Zabaykalsky Krai, Kaptsegaitui

  05:45, UTC +9

  Returning to the "Spetsnaz" Voro-12 team, they were advancing from the North alongside the 1st Mechanized Company of the 45th Independent Mechanized Battalion, tasked with severing the enemy's supply lines. However, fierce resistance had shattered their operational plan, leaving them pinned down at a city intersection.

  Zaton caught a glimpse of an enemy soldier positioned behind a derelict truck; the AK-12 in his grip trembled with exhaustion. Hours of unrelenting combat had left his body feeling hollowed out, as if every joint were coming unglued. Beside him, Team Leader Voron was also succumbing to the fatigue brought on by the enemy's relentless counterattacks.

  "Pyotr, Kamarov. You two holding up?" Voron barked into the radio, seeking status from the opposite flank.

  Static crackled, distorting Pyotr's voice into a metallic rasp: "Still hanging on, but we've got three casualties, and a Type-99 tank is suppressing us..."

  The radio cut out again, and in a fit of rage, Voron slammed the device against the ground. Scanning the surroundings, he spotted a crippled Kamaz truck to the West. Beyond it, the Type-99 stood precariously in a narrow stretch of road, its turret rotating with predatory slowness. Shells from its 125mm ZPT-98 cannon tore into the earth, sending debris skyward and choking the air with a blinding shroud of dust.

  Concrete slabs disintegrated along the shells' trajectory, leaving jagged craters in their wake. The Type 86 7.62mm coaxial machine gun chattered without pause. Behind the tank's armored bulk, several infantry squads provided close-quarters support.

  His eyes darted left, spotting an RPG-29 lying next to a BMP-3M with a thrown track. A plan galvanized in his mind.

  Voron turned to Zaton, his voice sharp and final. "Cover me..."

  Zaton watched his leader lunge outward. Before surprise could even register, he was already laying down a barrage of suppressive fire. Voron sprinted at full tilt, hosing rounds toward the rear of the Type-99 in a desperate bid to draw its attention.

  The sight of a lone Russian soldier charging into the center of the road caught the enemy off guard. From concrete alcoves and shattered rooftops, hostile troops opened up with everything they had. Bullets hissed past Voron's head, chewing up the asphalt, shattering car glass, and shredding the frame of the Kamaz. He didn't slow; he banked into a dive, staying low, and poured fire into the Type-99's coaxial gun port, resulting in sporadic pops and a spray of metallic splinters.

  Zaton immediately loaded the RPG-29, lining up the Type-99's turret ring. A precision shot rocked the armored beast; the round didn't achieve a full penetration, but the concussion forced the crew to reel back, jerking the main gun off-target. From the rear, Pyotr, Kamarov, and the others seized the moment, hugging the walls and the undersides of vehicles to lay down supplementary fire.

  Voron lowered his voice: "We have to isolate it from the infantry. Zaton, West, on me!"

  The leader dove toward a narrow alleyway, dragging Zaton with him. On the other side, the Type-99 fired blindly, its shells absorbed by the graveyard of ruined trucks and concrete pilings. Zaton's second RPG shot struck the drive sprocket; the tank lurched, its balance failing. The shriek of metal-on-metal wailed through the air as thick black smoke billowed from the treads.

  Voron used the opening to signal the other squads forward. They moved like arrows through the city's veins. The enemy soldiers were being fragmented, their coordination crumbling. A massive explosion from the North signaled that their Kamaz had been utterly destroyed, creating a dense curtain of soot and dust that provided temporary concealment for Voron and Zaton.

  Zaton gasped for air, sweat stinging his eyes, but he realized this was the window to close in on the Type-99. One final RPG shot, fired point-blank at the turret, jammed the traverse mechanism. The tank went still, immobilized like a tethered beast.

  "Kamarov! Enemy count!" Zaton screamed into the radio. Hostile fire was still heavy, keeping them trapped in the alley.

  "Dozens, and it looks like reinforcements are... Motherfucker!" The sound of bodies crashing together echoed over the comms, followed by the clatter of falling stones.

  "Captain, I've got another Type-99 rolling in. There's an IFV trailing it too!"

