Collaboration with @silmarilz1701
Svetlana knew how to play the game. She'd been caught in the political drama of Stalin's inner circle since birth. The only child of one of Stalin's closest friends, she grew up in the limelight, scrutinized by frie...
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Sveta had just about punched a wall when Sink ordered another patrol. The success of the one they'd already done was moderate at best. They'd not gotten any real intel from the prisoners they'd snatched, and lost a man in the process. All around Haguenau, Sveta could feel the anger coming to a boil.
Some would lash out. She knew that if Guarnere still helped command Second Platoon that he'd not have stood for it. There would be choice words in that CP. But he wasn't in Second Platoon. Malarkey was, and his anger looked more like ice than a bomb. She questioned his ability to hold it together, if she were honest with herself. But Zhanna and Dick trusted him, as did Ron.
The officers had left her standing at the river. Nixon, Dick, Ron, and Sink had wandered off, three of them to brief the men on this suicide mission and their fearless leader to hide in his command post. Sveta hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from the steadily setting sun. Instead of red and gold, the sky had a coating of dirtied grey and pale yellow that put her on edge. An odd sunset.
She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, collar flipped to hide her Captain's bars and helmet firmly on her head. The silence offered an odd comfort. Anxiety had put Sveta on edge since she'd woken up. There was something she had to do. But she didn't know how.
Sveta knew how to explode. She knew how lurk. She knew how to fire a sniper rifle and lead men into combat. But she didn't know how to let the name Beria cross her lips. Not while still in control. The honesty in Mackall had been an accident, a mistake driven by overwhelming fear and capitalized on by curious Americans. She didn't doubt their good intentions now, but tomorrow, she couldn't say. Sveta believed they would continue to be allies. She had to.
"Still out here?" Ron's voice interrupted her thoughts. He made his way over to her, getting harder to make out as the world darkened.
Sveta tried to smile. Speak of the devil. The man she wanted to see had come to find her instead. Poetic, perhaps. "Just thinking."
He came to stand next to her. Lighting a cigarette, he passed it over. Sveta accepted. The nicotine calmed her down a bit as they stood in silence. Holding a lit cigarette in view of the enemies probably wasn't a good idea, but the fight seemed to have left the Germans when they pulled out of Bastogne.
"I've been thinking about what you said," she finally stammered out. As Ron turned to her, she mirrored him. "About going back to Russia."
The anger she'd seen in the hospital returned in full force. His grip tightened on his cigarette and motions became more agitated. "You realize how stupid it is to go back to that?"
Sveta didn't respond. She just watched a small flock of birds fly across the barely lit sky, black on grey. "I've realized I may have a chance to get out." When he didn't respond, she hesitated. She needed his help. She needed to trust him. Closing her eyes, she willed away the fear. Fight it. She had to fight it. "There's more going on than just Stalin, Ron."
