T2 Surprise-Free: Russia Wins
“Are we ever going to bug outta here, Rattle?” Thibido asked wearily. The two men stood next to each other on a serving line in a makeshift kitchen. Thibido was ladling out bowls of stew while Craigen dished out spoonfuls of vegetables.
“HQ seems to think this war is wrapping up.” Craigen concentrated on not spilling the contents of his spoon, and he made sure to look the elderly man he was serving in the eye and give him a warm smile. "Now that Kyiv’s fallen, the diplomats are finally motivated to make a deal.”
“You mean Putin’s finally got enough leverage now to really put da screws to ‘em?” Thibido challenged, “Rattle, its plumb evil what’s happened to these poor people.” Thibido was also careful to keep his tone upbeat and a smile on his face as they talked. Both men were banking on the people in the serving line not understanding enough English to follow their bleak conversation.
“Kyiv’s fallen, but this isn’t over.” Craigen’s stretched for a moment to ease the ache in his back. “There hasn’t been any letup in the number of people coming through that checkpoint. As long as we’ve got people pouring in here, we’re going to stay and take care of them.”
“C’mon Rattle, you know we need to be getting’ out of here.” Thibido cast his ladle down roughly so that it clanged alarmingly in the now-empty pot. "What are we doin’ here anyway? Dey got a million aid workers crawlin’ ‘round here now. We’re a Response Team, dis ain’t what we do!”
Craigen was dumbfounded. “What are you talking about, Scooter?” he asked. “I don’t like it either, but we’ve been ordered to stay. What, you just want to go back home now?”
“You don’t like it?” Thibido snorted. “Dammit Rattle, It’s not about liking it or not liking it. What I’m saying is that it’s just plumb wrong to use our Choir for this purpose." He waived around the kitchen serving line. Mercifully, there was no longer anyone waiting to be served. "Our donors put up good money to send us here to deliver and build shelters. You know as well as I do that it’s time to go. That’s it.”
Craigen could feel his pulse quickening and let loose a tremendous sigh to cool the heat flushing his face. “First of all, you don’t use that kind of language with me, Scooter.” Now Craigen waved a finger in Thibido’s face. “Second of all, our donors sent us here to provide disaster relief. They didn’t specify whether that meant shelter, assessments, or serving meals. Just because this isn’t glamorous work doesn’t mean we get to take off. We’re staying. That’s it!”
“All right, I got us a new job.” Craigen began briefing the members of the Response Team. He’d just returned from the early morning Cluster meeting. “They’ve assigned us to mortuary affairs.”
“Mortuary affairs?” Thibido’s tone was incredulous. “What d’ya mean by that? D’ya mean burial detail?”
“I don't want to hear it, Scooter. You're the one who didn't want to work in the kitchen." Craigen held up his hand to ward off the objection. "Besides, almost all the work they have going on over there is administrative; checking people's identification, assisting them with travel arraignments, and contacting loved ones. Last I checked, none of us speak any of the languages around here. So what do you want them to do with us?"
“Aw Rattle!” Thibido threw his arms in the air. "You mean to tell me the only job they got for us to do is bury the dead? You've got to be kidding me!"
“There are no small parts, just small players. You know that.” Craigen quipped humorlessly. He’d known this would be a hard sell. “The Russians are shelling Odesa now, and the bodies are piling up. The medical teams are bagging them, and they've got a couple of guys with excavators digging the graves. We've got to help put these people in the ground, or we'll have all kinds of disease and trouble here."
Thibido’s face blanched. “I can’t do it, Rattle.”
“What? It’s not like you’ve never seen a corpse before. What do you want them to do? Just use a bulldozer to dump them into mass graves?”
“Rattle, maybe we should let Scooter…” but Kedzierski didn’t get to finish her sentence.
“Just stop right there, Curly.” Craigen snapped. “I’ve had it with all the whining and complaints. That goes for all of you.” The PIRA team spent the next half hour going over the details of the assignment. Long faces looked resignedly at notepads as salient details were dutifully recorded. The usual bantering cross-talk was absent. For the first time he could remember, Craigen actually felt ashamed of his team. Work was work, and sometimes it was dirty. He wished they’d just cowboy up and get the job done.
“Rattle, you’ve got to come ASAP!” Bolanger came crashing through Craigen’s tent door.
In a blind rush, he was up off his cot and on his feet with one hand cocked to strike a crippling blow before Craigen woke up enough to realize who it was. "Dee! What are you doing! What's the matter?”
