping with drops of blood, a swear word blushed.
He stood and went out into the air, hating himself, the damned war and those commanders who sent this boy, almost a boy, to the slaughterhouse ...
And hostility to the Ukrainian was firmly seated in him from that very day ...
... He almost did not know the others, standing in an uneven line, and it was not the duty of the head of the republic to know every mercenary in person. That's what commanders are for.
- How is your mood? - asked an unexpected question, taking them by surprise.
And what could it be, this mood, when they hit the mountain with all types of weapons and every half an hour they bomb attack aircraft? Death is near, just reach out your hand.
The eyes of the mercenaries darted, and standing on the right side, thin and ungainly, somewhat reminiscent of a praying mantis, lied in falsetto:
- Fine…
"It's okay ... But there is fear in your eyes. Do you want to live? .. Look, Rimbaud ... Aunt, maybe half an hour left to trample the ground, but there too ..."
But what he said out loud was not what he thought.
- Normal is good. Okay...let's get down to business
Their faces tightened up again, and the praying mantis straightened out in fear. And what else have they prepared for their lot? ..
- You showed an example of true courage and bravery, - said Maskhadov, abstractly looking at the map. - Together with us we have passed the tragic way from Shelkovskaya to Itum-Kale. Now we are here... Many of our comrades died. A lot... But death is not so terrible as its lack of vengeance... Tonight they will make a corridor for you, and you will leave.
The line moved. The mercenaries looked at each other, dumbfounded by the news.
- … you'll be safe tomorrow. After some time, go back to your homes and you will ... forget all this. But! .. before you have to complete the last task. Possibly the most difficult thing to do. You will do everything that is required and avenge those killed - martyrs - whose souls are in the power of the Almighty ... You will not just fulfill it, you will earn money that you never dreamed of! Semyon will bring the details, - he carefully looked at Zhuravlev. - You're the eldest. Stay, we'll discuss the details. The rest are free.
A minute ago, the gloomy faces of the mercenaries smoothed and brightened. They were preparing for the end, but fate again smiled at them and gave them a chance.
- Mohammed...
A gloomy bearded man separated from the wall, stepped out of the shadows into the flickering light. He was in obvious perplexity: in a position where each machine gun is worth its weight in gold, to let seven people go at once? ..
- So it is necessary, - Maskhadov hardly perceptibly nodded to him. - Take them to the warehouse, give them Russian uniform. Check it out for yourself... you can roll it in the dust to look like those... below... Come on. - And with a wave of his hand he escorted the extra ones out of the bunker.
To be continued
The book about military operations in Chechnya "VV: Caucasian Cross-2" - new project military journalist, colonel of internal troops Boris Karpov.
This is a chronicle, essays, plus photographs.
The publication is literally stuffed with unique pictures of the most dramatic and hot episodes of the second Chechen war. Photographers (participants of the project), who worked fearlessly on the front line, captured the image of the warring Russian army at the end of the 20th century. This is a rare case when documentary and reportage, in fact, frames become part of a myth (not in the propagandist, of course, but in the artistic and cultural sense of the word). Approximately in this spirit, a hundred years ago, Vasily Vereshchagin created his brilliant canvases.
However, it is not entirely appropriate to talk about the myth and the style of the Chechen war, because the war continues, the pain does not subside, the bandages, swollen from the influx of fresh blood, will not turn into golden braids in any way ... And in the very name "Caucasian Cross" there is still more bitterness, than fame.
Today this cross is a memorial. It was hastily knocked down from unplaned boards, installed on a lonely, snow-covered hill. Tomorrow - cast from expensive metal, it will appear in the register of the highest awards of the state.
Boris Karpov writes in his book: “Left without a gun, he swore at those who came up with the idea that journalists are not combatants. And he began to equip our fighters with automatic horns and machine-gun belts. Ten magazines, twenty and more, and more, twenty rounds, thirty ... the account was lost. Paper cartridge packs covered the bottom of the trench with a thick blanket, rustled underfoot, one zinc, the second was thrown over the parapet. They dragged another box of cartridges, but Sergeant Valera did not approve of this, croaked: “Yes, we still have 5.45, drag it there!” And waved his hand into the darkness. When the firefight subsided, they managed to take a couple of puffs of “red mold” (as the soldiers called cheap cigarettes “Krasnopresnensky”), when photojournalist Oleg Smirnov found in the bottomless pockets of his “unloader” a flask with the rest of the water, which got half a sip, and it became completely good .
