Fiction

EnZi Part One Odesa Chapter 13 Eyes and Ears

by Stanislav Dema
01/22/26
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Mood:
Klaus Doldinger - Heimkehr

Kostya stood at the tiller with a calm expression, holding the course confidently. The sea rocked the vessel rhythmically, and only the steam engine clicked its valves monotonously like a metronome. I stepped closer to Kostya and sat on a thwart nearby—the sound of the sea, the pulse of the engine, and the steady light of the lamp on the binnacle created a sense of strange, hypnotic peace.

— Kostya, — I said after a short pause, — I must confess: I am pleasantly surprised by your crew's actions. But what I saw today goes far beyond the scope of a routine shalanda voyage.

He turned his head slightly without taking his eyes off the horizon.

— Thank you, Monsieur Étienne, — he said calmly.

— You see, — I said, — although I am a doctor by profession, at eighteen I went to sea and served for four years as a sailor on a merchant vessel. I’ve seen a lot—storms, accidents, and rescue operations. But for a fishing shalanda crew to act so cohesively, to possess such equipment and, frankly speaking, such military training—I have never encountered that anywhere.

I am impressed.

I apologize in advance if I am prying into business that isn’t mine, but as a former sailor and a guest of your city and your country, I am very interested to understand—what is happening here? Where did all this equipment come from? How is maritime logistics organized in the Hetmanate in general?

Kostya smiled slightly with the corner of his lips, still not taking his eyes off the sea. Then he exhaled slowly, as if deciding where to begin.

— I understand your interest, Doctor, — he finally said. — And you have every right to ask. Especially since you were sent by Yakov Zusya. He is a man I regard with the greatest respect. If he entrusted you with some important matter, then there is no reason for me to hide anything. A friend of Yakov is a friend of mine. Besides, there is no secret.

He chuckled slightly:

— So yes, Monsieur Étienne, you were not mistaken. We are not exactly an ordinary shalanda crew.

— You see, Monsieur Étienne, — Kostya began.

— Kostya, — I interrupted. — Since you acknowledge me as a friend, just call me Chelago. That is what everyone I trust calls me.

Kostya raised an eyebrow in surprise: — Chelago? And what relation does that name have to Étienne?

I smiled: — Directly—none. This nickname has stayed with me since childhood. My father was a great admirer of maritime history. In his library stood books about the old Spanish fleets, and among them—chronicles of a navigator named Chelago, who, according to legend, participated in expeditions during the time of Philip II. Father often spoke of him and once said: "And you will grow up like Chelago—stubborn, true to ideals, and unafraid of storms." Since then, the nickname stuck.

And later, I took this name as my call sign.

Kostya raised a brow in surprise: — Call sign?

— Yes, — I answered. — When the Franco-Prussian War began, I went to serve as a field medic. A call sign was needed for the evacuation service—and I took what I had worn since childhood. So "Chelago" became a part of me.

Kostya smiled, but respect flickered in his eyes. — So, you fought?

— I had to, — I said quietly. — I saved lives... and then they tried to take mine. But, as you see, it didn't work out.

Kostya looked at me closely, with a new attitude, and added almost in a whisper: — Then you will have something to talk about with Petro. He was also a field medic, served in the Hetmanate's special operations forces, in a Plastun unit. I am sure you will find a common language.

Kostya thought for a moment, then continued, looking somewhere into the distance—towards the destination of our journey.

— But let us continue the conversation about our crew. As you probably know, five years ago that terrible war ended, which is now called the Second War for Coal. Although, to be honest, I would call it otherwise—the Second Great Slaughter.

He fell silent, as if choosing his words.

— My father served as a cook on the cruiser Sagaidachny. According to the roster, he was listed in the galley, but by the battle station bill—as a gunner on an anti-aircraft gun. Father told me how once, during an air raid, they shot down a Moxan bomber. The machine caught fire, but the pilot didn't have time to bail out; he steered his burning plane straight at the ship.

Kostya spoke calmly, without pathos, but there was something hard in his voice.

— Father said the burning bomber was flying straight at him. He saw the pilot—he was looking through the fire, and father saw his insane eyes. Father didn't panic. He pumped the entire cassette from his AA gun into him. And then—a flash, a roar, pieces of metal flying in all directions. The debris crashed ten meters from the side. He was literally a hair's breadth from death then.

Kostya caught his breath and looked at the waves.

— All this happened during the battles for Domakha. A real hell. I was a teenager then and saw the air battle over Odesa. Hundreds of planes. Burning machines fell straight into the sea, and then charred wreckage washed up on the shore. An aerial circus... only without the music.

