ОПЕРАЦИЯ «СНЕЖНЫЙ БАРС» ЛИКВИДАЦИЯ ДИВЕРСАНТА В ЗАСНЕЖЕННЫХ ЛЕСАХ КАРЕЛИ

Snow can't lie. So thought Captain Vekshin for twenty years, reading sable tracks in the Tunguska taiga, where each paw print is a letter, and a chain of tracks a whole tale of who passed, where, and with what anxiety. An animal can confuse, twist, and walk backwards along its own path. But the snow beneath it will still tell the truth to those who know how to look. In twenty winters hunting on the Podkamennaya Tunguska, Vekshin had never encountered a single track that lied to him. And that February morning on a Karelian ski trail lay across his entire life. The track moved forward. And the man who made it moved backward. The captain froze above the ski trail, kneeling. The frost was nearing twenty-five degrees, the air was dry and ringing, like a taut string. A slanting, reddish sun filtered through the spruce trunks, laying long stripes across the fresh powder. There was no wind at all—a rare, precious silence for someone reading tracks. Everything stood still, everything held its shape. And so the deception was especially clear. Vekshin removed his mitten and touched the edge of the print with his bare finger. The snow ridge—the small ridge that a ski pushes forward as it slides—wasn't where it should have been. It was behind the track. That's what happens when a person walks backwards, carefully inserting their skis into their own tracks to deceive the eye. The toe of the print pointed forward, into the thicket, as if beckoning. The one who had made it was backing away along their own tracks, where and why—the snow didn't yet say. "Seva," the captain called quietly. Sergeant Seva approached without a word, standing behind his shoulder. Young, thin, with a rifle slung over his back, he knew how to remain silent so silently that his silence was more eloquent than many reports. Vekshin pointed at a ridge of snow. Seva stared for a long moment. Then he raised an eyebrow slightly—for him, that was the equivalent of an entire sentence. "Walking backward," was all the sergeant said. "Backward," Vekshin confirmed. Sergeant Major Rzhavin caught up with them, stood next to them, leaned on his poles, and panted. His round, weather-beaten face glistened with sweat, and steam billowed from his breath. "So what are we sitting here for, Comrade Captain?" he grumbled. "It's just another trail. Our feet are freezing, and we're praying over the snow." "It's just another trail, but it's not an easy walk," Vekshin replied without turning around. "He told us with this ski track: follow me." And he himself was backing along it. Where was he actually going? It was still dark. Rzhavin crouched down and glanced where the captain was pointing. His buffoonery didn't immediately subside. "How can a man backtrack like that without losing his scent?" he muttered. "That takes skill." "That's skill," said the captain. He straightened up and looked around the spruce forest. Two of his assigned soldiers hung back slightly, warily swinging their guns around. A small group—five on skis, lightly packed, with two days' worth of dry rations. Behind, beyond the spruce forest, lay the railway junction—switches, a water pump, and the headquarters of the inspectorate that had converged here two days ago. Ahead, somewhere in the frosty thicket, walked the man for whose sake they had been alerted. A saboteur. "The Invisible Man," as a sullen major from the intelligence department called him at headquarters. He was dropped off from that side a week ago—the enemy apparently learned of the high-ranking official's arrival well in advance, which is why they sent a spy ahead of time. He was trained, experienced, and had one mission: to eliminate the army commander who had arrived to inspect the junction. This invisible man took out two of our outposts without firing a shot, just with a knife, and then disappeared into the forest. Vekshin was given a small group and an order: take him. Preferably alive. A saboteur carries a communications code, and a live spy is worth ten dead ones: a dead one is silent, but a living one can be coaxed into talking and put on the air under our dictation. The staff handed the captain a map. He glanced at it once and put it back in his tablet. He hadn't trusted maps for a long time. Maps always lie—they depict things as intended, not as they really are. Snow is more honest than a map. Or rather, it was—until this morning.