Fear can kill. Just like panic, psychosis. Courage will help you and your comrades who are with you. In battle, indifference and relaxation can ruin. The one who has enough physical and moral strength will not only get out of the battle alive, he will come out of it as a winner. Regardless of the outcome of the battle, he will defeat himself. These were our soldiers ... "
Andrey FEFELOV
Andrey Fefelov “CAUCASUS CROSS-2”
The book about military operations in Chechnya "VV: Caucasian Cross-2" is a new project of a military journalist, Colonel of Internal Troops Boris Karpov.
This is a chronicle, essays, plus photographs.
The publication is literally stuffed with unique pictures of the most dramatic and hot episodes of the second Chechen war. Photographers (participants of the project), who worked fearlessly on the front line, captured the image of the warring Russian army at the end of the 20th century. This is a rare case when documentary and reportage, in fact, frames become part of a myth (not in the propagandist, of course, but in the artistic and cultural sense of the word). Approximately in this spirit, a hundred years ago, Vasily Vereshchagin created his brilliant canvases.
However, it is not entirely appropriate to talk about the myth and the style of the Chechen war, because the war continues, the pain does not subside, the bandages, swollen from the influx of fresh blood, will not turn into gold braids ... And in the very name "Caucasian Cross" there is still more bitterness than glory.
Today this cross is a memorial. It was hastily knocked down from unplaned boards, installed on a lonely, snow-covered hill. Tomorrow - cast from expensive metal, it will appear in the register of the highest awards of the state.
Boris Karpov writes in his book: "Left without a barrel, he swore at those who came up with the idea that journalists were not combatants. And he began to equip our fighters with automatic horns and machine-gun belts. Ten magazines, twenty and more, and more, twenty rounds, thirty ... the count was lost. Paper cartridge packs covered the bottom of the trench with a thick blanket, rustled underfoot, one zinc was thrown over the parapet, the second. They dragged another box of cartridges, but Sergeant Valera did not approve of this, croaked: "Yes, we have 5.45 more there, drag it there!" And he waved his hand into the darkness. When the firefight subsided, they managed to take a couple of puffs of "red mold" (as the soldiers called cheap cigarettes "Krasnopresnensky"), when photojournalist Oleg Smirnov found in the bottomless pockets of his "unloader" a flask with the rest of the water, which got half a sip, and it became completely good.
Fear can kill. Just like panic, psychosis. Courage will help you and your comrades who are with you. In battle, indifference and relaxation can ruin. The one who has enough physical and moral strength will not only get out of the battle alive, he will come out of it as a winner. Regardless of the outcome of the battle, he will defeat himself. These were our soldiers...
Andrey FEFELOV
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 827 (39 2009) author Tomorrow NewspaperAndrey Fefelov NBP FASHION Last week, the Zverev Center in Moscow hosted an event that was interesting both in itself and in the context of the subculture that has developed around the National Bolshevik Party, a party that seems to be outlawed. It was a real fashion show
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 258 (45 1998) author Tomorrow NewspaperAndrei Fefelov “ALCHEMIST” Under the cover of the chaos of the Troubles that have come, thousands of social and organizational carpuscles exist, collide and interact, which are fragments of the Soviet super-society that has scattered into the trash. Sometimes it's nice to be in the lead
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 838 (50 2009) author Tomorrow NewspaperVladimir Vinnikov, Andrei Smirnov, Denis Tukmakov, Andrei Fefelov QUESTIONS OF STALINISM The doctrine of the current leadership of the Russian Federation can be defined by the words "modernization without mobilization." Alas, the effectiveness of such a model is not expressed in the technological achievements of the Russian
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 839 (51 2009) author Tomorrow NewspaperVladimir Vinnikov, Evgeny Nefyodov, Andrey Smirnov, Denis Tukmakov, Andrey Fefelov QUESTIONS OF STALINISM-2 The material "Issues of Stalinism", published in the last issue, aroused great interest of the readership. But how acceptable is the experience of Stalinist modernization in
