Landmark 1b. Ukrainian Resistance Collapses
The next morning after breakfast, the Response Team members 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 Palanca, Craigen, Bolanger, and Jones were 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 turned south onto R30, Craigen was generally impressed by the quality of the roads. We usually get our teeth rattled out during this part of the operation, he mused, reflecting on countless missions to developing countries. Paved roads are a wonderful invention.
"Where are we now, Dee?" Bolanger had her head down, studying the GPS locater on her cell phone. They had been riding in the minivan for about two hours, and the flat farming country seemed to run together. Craigen didn’t want to accidentally cross an international border.
“We're coming up on a left-hand turn onto R52. That will take us to the village of Tudora. It's right on the border. From there, we work our way south through town to our destination near the Palanca checkpoint.”
“I can tell we’re getting close,” Craigen commented grimly.
His tone caused Bolanger to glance up from her GPS, trying to get a view of their convoy ahead. "Is Curly making the turn?"
“No, not yet. But look at the traffic." Craigen nodded his head towards the window. An endless line of cars and trucks of all descriptions passed by them, heading in the opposite direction.
The UNHCR regional refugee coordinator was described to Craigen as a “mid-level” manager from the Multi-Sector Group responsible for the local distribution of Shelter and Non-Food Items (NFI). More like a “low-level” manager, Craigen thought darkly. The ongoing refugee operation at the Palanca checkpoint was massive, involving dozens of relief organizations from all over the world. The refugee coordinator was clearly overwhelmed, stressed out, and obviously unconcerned about the needs and questions of some tiny American group with their four trucks full of tents. He was rude and dismissive.
Kedzierski had been arguing with him for twenty minutes, and Craigen could tell she was reaching her boiling point. "Just tell him to point me to a chunk of ground, and we'll take care of the rest!" She shouted at her translator.
When Craigen moved forward to help smooth the situation, he brought Bolanger with him because she spoke French (albeit with a Quebec accent) and he though it might help. She stood several inches taller than the refugee coordinator, and instantly caught his attention. She smiled disarmingly, seemingly unaware of her natural beauty, “Bonjour, puis-Je vous aider?" She asked if she could be of assistance with a melodious tone more suited for dining in a fine restaurant, than setting up a refugee camp.
Is she flirting with him? Craigen was aghast, as much by the audacity of his team member as by the near-instant change in demeanor it caused in the coordinator. No one could deny that Diesa Bolanger was a beautiful woman, but to see that beauty applied so ruthlessly was a wonder to behold. This petty bureaucrat stood no chance against her. Even in the middle of a disaster zone… Craigen fought the urge to shake his head in disbelief.
"He's assigned us about half a hectare, just south of the highway," Bolanger explained, laying a photocopy of a map on the hood of one of their trucks.
Craigen and Kedzierski exchanged a brief look of astonishment. “Way to go, Dee!” Craigen clapped his protégé on the shoulder, and the team got to work.
“As the coastal cities of Kherson, Mykolaiv, and now Odesa have come under attack," the refugee coordinator read from a prepared script, "the situation along the highway from Mayaky to Palanca has grown desperate."
Craigen was sitting in yet another coordination meeting. He didn't need to be told that the situation had grown desperate. He could step outside this tent and see the cars and trucks backed up to the horizon. Nothing was moving. Many of the vehicles had run out of fuel. Efforts to push them out of the way were hampered by the deep mud of the wet farm fields on one side of the road, and the Dniester River on the other. Some dangerously overloaded motorcycles and a few tiny cars could still navigate along the route. However, for all practical purposes, the highway was blocked. Desperate families facing dangerously plunging temperatures were now gathering up what they could carry and making the long walk to the Moldovan checkpoint.
“We’ve lifted nearly all the passport and identification requirements,” the coordinator continued. What had previously been a challenging bureaucratic process now turned the checkpoint into what amounted to an open border. “And we have eliminated the COVID restrictions for travel.”