  Hearing the report, Voron was forced to re-evaluate. They had been fighting for over six hours, and the situation was becoming untenable. He knew the recapture of Kaptsegaitui was nearly complete, but the arrival of enemy reinforcements was slowing their momentum to a crawl.

  It was hard to believe the PLA was being this reckless. What is really happening here?

  Voron wondered as he scrutinized the battlefield. His racing heart combined with the build-up of lactic acid made his body feel like it was being tortured after several sprints. His chest heaved, drawing a worried look from Zaton.

  "Captain, Krama-9 and the 2nd Mechanized just reported in—they've retaken the Southeast. Vesker and the 3rd Mechanized have finished in the East."

  "Then tell them to divert reinforcements here. Notify them of an enemy armored unit operating at the intersection near the twenty-two-story apartment complex on D-303... tell them to move fast..."

  "Understood." Zaton nodded, relaying the message immediately.

  Voron peered out of the alley. The IFV had fully revealed itself—a ZBD-97. Its 30mm autocannon barked out a burst that forced a group of Russian troops to scramble backward. The Type-99 fired a High-Explosive shell, toppling another wall in a roar of earth and dust; smoke grenades were launched, cloaking the entire intersection in a grey haze.

  "Captain, they say they'll be here in fifteen minutes at the earliest. We have to hold until then."

  Voron scowled.

  "Fifteen minutes? Impossible. More than half of what's left of 1st Company is pinned on D-302; the tanks can't reach us yet. We're out of defensive options..."

  He looked toward the enemy's reinforcement route. The pontoon bridge was the greatest obstacle. As long as it stood, the enemy would keep pouring in. Calling for more reinforcements would only drive up the body count.

  Voron tightened his grip on his rifle, cold sweat trickling down his collar. In the sky, the early morning light began to spread, but instead of a peaceful dawn, Kaptsegaitui was a landscape of black smoke, choking dust, and deafening thunder.

  He lowered his voice, speaking into the radio: "We're trying, but these bastards are raining lead! We need mortar or artillery support, or we're going to get pulverized..."

  Voron ground his teeth. The artillery was tied up supporting the Western front and couldn't be diverted. The urban terrain was a nightmare for self-propelled guns. He knew their only currency was time: hold the enemy long enough for the cavalry to arrive.

  Zaton whispered: "Captain... if we stay here, we're all dead. What if we..."

  "No..." Voron cut him off, his eyes flashing with a sudden, cold resolve. "We're not retreating. We're taking down that pontoon bridge."

  The air in the alley seemed to freeze at Voron's words. Both Zaton and the remaining survivors fell silent, the only sound being the rhythmic drumming of machine guns at the intersection and the whistle of shells echoing through the shattered concrete.

  Zaton gripped his empty RPG launcher and asked softly:

  "Are you sure? We'll take heavy losses trying to reach it. It's better to wait for the reinforcements."

  Voron looked Zaton dead in the eye, his gaze unwavering. On a face blackened by cordite and grit, his eyes looked feral.

  "Wait for reinforcements? In fifteen minutes, they'll have a whole brigade across that bridge, and by then, there won't be anyone left to save. If we drop the bridge, we bleed—but they lose their lifeline. That's the only difference between living and being ground into the dirt."

  Zaton bit his lip, swallowing his protest. He knew the Captain was right. If they didn't cut the route, the entire Northeast of Kaptsegaitui would be overrun in an instant. But doing this was like putting their own necks on the chopping block.

  Voron keyed his radio, his voice raspy:

  "Pyotr, Kamarov, listen up. I need sustained suppressive fire from the North. My team is flanking through alley C-17 to reach the riverbank. Target: the pontoon bridge. Copy?"

  Across the comms, a cacophony of gunfire and shouting preceded Pyotr's frantic voice: "Copy that, Captain. But... My God, are you on a suicide mission?"

  "Not suicide. We're cutting the throat of this pack of wolves. Do your part."

  He switched off, turning to the small group left: Zaton, three other Spetsnaz, and a lone survivor from a BMP-3M. Every face was haggard, masked in blood and sweat, but no one argued.

  A massive explosion roared as the ZBD-97 at the intersection fired again, punching through a building facade and igniting a firestorm. The whole block shuddered. Voron seized the chaos and signaled.

  "Move!"