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 273 (8 1999) author Tomorrow NewspaperAndrey Fefelov OR WE ARE NOT ENOUGH? The march of units of NATO countries on the cobblestones of Red Square, if it happens, can certainly be attributed to the most important political events of the year. For the language of symbols is more eloquent than the language of diplomatic treaties and any, even the most
From the book Newspaper Day of Literature # 97 (2004 9) author Literature Day NewspaperAndrey SHATSKOV CROSS OF THE FATHERS *** n.sh. Those women come at night past life, from the past distance... Star veils cover them, Shrouds stream down their shoulders. They are from that mysterious country that you once left,
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 856 (15 2010) author Tomorrow NewspaperAndrey Fefelov THE SILVER GOD The spring desert of the world is about to give way to the triumph of life, the shameless riot of leaves. And the flowing night city, resting on the eve of a dizzying throw into a new day, still ghostly and elusive, will soon, soon swirl,
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 865 (24 2010) author Tomorrow NewspaperAndrey Fefelov GLAGOLIC OFFICIAL WORD "EVENT", suitable for all kinds of congresses and party markets, this time was revealed in its unusual and deep meaning. For the measure of acceptance of what happened in the ancient settlement of the reserve "Staraya Ryazan",
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 312 (47 1999) author Tomorrow NewspaperAndrey Fefelov OVR COMET The OVR block in its inconsistency, syncretism and randomness resembles some ancient composite animal. This political kitovras, due to the absurdity of its forms, is not without even a certain charm. Bloc of democratic-powerful
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 320 (3 2000) author Tomorrow NewspaperAndrey Fefelov MISTER "X" Now Putin's personality attracts the attention of hundreds of psychologists, physiognomists, writers. They say that a special commission has been set up in Langley to study the psychotype of a person acting as president of Russia. Hardly anytime soon
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 323 (6 2000) author Tomorrow NewspaperAndrey Fefelov LANDING The almost impossible happened - a team of writers, like special forces, landed in the combat area. They were met by the military at snow-covered positions near Urus-Martan and Shali, in the smoky twilight of the front-line Khankala, on dark roads,
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 938 (45 2011) author Tomorrow NewspaperAndrey Fefelov -- Postmodernization Politics has been replaced by a system of bluffs and interjections... Confused peoples are moving by feel in a dense smoke screen, in an impenetrable layer of state PR. The poorer, more expensive, more dangerous and meaningless life is, the more
From the book Newspaper Tomorrow 377 (8 2001) author Tomorrow NewspaperSoldiers and officers
(http://website/k/kutyrx_w_b/ _)
Well, that's all, we are left - I and Andryukha from Kostroma - Alive at the roadblock among the acacias... Our lexicon is extremely simple: there is an attack on the checkpoint. We have no time for plans, we would save our heads ... /A.Marshal/ ... it’s only a pity that I don’t have a son yet ... from a letter from Andrey to a friend - Do you know what you are accused of? - No ... - there was still confidence in Sergeant Dergachev's voice. - You are charged under the three hundred and forty-first article of the Criminal Code Russian Federation"Violation of the rules of carrying border service", - the investigator, senior lieutenant, young, dense, despite his age, already with bald patches, wearily leaned back in his chair and looked intently into Dergachev's eyes. - What is my fault? Turning over the "spark" of stores, Sergeant Savelyev hooked his watch with his eyes: "Fuck ... really only five minutes?", - the thought was interrupted by stirring in the distant bushes - a short burst into the bushes, a change of position. As if beating out chords, the machine gun of the capevete * eighties * rattled with magical music. "Kolyan works! Hammer!" - Andrey thought. Again the mines howled lingeringly: one, the second, the third - explosions. - Cover! Your mother ... - there was a cry of pain, he resounded with pain in Andrei's soul. It seemed that the cry would now block the explosions of mines ... The sergeant saw with his peripheral vision that Doc, jumping out of the trench, rushed to help ... "Where? Doc, where are you going?" Bad premonitions came true: the body of Seryoga, a