The car immediately becomes warmer. The walkie-talkie is sounding: "electronic warfare check". Jokes about tinfoil hats begin, and some people put their hands to their heads - "now turn it on".
After driving for about 10 minutes, the guys remember that they had forgotten about the music. They grab their phones, Bluetooth, and drive along to Non, je ne regrette rien and then La foule by Edith Piaf, which suddenly fits perfectly into the picture outside the window. About an hour later, we get on the dirt road to Khloptsi z Bandershtatu. We are approaching. Everyone is charged up, today's target is a Russian radar that everyone wants to ‘fu*k up’.
Everything happens very quickly. First and foremost, it's about safety, because in three or four minutes we hear on the walkie-talkie "three kilometres south of us is the f*ggot Zala", and all safety measures are taken.
While we are waiting for the image and coordinates from the intelligence crew working in parallel at another location, we have time to freeze. It's time to get a thermos, waffles, and cookies.
After a while, the chatter is interrupted by the radio:
"Target found, setting the route, launch readiness in five minutes. Do you copy? Do you copy?"
"Copy that, loud and clear. Plus-plus."
Launch preparation takes only a few minutes.
"The unit is ready for takeoff. Do you read me? Do you read me?"
"Copy! Launch without command or countdown."
The aircraft has about 15 minutes to fly. The target starts moving from a fixed point.
A few more minutes pass, and the image from the scouts disappears:
"The bastards have started jamming heavily with electronic warfare, we tried from different angles, no luck, the unit is turning back."
"Copy that, we’re flying blind to the starting point and then following the withdrawal route, we’ll try to find it ourselves, we’re almost there."
The unit flies over a city destroyed by the Russians. On the screen, there are the ruins of high-rise buildings. The target is close, there’s enough charge, everyone’s staring at the screens.
At one point, the plane tilted... Time to turn back to avoid losing the unit. Tobacco. A hand-rolled cigarette. Exiting the dugout. The smell of smoke in the air. Waiting. The command to "get ready," there won’t be a second sortie, no data, the target is lost...
The fighters pack up just as organised and quickly. The vehicle is already started, warming up. Someone says, "Damn, I hate packing everything in this exhaust smoke, but there’s nothing to be done, it’s winter." The final touches — checking if anything’s been forgotten.
Many hours outside, a bit frozen. They warmed up in the car, and now everyone’s silent. French rap is playing. After the first checkpoint, someone suddenly says, "I’d kill for some wedding pastries right now, I’m craving those." Everyone in the car picks up the conversation and starts fantasising about what they’d eat from a wedding spread.
We arrive home. There’s the smell of fried fish in the yard. "Oh, Vasya fried some fish." But first, everything is unpacked from the cars. Organised work for about ten minutes, probably. Again, in silence. And then it’s time to enjoy.
Vasya: "So, how did it go today, guys? Did you take anything down?"
Pilot: "Not today."
Vasya: "Shame. There’s fish on the table, just finished frying it. Enjoy, everyone."
The kitchen’s cramped. They eat in turns, two at a time.
"When are we leaving tomorrow?"
"I don’t know the exact time yet, I’ll let you know later."