Landmark 1a. Ukrainians Fight Back
A puff of dark smoke coughed out of the old diesel engine as the cargo truck fired up, the haze lingering in the frigid morning air. Craigen savored the familiar sulfur aroma of the exhaust as it mixed with the steam from his breath. It smelled like action. "Duet three, are you up?" He called to the lead vehicle.
Bolanger gave him a thumbs up sign.
"Duet two? You up Scooter?"
Thibido continued discussing something about his truck's motor with his apprentice for a moment, and then slammed the hood down. "Ready when you are."
Craigen glanced over at Kedzierski, who just nodded. Craigen nodded back. "C'mon in," he called out, holding his arms wide. The Response Team members moved forward and joined hands while Craigen led them in prayer. "Heavenly Father, there's a lot of people counting on us out there. Give us strength to do this work and the wisdom to do it well so that we don't let them down."
As the tiny convoy of relief supplies began their journey to Varniţa, Craigen, Kedzierski, and her apprentice, Raynal “Gorgeous” Georges, crammed together in the trail vehicle. It was an older minibus they rented to carry all the extra gear (and to accommodate Craigen’s significant bulk). The guy at the rental agency ensured them that it was very reliable. As they left the city streets of Chişinău and crossed into the rural areas, the minivan shook and rattled with ever-increasing frequency and violence as the smooth paved surfaces gave way to potholes and gravel stretches. We’re about to find out how reliable this POS really is, Craigen thought grimly.
The road conditions continued to deteriorate as they passed through generally flat, agricultural land. As they crested a low rise, he could see a small city in the distance dominated by what looked like ruins from an ancient time. “Curly, ask him what castle that is," Craigen called from his seat behind the driver.
After a short exchange with her translator, Kedzierski replied, “he says it’s the Tighina Fortress. It was built in the fifteenth century during the reign of Stephen the Great. That’s the city of Bender, or Bendery, down there.” She pointed out the window.
“It looks like somebody’s in the castle. Are they using it?” asked Craigen.
“It’s under control of the Transnistrians. Yeah, he says they’ve got some guards in there.”
Craigen’s brow furrowed as he strove to develop a mental map of his surroundings. “So that’s Moldova on that side and Transnister… Transistera…” he struggled unsuccessfully to pronounce the name.
“Transnistria,” Kedzierski corrected him effortlessly. “Yeah, this is the border. Up ahead is the commune of Varniţa, where we’re heading.”
“Commune?”
"Just think of it as a village," Kedzierski said. "Dee's taking us to meet with the district representative."
After thanking the Response Team profusely, the district representative (whose name Craigen could neither pronounce nor seem to remember) explained to them that due to Transnistria's status as an autonomous zone, the border here between Moldova and Ukraine was essentially closed. "The authorities in Chişinău seem to think that no one is coming here through Transnistria, so they are not sending anyone to help. But that’s not true. As the Russian holocaust escalates, people are becoming desperate and risking the dangerous passage over the mountains, crossing the Dniester River wherever they are able.”
At the word "holocaust," Craigen shot a look to Bolanger, who silently mouthed the words "Not now."
"As you can see," the district representative continued, "Our need is genuine, and growing every day. We have very many refugees that have made the dangerous crossing, and we are running out of places to put them. So far, you are the only ones who have come to help us."
“Ok Dee, what’s the deal with the ‘holocaust’ comment?” Craigen demanded. The tension in his shoulders made him hunch menacingly in the direction of the shorter Bolanger, the veins in his forehead bulging prominently.
They were standing on the edge of an unused wheat field where the district manager had arraigned for them to set up their tents. Thibido was directing the unloading of supplies from the truck convoy while Kedzierski and Georges were staking out the field. Craigen had chosen this moment of relative privacy to deliver his reprimand.
Craigen could tell that Bolanger was scared of him, as she should be. But he nevertheless admired her courage as she stood her ground and explained, “That’s ancient history, Rattle. There were 700 Jews shot here during WWII by the Romanians. In 1992, Bender was the main battlefield between the Moldovans and the Transnistrian army. Since then, there’ve been a couple of incidents of anti-Semitism at the Synagogue in Tiraspol, the capital city. But that was over twenty years ago. It's no big deal."
“Jews shot. No big deal! Are you kidding me?" Craigen shouted, pointing a huge, gnarled finger in Bolanger's face. "Dammit Dee, you've got to understand that in places like these, 'twenty years ago' is basically the same thing as 'yesterday.' When that district manager threw out the word ‘holocaust’ all my red flags went up. You get me?”
“Yeah Rattle, I get you.” Bolanger hung her head, but Craigen still sensed defiance, and he wasn’t about to let her off the hook.