friend, a medical orderly, was absurdly thrown along with clods of earth. "That's it, Seryoga! Where are you going in the open? Your institute has been covered up ..." - a sad thought about a friend who dreamed of recovering in honey after the army flashed through Andrei's head at the speed of a courier train. After shooting, the "spirits" switched to rapid fire from mortars. The earth seemed to be swollen with ruptures. "How is it? Why? Why is it so bad? Everything turned out badly ... The sighting mine lay right at the entrance of the dugout ... Four guys at the exit were covered at once, and the amba was for the boys! Probably we can’t get out? Platoon, running across the trench , hit by a gap - wounded and unconscious! What to do? There is no connection? Frequencies are clogged with some kind of nonsense! Maybe they will hear our shooting? Although it is unlikely ... mountains, damn it! There is hope, of course, they will be alarmed: there is no connection ..." - Andrey looked out from behind the parapet and, rather, to calm down, gave a turn. "He sent the "spirit" mortars* to go around the left with a grenade launcher and Babai to cover - silence. Have they really put them? What to do? Another ten minutes and a kayuk block - post! "Spirits" are shooting very accurately ... " Two hours before the events, in a border secret - Well,what's up therecomrade sergeant? - whispered almost in the ear of the sergeant a fighter named Dracula. - Get off! - Dergachev dismissed and added in a whisper: - Damn *, disappeared like a fly to his place, to the machine gun - alive! And he continued to count through the night vision sight of uninvited guests: "... eanother mortar on a horse. Twenty-one, twenty-two ... - Dergachev looked like a glimpsewhether in optics people and horses: -Fourth horse! Again boxes, mines? Another one, and also with boxes. Not hoo-hoo, it's a whole mortar battery!" From everything he saw, Dergachev felt uneasy, fear crawled into his soul in a thin stream. Fear to break bones, to pain in the teeth, to trembling in the hands. It's not his first day here, but... Fear! Fear is already the master of the situation... "Spirits" continued to snake past the secret. Then another bearded man flashed by: "This one is probably a field commander. With him is a reinforcement group, two with pac-ems, a sniper! That's right, commander! How many of them? This is ambets ...!" - thoughts spread to the village, to Nina. "Baby! We're having a baby! And what am I doing here?" - from these thoughts, he already howled, silently, to himself, clenching his teeth. Head on a stone ... only after that I came to my senses ... He ran along a shallow, not yet fully dug trench, rather crawled up "fuel oil" Tolyan, a conscript from the land. - Andryunin, let me now jump out on a small tubercle on a box, and Kolyan will try to cover them, - shouting over the breaks, Tolyan began to shout in his ear. - Come on, - Savelyev allowed, - suddenly it will work out ... It should work out! Understood! - And then! Andryukha, be calm! Everything on the ointment! "On the ointment ... Everything is on your ointment, slob ... - Andrei glanced at Tolik, he slid to the armor like a weed. - How did they overlook it? The hollow is mined, where the "eyes" were ... when the "spirits" with mortars? Where are the border guards, they have secrets ... apparently, they are no more? The engine blew up. Tolik followed his car, cherished it, and she answered the same - she never failed. The armor jumped out backwards, to the right on a hillock, and stopped. Earned capeveteshnik. "Don't stand still!!! Don't stand still!!! It's a target... Tolyan, tear your claws!!!" Thoughts raced wildly in my head. The gift was not long in coming. An erpege grenade dug into the side of the BTEer, an explosion: "Pi @ dets *!" And then the rustle of a grenade shot, but from the hill: "Lenka! He!" - a gap in the hollow, a second shot through the gap. Strong explosion in the hollow: "The mines exploded? Lenya!!! Well done!!! So them!" "Spirits" hit the hill from all trunks. "There are a lot of them! But amba mortars, in my opinion! Boys, get out ... get out of there!" - Andrei seemed to be trying to shout over the cannonade of the battle. An hour fifty before the events, in a border secret ... - Have you already reported to the detachment, comrade sergeant? - Dracula crept up again. "Damn, do they have a scanner?" thought the sergeant. - Call Koval! - Kovalev, a loner *, was higher. “I need to report,” and before my eyes, Nina’s freckled face with an upturned nose: - Vitya, just stay alive, because we