Kaptsegaitui City

  02:22, UTC+9 | 20:22, Moscow Time (June 14th)

  The Voro-12 squad fanned out through the labyrinthine alleys of the northern block, operating in a tactical vacuum separate from the other special forces units. The roar of GSh-23L and 2A42 autocannons bellowed like famished beasts, raining fire upon the enemy. A convoy of GAZ Tigr vehicles tore through the streets, their Kord heavy machine guns spitting 12.7mm rounds that suppressed the opposition, forcing them to scramble for cover behind the crumbling houses.

  Kamarov led the charge. Lunging behind a Tigr, he picked off an insurgent wielding a PKM general-purpose machine gun on the third floor of a nearby building. Spent 5.45×39mm casings clattered to the pavement as a look of manic exhilaration washed over his face. He taunted the enemy at the top of his lungs:

  "Come and get it, you oil-starved bastards...!"

  Can't this guy ever shut up?

  Pyotr thought, glancing at Voron. Though Voron's face was obscured by his mask, the slow, deliberate closing of his eyes spoke volumes of his exasperation with Kamarov.

  Let's hope he gets used to it...

  "Pyotr, get behind that pickup truck. Take out the machine gunner on the third floor. We'll provide the opening."

  Pyotr nodded and shouted back, "Copy that!" His hands gripped his AK tightly, muscles coiled for the sprint.

  Almost instantly, as two other AK-12s barked in unison, Pyotr's legs moved with the explosive power of a sprinter. Ignoring the exhaustion, he dove into the enemy's field of fire while his teammates provided covering fire from behind.

  He slid a short distance to reach the shelter of the truck. Gasping for air, Pyotr peered cautiously at the target on the upper floor. Despite the darkness, this was the Far East; the faint glow of dawn was beginning to betray the enemy's positions. His night vision goggles were still functional for now, but they wouldn't be useful for much longer.

  Two people, but only one shooter?

  He observed intently, squinting to discern the figure behind the gunman. The PLA uniform was unmistakable, but the facial features he caught glimpses of were distinctly European. It was a confirmation: MIR mercenaries were indeed embedded with the Chinese forces.

  Well, I won't be able to argue with any of Kama's theories in the future now.

  Pyotr's observation was brief. As soon as he pinpointed the third-floor window, he unleashed a volley, effectively suppressing the machine gunner's heavy fire.

  The reprieve was short-lived. Enemy units on the ground floor spotted him and hammered the truck with bullets, allowing the machine gunner to resume his assault on the main convoy. Pyotr ducked into the truck's cab, utilizing the narrow angle to return fire.

  His teammates weren't about to let him be pinned down. Voron and Zaton laid down supporting fire, relieving the pressure. Seizing the moment, Pyotr fired another burst toward the third floor and yelled to the others:

  "Two targets on the third floor!"

  "Two?" Zaton questioned, squinting suspiciously at the window. Suddenly, a silhouette blurred through his night vision—a figure hoisting something heavy onto their shoulder. His blood ran cold. "RPG... Look out!"

  Zaton's scream pierced the air, jolting Voron into action. The moment the hiss of the launcher ignited, Voron's body reacted with the instinctive reflexes of a veteran of a dozen wars. He slammed his foot into Kamarov's back, sending him tumbling behind a pile of roadside rubble, while Voron himself lunged to the left.

  Less than a second later, a PG-7VL rocket shrieked past, leaving a pale streak in the dawn gloom before slamming into the Tigr supporting the front. A deafening explosion tore through the silence, scattering steel fragments and black smoke, punctuated by the screams of the dying and the hiss of molten metal.

  Pyotr felt the shockwave slam into his face, making his goggles rattle violently. He pressed himself flat against the hood of the dilapidated truck as shrapnel raked the metal body like claws. Dust and smoke billowed, thick with the stench of propellant and burning rubber—the air grew so dense it felt like swallowing earth.

  "O Mother, bring them home..."

  A deep, resonant voice echoed in Pyotr's head, causing him to look around in bewilderment. He couldn't tell where it came from, but the confusion on the others' faces suggested they felt it too. He could even hear the enemy soldiers whispering, questioning the same thing.

  "O Mother, bring the strength..."

  The voice returned, clearer this time. But there was no time to ponder. It seemed like a new type of hallucinogenic chemical weapon deployed by the PLA; his head throbbed, feeling as though something had physically struck his brain.

  "O Mother, bring the fallen..."

  "Not again... Argh!" Pyotr clutched his helmet, the dizzying sensation triggering a headache of cataclysmic proportions.