“It’s Scooter!” Bolanger grabbed Craigen’s arm and started dragging him outside. “He’s gone crazy!”
“Let me get my pants on, Dee. It’s two o’clock in the morning!” Craigen leaped and hopped to draw them up over his waist and fumbled with the buttons as he ran outside in the snow. “What’s he done now?”
Bolanger led Craigen to a crowd of anxious people assembled outside the tent kitchen. “Let us through! Let us through!” she shouted in vain.
The deafening sound of automatic gunfire ripped through the still night air. Shrieks filled his ears as Craigen watched the entire crowd dropped for cover together like the fronds of a sea anemone.
“No Scooter!” Bolanger screamed.
Craigen exploded into action and bulled his way through the crowd, tossing smaller men out of his way like chaff. He flung open the kitchen door and braced himself for the worst.
Inside, Thibido stood among a tangled ruin of overturned tables, chairs, and serving stations. The place looked like a hurricane had blown through. In one hand was a bottle of some kind, in the other a still-smoking AK47 assault rifle. “Oh Scooter, what have you done?”
Thibido turned to stare blearily at his friend. “Who dat? Oh, howdy Rattle, how you doin'?" In the process of turning, he swung the barrel of the rifle, flagging Craigen, Bolanger, and the people still scrambling outside the tent.
Both hands up, Craigen said, “Scooter, listen to me. Put down that gun. Just put it down.”
“What, this?” Thibido flagged Craigen again as he lifted it up to see it better. "You like this? I got it from a genuine freedom fighter. Genuine freedom fighter! Whoowee! Sure enough gave those Ruskies a taste of their own medicine. Sure enough…" His words slurred together, and he staggered heavily against a post.
“C’mon Scooter,” Craigen stepped closer. “Give me the gun. Have you shot someone?”
“Aw noooo, Rattle, c'mon now! You know I'd never hurt a fly.” He took a swig from the bottle, then offered it to Craigen. “Wanna join my little party?”
“I heard you shoot, Scooter. Who’d you shoot?”
“C’mon!” Thibido threw the bottle, smashing it. “C'mon, I told you I wouldn't never hurt nobody! I just popped a few in the air to get them to back off me." With one hand, he pointed the barrel back at Craigen, "To BACK OFF me!"
Craigen stopped moving forward. He took a deep breath, lowered his hands to his side, palms out, and forced a grin to his face. "Well, that's too bad! Here I thought you'd gone and grabbed old Putin by the tail and settled this thing once and for all!"
The demonic mask of rage Thibido wore as an expression held Craigen's gaze for a long, tremulous moment. Then it broke sloppily into a wide familiar grin, “Oh, you're tellin' a joke, ain'tcha, Rattle… That's a good joke.”
The rifle now hung loosely by Thibido's side, apparently forgotten. “Why don't you just give me that, Scooter.”
“Oh, OK Rattle, you hold onto this for me… have you seen my bottle.”
Craigen took the rifle, dropped the magazine, and ejected the chambered round. Once he was sure it was clear, he placed it as far out of reach as possible before turning back to his friend, who was stumbling around in the darkness, looking for his lost bottle.
“C’mere, bro." Craigen gently grabbed Thibido's arm, supporting him. Thibido stumbled again and wrapped his arms around Craigen's neck. He reeked of alcohol. "Where'd you get booze?"
“From my freedom fighter. My freedom…” Thibido trailed off. “I guess I figured he couldn’t use it no more. Curly was real good to him. She said real nice words over him when we put him in the ground… I love Curly, don’t cha just love Curly, Rattle?”
“Yeah, I love her too, bro.” Craigen looked towards the door, mentally calculating the path they would have to take to navigate the debris that scattered the room. “We got to get you out of here now, Scooter. Let’s put you to bed.”
Thibido pulled him up short and made a gesture like a lecturer giving a presentation, “Have you noticed how it's only the old people, women, and kids that come through the checkpoint? Have you? You know why that is?”
“Because the men stay behind to fight?” Craigen knew this was the reason.
“That's right! The men stay behind to fight!” Thibido apparently felt he was making some powerful argument. "But you know who we have been burying day after day? Do ya know? It's men, right? Right? Boys mostly, but then everyone looks like a kid to me nowadays."
Craigen continued guiding his friend towards the exit. “I know, Scooter.”
“That’s because they’re tryin’ to take the freedom fighters who got wounded to the hospital!” Thibido made a show of walking straight, “But they ain’t never gonna make it to no hospital, 'cause they've been blown apart. Freedom fighters blown apart. Most of them just boys. Just boys like my Randy… just like Randy….”
