Chapter 17.

Reporters Arrive.

Date 25.02.2120.

KANAR capital. "Zapadniy" district.

 Having warmed up the hydrocarbon engine, Dragovich began to maneuver - first through an underground concrete hall, half of which, allocated for the shelter, was filled with beds and tables, then he got out into the gallery and, finally, found himself on the street, where, somewhat cautiously, he headed towards the roadway of the morning street, shining in the rays of the blinding winter-spring sun.

 Here and there, passers-by flashed by, having long forgotten all the rules of the road and preferring to walk not on the sidewalks raised by frozen ice, but on the smooth and regularly cleared roadway. Signaling was a thankless task - at best, the answer was a portion of choice obscenities. Certain rules nevertheless developed themselves - passers-by occupied the first row.

 The rules of conduct here, as scary as it may sound, were written in blood, but they had already been written and written more than one year ago. In this sense, the Super Federation was not something unique. In some Ireland, everything was the same. At home, however, fortunately, it did not come to this.

 Dragovich glanced at his machine gun lying on the front seat. Appearing before reporters in such a state, and especially in a quite serene and prosperous hotel center, was perhaps not the most elegant way to meet guests, but considering the further program, there was no choice.

 A heavy construction bulldozer appeared ahead, busy clearing the roadway. If it had done the same on the sidewalks, it would probably have torn up all the curbs, as well as the pavement of the pedestrian paths.

 The same thing happened everywhere here - everything that was not a large, flat asphalt surface was, at best, occasionally cleared by hand. By the end of winter, it was just some natural relief with winding paths.

 Finally, the glass box of the shopping center appeared, into which, apparently, nothing had ever flown - all the green mirrored glass was intact. This shopping center was now a hotel complex.

 The second of the greeters-escorts, "Mexican", was an officer of the special corps. He was already there at the time when Dragovich was heading to the garage without any particular hurry. This second, or rather, the first in seniority, was a local, not even a Russian, but a local. He got his nickname-call sign for his appearance. There really was a resemblance. This was explained by the fact that he was one of the most indigenous locals, who lived here thousands of years before the Russian pioneers appeared here. There were in fact countless of these peoples, but in terms of language or behavior they were absolutely no different from the Russians. He also babbled something about how many thousands of years ago some of those people had moved east on foot, and crossed the frozen strait to the American continent on foot, and that's how the Indians appeared, including the South American ones. In short, someone had gone very far - either those ancient people or the "Mexican" himself.

 He himself was a short man of about forty with the typical local signs of mild alcoholism on his face, although, as far as Dragovich knew him, and Dragovich had had dealings with him before that day, this "Mexican" approached his service and everything connected with it quite responsibly.

 In addition, he was a man with certain organizational skills, which, according to his own words over a glass, manifested themselves when the winding road of life finally led him to a worthwhile cause. To put it simply, in his previous life he was a nobody and had nothing and no one to organize, and now he had some kind of opportunity to give orders and even kicks.

 They met in a hall on the first floor, where, apparently, there used to be a supermarket. Now there was something like a vestibule, more like a waiting room at a train station or airport.

 There was also a lousy buffet, behind the counter of which there was no one. Rows of chairs were installed in the hall, looking towards a blank wall with two TV screens hung on its upper part.

 "The Mexican" watched the news broadcast on the all-Russian TV channel with some interest. A correspondent in a simple helmet - the one that wasn't covered in optics - and a bulletproof vest with a Velcro strip with the word "press" on it flashed on the screen.

 Dragovich didn't immediately understand the flow of booming sounds echoing off the walls of the hall, but soon realized that they were talking about artillery, about its work on the approaches to Mvinilunga - the name had not disappeared from the reports for the second month, as had happened with countless predecessor towns.

 - Zambezia is being fucked up, - "The Mexican" announced to Dragovich who had approached and waved his hand towards the TV screen.

 - Zambezi, - Dragovich mentally corrected, but kept silent. - Look, a train with "Izvergs", - the "Mexican" said with some admiration. - We have only five of them on the outer ring, and here...

 - Aviation is tied down - that's bad - he continued, spontaneously launching into military-tactical reasoning. - Although, on the other hand, screw it with aviation. I would invest, first of all, in heavy cruise missiles - one such cow weighing almost ten tons will beautifully turn everything you want. Especially in the field. Well, the underground may be weak, but it will level the ground fortifications, and while the underground digs out, there is already an assault group, and hello ass. And a howitzer is a howitzer - it constantly needs to maneuver...

 Meanwhile, the screen showed a close-up of the operation of the mechanism for autoloading the barrel with monstrous by the standards of most self-propelled howitzers two hundred and thirty millimeter shells.

 - What about the journalists? - interrupted the "Mexican" Dragovich.

 - Yes, four people, all speaking English. A guy, he's the main one, he's also the presenter, a young woman, two technicians, they're also cameramen-lighters. So... Plus two more SBS interventionists - a guy, a Russian and a woman, she's foreign. The guy's name is Andrey Zavirdyaev, remember?

 - I remember, answered Dragovich.

 - So that you remember it better, I'll tell you that you can call him Zaperdyaev //derivative frow word "Fart"// to yourself, - the "Mexican" chuckled, - Just don't get it mixed up and don't say it out loud.

 - Well, thank you, it's a great way, - answered Dragovich sarcastically.

 - The woman's name is so tongue-twisting - Haldorris Landskraicht. I pronounce everything foreign in English, so Landskraicht. Better write it down.

 - So maybe her name is Madam? - Dragovich answered.

 - That's true.

 - The bosses didn't really care about this "task", so Dragovich, who was essentially supposed to act as a guard and driver, learned the details only now.

 The guests in the full sense of the word were only reporters, the SBS people, if you think about it, were also the host.