  Kamarov sat up, his head spinning from the near-miss. He crawled toward the rubble, glancing at the burning Tigr. The vehicle was a wreck, but the crew had survived and were scrambling out. Zaton reached him, snapping his fingers twice in front of Kamarov's face to check his alertness.

  Kamarov's eyes were dazed but still held a sharp edge. He looked at Zaton and forced a grimace. "I'm fine, thanks for the... push."

  The scene was pure chaos, the endless cacophony of gunfire denying the world any semblance of peace. Seeing Kamarov back on his feet, Voron barked an order, pointing toward Pyotr.

  "Get to Pyotr, Kamarov! Zaton, help me cover Kreatov's team!" Voron's voice was a low growl, like a lion on the African savannah.

  "What the..." Kamarov looked over at Pyotr, who was clutching his head with one hand amidst a rain of enemy bullets. "Damn it... you idiot..."

  Kamarov sprinted toward Pyotr, his ears ringing as he reached the limit of his endurance. He could hear the whistle of incoming artillery starting to fall like rain. Yet, nothing mattered more than his friend.

  Reaching Pyotr's side, he hauled him upright and slapped his cheeks repeatedly. His voice was shrill with urgency: "Hey! Hey! Wake up! What's wrong with you?!"

  "My head... I think they're using chemical weapons... I hear someone calling... Mother... or something..."

  "Goddess? What the hell did you inhale?! Fine, I've got morphine, but if it's nerve gas, it won't do jack. We have to move, now!"

  As he moved to lift Pyotr, Kamarov felt a sudden wave of vertigo. Simultaneously, a salvo of rockets shrieked overhead, exploding nearby. The shockwave knocked several men down, including Kamarov. He forced his eyes open to see a helicopter hovering above.

  The image was a blur—he couldn't identify the model—but it began raking the area with its nose cannon. Kamarov's thoughts were a hazy mess, yet he could clearly hear whispers from different people, in different languages, but one phrase stood out above all:

  "O Goddess, when the fallen reach this land, bring forth the destruction of the false gods beyond..."

  Why... does that sound like some cult ritual?

  Kamarov ripped off his mask and vomited. Both he and Pyotr were losing consciousness for reasons they couldn't grasp. He barely managed to lean against a wall before his senses faded to black.

  On the other side, Voron and Zaton rushed toward the two men sliding into delirium. Zaton was the most distressed, as they were the only two affected this way. The two veteran warriors dragged them away, seeking a safer spot.

  An Mi-28N helicopter veered off as an Mi-8AMTSh moved in to fast-rope regular infantry down. A few of the soldiers approached the Voro-12 team.

  "What happened to them?"

  "Don't know. They just collapsed once they got near that pickup," Zaton replied, struggling to haul Kamarov to safety.

  The soldier signaled his team to check the truck while he helped move the delirious pair toward a wall. Combat medics arrived and performed a cursory examination.

  "Looks like they inhaled a potent neuro-inhibitor. They're stable for now, but prolonged exposure could be fatal. Look at these black veins surfacing near their eyes..." The medic pointed to Kamarov's face. "...If those reach the brain, it's a critical emergency. These two are strong; they should recover quickly."

  "Thanks, soldier," Zaton said, reaching for a morphine syrette. The medic immediately stopped him.

  "Don't. We don't know the composition of this gas. Introducing any other chemicals could be extremely dangerous. It might trigger a faster reaction or complications," the medic warned, his eyes stern.

  Zaton froze, his fist tightening around the syrette before stuffing it back into his pocket. "What do we do then?"

  "Keep them conscious... at least aware of where they are. Move them out of the gas zone, away from the wind. And if you can, grab an air sample. We need to know what this crap is."

  In the distance, Voron scanned the smoke-choked street. The three-story building hadn't been fully neutralized; fire still spat from the windows like a cornered animal. He keyed his comms:

  "Central, this is Voro-12. Possible enemy use of chemical or psychological agents... unidentified type. Requesting immediate NBC unit dispatch. Over."

  A woman's voice, crisp and decisive, crackled back: "Copy, Voro-12. NBC units are en route. Hold your position, do not advance. Out."

  But the battlefield waited for no one. From the east, a dry whistling sound heralded 82mm mortar fire sweeping through the settlement. Shells impacted behind the Russian lines, shrapnel clattering against brick like iron hail.

  "Move them, now!" Voron roared, leaning out from cover to dump a full AK-12 magazine into the third-floor window, his muzzle flashes brilliant in the morning mist.