“I don’t think you do!” He dropped his hand away from her face, but he leaned in closer, which was even worse. In a low voice, he continued, "Dee, I trusted you to do this assessment. You've got to bring these kinds of cultural dynamics to my attention immediately. As much as I want to assist the refugees here, the safety of my team comes first. We don't go into war zones, you know that. If this Ukrainian invasion goes sideways, I'll pull the whole damn team out of here in a heartbeat. You get me?"
Bolanger returned his glare, but her eyes were red-rimmed. “I get you Rattle. It won’t happen again.”
Craigen sensed he had communicated the urgency he felt. So he backed off. He blew out a breath. "OK. Well, look, the rest of your assessment's been spot-on. I think we're still at an acceptable risk level." He looked around at the actively developing camp, "There’s work to do. Are we good?”
“We’re good, Rattle.”
Craigen's cell phone buzzed. The text just read, “Checkpoint ASAP.” It was from Thibido.
The checkpoint was close to the Varniţa refugee camp his team set up the day before, just a few hundred meters away. Something was wrong, and he scrambled to get an interpreter to drive him the short distance.
"Good morning. What seems to be the problem?" Craigen relayed the message through his interpreter to an armed guard holding Thibido's apprentice, Fernando Bernal, at gunpoint. As he squeezed his ponderous bulk out of the undersized east European sedan, Craigen instinctively assumed an open pose with his hands down to his sides, open palms turned toward the guard in a universal gesture indicating he was not a threat. Craigen had learned over the years that he tended to scare people and he wanted to minimize that possibility now. As the young Transnistrian soldier swung the barrel of the AK47 rifle in his direction, Craigen put on his brightest smile and stopped walking forward.
“Seems this lil’ feller didn’t much appreciate Fernando taking pictures of the checkpoint gate,” Thibido drawled in his thick Cajun accent. He also stood with his hands down to his sides, open palms toward the guard, and he was grinning from ear to ear with a relaxed, toothy smile.
The guard began talking rapidly and gesturing with the barrel of his rifle. Craigen’s translator was working to communicate the urgent message. Photographs were not allowed. There was something about Transnistrian security, and something else about international law. Craigen kept smiling and nodding his head as if catching everything the guard was saying.
With his head and eyes swiveling in a way he hoped was discreet, Craigen surveyed the scene until he finally found what he was looking for. Even though Thibido spoke with a Cajun accent, his specific choice of words represented a coded message to Craigen. When Thibido said "lil' feller," he meant that there was a "big feller" out there somewhere. Craigen finally spotted him. The other guard was stationed behind a concrete barrier with what looked like some sort of crew-served weapons system. The whole area was covered by the machine gun.
“So why was Fernando taking pictures?” Craigen asked Thibido, still smiling.
“It was an accident Señor!” Bernal blurted out, which caused the guard to swivel his rifle back towards the apprentice. Unlike the two older men, Bernal was not smiling, he was shaking, and his hands were high up over his head. “I was just trying to get a better cell phone signal!”
“They seen the camera and pulled us over," Thibido explained calmly, eyes dreamy, almost like he was having the most relaxing day of his life. "We didn't have no interpreter with us on this run, so I couldn’t explain the situation.”
"Ok, I got it." Craigen nodded and began the process of explaining what happened through the interpreter he'd brought with him. Finally, he said, "Ok Fernando, we've got it all settled. Give the nice man your cell phone. And why don't you try taking a deep breath or two and putting on a little smile. Can you do that for me?"
“But Señor Rattle!” Bernal began to protest. "I've got all my personal data on that phone, contact numbers, family pictures…”
If possible, Craigen’s smile seemed to grow even brighter, but out of the corner of his eye he pinned the apprentice down with a piercing look. "They have a machine gun. I will buy you a new damn phone." He spoke slowly, and his tone was saccharine sweet. "Give the nice man your phone right now."
When Bernal complied, the hidden guard came out from behind the machine gun to investigate. As Craigen suspected, the second guard was a much older man. That old fox sent the kid out first while he stayed behind to mop things up if things got ugly. Smart.
Then the questioning began. Craigen considered that the Transnistrian guard might not have jurisdiction because they were technically on the Moldovan side of the border, but firepower has a way of creating its own jurisdictions. Besides, he had nothing to hide, so he answered the suspicious guard’s questions fully and openly. The name of his organization was PIRA. They were a Christian disaster relief agency from America here to help with the refugees from Ukraine. They were setting up a shelter facility a few hundred meters away in Varniţa.
“What refugees?” The guard demanded.
The question puzzled Craigen. There were millions of Ukrainians displaced by the Russian invasion. Caught off guard and not wanting to further provoke this cagey old pro-Russian soldier, all Craigen could do was stammer, "The Ukrainians…"
“We do not see any Ukrainians in Varniţa.” There was an extended discussion between the guard and the interpreter, who finally explained, “He says you have been tricked. These are only hoboes, bums. They are homeless, nothing more.”