will have a child! - Seeing off at the train station, Nina sobbed, smearing makeup. "Why did the fool stay on the contract?" - the sad thought that had settled in him since he arrived home and met Nina did not leave him. He drowned out this thought with vodka, but it did not last long. - remembered the medal "For Courage" and the "Caucasian Cross" Thoughts were interrupted by rustling from above: breathing heavily, subordinates fell into the gap. Nobody jumped out of the armor. "That's it! Tryndets boys!" - a bitter thought like an alarm bell struck in my head. - When same "spirits" will go? - Andrey said aloud with anger, to hear his own voice. Cartridges in the armored personnel carrier began to burst, rubber began to smoke, smoke began to creep, spreading over the checkpoint. Andrei moved to the right and saw two people around the turn of the trench. "A platoon leader without a pea coat. He woke up! His chest was wrapped with bandages over a camouflage jacket. Mitka, a messenger, is bustling around nearby. First-year rookie, but reliable!" - Well, sergeant? How are you? the lieutenant asked with a groan. - Mortars, in my opinion, extinguished Petrov from the border! But he himself with Babai ... did not return. "Spirits" shoot, but do not climb yet. There are six of us left without you, Comrade Lieutenant. - What about the armor? - Armor with the amba guys! - yelled Andrew through the shooting. - How many of them? - "Spirits"? I stopped counting after the third ten, that's what else ... - Andrey did not finish. Silence! Silence fell suddenly, only the hiss of burning rubber broke the idyll. An hour forty-five before the events, in a border secret ... - Guys, I think so, we will be covered if we get in touch ... - the sergeant in a half-whisper. - What do we do? The guys in the predawn carefully looked at their commander. - Shut up? Dracula, how old are you before demobilization? Month? - oppressive silence, only the sound of the wind and the rustle of water flowing down the gorge of the stream. "What to do? How to be? .. Nina ... Tell me ..." - and a sobbing voice in my ears. - Vitya, stay alive! LIVE!!! Oyyy! - and a face with smeared mascara, twisted, ugly at this moment, but so dear, beloved. - So, boys, - he glanced around his narrowed eyes. They already understood what the sergeant would say, and bashfully looked away. Everyone wanted to live. The lieutenant, leaning against the wall of the trench, was breathing heavily, next to him unsuccessfully tried to call the battalion signalman. Shouts rang out - through the automatic-machine-gun "ta-ta-ta": - Allah akbar !!! Allah... Alalaaa!.. - Let's go! We meet! - shouted, as commanded, the sergeant and crouched to the machine gun. - Command, Andrey! - the lieutenant whispered almost soundlessly, but Andrei did not hear, he hit the militants in short economical bursts. On the left, a machine gun began to fire. "Where is Miron?" - Andrei tried to rise and look towards the unfinished reinforced concrete block. Immediately a bullet - in the parapet near the face. "The sniper is a bitch! - but then the AGES* barked. - Oh, well done, Miron!" Grenade explosions fanned out across the field among the "spirits" that began to advance. "Two kerdyks?" The biting whip-shot of the esveduhi made it clear that Lech the sniper was not sitting idle either. "Miron!!! Be careful!!! The "Dukhovsky" sniper is working! Miron!" - in the predawn haze, it was clearly visible how the "spirits" moved competently: a few steps, fell, rolled, shoots, others run across at this time. The machine guns of the "spirits" continuously fired flat fire at the checkpoint. - They make a fire shaft. Trained bastards! Andrey yelled through his teeth. Short queue - and sat down. Short - "ta-ta-ta" ... Oh! One militant stumbled, fell, did not move, the second fell. Lech's sniper, almost without hiding, was shooting. - Yeah, one more! Mitka, drop the radio! Come on, help! The messenger brushed the headset off his head and rushed to the sergeant. - Be a fool, away from me and wear a helmet on your head!!! - Andrei growled, continuing to shoot at the militants, who began to crawl back, snarling in bursts. "Don't like it? Wanted a block on a silver platter, hevees* to you!" - ta-ta-ta queues, and joy in the soul of the sergeant. A few darkly camouflaged heaps were left lying in the open area. Suddenly, a pop, a howl, an explosion, another pop. Mines! But only one mortar fired. The checkpoint is again in the mushroom gaps - explosions. Explosives! Five days after the events described ... - What is to blame? Yes, because of your