  They lunged out like shadows, weaving through rows of houses and alleys choked with trash and pulverized concrete. Every stride was a hammer-blow to the heart, their breath burning hot in their lungs. Zaton, mid-sprint, scavenged a spare magazine from a fallen comrade and shoved it into his vest.

  As they neared the banks of the old Ergun River, the scene opened up: the long pontoon bridge, still intact, stretched across the water like a jagged scar. On it, PLA troops were funneling in: trucks, mortars, even light armored vehicles. If not destroyed, they would flood the inner city in less than half an hour.

  Voron signaled a halt and lowered his voice:

  "Zaton, get the explosives from the BMP. We're rigging the joints between pontoons four and five. Hit that spot, and the whole bridge snaps."

  "What about the hostiles on the bridge?" a soldier asked.

  "They can worry about themselves when they hit the water," Voron replied flatly.

  Just then, the familiar roar of a heavy engine rumbled from the main road. Voron squinted and saw the second Type-99 clattering toward them, flanked by a platoon of escorting infantry. The PLA knew the value of this bridge as well as they did.

  Zaton gripped the explosive charges, his voice dropping low:

  "We only have a few minutes, Captain..."

  Voron's nod was like forged steel. "Then make them count. One team holds them off, the other rigs the charges. Don't let this bridge survive."

  In the harsh glare of the early morning, the Russian soldiers fanned out once more, advancing toward the bridge. Every man had a single thought etched into his mind: sever this blood-path, even if it meant remaining forever on the freezing banks of the old Ergun.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  *****

  The Banks of the Old Ergun River

  06:12, UTC +9

  The air was thick with cordite and the acrid stench of burning diesel. Voron's team had crawled to the very edge of the bank. Right before them, the Chinese pontoon bridge groaned under a steady stream of motorized units—pontoons shuddering under the weight of self-propelled artillery, ammo trucks, and mobile command centers. Headlights swept across the silver-grey surface of the river, illuminating plumes of smoke still rising from the night's bombardment.

  "Zaton, rig it!" Voron hissed, his voice barely audible over the roar of engines from the bridge.

  Zaton dropped to his knees, his hands trembling in the freezing water as he jammed large blocks of C-4 into the couplings. The detonator wires snaked through the rising waves. He whispered into his mic:

  "Need five minutes, Captain. This water is freezing..."

  Voron signaled to the remaining three: "Set up a blocking line. Don't let them reach the bank!"

  Just then, the heavy thrum of an engine erupted from the main road. A Type-99 emerged, its turret slewing toward the bank. A 125mm shell detonated right behind Voron's group; earth and stone rained down, and a Russian soldier was tossed aside, silenced before he could scream. PLA infantry deployed instantly, squads forming a wall of fire from the bridge toward the bank, forcing the Russians to huddle behind the ruins of a small shack.

  "Hold the line! Don't let them close in!" Voron roared, raising his AK-12 and squeezing off precise, short bursts. Spent casings clattered onto the damp ground, punctuated by the screams of Chinese soldiers taking hits.

  On the bridge, a PLA officer organized a counter-response with clinical efficiency. There was no panic. A curtain of QBZ-95 fire was laid down, while a relief platoon leapt from trucks, deploying into a suppression formation to squeeze the reckless Russians against the river. Commands in Mandarin echoed through the air as QJZ-89 heavy machine guns were hauled down, immediately saturating the bank where Zaton knelt.

  Bullets raked the surface of the pontoons, sending up sprays of water and iron shards. Zaton was forced to flatten himself against the structure, his hands still twisting the detonator leads, sweat mingling with the blood running from his temple.

  "Captain! I need one more minute... if I make it out!"

  "You'll get it!" Voron snarled, then vaulted from cover, emptying his magazine into the PLA ranks on the bridge. A round grazed his shoulder, spraying blood onto his uniform, but his legs didn't fail him.

  The Type-99 roared, its barrel swinging toward Zaton. The whole team knew: if this shell landed, the plan was over.

  Voron keyed his radio, screaming at the top of his lungs:

  "Pyotr! Get the mortars on the bridgehead, right now! Fire for effect!"

  A flickering response came through: "Copy! Rapid fire, but we can only buy you a few minutes!"