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  Kamarov groaned, his eyes flickering open, though his pupils remained dilated. He muttered something in a language no one recognized. Pyotr was the same, his lips moving soundlessly, forehead drenched in sweat. The black veins at his temples were slowly creeping down his neck like an ink-stained cobweb.

  The medic tore open his pack and pulled out a large packet marked with a skull and red Cyrillic letters: АДСОРБЕНТ—Emergency Adsorbent. He quickly activated two tubes, pressing activated charcoal powder into both men's masks.

  "At least this will stop them from inhaling more toxins," he said, turning to the radio operator. "Inform NBC: signs of neurological impact with abnormal vascular symptoms."

  From the west, the low, heavy thrum of jet engines filled the air. An Su-25SM3 was descending for an attack run. The light from a salvo of S-8 rockets illuminated the entire street before plunging into the building housing the RPG gunner.

  The pressure shook the earth. The three-story house collapsed into a heap of rubble and smoke. Cheers erupted from nearby soldiers, but Voron remained grim. He knew that what they had just faced wasn't just conventional firepower.

  He looked back at his two operatives being dragged away from the smoke and whispered:

  "If this is a psychological weapon, it doesn't just kill with bullets... it plants something in their heads."

  Somewhere in the swirling dust, a whisper lingered that only two men could hear:

  "O Mother, awaken..."

  *****

  East of the Settlement

  04:12 | 00:12, Moscow Time (June 15th)

  Kamarov felt like his head was being pulverized by a hydraulic press. He couldn't move; all he could do was see—but not through his eyes. It was through... something akin to pure consciousness.

  He could perceive everything—people, objects—as if he were a 360-degree scanner with no blind spots. Sounds were as vivid as a cinema in Kazan. It seemed he was in a marketplace; he could hear the bustle of crowds and footsteps.

  The light in the sky was wrong. A jade-green glow bathed everything, though he had no idea how he could perceive its color.

  "O Mother..."

  Who's there? Who's speaking?

  He tried to talk, but his throat was blocked. Only his thoughts remained to question the void. Kamarov listened closer, catching the words within the voices.

  "O Mother... bring... them... Bring... them..."

  Confused, he tried to move his mind. However, the space around him warped the moment he tried to take a step. Due to his persistence, the vision shattered, and his consciousness slammed back into his body.

  Kamarov bleary-eyed, looked around. He felt like he had just come off a heavy trip; his head spun as he surveyed the surroundings. He saw a squad of soldiers camped nearby.

  He bolted upright, his voice loud and demanding: "What happened?!" His forehead was dripping with sweat, and something felt like it was squirming in his temples. He touched the area, feeling his capillaries bulging as if they were about to burst.

  "Easy, comrade... you inhaled a potent neuro-inhibitor. The effects seem to have subsided significantly. I'm going to give you a shot of morphine, so stay still."

  Kamarov nodded, allowing the medic to inject the morphine into his right arm. The lightheadedness remained, but he regained control of his limbs. He looked for Pyotr and found him lying nearby, stirring slightly, his lips moving soundlessly.

  I have to admit, the two of us are pretty lucky...

  Kamarov thought, though he felt a wave of disappointment as Voron and Zaton approached.

  So much for that 'Syrian battlefield professional' impression...

  He sighed, touching the fresh bandage on his arm and wincing.

  Voron, seeing Kamarov awake, quickened his pace. His voice was low and filled with concern: "How do you feel?"

  Kamarov stood up, dazed but giving a thumbs-up. He glanced at Pyotr, his usual joking tone now tempered with caution.

  "Phew... You know, Boss... if I hadn't been hit by that gas, I would've torn them apart... Unlike this guy, who doesn't even make a sound when he's hit." The forced smile made Voron grimace, while Zaton shook his head. Realizing his blunder, Kamarov turned to check on Pyotr.

  "Hey buddy, you okay...?" He shook Pyotr. The younger man groaned a few times before slowly opening his eyes.

  Kamarov gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs. Pyotr yelped in pain:

  "Ow! What was that for?" Pyotr's eyes snapped open. He saw Voron and Zaton standing to the left, and Kamarov's face looming uncomfortably close.

  "Damn it, get your face out of mine... Oh, my head... feels like I got hit with a brick."

  He looked around, piecing the situation together.

  "How long were we out?"

  "About two hours..." Zaton helped Pyotr up. He turned to Kamarov, his voice warm but firm. "Grab your weapons, boys. We've lost all contact with the base. We have to fight with whatever we have here."

  Kamarov was stunned. The situation had escalated from losing contact with Moscow to losing contact with the Far East command. The theory that the Great Rift caused electronic interference was no longer a theory—it was a reality.

