Chapter 3-Pain
Victoria was looking over a map of the territory surrounding Forks, Washington. It had been hours since she took a break, and she could feel the exhaustion in her bones.
Peter walked up to her with a cup of stolen coffee, "Why don't you rest up Tory? You've been up for hours looking at this damned map."
The former Army Communications Specialist shook her head, "No, no, NO!!" She yelled, "We will prove ourselves. We must. Wolf Group will have its success. I'll finally have to stop hearing the calls for the God damned Upir every hour. Maybe they'll call on Wolf Base for once," A loud bang could be heard throughout the cabin as she slammed her fists on the table, "Why do we have to be cursed with Upir? Huh Pete? Had James not gotten himself shot down…" Tears burst out of her eyes, the cruel day of the second invasion coming back…
…It was a glorious fight, American Fighter Jets dueling superior numbers of Soviet Bombers and Fighters. First Lieutenant James Frasier of the fledgling US Air Force was one of the first pilots in the sky, flying a SU-47 the Russians had left behind. Before leaving her forever, he gave her a passionate kiss and promised to return. It was an empty promise, they both knew it.
When she had heard the news two days later from his commander, the only surviving member of the Wolf Pack Fighter Squadron, he told a tale of heroism and courage. It was a story she didn't want to hear. A tale of how in stunning aerial maneuvers he took out five fighters and two bombers, in reality making no dent in the literally thousands of bombers and Tens of Thousands of Fighters darkening the skies of the West Coast. Knowing he was only making things worse, the commander tossed his wings on the table, "I'm at your bidding my lady."
She looked up at him, tears still streaming down her face, "Thank you Pete…"
…That had been eight months ago, eight painful months. She still wore the ring; she still loved him with all her heart. Pete and her started out with six fighters, all Air Force or Army personnel. After a series of hit and run missions, they were given an assignment to destroy a Soviet motor pool. It was disastrous, all but two fighters dying in the resulting battle. On top of that Soviet Snipers had tracked the survivors to the location of the fighter's camp. Later that night a tank company along with a squadron of attack helicopters wiped out the small village.
Wolf had never been entrusted with a single mission since. A month ago central command for the loosely organized insurgent movement informed her that she was getting an expert Soviet killer, only giving her a name, Gregory Richardson.
She never did admit how much he had affected her the moment she saw his face, how much he looked like James. But when she saw the cold hardness in his eyes, she knew he was no James, his voice to professional and aloof to be the caring man she married. When he mentioned his rifle, she suddenly despised him. Snipers had ruined her reputation, and there was nothing the Russians were more proud of than their own snipers.
Pete put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "Give him a chance. He's been a real asset to the movement. The enemy fear him," He pointed to the poster the Beth had put on the wall opposite the fireplace, "They are offering any civilian a two and a half million ruble award to anyone who brings in the Upir, that's a hundred thousand dollars. Any soldier who kills him gets the Order of Lenin and will be put in for Hero the Soviet Union."
"He's a god with that rifle of his," she shot a look at him, "I know how much you despise snipers, but he's the best fighter we have."
She rushed to her radios, "That's great, let's create a shrine to him and sacrifice animals to please him. He's impervious to pain, to emotion, to distractions. Yes, let's all praise the Messiah; he has come to lead us to paradise."
At that moment the door flung open, revealing the source of her anger. Gregory walked in, nodding at the pair, and dropped off his rifle and picked up a book and walked out again without a word. It was such a common ritual with him. They all knew it by now. Pete was the first one to say something, "If you despise him that much I'm sure there are many other places that will take him. In his defense he has let you keep command of a unit he would be justified taking."
With that she stormed to the door, the last sentence setting her completely off, "Don't be rash Tory!" She barely registered the plea, her mind occupied with the most caustic and straight forward way to tell him off.
