The Shadow of Chernobyl

Unconditional Surrender

"Moscow has fallen." That was the first message the Colonel received once he returned to the world of the living.

Unlike the popular belief, the Colonel was never much of a fighter. Yes, he'd seen enough bloodshed for multiple lifetimes; the birth of the Cold War, the Afghanis, the Chinese, the Syrians, Prague, even the Siberian Revolt, though the last one never got out to the public's ears.

Although he didn't want to fight, it didn't mean he couldn't. Anyone with his experience could give a bastard one between the eyes, the only limiting factor being his age. After so many years of consuming the forbidden fruits of labor and corruption, his body was bound to fail one day. Whether it be the liver, the respiratory system or the commanding center of the body, it didn't matter. In the end, he would die somehow.

But at the moment, it was irrelevant. The colonel brushed aside the darkness in his eyes, refocusing on the task at hand; what should he do?

Running wasn't an option. It was the coward's way, and the Colonel was a man of his word to the very bitter end. He didn't earn his respect out of being an agreeable pacifist. Indeed, he didn't like to fight, but he knew human nature better than most, and if he didn't do the unthinkable, some other poor sod would have to do it.

That left two, no, three options, though the third was a little... extreme.

Let's not talk about the third option. The colonel had two options; rip the bandage slowly, or in one smooth, painful go. Each option had its pros and cons. The former was a safer approach and could devolve into deception, but that was nothing new for the Soviets. He considered simply hiding the truth, but they'd eventually find out on their own, and he didn't need a revolt in the reactor.

No, there was no avoiding the problem. He had to face the problem, whatever happened, happened, but his conscience would be clear of guilt.

The latter was a more favorable approach. Just tell the truth as is and let the boys sort it out. Problem is; they were fragile, fractured, broken. Being an experienced veteran, the battlefield-turned slaughterhouse was an unpleasant sight, but nothing new. Same old candy eye for the aged man.

The same couldn't be said for the young boys, even the officers. Even though they were, mostly, legally drafted into the fight, they were still just kids. Fresh graduates, students, workers, farmers, it made little difference. A soldier was a soldier, a bullet was a bullet, and a grave was a grave. Rich, poor, strong, weak, smart, dumb, tall, short, at the bottom line, they all died on the frontline. Expect the lucky few, unfortunate.

However, the Colonel didn't get to decide on the right course of action. Sometimes, things are just out of our control. They just happen. Do they make sense? Nope. Do they have to make sense? Not at all. Yet, only a few minutes after the Colonel ordered a meeting of the remaining commanding officers in his personal tent, a watchman radioed across the sole channel they used that a large force was emerging from the edge of the city, marching towards the reactor.

As expected of any competent leader, the alarm was raised, and the remaining manpower prepared for the worst. There was a whole procedure in place, and by the book, that's what they should've gone by. But when more than half of a fraction of the original army barely kept the fortress afloat, a silent agreement was made amongst them all.

There was nothing they could do.

Even the Colonel knew there was no victory to be achieved. The enemy had a higher troop count, somewhere between a battalion and a brigade, they were probably in better physical condition than they were, better armed considering they themselves were given leftovers all the way back from the second war, and morale.