  Seconds later, the thud of mortars echoed from behind the Russian lines. Shells began to airburst over the bridgehead. An ammo truck erupted into a fireball, incinerating a line of PLA soldiers and sending shrapnel flying. Despite the carnage, the PLA immediately fanned out along the bridge's flanks to maintain fire; an HJ-8 missile team was even set up on a pontoon, firing back at the bank. The missile shrieked past, obliterating a dirt berm and burying a Russian soldier under a heap of debris.

  Zaton connected the detonator and screamed: "It's set! Get out of here!"

  Voron lunged, dragging him off the edge of the pontoon as they scrambled back up the bank. Machine-gun fire nipped at their heels, sparks flying where bullets hit stone. The Type-99 fired another round, the embankment exploding and nearly tossing the Russian team into the river.

  Then... a cataclysmic blast. Pontoons four and five were ripped apart. The river surface rose in a massive wall of water, dragging trucks, mortars, and PLA soldiers into the depths. Men struggled in the water, crushed by the heavy steel pontoons, their screams lost in the screech of tearing metal.

  But the bridge didn't fully collapse. The half tethered to the far bank remained, though listing heavily. PLA troops immediately began securing cables, while several ZBD-04A light armored vehicles attempted to turn back. The Chinese side fired flares, signaling their main force. The heavier thrum of engines echoed from a distance—they were calling in more reinforcements, and the bridge wasn't dead yet.

  Voron collapsed onto the ground, his vision swimming from blood loss, but he could see clearly: the PLA hadn't given up. On the contrary, they were consolidating for a fierce counterattack.

  Zaton lay beside him, blood leaking from his ears, a grim smile on his face. "Not exactly what we hoped for."

  In the distance, the rumble of BMP engines from the 2nd Mechanized Company began to echo, but Voron understood: if they couldn't hold for another half hour, the reinforcements would only find corpses sinking into the Ergun mud.

  He gripped the stock of his rifle and growled:

  "No retreat. Hold this riverbank... until Kaptsegaitui is ours."

  As the wall of water subsided, smoke and mist shrouded the river. Twisted steel floated on the surface, and PLA soldiers cried out in the biting cold. Yet, there was no chaos. A Chinese commander barked orders over the radio, and the intact platoons quickly established firing positions at the bridge's remnant.

  A bugle sounded the charge. From afar, a line of ZBD-04A infantry fighting vehicles surged forward, water spraying as their 30mm cannons popped, raking the bank. The sheer volume of fire forced the Russians to press themselves into their shallow, hand-dug trenches. One Russian soldier looked up too long; a round instantly pulverized his helmet, and he slumped into the dirt.

  "They're landing! Don't let them establish a bridgehead!" Voron roared, slamming in a fresh mag and firing short bursts at the PLA soldiers leaping from the surviving pontoons. But the enemy didn't waver. Under the hail of AK fire, silhouettes in meticulously camouflaged uniforms continued to lunge forward, rolling onto the bank to set up machine-gun nests.

  Zaton clutched his wounded abdomen, gasping as he emptied his magazine: "Captain... if they dig in, we're finished!"

  At that moment, a shell from the Type-99 landed dangerously close. The shockwave slammed into them; blood spurted from Voron's mouth, his hearing replaced by a long, high-pitched ringing. His body felt as limp as seaweed, propped up only by a heap of rubble.

  Through a blur, he saw two figures running toward them. Pyotr and Kamarov braved the crossfire, staying low before sliding to a halt beside the two veteran warriors. They were as filthy and battered as Voron and Zaton.

  Pyotr checked Voron; shrapnel wounds were bleeding out from his hip, though it wasn't as severe as Zaton's condition. Zaton was bleeding from his ears and eyes, and Kamarov struggled just to drag him close to the Captain.

  "How the hell did you two get this chewed up?" Kamarov pulled out morphine and injected each man. A sharp snap followed, marking the point where both men were officially out of the fight.

  Another shell leveled a nearby ruin, sending three more soldiers to meet their ancestors.

  "God damn it..." Kamarov muttered, winnowing as he bandaged Zaton's wounds. "Pyotr, how do we get them out of here?"

  Gunfire hissed, dust spraying as bullets peppered their position. The QBZ-95s chattered incessantly, a reminder that the enemy was looking to reclaim the bank. Pyotr could hear Mandarin shouting; it seemed they were trying to mobilize. He peeked up, trying not to expose himself. A Chinese officer was directing a group to attempt a temporary bridge repair.

