A Gentleman's Agreement

Two thirty in the morning. At Klintsy station, a military train eased away from the platform and headed south. The Ukrainians had hit only the ammunition depot, destroying several hundred tons of ammunition freshly shipped in from Belarus. HIMARS rockets were expensive; hitting barracks wasn't worth it unless the target was a large concentration of troops. In the reasonably clean No. 8 hard-seat carriage, Chen Ge sat by the window, watching the ammunition depot in the distance, thick smoke rolling and flames leaping into the sky. He felt a little tense. But compared with before the mutation, there was no fear left in him. His strength gave him confidence—enough to believe he could hold out in Bakhmut for six months and return home safely. What would he do after going home? Uh, it seemed he wasn't cut out for anything. The son of a drug dealer—he could never shake that label. He couldn't find a respectable job or marry a respectable wife. Business? He didn't have the knack. What were the boom sectors of 2023 to 2026? AI large models, humanoid robots, the low-altitude economy, plug-in hybrid cars, hard-discount retail, short dramas, Temu's overseas expansion—apart from short dramas, none of them were within ordinary people's reach. Right—Bitcoin, he could buy that. He remembered that next month would be the bottom of the Bitcoin bear market, dropping to around $16,000; by the end of 2024 it would break $100,000. Buying was guaranteed profit. But his savings amounted to only $370,000, enough to buy just twenty-three coins. Damn, he was poor! When he thought about it carefully, every route he had to big money seemed to be written into the criminal code. Chen Ge sighed, looked down at the AK-12 lying across his lap, then at Big Bear beside him and at Lightbulb, Night Cat, and Manhole across from him. He shook his head to drive away the stray thoughts, took out his cigarette pack, handed one to each of the four, put one between his lips, and lit it with a windproof lighter. “Lightbulb, last time you said you'd introduce me to your sister once we got back to Russia. Time to make good on that promise.” Chen Ge blew out a mouthful of smoke and said with a smile. “Here, I'll give you my VK. If I die and you make it to the end of the contract, please take care of Natasha for me.” Lightbulb took out his phone and sent Chen Ge his sister's VK contact. “Natasha?” Chen Ge blanked for a moment, opened the VK contact Lightbulb had sent, and sent Natasha a friend request. In Russia, the name Natasha was like Zhang Wei or Wang Wei in China. Shout it on the street and at least two out of every ten girls would turn around. “What if I die too?” Manhole grinned. “Then leave her to me. I don't mind.” “Get lost, I mind!” Lightbulb elbowed Manhole and said with distaste, “Natasha wouldn't look twice at you. She likes men like Sledgehammer.” Manhole curled his lip and said sourly, “Sledgehammer already has Aisha, and you're still introducing Natasha to this Бaбник!” Бaбник—which in Chinese is zhanan, meaning ‘womanizer.’ Chen Ge glared at Manhole. “What nonsense are you talking? Aisha and I are just friends—pure, innocent friends. Understand?” Manhole, Lightbulb, and Night Cat all laughed. Even Big Bear, that simple soul whose head was full of nothing but food, looked disgusted. Aisha was a female doctor at the Syrian army's logistics hospital. For a time they had been stationed near the hospital, and it took Chen Ge only a few days to get involved with her. After that, they slipped off for secret dates every few days. This was nothing unusual. Soldiers who leapt back and forth across the line between life and death every day were under enormous psychological pressure, and they had only two ways to let it out: drink, and women. Lightbulb sighed, his tone carrying a note of pleading. “Sledgehammer, I'm serious. If I die in Bakhmut and you make it home alive, please protect Natasha. She's too kind. She's easy to deceive...” Listening to Lightbulb ramble on, the smiles gradually faded from their faces, and their mood grew heavy again. They too had families they couldn't stop worrying about, especially Night Cat, who was married. If they'd had any other way out, who would take a high-risk job like mercenary, making money with his head on the line? Big Bear was from Pskov Oblast, Manhole from Arkhangelsk Oblast, Lightbulb from Ivanovo Oblast, and Night Cat from Kurgan Oblast—all poor, remote regions. They had little education and nothing but strong physiques. Of the four, Manhole had been in the trade longest. He retired from GRU Spetsnaz in 2016, joined Wagner in 2017, and earned $7,200 a month. Big Bear joined in 2019. He had been a lumberjack; a man from his village introduced him to Wagner, and