  He reached down and picked up his AK-12. The faint smell of gunpowder lingered—a sign someone had used it while he was unconscious. He checked the magazine; the count was different.

  "Eight rounds... who touched my gun?"

  No one answered. Voron somberly briefed the two.

  "Half the settlement has been retaken. We lost ten men in the North; the status of the other sectors is unknown. However, incidents similar to yours have been reported. It's possible the PLA or MIR deployed gas canisters throughout the settlement. From this point on..."

  Zaton stepped forward, handing them two gas masks. Zaton was always more approachable than Voron; he noticed the two new members were more at ease with his gentler demeanor than with Voron's rigid command style.

  Voron sighed, understanding their dynamic. He keyed his radio, contacting the Vesker squad.

  "Vesker, this is Voro. We're back in the fight. Over."

  Static hissed back—it had been like that since they collapsed. It was too coincidental, likely a result of jamming equipment deployed to isolate them. Eventually, Vesker's voice crackled through, hoarse from a night of shouting.

  "Vesker here. Perfect timing. Prepare to retake the entire settlement. Krechov, Zvetla, and Kyguper are in position for a flanking maneuver. Out."

  "Status of the town center?"

  "Not good. Heavy resistance, but we're pushing them back slowly. Casualties are mounting. Anything else?"

  "No, thanks for the intel. Out."

  The static returned. Voron turned to his squad, his voice rising with urgency.

  "We've got work to do. Prepare for the assault. Check your ammo; we're flanking with the other teams..."

  "Understood, Boss," Kamarov smirked, slamming a magazine into his rifle. He grinned like a predator.

  "Check your rucksacks. I'll check the rest with the Captain..." Zaton said, moving toward Voron. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

  "Captain... you seem distracted. Is something wrong?"

  Voron exhaled a long breath, staring east where gunfire still echoed—a reminder that the war was only getting closer. He didn't look at Zaton, lost in thought.

  "Do you think China or MIR are planning something else? We're isolated, with almost no chance of reinforcements."

  "I'm not sure I follow... did you notice something?"

  "Not exactly... It's more of a feeling..." He squinted at the blue dawn sky. "But we have to move on."

  "Ready, Boss. We're good to go," Kamarov shouted, drawing stares from other soldiers. Most knew of his reputation as a "madman" and didn't bother acknowledging him.

  "Good. Here is the plan..."

  *****

  June 14th, 2020

  22:32, Moscow Time

  RT (Russia Today)

  Foreign Minister Melnikov stood before a swarm of reporters at Russia Today. Aggressive Chinese actions were flooding news channels and social media, and conspiracy theories were spiraling out of the government's control.

  After four days of silence, the Kremlin decided to issue a public message—to reassure citizens and provide a controlled update to prevent international panic. The Chechen-born statesman stood amidst the flashing bulbs and the silence of the press. His voice, forged through years of high-stakes diplomacy, began:

  "As of 10:00 PM on June 14th, we remain in communication with the Beijing government to clarify certain misunderstandings. According to Ambassador Hai Liu Jin, the recent activity in the Bering Sea was an exercise simulating the defense of a disabled aircraft carrier. Reports of eighteen Type-098 submarines participating are unverified; they are, in fact, part of a routine training cycle for the Chinese Navy, not directly related to any offensive action against Russian territory or its allies. However, the lack of prior notification has raised legitimate concerns regarding maritime security."

  Melnikov paused, his eyes scanning the room. The reporters remained silent, waiting for the shoe to drop. He knew what they wanted to ask and had his script ready.

  "The government's decision to recall all civilian and military vessels to port was a precautionary measure to ensure safety near the Great Rift. Reports of war preparations are entirely baseless. This was merely a coincidence occurring alongside the Chinese naval exercises. We have activated bilateral military communication channels and requested detailed maps of their exercise parameters. Russian forces in the Far East are increasing patrols to ensure the safety of our strategic shipping lanes."

  He paused to let the words sink in.

  "The government does not seek escalation. Such misunderstandings can be resolved through transparency. However, we are not merely seeking peaceful platitudes. Given the current global climate, Russia will not hesitate to protect its territorial waters and national interests. Any unilateral actions that disrupt regional order will be met with a strong, calculated response in accordance with international law."

  Melnikov leaned toward the microphone, his voice dropping an octave: "We call upon the international community to monitor the situation closely and not allow unverified information to incite tension. Russia remains committed to dialogue, but we will never surrender our right to self-defense."

