The infiltration began like a slow bleed of shadows spilling out from the treeline.
One hour after the briefing, four figures detached themselves from the forest and moved—not as a group, but as four distinct points in a single, calculated pattern. The air was brittle, so cold it felt like glass in the lungs. Every sound was amplified in the stillness: the crunch of boots on thin snow, the echo of laughter from the cookhouse, the lonely rhythm of a hammer from the forge.
Murat and Ivan moved first, ghosts among timber stacks and darkened walls. This was their world—angles, corners, man-made order. After weeks in the chaos of the wilderness, the geometry of a camp felt like home. Their target: the foreman's office—the camp's mind and its only voice to the outside world.
The building was small and plain, its single window glowing dull yellow. Beside it stood the telegraph pole, black against the starlight. Murat climbed without a word, his boots scraping softly against the rough wood. He reached the line, cut it cleanly with a sharp metallic snap, and slid down, landing in silence. The camp's link to civilization was severed.
Inside, the telegraph operator sat under a kerosene lamp, reading a newspaper. He looked up at the sound of the door splintering open—one heartbeat too late. Ivan crossed the room in two strides, a gloved hand clamping over the man's mouth. Murat moved behind him, efficient and merciless. A strip of oily canvas became a gag. The operator's own belt and a loop of wire made bonds. In seconds, he was trussed beneath his desk, breathing hard through his nose.
The coup was bloodless, wordless, precise.
On the far side of the camp, Koba and Pavel moved toward the stacked timber. The piles rose higher than houses, dry and heavy with the smell of pine resin. Koba drew a small metal flask—the last of the kerosene from the farmhouse. A relic of their past sin, now repurposed for another.
He soaked a bundle of rags and handed them to Pavel. "There," he whispered, pointing to a hollow deep within the woodpile. "Push it in. Let the air feed it from below. It must look accidental—a spark from the forge."
Pavel shoved the rags deep into the wood. He struck a match. The flare of light was shocking in the dark. For a moment, the rags only smoldered. Then came the faint whoosh of ignition. One flame, then two. The fire grew fast, orange tongues curling upward, hungry for air.
They slipped away into the shadows.
The fire spread like it had been waiting for them. In minutes, the dry pine caught and roared, painting the camp in flickering gold.
Shouts rang out. "Fire! The kiln wood!"
The camp exploded into motion. Men poured from the cookhouse and bunkhouse, half-dressed, shouting over one another. Buckets, axes, coats—they grabbed whatever they could. The night became chaos and smoke.
It was working. The ant hill was stirred.
Koba and Pavel moved toward the foreman's office to meet the others. The plan was clockwork, and every piece was moving on time. But then Murat stepped out of the shadows, his face tight. "He wasn't there," he hissed. "The office was empty. Only the operator. We haven't seen him."
A crack of ice ran through Koba's calm. The equation had changed. The one variable that mattered most—the foreman—was missing.
Jake:You miscalculated. This is bad. Abort. Leave now while they're distracted.
Koba:No. Mission parameters altered. Objective unchanged. Locating new threat.
He scanned the chaos below, his mind slicing through the noise. Workers were everywhere—shouting, stumbling, disorganized. No discipline, no threat. But a leader could change that in an instant.
And then he saw him.
Down by the siding.
The foreman—Borodin—wasn't at the fire or the office. He stood beside the shunting engine, his massive frame backlit by flame. He barked orders to five men loading timber onto a flatcar. Lanterns swung in their hands, casting sharp, dancing circles of light.
Koba raised the binoculars. One look told him everything. The stance. The posture. The way the man's hands rested on his hips, feet planted wide, shoulders squared.
Not a foreman. A soldier.
Jake:That's not a labor boss. That's an old NCO—Imperial Army. A real one.
Koba:Confirmed. Elevated threat. Experience indicates command potential. Neutralization required.
Koba's pulse quickened, but not with fear. This was the challenge he understood—the moment when chaos became pattern. The elegant, multi-phase plan was gone. There was no time for subtlety.
The engine and flatcars—everything they needed—lay in the circle of light around Borodin and his crew. The rifles were a hundred meters behind them, hidden in the trees. Between them stood six armed men who knew what discipline looked like.
Koba didn't hesitate.
He turned to his men, crouched low in the dark. His hand rose—closed fist. Then a slicing motion across the throat. Then a single finger, pointing straight at the crew on the siding.
The meaning was simple.
Forget the fire. Forget the finesse.
Plan B: Take them all. Now.