When she finally found him, all thoughts of cruelty and revenge came to a screaming halt. She saw the Upir as a man. He held his cloak tightly around him, fending off the cold that never seemed to bother him. In his hand was a worn velvet box which he stared at, a sad and pained look on his face. She watched as he flipped the box open, the inside showing a quick glint of gold. A ring? For who?
"Amour, how I miss you. Our life cut together cut short by Soviets. I will never stop until they do or until I am dead," She heard him choke up a little. His voice, usually cold was now very tender and poetic, "either will be a relief, I…" A crunch of leaves brought his Colt out in an instant, his moment gone and voice back to normal, "Show yourself."
Victoria raised her hands and stepped out slowly, "It's just me Gregory, please put the pistol away," He obeyed, she could see now he was visibly tense. Only slightly visible, but with his usual emotional control he must be torn on the inside. Instantly she cursed herself for interrupting such a tender moment. So this is where he gets his resolve they so praise him for. How many times does he talk to her? Judging by how he acted he had carried that pain with him for a long time, years it seemed like.
He hopped down, quickly stashing the ring box, "I apologize Mrs. Frasier," the coldness in his eyes was beginning to return, "You startled me was all," she silently pleaded for him not to turn into Dracula again. She saw now that the coldness was there not out of choice, but as an emotional buffer. The coldness a mix of a desire for revenge, regret, and lost love.
"I'm sorry, I'll leave if you want," The image of him from a few seconds prior was quickly fading. He was professional again, "What were you doing?"
A small smile flickered on his face, "I was thinking of a plan for Wolf Group," It was the perfect lie to tell someone who hadn't seen his weak moment.
It was then she realized he hadn't noticed her spying, "And what plan would that be?" she began to reassume her command presence she knew was useless around Gregory.
Walking over to an empty patch of ground, he began to draw a few shapes of a small camp and a large dish, "I know how much you want Wolf Base to make a name for itself again, but you have been looking at the wrong target," He felt her shoot a glare at him, "In order to bring down the beast you can't start with the head, you must bring it down to its knees. We used this strategy in Los Angeles and Christopher Stone used it in New York."
Standing up he pointed southwest, "There is a radio tower in the direction. It is used to coordinate everything. It's extremely powerful in their operations. You take it out and you've shut them down. I have information on their patrols and what units are stationed there."
After a few seconds of him not saying anything she looked up, "And the plan?"
A smile spread further across his face, "I thought I'd leave that to you. You are the commander after all, I'm just another rifle," his voice was laced with a little humor, but the words were honest.
The look on her face was that of confusion, "You're the one with experience on this. Do you have any suggestions at least?" It had been a while since she'd actually done a mission and she wasn't sure if she could, performance anxiety froze her up.
Kneeling next to her, he stared into her eyes, "I do have suggestions, but you are the commander. This is your unit not mine. My time to command has already passed. This isn't my territory."
There was a sort of kindness in his cold voice, one filled with regret. Maybe he is the better commander. Looking at him she said, "Alright then," He stood up and she followed suit. A questioned burned inside of her, "How many did you command, in Los Angeles?" It wasn't the question she wanted to ask, but she knew the other one would have been touchy.
"When we started I was third in command of a group of thirty, by the time command fell upon me we had fifty. By the time the Soviets retreated of our soil we had seventy, but only eight of those were the original White Russians," Slowly he shook his head and stared into the forest, "The original members all spoke Russian and were well educated," a laugh, "Let's just say we were the black sheep. It wasn't until we were succeeding and dying that they finally accepted us."
She felt a heavy pang of guilt at doing the same thing to him when he came in. That may be another reason he's so cold. He knows not many accept him as anything more than a killer. He knows that few people trust him and so he trusts no one. He began to walk deeper in the forest, "I accept you!" she spontaneously shouted after him, immediately covering her mouth. It was such a surprise because only minutes before she was about to tell him off.
Turning his head slightly, she caught a glimpse of a somber smile, "We'll see Victoria…"