They landed in Kaliningrad, the westernmost city in the Soviet Republic, around midday. Unloading began immediately. The strike team commandeered a three-star hotel until they could set up their own base closer to Parnaas. Snow lay on the ground, dirty drifts against buildings, icy sidewalks, damp wind.
The next day, the Rev and Sophie visited the Soviet ministry for foreign affairs. Everybody exchanged greetings. Sophie received many effusive compliments on her mastery of the Russian language, and nothing else happened. They repeated the same process the next day. And the next. It was all part of the diplomatic dance. While the Rev and Sophie kicked their heels at the government office, the team secured vehicles, connected with local aid agencies that would supply most of the labor in the base camp, gathered intelligence, and hired local translators and guards.
On the fourth visit, they made progress.
“The Commandant of the Parnaas camp is willing to receive you,” the Soviet envoy said with a thin smile. “Only Mr. Bryson and Ms. Swenda to begin with. The remainder of your party can follow in a day or two if the Commandant permits.”
Nobody loved the idea of the two coalition leaders walking into the refugee camp alone, but they had little choice. By this point, Sophie would have crawled the entire distance, and the Rev felt the same way.
January 31, 2014
“You ready for this, Sophie?” asked the Rev as they climbed into the SUV. Coalition symbols marked the sides and roof. They both wore flak jackets and helmets.
“Damn right.” Sophie grinned at him as he gunned the engine. Both their translator and armed guard took the backseat, where they conversed in low voices in Russian. Dave did his own driving, and Sophie loved him for that. She appreciated him even more when she realized that the drivers in this region were more aggressive than New York cabbies.
The farther north they went, the quieter the highway became. About forty miles away from Parnaas, the roads became deserted save for military checkpoints. Soon the Rev started dodging bomb craters in the highway. The countryside was desolate, homes and businesses abandoned. They crawled along the border between the Soviet Republic and Orlisia until they reached the town of Parnaas. The civilian population had fled, leaving the community teeming with soldiers, criminals, and black marketeers. When they stopped for a brief rest there, they heard it.
It was a low, powerful sound, like a waterfall thundering in the distance. Both the Rev and Sophie knew it – the sound of tens of thousands of people gathered in one small place. As they stood listening, the wind shifted, and Sophie vomited without warning beside the vehicle.
“You okay?” The Rev came around to put his hand on her back. She wiped her mouth, fumbling for her water bottle and feeling embarrassed.
“Yeah, fine. I puked the first time I smelled a camp when I was a teenager, and it’s been a tradition for me ever since. Will never let me live it down.” She rinsed her mouth, spat, and climbed back into the SUV. “Let’s go.” The translator looked a bit green himself, perhaps wishing he hadn’t taken this assignment. The guard seemed bored.
After another fifteen minutes jerking along the cratered road, they reached the blockade. Armed Soviet soldiers waved them to a stop. They couldn’t see the camp from where they were, but the noise and smell grew stronger. The Rev and Sophie got out and walked toward the guards. The translator scurried out behind them, but Sophie sent him back.
“Good morning,” she called in Russian, enjoying the surprise on the guards’ faces. “I am Sophie Swenda of the Refugee Crisis Coalition. This is my colleague, David Bryson. We are here to meet with the Commandant and begin work.” The guards looked at her in silence. One of them finally spoke.
“Foreigners may not enter Parnaas.”
“We are here at the request of the Soviet government, and on the personal invitation of Commandant Jaros,” she said pleasantly. “Last time I checked, the Commandant outranks you, Ser?antko.” She silently thanked Alex for teaching her the ranking system of the Soviet army. “The Commandant awaits us. Please advise him that we are here.” She gestured to the Rev, and they walked away from the guards.
“What was that?” he hissed as they got back into the car.
“Round one,” she replied, “of a very long fight.”
They watched while the guard had an animated conversation on his phone. Then he walked over to the SUV.