Kostya's face suddenly grew stern—and this shadow did not fit his usually cheerful and sunny appearance.

— However, — he sighed, — let's not talk about that. I'd better tell you what happened after the so-called end of the war. Why "so-called"? Because the Moxan Khanate did not leave us in peace.

He lowered his voice, as if telling a secret:

— The Moxans had special units—"Liquidation Squads." It was the personal guard of Khan Velmes II, created to destroy patriots, dissidents, or simply educated people—anyone who dared to resist in the occupied lands of the Hetmanate. They say they were recruited from orphans, raised from childhood in special boarding schools. There, they were grown into obedient, ruthless killers—people without memory and without conscience.

He clenched his fists.

— What they did... — Kostya shook his head. — It cannot be conveyed in words. Atrocities, torture, reprisals. They called it "cleansing the territory."

I listened in silence.

— But, — Kostya's voice became slightly louder, — the Plastun unit "Vovkulaky" (Werewolves), in which, by the way, Petro served... — he nodded towards the sailor by the deckhouse, — managed to capture one of these squads almost in its entirety. It was a brilliantly planned and executed operation. The main problem was that they had to be taken alive—so there would be a trial. So the whole world would know what the Khanate did during the war.

Kostya fell silent for a minute, then continued, calmer now, but with some internal fracture:

— And then... everything went according to a scenario many feared. The trial of these people, or rather non-humans, did take place. The facts of the monstrous crimes the Moxan Khanate committed during the war were made public to the whole world. But, as you know, there is a moratorium on the death penalty in the Hetmanate. Therefore, the sentence was life imprisonment. Although many believed that for the likes of them, this was too lenient.

He exhaled and, lowering his voice, added: — And that's when the most interesting part began. You see, Khan Velmes II always portrayed himself as the father of the nation—a man who never abandons his own. His guardsmen knew they could commit any crime—the Khan would still be able to pull them out by pressing secret diplomatic and power levers. And so it happened.

Kostya looked at me intently: — Despite the signed peace treaty, strange, terrible things began to happen along the coast of the Hetmanate. At night, boats began to appear—small, fast, without identification marks. They approached the shore, landed saboteurs who kidnapped people—and disappeared into the darkness.

He fell silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. — Then the Khan issued an ultimatum: "Give me back my guardsmen, and I will return your people." The exchange rate was shameless—twenty to one. For one of those monsters—twenty citizens of the Hetmanate. At first, no one knew what to do with this. Panic, fear, despair...

He smiled slightly, but somehow wearily: — Fortunately, General Kuza was appointed commander of the Coast Guard then. An experienced, smart man. And for the Odesa sector, he appointed Captain Shevchenko.

I nodded. The name was familiar.

— Yes, that very Grigory Shevchenko, — confirmed Kostya. — After all, the Odesa sector suffered the most—densely populated, trade lines, fishermen, a complex logistics system. Shevchenko launched a stormy activity. He strengthened posts, set up observation towers, established a radio communication system, and created "flying squads." Thanks to the measures taken, the Khan's raiding groups could no longer capture people on land.

Kostya shifted his gaze to the horizon and added gloomily: — Then they switched to ships. To small craft, like our shalanda.

— This problem was much harder to solve, — continued Kostya. — After all, hundreds of small vessels sail along the entire Black Sea coast. Fishermen, cargo, tourist boats... You can't assign a warship to each one.

He chuckled and added:

— But Captain Shevchenko approached the matter in his own way, comprehensively. His favorite phrase is: "No one protects themselves better than a well-armed citizen."

— According to this logic, the program "Eyes and Ears" appeared. On Shevchenko's orders, the Odesa Polytechnic developed a compact but reliable radio station specifically for the crews of small vessels in record time. Its feature is ease of use. You don't need to be a radio operator. Everything is designed so that even a simple fisherman can handle it. Furthermore, the station has a built-in navigation unit with a receiver that picks up signals from coastal radio beacons, performs triangulation, and is capable of automatically transmitting a distress signal. In an emergency, it is enough to press one big red button—and the system transmits coordinates to the Coast Guard radio dispatcher itself.

— Any crew wishing to join the program received a radio station, basic training... and, most interestingly, weaponry, — Kostya smiled slyly. — Do you see the pedestal on the forecastle? At first glance—an incomprehensible structural element. But in reality, it is a gun mount. A heavy machine gun is hidden in the hold. If a suspicious boat suddenly starts approaching us, we can deploy the installation in a matter of minutes and greet the guests properly.