Well hallelujah, it’s about time! Craigen had to suppress a snort, but he managed to roll his eyes discreetly. Then he received the text.
It just read, “Fight, need you ASAP.” It was from Kedzierski. Craigen rose abruptly from his seat and unceremoniously bolted for the tent door.
For a big man, Craigen could move with surprising speed. Frightened bystanders literally dove out of his way as he barreled across the refugee camp towards the PIRA compound. As Craigen rounded the last row of tents, he got his first glimpse of the fight. In the space of several heavily labored breaths, he learned all he needed to know to take action.
Two men were grappling, their struggles hampered by heavy coats. A heavily built younger man wearing a leather jacket and woolen skull cap had just thrown an older, bearded man to the ground. Pressing his advantage, the younger man fell upon his victim and rained a series of brutal, vicious blows across the bearded face. Craigen arrived just as leather jacket was reaching for a rock to finish the job.
The full impact of Craigen's 260 lb. frame at a dead spring hit leather jacket from the side like a locomotive. As the two men rolled together across the muddy patch of agricultural field, Craigen took the opportunity to maneuver into the rear-naked chokehold position. Positioning his heels into the man's inner thighs, Craigen 'dug his hooks in,' then forced the blade of his right forearm underneath the man’s chin and anchored it by clasping the inside of his left elbow. Craigen rolled onto his back, with the hapless attacker on top of him, and flexed his massive core muscles, bringing irresistible pressure to the arteries supplying blood to leather jacket's brain.
“Go to sleep. Just go to sleep now.” Craigen whispered softly into the man’s ear as he struggled futilely against suffocation. Then finally he said, “Good night.” It had taken less than eight seconds.
The chaotic sounds of the agitated onlookers washed over him in a wave. “You killed him!” someone shouted.
"Naw… he'll be fine in a minute," Craigen grunted as he tossed the man aside so he could stand up in the slippery mud. “I went easy on him. But somebody needs to tie him up until the cops get here.”
Kedzierski offered Craigen a hand. He stood with difficulty, trying in vain to wipe some of the mud from his back.
"Thanks, Curly." Craigen gave up on the mud and glared suspiciously around the camp. The onlookers fell silent, and most glanced away, unable to meet the big man’s gaze. “Anybody else giving you trouble here? Or are we good?”
“No, that was the only troublemaker. We’re good, Rattle.” Kedzierski hesitated just a heartbeat before answering. The way she said it made Craigen wonder how long they had until 'good' became real trouble.
“Did we ever figure out what they were fighting about?” Craigen asked the team as they sat together over the evening meal.
Kedzierski had taken the lead in dealing with the Moldovan police, who arrived sometime later. “The story I’m getting is that the older man was an Orthodox priest. He’d made some sort of comment to the other guy…”
“Leather jacket?” Craigen asked.
"Yes. Apparently, that guy is a Ukrainian of Russian descent. I watched him throw the first punch.”
“What did the priest say that triggered him?
“From what I gathered, it was that the Russian invasion was God’s judgment on Ukraine.”
Craigen’s eyebrows shot up, and he whistled through his teeth. “That would make the Russians into the Babylonians.”
"Or the Romans in AD 70," Thibido observed wryly. "Either way, it paints the Russians as the bad guy. I can see why a feller might take offense to that.”
“This is not God’s judgment on Ukraine!” Kedzierski spat indignantly.
“How can you be so sure, Curly?” There was a twinkle in Thibido’s eye as he goaded his teammate. He knew this was a sensitive subject with her. “God’s used invading armies to punish civilizations lots of times.”
"Well, first of all," Kedzierski retorted, "there was no prophetic warning. A prophetic warning always precedes apocalyptical judgments, as with Moses before the Exodus, Jeremiah before the First Temple, or Jesus before the Second Temple. Are you aware of any prophecies against Ukraine before this all began, Scooter?”