Craigen understood. “Ahh,” he said, “the reports of Ukrainian refugees are just propaganda then?”
Another long discussion followed between the guard and interpreter. “Yes, that’s right. He says it is Fake News. There have been a few skirmishes, a couple of casualties. It is nothing. No refugees are coming."
"Once you're done getting Jones set up over there, why don't we all face in and have a quick huddle?" Craigen asked Bolanger in a gentle voice. She still seemed upset with him for the reprimand he’d given her. “I’ve got to call the boss in a couple of minutes and give the SITREP.”
The guard at the checkpoint had been right about one thing, there didn’t seem to be many people in need of emergency shelter here. The PIRA team was taking good care of the few families who had made it to their camp, but most tents were still empty. The team took advantage of the lull in activity to wash their clothes down by the Dniester riverbank. They sat on overturned plastic buckets, and Bolanger was instructing Jones in the art of hand-washing clothes. "You grab with one hand and twist with the other. You'll hear it squeak. Hear that? That will get your clothes as clean as a washing machine."
"It's better than any old washing machine," Kedzierski grunted over her shoulder. Then she turned her attention to Craigen, “What did you want to talk about, Rattle?”
The team rotated on their makeshift stools and faced in. “I’m not sure we’re in a good location.” Craigen came directly to the point. “I expected a lot more refugees than we’re getting. And we seem to have dropped down into the middle of some local animosities.”
Thibido’s brows went up, and he whistled through his mustache. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“I’ve been talking to some of the women in Camp,” Kedzierski added, “they’re telling me that it’s bad. They couldn’t get out using the roads, so they had to walk over the mountains, avoiding patrols of Russian soldiers. I think a lot more people are coming, and when they do get here, they are going to need us.”
“I’m hearing the Ukrainian people have got themselves a taste for liberty and freedom and are really takin’ the fight to them Ruskies.” Thibido spat in the dirt. “They might not need us a’toll if Putin goes slinkin’ back home with his tail between his legs.”
“What do you think, Dee?” Craigen wanted to be sure she knew that he valued her opinion.
Bolanger furrowed her brow in concentration. After a few moments, she said, "I think it all depends on how much the violence has escalated. The problem is that we can't get enough information here to really know what that level is. But my gut tells me this is going to get a lot worse. I’m with Curly that we should stay here and get ready for a big influx …unless that puts the team in unacceptable danger.” She added this last comment and returned her gaze to look pensively at Craigen.
Craigen nodded. She gets it.
“Can we call OPS and ask them if they think the Ukrainians are going to hold the line?” Bolanger asked.
Craigen was about to answer when his words were cut short by a shrill scream coming from the river's edge. Kedzierski had gone to refill her water bucket. She was splashing, knee-deep in the shallow, icy water pulling desperately at something that seemed to be stuck there. "Help me! Oh God, please help me!" she screamed again.
As one, the Response Team rushed to her side. ““Hang on Curly! Are you hurt?” Craigen called.
She held what looked like a small bundle of rags in her arms, and she was straining to drag it toward shore. "It's a baby! It's a baby!" she wept, on the verge of hysteria.
Craigen’s blood ran cold as he reached her side. He thrust his hands into the dark, frigid water and found the baby was tied to something. He grabbed the rope to free it and saw another small bundle. It moved towards him, and he saw tiny blue fingers emerge out of the murk. Then he saw another body, and another. "They're all tied together!"
The alarm spread quickly, and soon the entire commune of Varniţa turned out to dredge the river. As the hours passed, they found more bodies. Dozens, perhaps even more than a hundred people, all drowned together. Kedzierski had found a mother tied together with her three small children. The authorities were slow to respond, and rumors spread wildly through the tiny community. Some said it was refugees desperately attempting a river crossing. Some suspected a Transnistrian massacre.
The Response Team left the river's edge and returned to their encampment. They’re done, Craigen thought. No one should have to witness horror like that. But inside, he struggled with the purpose of his team. How many more people are trying to get here?
He made his report via sat phone to the OPS center. When he finished, Craigen exhaled a sigh of profound exhaustion. “What do you want us to do, Chief?”
You are the chief of the PIRA Operations Center. You make the call:
Choose Option 1: The Ukrainians are fighting back hard, and the Russian forces are demoralized and collapsing. It looks like this conflict is de-escalating. Stay in Varniţa and provide what support you can. You are the only relief team in that area.
Choose Option 2: The Ukrainians are fighting back hard, but the Russians are becoming increasingly ruthless. The whole situation is escalating out of control. Abort the mission and get your team back to Chişinău now.