"Mikhail Evstafiev. Two Steps From Heaven " - читать интересную книгу автора

barrel to which someone had tied four legs for fun. A suffocating stench of
decaying flesh hung in the air for several dozen meters around.
Suppressing the urge to vomit, the soldiers tried to keep as far away
from it as possible, as if fearing that the rock-hard hide of the dead
animal, bloated to its limits, might burst and douse them with stinking,
rotten matter.
Armed men filed through the winding streets, which were not wide enough
for their vehicles: a BMP was bound to get stuck and become a sitting
target.
The new boys gazed around fearfully, creeping sideways along the walls
in momentary expectation of attack, delaying the others as they pressed
their backs to the blind walls of houses. Lacking experience, borne along
only by the fear and excitement arising out of terror of the unknown, they
could only count on the speed of their reaction, the ability to fire at
once, emptying the entire magazine.
The more experienced soldiers were like predators: listening,
constantly evaluating their position in relation to a possible enemy,
estimating the best and closest cover to dive into at the first sound of a
shot. Intuitively, they sought the temper of the village, tried to catch its
breath, and moved confidently ever deeper, to complete the combing and get
out of this silent, malevolent and alien kingdom.
The men advanced quickly but quietly, fearful of mines and trip-wires.
Their eyes searched the ground. The labyrinths under the houses led to the
very heart of the village.
Part of the village was destroyed by artillery fire: some roofs and
grey mud walls had collapsed, shattered windows were black holes in the
walls of houses. Here and there, on houses that were still standing, there
were small Chinese-manufactured padlocks - a sure sign that the inhabitants
had fled, expecting the worst, but hoped to return at some later time.
"Check 'em out!"
A door was rammed in.
"Sychev, follow me!" Ordered Sharagin. "Titov, Myshkovsky! Check
opposite, in the yard!"
"All clear!"
"The spooks have fucked off!..."

Captain Morgultsev took off his hat, wiped the sweat off his brow with
his sleeve, and unfolded a map on the armour.
"Combing through the "greenery" is like chasing lice out of your hair
with a bloody fine-tooth comb ... All right ...The Afghan units will move in
from here, and here. Our orders are to move along here." He poked a finger
at a green-shaded section on the map, criss-crossed by roads, like so many
veins.
"To hell and gone with that fucking greenery!" Chistyakov hawked and
spat through his teeth, then rubbed the spittle into the ground with the toe
of his boot. "Can't we do without those bloody Afghans? They'll scare off
the spooks for miles around!"

... wants to take a last drink of blood, and there aren't any spooks
about, nobody to kill ...