No matter how hard I hurried the squad, it took a long time to get ready, and they didn't set out until six in the morning. I drove the first vehicle in the column: a UAZ Patriot pickup with a Utes mounted in the back. The truck drivers were Konstantin Ivanovich, Sergei Voronov, and Slava Pershin. In Slavik, clean-shaven and dressed in field clothes, you'd hardly recognize the former village drunk. An old, faded striped vest peeked out from under his fisherman's jacket, and even the elderly man's expression became inspired and masculine. Everyone knew at first glance that he was a stern, seasoned veteran.
The column had barely passed a fork in the road a mile and a half from Dumino when Liza, sitting next to me, screamed and pointed back. Yes, it was a sight to behold – rockets were hurtl
