Prohibition of Interference. Book 2. Tactical Level. Макс Глебов

after all.

      “I'm afraid I'm going to have to take a little swim,” I finally said, which seemed to put Shcheglov into a slight stupor. I should have hurried up and made my point clear. “Comrade Captain, the boats approach the shore at 10–15 minute intervals. Every fourth one is a freighter. There are only four soldiers on oars, one or two noncommissioned officers, and an officer, as a rule, a lieutenant or Oberleutnant – probably a platoon leader. They don't expect an attack, especially from the water. You remember, I think, how I know how to handle knives. Only I must start now, or the boat with the officer will get too close to our shore, and my actions will be discovered.”

      “Do you realize that if something goes wrong, there's nothing we can do to help you?” Shcheglov answered after a second pause, looking somewhere in the distance.

      “I understand that, Comrade Captain. There are no Germans a kilometer downstream. They don't control the whole shore behind them – apparently, they believe that no one but their own can come from here. I'll try to be there in an hour at the latest. If I don't make it in an hour, I won't go to the meeting point – I'll hide on some small island and wait for the next night.”

      Shcheglov glanced at his watch. He didn't want to let me go alone, it was obvious, but the group still didn't have time to complete the task any other way in the time remaining before dawn, so the Captain essentially had no choice.

      “We'll wait for you for two hours,” Shcheglov cut off in a tone that could not tolerate objections, “Then the group leaves. If you make it sooner, we have a better chance of getting to our troops without shooting. If you don't find the right boat, come back immediately, that's an order. Have you understood everything, Nagulin?”

      Chapter 3

      The water was quite cold, but bearable enough. I left my Nagant and PPSh with my ammunition and all my iron, except the knives, with the Captain. But I had six knives hanging from my belt, and two more in special sheaths mounted on my shoulders so that I could reach and throw them in one motion.

      The quietest and most inconspicuous way to swim is underwater. That's what I chose. Holding my breath for five minutes did not cause me undue stress, and in that time I could swim a long enough distance. I didn't need to dive out to get my bearings, so I headed straight for the point where I planned to meet the Hauptmann's boat. It took me about ten minutes to get there, and now I was about 50 meters away from my target. The boat turned out to be quite large and could have been equipped with a motor, but the Germans, who had such motors, decided not to make any noise and preferred to use oars.

      My plan did not contain any subtle tricks and was based solely on surprise, speed and accuracy. I assumed that the Germans would not be expecting an attack on a route already traversed by other boats dozens of times that night, and I was confident that the speed and precision of my body movements far exceeded the the reaction and coordination of the movements of the locals. As it turned out a little later, I was very much mistaken.

      I waited underwater, and when the enemy boat was a meter from my head, I made a sharp movement with my legs that pushed me upward. At the same time, I grabbed the bow of the boat, and threw my body over the side, which tilted slightly.

      The soldiers, who were oaring, didn't even have time to realize what had happened. They were only a few meters away from me, and I couldn't miss from that distance. Hauptmann, comfortably seated in the stern, did not have time to react either, or rather, he reached for his holster, but the handle of the knife that struck him in the forehead rendered the officer unconscious for several minutes. But the non-commissioned officer, who on closer inspection turned out to be a Stabsfeldwebel, showed better training than all the other Germans in the boat, and in addition, he had more time than the soldiers who died almost instantly.

      I feared he would start screaming, trying to raise the alarm, or try firing his MP-40, but apparently the German knew he might not make it in time. I didn't even notice him pulling a knife, as I was busy first with the soldiers and then with their commander, and when my attention did shift to the last enemy, the German had already thrown his weapon. I must say, he did it masterfully, and his knife was as good as mine.

      The unexpectedness of the attack played a cruel joke on me – I was not prepared for such a development. Instantly assessing the threat, the computer took control of my muscles and jerked me to the left with a U-turn, disregarding my body's physiological capabilities. The combat mode of the implants allows me to do such tricks under the condition of an immediate threat to life. I needed to keep my body as trained as possible just for occasions like this. Such a stunt would put an unprepared person in a hospital bed for a very long time.

      The Stabsfeldwebel's knife, aimed at my heart, ripped through my blouse and flew into the water, tearing the skin on my shoulder. I didn't even notice this wound. My spine cracked, my back muscles felt like they were exploding with pain, and I could hardly keep from screaming, but I couldn't stop. The German, not the least bit embarrassed by the fact that I managed to dodge his knife, had already grabbed his submachine gun. I jumped forward, ignoring the pain in my protesting muscles. The boat rocked, and the German, who had begun to raise his weapon, lost his balance. In principle, it didn't make any difference – he wouldn't have had time to pull the breechblock anyway. At the last moment, the Stabsfeldwebel tried to shield himself with his submachine gun, but my fist took a circular trajectory and struck the German in the cheekbone. There was an unpleasant crunch, and my enemy's body went limp. I picked up the MP-40, which had fallen from his weakened hands, and laid it carefully on the bottom of the boat.

      My body resented this treatment, and I was frankly wobbly. The combat mode of the implants lowered my pain threshold, but I still felt bad and time was inexorably running out. The current was carrying the unmanageable boat, and even though it played into my hands now, I needed to take up the oars right away. I could clearly see the marks of the group's men, who had already arrived at the agreed point on the shore, but first something had to be done urgently with the wound I had sustained.

      The knife had thoroughly damaged my skin and many small vessels, and the blood didn't want to stop, despite the best efforts of the implants and my increased ability to regenerate. The Stabsfeldwebel had a bandage bag, and it took me a few more minutes to stop the bleeding.

      After about ten minutes, my body gradually began to recover. This wound, quite light in itself, could not really have knocked me out, but the strong burst I made when dodging the knife put a lot of strain on my body, and these two factors, put together, almost killed me. Bio-implants do not have their own energy sources, and are powered by the body's resources. Apparently, I spent too much energy on dodging in forced mode and the subsequent jump with a punch, and there was almost no energy left to fight the wound, but now I was gradually getting better.

      When the boat bumped into the shore, I was still dizzy and lurching. The scouts picked me up and helped me get to the bush. I did not participate in the ensuing looting of the enemy boat. Enjoying the rest, I allowed my body to send all the resources to recover, and when Shcheglov came up to me a quarter of an hour later, I felt noticeably better.

      “Can you walk, Junior Lieutenant?” the commander asked worriedly.

      “I think so,” I sat down carefully, listening to my feelings. My back was aching, but I seemed to be able to avoid tearing my muscles. I swayed gently left and right and back and forth. My spine did not protest. But the wound on my shoulder was beginning to hurt, but I could bear it.

      “It's not that bad, Comrade Captain,” I grinned, “I'll make it. In about 40 minutes I can help you drag the prisoner, but now please give me back my weapon.”

      “He'll go himself if he wants to live,” grumbled the Captain. It was obvious that he was relieved that I could walk on my own.

      Hauptmann did want to live. I exchanged a few words with him, and it became clear to me that we've caught a very tasty fish. This German officer turned out to be a radio company commander in the communications battalion of the 125th Infantry Division, which we encountered near Uman right after our train was bombed. Now they were being transferred to the Kremenchuk bridgehead, and Hauptmann was on his way to the eastern shore to his first platoon, which had been transported here along with the division's advanced units the previous night.

      It