negligence, I would even say cowardice ... - after a pause, the investigator continued: - Article 341 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation: "Violation of the rules for carrying out the border service." And here is paragraph two, it reads: “The same act, which entailed grave consequences, is punishable by imprisonment for up to five years ... - the investigator continued, watching how the sergeant turns from a greyhound double bass into a person under investigation. - And what are the serious consequences? Are we all whole? I brought mine... Silence. "Spirits" were preparing for the last attack. Andrei filled the horn with cartridges, taking them out of his pocket. Because of the meandering of the trench, a leg in a boot was sticking out - this is Mitka, the sniper took aim. The platoon commander groaned and woke up: - Andrey? The bandages on his chest were completely soaked with blood, and you could see how blood was flowing from under them. "Not a tenant," the sergeant flashed. "However, which one of us is a tenant now?" And melancholy: "How to live?.." - Vadim! - he first turned to the lieutenant, who was only two years older than him: - We will not beat off the next attack, there are three of us. The platoon commander groaned: - Give me a grenade... - he tried to sit up, but failed. Blood bubbled up in the corner of his mouth again. "It's like a lung is hurt ..." - Andrey thought, giving "efka". - Andryukhin, - the lieutenant for the first time turned to his castle by nickname. - Get my beret out of your pants pocket! Andrew got maroon beret. He had dreamed of this for a long time. He walked towards him. Once I was unlucky: I fell asleep on hand-to-hand combat. When there was a second surrender "on the beret", he was in the hospital. "And there probably won't be a third attempt ... - flashed bitterly. - Tryndets!" - I know that you dreamed about him. He is yours now! You are a "bitch"! - all that the lieutenant could say. Lost my mind again... Five days after the events described... - Yours are intact, they testify how faint-hearted you are! - with pressure continued the investigator. - How? - And so, sergeant ... - the investigator grinned. - You thought you were smarter than a locomotive? The soldiers have already told everything, because our soldiers are worth them ... - after a theatrical pause, the investigator continued: - But ... - Comrade investigator? - For you, sergeant - a citizen! - these words for Dergachev sounded like a sentence. - So, you, being a secret on the sixteenth of September of this year, slept ... We didn't sleep... - What? Didn't sleep, you say? I know you really didn’t sleep, but you didn’t report the gang’s passage to the detachment and ... people died at the checkpoint of the internal troops! Completely the entire checkpoint knocked out!!! - the investigator broke into a cry. - We didn't know... we... - What, cowards, wanted to live? Sweet to eat, satisfying sleep? - the investigator spun the interrogated with persistence. - What? What do you know? Yes!!! Yes!!! I wanted to stay alive... - Now live with it, - the investigator threw on the table in front of the sergeant a pack of photographs, which depicted the destroyed unit. The sergeant winced and lowered his head. - Look, withatka! Raise your head! - the investigator could also be understood. He is a man, and he still had what he saw on that block before his eyes. It's already quite light. The militants roamed the block, collecting weapons. Sometimes a single test shot was fired. A trio of spirits built a stretcher for the horses, for the evacuation of the wounded and killed, they were gutturally driven by a bearded commander. A young militant - he was about seventeen years old - jumped into the trench, kicked the lieutenant's corpse and went to Andrei, who was lying face down. He was attracted by a maroon beret, the edge of which stuck out from under the sergeant's head. The militant bent down, pulled his beret, brushed it off. Turning to his own, he raised his hand with a beret and shouted something triumphantly! What else he wanted from the dead sergeant, he would never tell. The toe of the beret failed to turn Andrei's body over, then he leaned over and did it with his hand. A puddle of blood had already accumulated under the body. Click - fuse bracket flew off! And Andrey's open, pain-covered eyes... The eyes of a Russian soldier who understands what is about to happen... Horror fettered the warrior of Allah. No, rather, a boy who thought he was a warrior... After all, there was still time, but... An explosion! Morning of the sixth