He pointed towards the deckhouse:

— Every crew member is armed and has undergone training in Coast Guard camps. However... better to see once.

Kostya walked over to the deckhouse, where the ship's bell hung, and struck it sharply.

One, two, three, four—short, hollow strikes rolled over the sea.

Then something incredible happened.

Just a minute ago, the crew of the "Poseidon" looked like a group of carefree sailors on a cruise, and now—as if they had turned into a combat unit. Everything happened swiftly, precisely, without unnecessary commands.

Kostya secured the tiller, ran to the forecastle, opened the hatch, and began handing out life jackets.

David was already standing by the hold, taking out an infantry machine gun with a bipod and a belt. He set it up on the stern behind sandbags—now I realized this was not cargo, but an improvised parapet.

— Sailor Feldstein ready to fire, — reported David. — Proceeding to independent target search.

On the forecastle, the same thing was happening: Kostya and Petro pulled a long, blued barrel of a heavy machine gun from the hatch—by the looks of it, a "fifty." They deftly secured it on the mount, loaded the belt in seconds, and chambered a round with a clang.

— Sailor Koshka ready to fire, awaiting target designation! — reported Petro.

Kostya crouched behind the parapet, scanning the water area through binoculars. A few tense minutes—only the sound of the wind and the rhythmic puffing of the engine. Then he lowered the binoculars, walked to the deckhouse, and struck the bell once.

— Stand down from drill!

David exhaled in relief, unloaded the machine gun, and, grumbling under his breath, dragged it back into the hold:

— You really are something, Kostya... I nearly had a stroke. Next time, at least warn us it's a drill.

Petro only chuckled, patted Kostya on the shoulder, and said:

— We met the standard again today. I timed it—five seconds faster than last time.

A minute later, everything returned to the usual rhythm. The crew went back to their business as if nothing had happened.

I must have had a stunned expression on my face because Kostya walked over, put a hand on my shoulder, and said with a smile:

— You see, Monsieur Chelago, what constant training gives.

I squeezed out something like:

— You guys are something. Now it's clear why the Moxan raids stopped.

Kostya nodded:

— Yes, that's the "mosquito fleet" we turned out to have. Upon the appearance of Moxan pirates, the vessel sends a distress signal, the crew arms itself and holds the defense until the duty ornithopter flies in. And it finishes the job.

I involuntarily thought: Shevchenko, this fleet, and these people—they built not a coast guard, but a concrete wall of reason and will.

— I am impressed, — I said. — I haven't seen anything like this anywhere in the world. You are well done; your nation has a future.

Kostya looked into the distance, thoughtfully.

— A future... — he repeated. — It exists, but it is fragile. When our generation, which saw the war, is gone, others will come. Those who will forget the price of peace.

He smiled, but sadly:

— And everything will repeat: hard times create strong men, weak men create bad times, bad times birth strong men, and strong men make good times again. And so it goes in a circle.

— I will try to do everything so that a new circle does not begin, — I said quietly.

Kostya looked at me strangely, as if he had decided something for himself. Then he turned away, peered into the horizon for a long time, and finally, his face cleared.

He turned back and said firmly:

— Chelago, I will help you. Whatever it costs me. For the sake of Zusya... and for the sake of my children's future.

The sun was already leaning toward sunset. The fiery ball slowly descended to the horizon line, painting the sea the color of molten gold. The waves became long, lazy, and each crest caught the last glimmers of the departing day. The air filled with a special evening light—soft and ghostly.

The steam engine of the "Poseidon" breathed rhythmically. We moved confidently and calmly.

Kostya stood at the tiller, back to the sunset. Petro began a communication session with the Coast Guard post on the island. David was wiping his tools for the third time, humming some old song under his breath.

I stood by the gunwale, watching the sun slowly sink into the sea, and thought that perhaps this is what eternity looks like—when the sea and sky merge into one infinite line, where there is no longer time or anxiety.

And suddenly, when the waves turned purple, Kostya raised his hand and said quietly:

— There it is.

I squinted—and indeed: far ahead, in the light haze, the dark outlines of a rock emerged. An island. Small, stubborn, as if grown from the very heart of the sea.

— Zmeiny, — pronounced Kostya with a special, almost reverent intonation.

The sea breathed quietly. The sun blinked its last reflection, as if saying goodbye to the day. The "Poseidon" was carrying us not to an island, but to a meeting with destiny.