“Can’t say as I am, Curly.” Thibido conceded. “But then again, I ain’t never even heard of Moldova before we came here, neither. Who’s to say that God didn’t send somebody out to call the Ukrainians to repent before he sent the Ruskies along to settle up?”
“That’s just ignorant, Scooter.” Kedzierski finally caught on that Thibido’s true motive was merely to irritate her, and she was having no more of it. "I'm aware of no sins that would warrant Russian aggression. That makes Ukraine innocent. It's Vladimir Putin who will have to answer for his immoral acts."
Craigen held up two arms and stepped between them like a referee at a cage match. “Whoa, whoa, you two,” he chided. “It’s not our job to choose sides around here. We’re just doing our part to relieve the suffering.”
“The fact remains, though,” Thibido drawled, “we got us a crazy situation out there, Rattle. And we don’ really know nuthin’ about it. Now dey got that border open to everybody. Ain’t no tellin’ who or what’s gonna come rollin’ through that checkpoint over there.”
"I don't care if the Devil himself comes through that checkpoint, Scooter. If they’re cold, we’re gonna put ‘em in a tent. If they’re hungry, we’re gonna feed ‘em." Craigen's eyes turned far away to look off into the distance, "What I'm really worried about is if they start coming through all shot up. We're not prepared for that."
A hushed silence fell across the team. Craigen got a distinct impression that he'd spoken too much, revealing a hidden anxiety that his team was not used to seeing in him. Their eyes turned to him now, expectantly. He felt the overwhelming need to reassure this tiny band of amazing people, my people.
“Like I said, Scooter,” Craigen flexed his massive arms and cracked his knuckles menacingly, “I don’t care if the Devil himself comes through that checkpoint. We’re gonna stay right here and deal with it, or even chase him out of here. It’s beginning to sound like they might even need us in Kyiv before this whole thing is over.”
“Really?” asked Fernando Bernal. Fernando was Thibido’s apprentice. Everyone just called him Fernando because he was too new to have earned a team nickname yet. He’d been messing with his cell phone, trying to get a better signal. He put that down now and looked questioningly at Craigen.
“Really.” Craigen nodded. “That's what we do. We go wherever the need is greatest.”
The sound of sirens sliced through the early morning darkness. Scrambling from their tents, people emerged to see bursts of light on the horizon. As they milled bout in confusion, trying to piece together what was happening, a distant low roar shattered the night sky with the furious crashing sound of jet aircraft flying low above them. People screamed in panic, diving for what cover they could find. Craigen didn't move. There was no cover here that could protect them if they were the target. He just scowled as he watched the afterburners of the Russian warplanes as they headed back to their bases in Crimea.
For the next twenty-four hours, everyone at the refugee camp worked to assist the endless lines of injured and wounded staggering pitifully through the checkpoint. It seemed to Craigen that everyone had shrapnel wounds, lacerations, or burns. It was the burned children that affected him most, how could anyone do this? It's barbaric, subhuman. Still, he forced his legs to keep pumping and his hands to keep carrying victim after victim to the hasty aid stations that had been set up. He wanted to quit. He wanted to cry. But he wasn't going to allow himself that luxury, and he wouldn't allow his team that luxury either. So he pushed himself, and he pushed them. And they kept working until members of another relief organization came to relieve them at the checkpoint.
The Response Team left the checkpoint and returned to their encampment. We’re done, Craigen thought. No one should have to witness horror like that. But inside, he struggled to balance his team's purpose against their capacity to keep working under these conditions. How many more people are still 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 Russian attacks on civilian humanitarian relief corridors have been devastating. However, the Russian military supply lines are also falling apart. This won’t be over anytime soon, and we're concerned about the strain on your Choir. It’s time to start planning for a relief team to come replace you.
Choose Option 2: The Russian attacks on civilian humanitarian relief corridors have been devastating. However, the Russian military supply lines are also falling apart. Massive relief supplies are now en route to your location, and we need you to keep working in Palanca. You need to hang tough, this won’t be over anytime soon.