Argentine Archive №1. Магомет Тимов

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      “I still don't understand. What have we got to do with it?” Ivan threw aside a blade of grass, which until now he had chewed in a state of deep thoughtfulness and sat down, dusting off his shirt. The peaceful, warm August day confidently rolled towards sunset. On the smooth surface of a mirror-like pond, rings diverged from healthy fish playing around.

      On a slope overgrown with silky grass, Andrey sat on a couple of steps with a fishing rod and watched the motionless float with pretentious attention. Nearby stood a rumpled bucket of grass he had begged from the sergeant-mechanic in the garage. He intended it for the ‘rich catch’, so often colorfully described by local fishermen on their bikes. In fact, a couple of frozen minnows floated in its warm water.

      “Alo, garage!” Ivan looked around, picked up some old root, took aim and threw it, trying to knock the cap off his friend's head. Andrey, without turning around, merely shook his head as the rotten missile flew past. “I'm talking to you!”

      “And what do you, rotten intelligentsia, want to hear from an ignorant descendant of male spawn?” asked Fomenko over his shoulder, hiding his grin. “That the Cat was mistaken, and we are pounding pears in vain? The wrong contingent, so to speak? What are you unhappy about?”

      Ivan stretched himself until his joints creaked, exposing his face to the last warm rays of the setting sun. He breathed in deeply the scent of the nearby forest.

      “Such beauty… Everything suits me just fine. It's just not clear why our valiant intelligence service needs us when there are such a lot of wolfhounds around! Remember yesterday, on the obstacle course, that healthy one from the fourth platoon? Both agility and stamina! How he, after ten kilometers of cross-country running, pinned Mikolaichuk to the mat! Such power! Hooking, grabbing, strangling, everything in a few seconds! And what are we?”

      “What are we?” Andrey asked, still calm. His attention was riveted to the float, which suddenly came across the still water in a gambling dance and froze again. “The Cat trains us according to his special program.”

      “Yes, the program,” spat Sarmatov. “Dialectology, geography, chemistry and physics. I thought I would at least shoot a bit. There isn’t even a shooting gallery session on the schedule, never mind the actual shooting range. Look, look how those cadets are doing their best! They’re so soaked, you can throw away their t-shirts tonight! And here we sit as if preparing for a school Olympiad, scribbling notes.”

      Andrey climbed backward up the slope, bouncing as he went along. At the same time, he pulled the line out of the water. A limp strip of duckweed nestled on the empty hook.

      “That’s the last time I believe anyone about fishing spots,” he muttered, winding the line onto the reel and fixing it on the rod. “Here, Vanya, I don’t understand your displeasure. After all, as far as I remember, no one dragged you here by your ears, did they? So why are you getting snotty now? Haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

      Ivan also got up, brushed the grassy dirt off his pants, straightened his shirt.

      “Not really, my friend Tom. You shouldn’t hold your breath for that. My father can’t lure me back, even with a fattened calf. He’s so convinced what he knows about life is right, his preachy morals will make your head explode.”

      “You are too hard on him, Skiff, he only wants the best for you.”

      “I wish… Well, it’s my business. And as for our training, I will confront the Cat, so to speak, and let him explain why the country needs two halfwits like us. Tonight, during our free time. Okay, let's go. Our ‘break’ is just about over. Evening formation is coming soon.”

      The friends reeled up the rest of the fishing rods, scattered on the grass of the embankment, and headed towards the nearby forest. Behind the dark canvas of trees, it was impossible to see the high concrete wall of Special School № 1.