day, from the report ... ... during the rise of those arrested in the guardhouse at 5.00, the assistant chief of the guard, senior sergeant Khusnulin found in cell number 4 (for those under investigation) the body of the person under investigation - contract service sergeant Dergachev, hanging by the window on a makeshift rope from his own trousers. The attempt to resuscitate failed, although the body was still warm... Head of the Guard: Senior Lieutenant Popovskikh ========== 2009 Notes: Eighties- armored personnel carriers BTR-80. In the text they are also called armor and box. mortars-- 82-mm mortar model 1936. Removed from service with the army. A good weapon in capable hands. As practice shows, after zeroing the spirits took 15-20 minutes to destroy the checkpoint. loner- sniper (slang). Hawees- cold water supply, or... bubbled up- when injured in the lung, blood bubbles from the mouth. Capevate-- 14.5-mm tank Vladimirov heavy machine gun (KPVT). fuel oil-- driver-mechanic (slang). Option - Schumacher. Erpege- 40-mm hand-held anti-tank grenade launcher (RPG-7). Agees- 30-mm automatic grenade launcher easel (AGS-17). Esveduhi- 7.62 mm Dragunov sniper rifle (SVD). The authors warn that everything is a fantasy, coincidences are random.Dogs of this breed are very devoted to their owner and perfectly amenable to training. The Caucasian Shepherd Dog is distinguished by a calm and balanced character. This book discusses the main recommendations for the selection, maintenance, care, feeding and education of the Caucasian Shepherd Dog. In it, both an experienced cynologist and a novice breeder will find something new for themselves.
Cross of Euphrosyne of Polotsk Olga Tarasevich
The cross of Euphrosyne of Polotsk is amazing. Large, slightly pinkish pearls, like dew, border the gold plate. Emeralds are greener than grass, rubies are redder than blood, blue sky sapphires. But anyone who touches the cross with evil intentions will suffer the fate of Judas. Even Ivan the Terrible was afraid of this curse. However, the Moscow students, thirsty for the glory of Dan Brown, decided to find the disappeared shrine. And they paid for it with their lives. It is not easy for writer Lika Vronskaya and her friend, investigator Vladimir Sedov, to figure out the killer.…
Seventh Cross Anna Zegers
The Seventh Cross (1939) has long been recognized as Zegers' best novel. The story of seven prisoners who escaped from the Nazi concentration camp Westthofen and of whom only one managed to escape, excited readers different countries long before the book could see the light of day in post-war Germany.
King Arthur Cross Sherit Baldry
Gwyneth and Gervard Mason witness a miraculous discovery: abbey monks accidentally find an oak coffin in the ground, in which two skeletons and a mysterious cross are found. Has the unprecedented happened, and the remains belong to the legendary King Arthur and his wife Guinevere? After all, the cross testifies to this!.. But a misfortune occurs - the monk who guarded the find is killed, and the priceless relics have disappeared! Gwyneth and Gervard have to take on a huge responsibility and find the sacred relics that will bring happiness to their native abbey...
Under the constellation of the northern "Crosses" Alexander Bushkov
Who would have thought that the misadventures of Alexei Kartash, the hero of the bestsellers Taiga and the Zone, Ashgabat Thief, Skhodnyak, have not yet ended? After he and his friends discovered the secret of an underground platinum mine in the Siberian taiga, saved the president of Turkmenistan from an assassination attempt and stopped the thieves' war in Shantarsk, after all these ordeals, Kartash simply needs a rest. And he really goes on vacation - to St. Petersburg. However, this tourist trip turns into a real nightmare for Alexei: on charges of premeditated murder ...
The diamond cross of the bugbear Evgeniy Sukhov
Here it is - the diamond crown of Catherine the Great. It has just been extracted from the secret safe of one of the banks in the city of Kazan by the recognized “king of the safe-crackers of all Russia” - the dashing and elusive Savely Rodionov. In the profession of a bear cub, the main thing is to leave beautifully and on time. Will Savely succeed? The bank is cordoned off, and the chase is breathing down the back of the thief's head. But leaving beautifully is only half the battle. We must find the diamond cross that once crowned the crown. After all, collecting a priceless relic in its original form is a matter of honor for the famous bear cub, the pinnacle of his subtle and reckless ...
