A/N: I totally have a thing for Spetznaz. These guys are hardcore. If you've ever seen them they do just AMAZING ridiculously cool stuff like shooting while combat-rolling and other just amazing stuff. They're the whole reason I bought a Makarov. And the Kalashnikov bayonet.

In other news, I may need surgery on my wrist. The other day an orthopedist called it 'the worst case he'd ever seen' and that most people (implying, non-idiots) would have taken care of it before it got this bad. I suck. It's apparently medically verifiable now.

XXVI

Russian Airstrip

Optimus was a little surprised to see the unit standing on the edge of the runway was dressed in American uniforms. Including nametapes in English. The men standing in the rigid formation didn't look like Americans at all. Leaner, tighter. Less friendly. Not a smile among the bunch. Well, Optimus considered, this is their first time. We are feeling each other out, and in the circumstances, perhaps a little wariness is a good thing.

He crouched down close to the unit's leader, who stood in front of the formation. "My name," he said, "is Optimus Prime."

The soldier leapt to attention. "Captain Kozakh," he said, crisply, in only mildly-accented English. "Commanding the 14th GRU Spetsnaz." He gestured at the men behind him, who barely seemed to move enough to breathe. They stood more still than mechs.

"We can, if it's easier, speak your language," Optimus said.

"No need," Kozakh said, blankly. "We wish not to inconvenience you. It is also," he continued, "why we wear the American uniforms. We want you to be as comfortable as possible." They didn't look very comfortable. Several of the uniforms had heavy creases as if from long storage, and more than one had rather crude patching. Still, Optimus thought, the intention was good. The effort was appreciated, if unnecessary.

"That is," he acknowledged, "most kind of you."

Kozakh managed a thin smile. "We have a briefing room prepared, if you and your me—" he paused as Flareup rolled up, "men are ready."

"Yes, certainly." Optimus ushered the bots into the open hangar. It was nothing like Diego Garcia. Heavy orange extension cables ran from floor to the fluorescent lights in the ceiling; some held in place by what Optimus had heard the Air Force refer to as hundred-mile-an-hour tape. The walls, once some shade of white, were splotched and bubbled with rust, the concrete floor pitted where, presumably, vehicles had once dripped fuel. Kozakh led them to a chalkboard at the far end, away from any windows.

"We are told that the enemy, these Decepticons, have satellite surveillance," he apologized, as he crowded them into the far end. "And that they can access electronic information." He flipped the chalkboard over, to where someone had drawn—in painstaking detail—a topographical map. "This," he said, "is what your American allies would call the AO." He picked up a piece of red chalk. "We have spotted one of the enemy robots around here," he circled an area. "The helicopters are using this salient," another red mark, "for their taking-offs. Takeoffs," he corrected himself. "Radiant around them," his English was…odd, but Optimus could follow, "smaller robots, which we have heard designated as 'drones'." He looked up. "You are familiar with these? These drones?"

"Yes," Optimus said.

"Good." He flipped open a binder on a table next to him where a photograph lay in a page protector. "This is one of them."

"Starscream," Cliffjumper said. "Bad news."

"You cannot defeat him?"

"Oh," Sideswipe said, "we sure can. Bad news for him." Cliffjumper nodded, but less enthusiastically.

"The helicopter," Kozakh flipped to another page. "Possibly this one."

"Blackout."

"Yes. He looks like one of your American's attack helicopters. At first we thought our airspace had been invaded by the Americans. We were…initially…relieved to find that that was not the case."

He fanned out more pages—color photographs, non-aerial, of the area of operations, and got down to business, outlining possibly vectors of approach. Optimus was impressed. Even though the Russians claimed to never have fought against the Decepticons before, Captain Kozakh had already weighed out several theories in his battle plan, such as visibility, armament availability, and even statistical analysis. He'd said, for example, that only rarely did Starscream start a fight from the ground, speculating that if they approached hard and fast, he would go airborne.

Even Sideswipe, who hated any plan that didn't involve a direct charge at the enemy, was impressed by Kozakh's knowledge. "I like this guy," he whispered to Optimus. "Can we keep him?"

"He is not a pet, Sideswipe."

Sideswipe laughed. "That's an image, right? Though I think he'd be a better match with Ironhide. Same sour puss face." Kozakh looked up from where he was explaining to Cliffjumper the location of long-range artillery assets.

"Is this information irrelevant?" he asked, quietly.

"No," Cliffjumper said, quickly. "Sideswipe doesn't focus very well. Surely you have men like that."

Kozakh looked over to where his men had fallen out. They sat in quite groups, cleaning and readying equipment. Flareup was moving among them, trying to engage them in conversation. They answered her, politely, but kept their hands working. "They would not survive our training."

Sideswipe's smile faltered a bit. Then, "You don't know what you're missing out on, then. I'll have to show you."

"Don't you dare frag this up trying to show off," Ironhide said, abruptly. The first thing he'd said since boarding the plane. Wasn't quite the old Ironhide, but getting there. Sideswipe grinned.

"Hey, whose side are you on, anyway?"

Ironhide's gaze went to Flareup and back. "Whichever side lets me take a swing at Starscream."