  "Shit, we're trapped. We're dead for sure."

  "Shut your damn mouth. Haven't you talked enough about dying?"

  "Forgive me, but I don't see a way out of this."

  Pyotr shoved Kamarov, his voice a low growl: "Shutting up won't kill anyone."

  Kamarov lifted his AK-12, snapped in a new magazine, and whispered: "If we're going to die, we might as well make it legendary."

  "Yeah..." Pyotr gave a dry laugh, finding nothing else to say. He simply counted the seconds in his head, hoping for a miracle.

  The Type-99's turret swiveled again, zeroing in on the ruins of the Voro-12 team, prepared to finish them. Just as the reaper was about to swing his scythe, a missile streaked out of nowhere. The Type-99 erupted in a violent explosion, flames engulfing the crew and forcing the nearby PLA infantry to fall back.

  Looking up at the sky, Pyotr saw a flight of helicopters inbound. Ka-52Ms, Mi-28NMs, and Mi-35Ms launched a volley of S-8 and S-12 rockets onto the pontoon bridge. The roar of explosions and shockwaves tore through the atmosphere. Pillars of smoke rose across their field of vision.

  "Now that's a sight..." Kamarov whistled, waving his hand as if swiping away summer gnats. "Maybe I was overthinking it."

  "Shut up, you idiot."

  The radio crackled, and Vesker's voice came through as if he'd seen a ghost: "Is your team okay?"

  "No," Pyotr replied bluntly. "Captain and XO are down. We're pinned between enemy fire on the banks of the old Ergun. Where did this mixed bag of choppers come from?"

  "Helicopter Support Flight 16. They were on a mission to rescue a mechanized unit to the North. We just got through to them; intel says the satellites are down because of the Great Rift."

  "That freakish phenomenon almost got us killed..."

  "Forget it, get your team out of there. We've arrived... the bridge on this side is gone. Yours must be a mess."

  "Thanks for the assist. Out," Pyotr finished, finally leaning back against the rubble with a heavy sigh.

  Kamarov didn't rest; he was struggling to hoist the unconscious Zaton onto his shoulders, reminding his friend in a hoarse voice: "Let's move. Let the newcomers handle the rest."

  Pyotr nodded, helping Voron up as they headed back into the heart of Kaptsegaitui. They moved as fast as possible—the rear lines were the only safe place left. The weight of the men drew a comment from Kamarov: "They're old, but they're heavy as hell..."

  "I've got it worse, you Calis monster... you've got it easy..." Lugging Voron was agony for Pyotr; every step felt like carrying the weight of a vital soul.

  They brought the two veterans behind a small single-story house to re-examine their wounds. The situation was stable; no signs of immediate infection, and the morphine had induced a deep sleep—or perhaps the gravity of the injuries had simply claimed their consciousness.

  "Alright, let me call Vesker." Pyotr wanted a medic. "Vesker, send a medic to D-06, near the Chuk intersection where the 1st Mechanized was. We have two wounded. Out."

  "Copy that, wait out. Out."

  Dust and soot hung in the air, mingling with the freezing mist rising from the Ergun. The Ka-52Ms and Mi-28NMs continued to roar overhead, their rockets slamming into the bridgehead, sending shards of steel and armored vehicle remains flying. The surviving PLA on the bridge huddled together, trying to form a new defensive line, but the pressure from the Russian air support was too great. The QJZ-89 heavy machine guns still barked sporadically, but it was uncoordinated—desperate cries in the middle of a firestorm.

  Pyotr and Kamarov, each carrying a comrade, staggered through the narrow alleys leading deeper into Kaptsegaitui. Zaton was out cold, his breath shallow, blood dried in long streaks on his pale face. Voron was awake, but his eyes were glazed, his lips pressed tight against the pain. Pyotr felt the burden of more than just the Captain's body; he felt the weight of responsibility. Every step was a battle against his own exhaustion and the whistling lead behind them.

  "Hurry, Kamarov!" Pyotr snapped, his voice cracking. "If they call in more help, we won't make it out."