I’ve destroyed my friend. Craigen thought as Thibido began to sob violently. Great wracking sobs erupting from a shattered heart. I didn’t even think about what this might be doing to him. Thibido fell to his knees and began to wretch violently. He turned to see Bolanger standing in the doorway watching them. “Help me get him out of here,” he begged.
How long have we known each other? Craigen wondered, Eight years? Ten? So many deployments together. Now that’s all gone. He experienced a physical sensation at Thibido’s absence. Like an amputee missing a limb. He squeezed his eyes tightly together, willing the sensation to pass. It didn’t.
Kedzierski had left with Thibido and his apprentice Fernando Bernal back to Chişinău to catch the next available flight back to the US. The Moldovan authorities were overwhelmed with the refugee crisis, and because no one had been injured, they’d mercifully allowed Thibido to avoid prosecution.
The bitter taste of Craigen’s strong, black coffee matched his mood as he considered what remained of his team. Only four members of the Choir left now, he thought ruefully, but it doesn’t matter anyway. PIRA’s been permanently banned. His team was busy packing up what remained of their operation. They were now considered “undesirables” by the Moldovan government, personas non grata.
To make matters worse, now he had to listen as Bolanger explain Jones’ decision to join up with the Ukrainian resistance. “The consensus is that decentralized forces will continue with guerilla attacks. Putin will find Ukraine to be ungovernable in the long run."
Jones is a fool, thought Craigen.
“President Zelenskyy has been evacuated to Poland,” Bolanger was scrolling the headlines of some news source on her cell phone. “From his hospital bed, he is ordering the Ukrainian Armed forces to lay down their arms and pull back from the cities of Mariupol, Kharkiv, and Kyiv.”
“You mean, pull back from what’s left of them.” Craigen dropped his coffee cup dejectedly. They’re nothing but rubble now.”
“This says the price in civilian casualties was too high to pay any longer,” Bolanger continued. “In a settlement brokered by the Israelis, Russia has agreed to an immediate ceasefire in exchange for guarantees that Ukraine will never become a NATO member, the formal recognition of the 2014 annexation of Crimea, and the independence of the ‘People’s Republics’ of Donetsk and Luhansk in the eastern Donbas region." Bolanger kept reading silently and intently. Finally, skipping ahead to read aloud the part of the article that captured her attention, "It also says that the Russian government is making it clear to Moldova that it seeks recognition of independence for the autonomous region of Transnistria as part of the ceasefire agreements.”
“What are they going to do with Kyiv, Dee?” Craigen asked, only mildly curious. My whole Choir’s gone.
“I’m not sure.” Bolanger kept busy scrolling as if to avoid bearing witness to the grief that was dragging Craigen under. "Putin keeps talking about the 'de-Nazification' of Ukraine, whatever that means." She took a sip of water, hand trembling. "I think it means they're installing some sort of puppet government, but I can't really tell from this article."
“Whoa, Putin’s really carving it up," Craigen said flatly, and rose to leave.
He listened to some long explanation on the phone before countering, "I'm not attending the Cluster meetings anymore, Chief. We’re just trying to arraign transportation back to the US. We’re done.”
“I understand your frustration, Rattle.” The PIRA Operations Officer tried, and failed, to sound reassuring. “But there’s still work for your team in Moldova. Don’t you see? You've helped so many people. You made the right call sticking it out.”
“You bastard!” Craigen exploded. "I didn't make that call. You did! You told me I had to keep the Choir here. We should've never listened to you! You knew we were exhausted, but you kept on pushing. You’re a complete idiot!”
“Just settle down, Rattle!” The Operations Officer countered desperately. “If we pull your team out now, PIRA might never get another deployment.”
“If I hadn’t listened to you, Scooter would be OK now. My team is blown to pieces. I’m blown to pieces too. Don’t ever call me Rattle again, because I quit! You and PIRA can go…” Craigen never finished the sentence because, in a rage, he smashed the sat phone into pulp.
You are the Chief of the PIRA Operations Center. You make the call:
Choose Option 1: You have failed in your humanitarian relief mission, and you have failed to preserve your team. Choose this option if you wish to return to the start point and retrace your steps to determine where you went wrong.
Choose Options 2: You have failed in your humanitarian relief mission, and you have failed to preserve your team. Choose this option if you wish to quit this exercise in Directed Fiction and continue to the solutions page to learn more about how these scenarios were developed.