Irina Spalko rappelled cautiously down the wind-scoured cliff, the cacophonous roar of the river rushing up to meet her. As she descended, she mulled over the casualties inflicted by that miserable lout, Jones, during their most recent engagement. She was especially unhappy about the beating and…consumption of her second-in-command. It felt strange not to have Colonel Dovchenko by her side. A creature of habit, Spalko had grown used to his constant presence, the reassurance of instantaneous support, should the need arise. Losses, however, were a fact of life on the field. They had both understood that, planned for it. Even now, his final letter sat, folded precisely, in the bottom of his rucksack in the truck. She knew this because she had written it for him.
Dovchenko was mostly illiterate, having received a third-grade education before he joined the army at age fourteen. He had been ashamed to admit this ignorance, finally deciding that his old comrade-in-arms was the only one who could be trusted not to ridicule him. So Spalko had penned it, a few weeks prior to their departure for Nevada. The letter would go to his sole living relative, a cousin in Moscow.
Irina tightened her grip on the rope and continued to descend, ignoring its ominous creaking under her weight. She looked around her, found her soldiers beginning to slow a little. "Davai," she snapped irritably. They quickened their pace, with nods of acknowledgment. "I want to overtake Jones within the hour!" More nods.
Without Dovchenko, Dr. Spalko felt strange, unbalanced. A sensation displeasingly similar to…grief. She shook her head at herself, forcing away the memory of his final, agonized writhing. Nonetheless, she was unnerved. All the more reason to focus on the task at hand.
Irina had no time for such distractions now. But, when her quest was over, perhaps she would deliver that letter herself, with her condolences.
It was a reassuring prospect.