  Drenched in sweat, Kamarov only nodded, lacking the strength to reply. They bypassed a pile of debris that had once been a small grocery store, now just shattered glass and charred shelves. The roar of BMP engines from the 2nd Mechanized was closer, but still not close enough.

  Suddenly, a piercing shriek tore through the air. Pyotr looked up, recognizing that deathly sound instantly. "Incoming rockets! Get down!"

  Kamarov's reflexes were instantaneous, pulling Zaton into an old bomb crater. Pyotr shoved Voron down and covered him with his own body. Seconds later, a volley of rocket fire roared in from the distance, slamming directly into the intersection they had just vacated. Massive pillars of fire erupted, sending earth and debris flying, the deafening roar tearing the sky apart. The shockwave swept through, toppling what was left of the concrete and turning the area into a sea of flame and black smoke.

  Pyotr pressed his face into the dirt, his ears ringing, feeling only the hammer of his heart against his ribs. He felt the heat of the blast on his back but didn't dare look up. Kamarov groaned beside him, a small piece of shrapnel having caught his shoulder.

  "They... they leveled the whole block..." Kamarov whispered, trying to look back. Through the thick smoke, he could only see the charred skeletons of PLA armored vehicles and the bodies strewn across the broken bridge. But in the distance, a new engine roar started up. "Bastards... they still have reinforcements."

  Pyotr gritted his teeth and checked Voron. The Captain was still breathing, however faintly. Zaton lay still, but his chest moved with a rhythmic pulse—a fragile sign he hadn't given up yet. Pyotr clenched his fist and whispered, "Still alive... both of them."

  Kamarov, despite the pain, managed a smirk. "Stubborn as us Spetsnaz, dying is too easy for them."

  Pyotr didn't answer, only pulling Voron closer to a broken wall for cover. He keyed his radio: "Vesker, where are you? The intersection was just leveled by rockets! We need medics now, and reinforcements before the PLA floods in!"

  The radio crackled over the distant booms. "On the way, Pyotr! Our BMPs are three minutes out. Hold on! The choppers are making another pass to stop them from rebuilding."

  Pyotr cut the radio and peeked through a hole in the wall. Smoke still billowed from the intersection, but through the dust, he saw the PLA reorganizing, pulling cables to try and rig a section of the bridge. A lone ZBD-04A clattered forward, its 30mm cannon swinging toward the Russian bank.

  Kamarov spat blood. "They won't quit... but neither will we."

  Pyotr nodded, gripping his AK-12. Despite the rocket fire and the death surrounding them, Voro-12 had not fallen. Voron, though barely clinging to life, shifted slightly, his hand clenching as if to give an order: Hold firm.

  But then, everything abruptly stopped. The rocket fire went unnervingly silent. No one had time to breathe a sigh of relief, because the new enemy didn't come from out there—it came from within their own chests, from within their own flesh.

  Pyotr winced, an unusual, sharp pain lancing through his brain. It wasn't a wound, but a crushing pressure; the air felt dense, as if someone had stuffed his lungs with lead. He tried to take a deep breath, but the air entering made his blood boil, as if pure oxygen fire were burning in his veins.

  Kamarov coughed up blood again, but this was different: the blood was bright red and unnaturally thick, as if it had been compressed. "We've... been poisoned..." he croaked. But it wasn't gas.

  The soldiers behind them began to tremble. One burst into a fit of giggles amidst the smoke and fire—a twisted, wild-eyed grin, as if he were drunk. The very atmosphere made them lightheaded, making it impossible to keep their rifles steady. Another man began to fade, his eyes glazing over as his brain starved for blood.

  The helicopter squadron outside lost control too. One by one, they dropped like birds shot from the sky. The sound of impacts reached the soldiers' ears. The pilots couldn't escape it either; some blacked out in their cockpits after the crash, while the rest simply drifted into unconsciousness.

  Voron swayed, his clenched hands now shaking. His heart hammered in a frantic, irregular rhythm, as if someone were twisting the biological dial in his chest. His skin turned grey, his ears roared, and a strange, brilliant celestial body flashed before his eyes—not a flare, but a jade-green sphere hovering in the sky, its light penetrating even his closed eyelids.

  "We... we aren't where we were anymore." A hoarse voice came from the squad, asserting the truth no one dared to think.

  — End of Prologue —