“You are too hard on him, Skiff, he only wants the best for you.”
“I wish… Well, it’s my business. And as for our training, I will confront the Cat, so to speak, and let him explain why the country needs two halfwits like us. Tonight, during our free time. Okay, let's go. Our ‘break’ is just about over. Evening formation is coming soon.”
The friends reeled up the rest of the fishing rods, scattered on the grass of the embankment, and headed towards the nearby forest. Behind the dark canvas of trees, it was impossible to see the high concrete wall of Special School № 1.
Immediately after dinner, Ivan found the Cat, as he had promised he would, in the echoing vaulted corridors of the school and blocked his way:
“Allow me to appeal to you, Comrade Major of State Security!”
Kotov grinned into his mustache:
“Proceed, cadet Skiff.”
“Cadet Fomenko and I… Cadet Tom would like to clarify some aspects of our training. Do you have time for a short private conversation?”
Kotov shrugged his shoulders:
“Why not? Do you have any special events scheduled for the evening?”
“No, everything is according to the general schedule: free time until lights out.”
“Fine! So, come to the ‘red corner’ at quarter after eight tonight, and we’ll chat about this and that. Dismissed, cadet Skiff.”
Ivan clicked his heels and, turning around smartly, went in search of Andrey. Kotov looked after him slyly. Well, at least all is well with the statutory appeals of the glorious academician’s son. But how it all began…
A group of newly minted cadets was jogging along the path to the top of a lonely hill on which stood some rare birches. Kotov stood in the shadow of one of them, hiding from the scorching rays of the July sun, and watched the stopwatch in his hand. When the last fighter almost crawled to the top of the hill, the major cut off the control time with a sharp wave of his hand and ordered:
“Group – stop! Five minutes’ rest.”
The cadets, soaked in sweat, fell into shapeless heaps on the grass, not even bothering to throw off the rolls of their greatcoats from their shoulders. Reinforced by the bitter experience of past marches, only their submachine guns did not slip from their trembling hands.
Captain Kasatkin, responsible for the general physical training of the first-year reconnaissance cadets, grinned to himself. A ten-kilometer cross-country run in full gear was a pleasure for an already perfectly trained fighter. He could not say the same for these ‘unfinished ones’, as the captain referred to them with a combination of irony and contempt.
Obviously, this is where the board vetted the candidates by their physical condition. They gave preference to individual sportsmen in the kinds of sports that fit the profile: boxers, wrestlers, shooters, pentathletes, and other athletes. However, in the physical training of the future scout, participation in any sport was only beneficial. Yet even the athletes at first succumbed to the load that fell on them in their first month of training. The instructors did not distinguish between them and those who, in civilian life, only accepted sports in a contemplative form. From the stands of the stadiums, as it were. The reasoning at the school – and not without reason – was that of ‘hard in training – easy in battle’ and was the principle that most regularly guided this Suvorov school. As a rule, this approach was borne out by experience in the real world. In any case, with physical training, the same Captain Kasatkin held the opinion that ‘It’s better to be too naked than to be too small’. The leadership was in full agreement with this and gave this ‘sadist and fanatic’, as most of the cadets considered him, carte blanche in everything.
Kotov slipped the stopwatch into the pocket of his wide riding breeches and stepped out of the shadows:
“Skiff, Tom – to me!”
Two cadets jumped up with the speed possible after such a strenuous march and ran up to him, stretched out ‘into the front’.
“You’re still three kilometers away from that hillock. Hill 236 on the map. Off you go! Clock’s ticking!”
The guys looked at each other, and gritting their teeth, set off in the direction indicated. Kasatkin, who arrived in time to hear this, looked mockingly at the major.
“Why are you torturing those kids, Cat?”
The major chuckled:
“Better me than the sadists from the enemy counterintelligence… Or do you disagree, Captain?”
“Well, I’m all for it,” Kasatkin said, though he was confused. “Only the standards apply to everyone, and you’re working this pair to death…”
“They are not ‘everyone’,” the major said nonchalantly and, having saluted the captain, set off after his soldiers. The captain shrugged.
“As you say, Comrade Major, as you say… Tokmo rarely escaped from death on foot…”
“And neither from me,” said Kotov, showing off his amazing hearing to his confused subordinate without turning around. “Get your men on their feet and get to the hill.”
It was like that about a month and a half ago. Today, such crosses are childish compared to what they had to experience and learn in such a short time. These two, undergoing special training through an accelerated course, showed amazing results in all disciplines. The major was glad that he had chosen the correct candidates. It was he who suggested recruiting not yesterday's schoolchildren or demobilized conscripts, but graduates from specialized universities who had received excellent knowledge of the disciplines necessary for their future assignments. And athletes at that, of course.
And this doctrine of choice justified itself. Skiff and Tom have already passed subjects that were taught to ordinary cadets at the end of the second and third years of the special school. Their academic higher education and the general level of erudition stood these recent Moscow students in good stead.
They had no need for actual combat experience in the upcoming assignment, despite the selection committee’s recent emphasis on it. They will become representatives of intelligence on a qualitatively new level – intellectual, scientific, technological. The current situation posed these challenges, and they had to be met.
At a quarter after eight, both cadets showed up at the door of the ‘red corner’. Ivan glanced at Andrey and pushed the shutter aside and looked inside.
“May we?”
The major sat in the far corner of a vast room filled with straight rows of folding chairs, like in movie theaters. At a small stage, Kotov had set a table and settled down beside it. Two more chairs were empty, waiting for the cadets.
“Come in, cadets. Come in, have a seat. As I understand it, this might be a long conversation. But as my grandmother used to say, there is no truth in one’s legs.”
Yesterday's students did not hesitate, taking their places opposite the major. He looked them over with a calm gaze.
“Should I start, or will you explain the essence of the problem yourselves?”
Ivan breathed in and started:
“Comrade Major…”
“Sergey Vladimirovich,” Kotov interrupted him quietly.
“What?”
“No ranks here, Vanya, so call me by my first name and patronymic, okay?”
“Yes, comrade… Sergey Vladimirovich. In general, we’d like to understand what moral and professional qualities separated us from millions of our compatriots? And why are we not allowed to spend most of our free time with the other cadets, instead having to sit in our rooms? Well, something along that vein…”
Ivan