  The reporters erupted, scribbling and typing frantically. Melnikov squinted against the flashbulbs, reflecting on the risk he was taking.

  I can't deny this is a gamble. Personal prestige won't fool everyone forever. Andrei told me to accept the scenario where China actually attacks from the south. But... I have to stick to this script. Damn those Beijing bastards, I'm breaking my back to fix this PR nightmare. Censoring Chinese channels won't work forever; it'll only make the leak more obvious...

  A young reporter, perhaps in his thirties with features reminiscent of Kazan, raised his hand. Melnikov felt a prickle of annoyance. He knew a confrontational question was coming.

  "Minister, a few questions, if you don't mind?"

  Melnikov remained stoic. "Go ahead."

  "Thank you, Minister. On the 12th, a video surfaced showing the carrier Kuznetsov and four Gorshkov-class(1) frigates returning to Severomorsk. Furthermore, the entire Northern Fleet escort group has vanished from their Norwegian Sea patrols. International analysts suggest this indicates a strategic alert level, possibly a massive naval redeployment to the Pacific. Can you confirm this is a coincidence, or is Russia quietly preparing for a confrontation?"

  The room buzzed. Dozens of cameras zoomed in on Melnikov. He tilted his head slightly, then looked directly into the lens.

  "That is an... interesting question. But it seems your information is based on raw data and subjective speculation. A single, unverified video of a few minutes cannot show the whole picture. The recall of the Kuznetsov and the fleet is not an act of desperation. As I stated, it is for maintenance and safety regarding the electromagnetic anomalies of the Great Rift. But there is another reason..."

  He coughed, drawing the press in closer.

  "...It is in preparation for Navy Day, specifically the handover ceremony of Russia's newest aircraft carrier to the Northern Fleet. The name and hull number will remain classified until July 26th, but I can tell you: it is not just a carrier. It is an integrated combat platform with multi-service fire coordination and strategic deterrence capabilities. The return to Severomorsk is part of the integration training so that when the vessel debuts, the fleet can operate at peak readiness. This is a matter of ritual and technique, not a signal of a military campaign."

  He offered a slight smile, hoping to end it there. But a female reporter from RIA Novosti was already standing.

  "Minister, regarding the Great Rift—there are reports that the Ministry of Defense has detected electromagnetic anomalies not just in the Far East, but along its entire length. Are we facing a unified phenomenon, and does this relate to the naval concentrations in both the North and the Pacific?"

  Melnikov nodded, his tone darkening.

  "There are indeed reports of unusual electromagnetic activity, but they are currently in the stage of scientific analysis. There is no evidence yet to link them or to suggest a direct threat to maritime safety. While the collapse of major mountain ranges like the Caucasus is a severe natural and geopolitical disaster, our deployment is purely precautionary. I advise against over-interpreting fragmented data."

  A murmur rippled through the room. A Western reporter from the BBC World Service stood up without waiting to be called.

  "You say it's precautionary, but according to AIS(2) data, Russian tankers and bulk carriers have diverted to domestic ports, even abandoning signed international contracts. This doesn't look like a 'temporary measure.' Has the government determined the Great Rift is going to expand or become more dangerous?"

  Melnikov didn't flinch. He took a sip of water and set the glass down slowly.

  "Public maritime data only reflects a part of the reality. Russia spans eleven time zones. Adjusting routes to domestic ports is a risk-mitigation strategy—not just against natural phenomena, but against international market volatility. Your question implies a dangerous scenario, but I assure you: government actions are based on science, not sentiment."

  He emphasized the word "science" and stared into the cameras.

  An aide stepped forward and handed Melnikov a small slip of paper. He glanced at it for a few seconds. His expression didn't change, but his grip on the microphone tightened.

  "We will stop here. I will have a supplemental statement tomorrow morning following the latest inter-agency reports. Russia remains committed to sharing verified information. Thank you."

  He left the podium amidst a chaos of voices and clicking keys. No one realized that the paper held a brief, chilling sentence:

  'Total loss of communication with the Eastern Military District. Magnetic interference active across the entire length of the Great Rift.'

  Footnotes:

  Admiral Gorshkov-Class (Project 22350): Classified as a frigate, but with firepower surpassing traditional frigates. Equipped with Kalibr, Oniks, and Zircon missiles, plus advanced anti-submarine systems. Its 4,500–5,400 ton displacement nears light destroyer territory, making it a formidable multi-role blue-water combatant.

  AIS – Automatic Identification System: A VHF-based tracking system mandatory for commercial and many military vessels. It broadcasts GPS position, speed, course, and identification data.