Development History of the Cross Shape Undefined Undefined
For the first time, the attention of the God-loving reader is offered short review that most interesting part of Sacred Tradition Orthodox Church, which contains a valuable mystical-dogmatic and moral-aesthetic experience of the traditional use of various images of the cross in the history of Christianity. The various symbols and signs that accompany every Christian on his way to Heaven are a special language of the Holy Church, the knowledge of which is necessary for each of its members, so the brochure can be recommended as study guide…
Return to "Crosses" Boris Sedov
Returning to the past is a dream of many, but not for someone who started life from scratch. Having become a victim of a dirty deceit, the Witch Doctor again falls into the "Crosses" ... But what happened ?! It was as if someone had turned the clock back seven years, on that ill-fated day when the innocent Konstantin Razin was accused of murder! No one will recognize him as a thief in law, the Witch Doctor, all authoritative thieves see in him only the “first mover” Kostya Razin ... moreover, the main witness for the prosecution is his wife! How can I endure this torture again? How to get to the director...
The Mystery of the Egyptian Cross by Ellery Queen
Ellery Queen believed that he had seen many corpses in his lifetime, but in this case he learned something new. This time, not the killer, but the victim paid with his head, and the decapitated body was nailed to an intricate cross ... When Ellery encountered the first murder, he was puzzled, after the second he thought, and after the third he was convinced that there was a point in the madness of the killer. For the first time in his career, he had a chance to meet with a sophisticated crime ...
Cut down the cross (collection) Vladimir Firsov
CLASSICS OF DOMESTIC FANTASTIC The book includes almost all the works written by Vladimir Firsov over 20 years of creative work. For the story "The Tale of the Fourth Moon", created in the late 60s, this is the first book publication. The literary fate of Vladimir Nikolayevich Firsov (1925-1987) was not very successful ... The writer, recognized as the author of REALLY good and VARIOUS fiction, published only ONE collection of fantastic works - "Star Elixir". All - to a single - works of Firsov are known to us only from ...
Cross of the Dead Gods Ekaterina Lesina
The pagan cross saved the life of the combatant Matvey, and when he repaid the salvation with shed blood, it became a curse ... The Dead Cross passed from hand to hand, protecting its owner from all misfortunes, but dooming his closest and dear people. The power of the curse has not weakened even today. The dead cross continues to exist in the form of a stigma with which a serial killer marks his victims ... The arrival of Danila's nephew turned the life of a successful business woman Yana upside down, forcing her to participate in a game that began long before her birth. And all because...
Caucasian war. Volume 1. From ancient times ... Vasily Potto
The fundamental work of the outstanding military historian, General of the Russian Army V. A. Potto covers the period of the Caucasian War from the beginning of the 16th century to 1831. For many years, in different places, the author collected scattered documents with one goal - to extract from oblivion and link into one coherent narrative dramatic and heroic events that, developing and intensifying, determined the very special role of the Caucasian War in our history. The first volume includes events from the beginning of the 16th century. until 1812.
Caucasian war. Volume 2. Ermolovsky time Vasily Potto
The fundamental work of the outstanding military historian, General of the Russian Army V. A. Potto covers the period of the Caucasian War from the beginning of the 16th century to 1831. For many years, in different places, the author collected scattered documents with one goal - to extract from oblivion and link into one coherent narrative dramatic and heroic events that, developing and intensifying, determined the very special role of the Caucasian War in our history. The second volume includes the events of the Yermolovsky time in the Caucasus.
Caucasian war. Volume 3. Persian War ... Vasily Potto
The fundamental work of the outstanding military historian, General of the Russian Army V. A. Potto covers the period of the Caucasian War from the beginning of the 16th century to 1831. For many years, in different places, the author collected scattered documents with one goal - to extract from oblivion and link into one coherent narrative dramatic and heroic events that, developing and intensifying, determined the very special role of the Caucasian War in our history. The third volume includes events Persian War 1826-1828.
Caucasian war. Volume 4. Turkish War 1828-1829 Vasily Potto
The fundamental work of the outstanding military historian, General of the Russian Army V. A. Potto covers the period of the Caucasian War from the beginning of the 16th century to 1831. For many years, in different places, the author collected scattered documents with one goal - to extract from oblivion and link into one coherent narrative dramatic and heroic events that, developing and intensifying, determined the very special role of the Caucasian War in our history. The fourth volume includes descriptions of events Turkish war 1828-1829.