his formidable physique got him selected for the Falcon Hunting Team. Six thousand a month! Lightbulb was an orphan. His father was a typical Russian drunk, drinking and beating his wife all day. His mother couldn't stand it anymore; she hacked his father to death with a knife and then hanged herself. Lightbulb was twelve that year, and his sister Natasha was four. He had struggled to raise Natasha, retired from Vympel at twenty-four, and joined Wagner. This was already his third year, at $7,200 a month. Night Cat's family circumstances were a little better. He was twenty-nine this year and had married at twenty; he had both a son and a daughter. But his little daughter had a congenital heart defect. They had spent everything on her surgery and were up to their ears in debt, and his wife had no job. The year before last, he retired from the Russian Airborne Forces' 45th Guards Spetsnaz Brigade and joined Wagner at $6,500 a month. Most of Wagner's elite veterans came from Russian special forces or other elite Russian units. Pay consisted of base salary plus bonuses. For example, completing a mission to clear out an IS terrorist stronghold earned a $20,000–$50,000 bonus; captured loot did not have to be handed in; and there was a death benefit. Chen Ge's pay was the highest—only $5,000 less than Captain Trench's base salary! But the value he delivered in combat far exceeded an $18,000 monthly salary. In one year, he had made Wagner at least several million dollars. Mercenary combat came with KPIs: the more enemies you killed, the bigger the bonus. Destroying equipment—an enemy tank, for example—or taking out an enemy commander paid even more. That was also how Chen Ge had managed to earn $370,000 in one year. On the battlefield, he paid special attention to IS vehicles. Blow up an ordinary pickup: $2,000. One mounting a heavy machine gun: $3,000! In every fight, not a single IS pickup got away. He had a nickname of his own: the Vehicle Killer. “If you don't fancy Natasha, then take her to China, all right? Find her a gentle, sincere Chinese man. China is safe. Chinese men don't beat their wives. I...” Listening to Lightbulb grow more and more outrageous, Chen Ge cut him off with a helpless look. “Stop. That's enough. Your sister is yours to protect. I'll do my best to bring you all home alive.” After saying that, Chen Ge hesitated for two seconds, then said quietly, “Of course, I can also promise you this: if your luck runs out and you die in Bakhmut, I'll protect Natasha.” He was no saint and wouldn't hand out kindness at random, but Lightbulb—the bodyguard the captain had assigned to him—had saved his life twice on the battlefield. And the guy was loyal and true; at a critical moment he really would take a bullet for you. Big Bear, Night Cat, and Manhole were the same. The fire team used to have more than five men; there had been two others. But their character was no good, and they had ‘gloriously fallen’ on the battlefield. The five of them were thick as thieves. Anyone who dragged them down or couldn't be relied on was either squeezed out or given a plausible death in action. Would that weigh on their conscience? Come on—surely no one would throw away his life for the sake of his conscience? A bad teammate in a game could make you rage and curse; a bad teammate on the battlefield could get you killed. When Lightbulb heard Chen Ge's promise, a brilliant smile spread across his face. He didn't say anything like ‘thank you,’ because there was no need. They had faced death together for so long that they all knew Chen Ge's character. As the Chinese saying went, every word he spat was a nail. Big Bear scratched his head and said shyly, “Sledgehammer, my mom?” Chen Ge rolled his eyes and reassured him. “Your mom is my mom. Satisfied?” Then he raised a hand to stop Manhole and Night Cat before they could speak. “Shut up. Let's make a gentleman's agreement.” Manhole blinked. “What's a gentleman's agreement?” Chen Ge took a hard drag on his cigarette and explained through the smoke: “A gentleman is a person of high moral character who keeps faith. Between gentlemen, there is no law and no contract—just a verbal agreement kept on nothing but character and one's word. Are you gentlemen?” The four nodded. They felt that although they might not count as good men, they were absolutely men who kept faith. Chen Ge smiled. “Then let's agree: whoever survives takes care of the families of the brothers who fall.” The four exchanged a look and nodded firmly. Night Cat looked at Chen Ge, hesitated again and again, and finally spoke. “Sledgehammer, you're getting the short end of this deal. How about we give you some money?” “Get lost. Like hell I want your stinking money. Stop jinxing me, all right? Bad luck!”