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LOCATION: UNDERGROUND BUNKER
CITY: BELGOROD, RUSSIA
DATE: APRIL 28, 2026 | TIME: 2300 HOURS
During the four days Charlie team was in Belgorod, they left a mark on morale and Russia's actual capability to continue executing the war in the region.
They dismantled rail junctions going out of the city, stole munitions stockpiles and stole or burned off fuel supplies.
The stolen material was stocked in the underground bunker. When Alpha team completed its "demon in the night" sabotage, they would pick up and smuggle the supplies across the border for Ukrainian troops who needed it.
Meanwhile, on the 28th of April, Bravo and Charlie teams were to meet at an abandoned dacha on the outskirts of Tomarovka, northwest of Belgorod.
Charlie arrived first. They scouted the place carefully, finding it in disrepair that was almost theatrical in its neglect.
Shutters dangled loose from rusted hinges, trim rotted and flaking, weeds waist-high in the yard. A half-collapsed shed leaned drunkenly behind the main house.
Yet beneath all that ruin, the basement was surprisingly solid. The cool air smelled faintly of earth and mildew, the concrete walls were uncracked, and the wooden steps groaned but held steady.
The Charlie team leader sent a System message to the Bravo leader.
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Found an abandoned dacha at my location.
[LOCATION MARKED]
Enter from the south. Back door is unlocked.
We're in the basement. Keep lights off.
Stay frosty.
---
They hunkered down. Protein bars, dry goods, and water were handed out and consumed in silence.
Two hours later, faint movement on the perimeter had the Charlie lookout on alert, until he confirmed it was Bravo team.
Bravo filtered into the basement with the others, and they all settled in for a long day of inactivity, sleep, and meditation before they would move on the next night.
They reshuffled their supplies so everyone had a balanced load. Charlie team handed out Russian uniforms they'd taken from a warehouse in Belgorod.
At dusk on the 29th, as the last vestiges of daylight fell below the sightline, the two teams headed out. Seven hours of running lay ahead of them, through wheat fields that whispered in the night wind, and across irrigation ditches glinting faintly in the moonlight.
Their destination was Sudzha. A natural gas compressor station that kept the pipelines alive with pressure, driving fuel westward.
Pipelines that carried gas from deep inside Russia into the last few European nations still bound by old agreements.
Agreements that funneled precious hard currency into a Russian state straining under global sanctions, and struggling to continue projecting the illusion of strength to the world.
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LOCATION: DEEP IN A FOREST
CITY: SUDZHA, RUSSIA
DATE: APRIL 29, 2026 | TIME: 2300 HOURS
This far from the border with Ukraine, overhead surveillance was minimal, so the team found a patch of heavy forest five miles south of the compound housing the Sudzha Compressor Station.
The four rogues in the group spent the day casing the compressor station. A guard tower near the main entrance posed the greatest challenge to approaching silently.
Once inside the gates, there would be guards both stationed and on roaming patrols, but they could be dealt with.
Deep inside the compound was the control station itself. This would be their target.
Returning to the forest, they reported on what they saw, and the teams came up with a plan.
At 2300, with a blanket darkness covering the night, it was time to move.
The rogues took point and moved in front, with the healers placed in between the fighters in a line.
When they arrived at the crossroads bordering the facility, they fanned out around the perimeter, still maintaining cover.
Two of the rogues walked openly toward the gate in the high chain fence.
"Comrade," he said, "would you like a smoke?"
He held out a pack of Marlboros and a stainless steel Zippo lighter.
"What the fuck are you doing? This area is off limits," the guard said. He held his rifle in the low ready position.
The rogue took one more step forward, and the guard raised his hand. A guard in the tower above aimed a rifle directly at the Charlie team rogue.
"How about we give you a thousand Euros each, and you take the night off?" the rogue said, his voice a low grumble.
Suddenly, two infrared dots lit up the tower guards chest, and eight lit up the chest of the guard down below.
"Or," the other rogue said, "there's the other solution. Up to you."
The guard in the tower set his weapon down and held his arms up. The one on the ground smirked.
"A thousand Euros, the cigarettes, and that lighter."
The rogues laughed.
"For that," the Charlie team rogue said, "you'll need to get rid of the others inside. An extra five hundred Euros for you if you do."
"Done," the guard said. "Give me fifteen minutes. And the money up front."
"Half now, half afterward," the rogue said, counting out the money.
They melted back into the forest and waited, watching.
A few minutes later, sixteen guards and technicians had donned their jackets, gotten into their cars and drove off into the night.
The guard stood at the gate waiting, and the team of twelve Peacekeepers emerged from the forest.
Their sudden appearance surprised the guard, but he recovered quickly.
"Whatever you do inside there, I hope it makes a difference," he said. "We are tired of this fucking war and the sanctions.. Thanks for not just shooting us and doing your thing anyway."
The Bravo team leader stepped forward and held out another five thousand Euros.
"If I give you this, would you distribute it among those who work here? Can I trust you to do that?" he asked.
The guard just stared at him for a minute. Seemingly trying to comprehend what was happening.
Finally, he came to a decision.
"It will be done."
"Good," Bravo leader said, handing over the cash. "Now go home and enjoy a cold one for us."
The guard accepted the money, pocketed it, and jogged to the parking lot. He drove away, and the sound of his small diesel car faded into the darkness.
"Alright," Bravo leader said, "time to get to work.
Now, without any pressure, they took their time setting the scene. The compressor station control building included three levels of redundancies.
It would require a catastrophic failure of all backup systems in order to cripple the station long enough to make a difference.
Inside the control building, the teams spread out in silence. The air smelled faintly of lubricating oil and ozone, the steady thrum of machinery vibrating through the floor.
"Three layers of redundancy," Bravo leader muttered. "Turbines, backup power, and the control system. We take all three down."
The turbines were the heart of the station. Massive compressors that shoved millions of cubic meters of natural gas forward under pressure. Without them, the pipeline became little more than a hollow steel tube, gas pooling sluggishly with nowhere to go.
Four team members planted shaped charges in a precise pattern along the compressor housings, sticky resin clinging to the curved steel shells. One well-placed detonation would warp rotors and tear bearings apart, ensuring the machines couldn't be spun up again without months of repair and parts Russia no longer had easy access to.
Next, the rogues moved on the generator hall. Diesel reserves kept the backup motors and emergency systems alive in case of power loss, but with tanks drained onto the concrete floor, fuel lines cut, and spark plugs pocketed, there would be no quick restart. Even if Moscow rushed engineers in, the compressors themselves would take time to repair.
Finally, they hit the control room. Rows of terminals displayed real-time pressure, valve status, and flow rates. It was all tied together by a remote supervisory control and data acquisition (SCADA) system, which acted as the central nervous system of the pipeline.
They pulled the hard drives, smashed circuit boards, and left small incendiary charges that would melt the racks into slag. Without SCADA, the pipeline couldn't be monitored or managed from remote locations.
"Good work," Charlie leader whispered. "When these blow, Sudzha's finished."
They filed out quickly, leaving behind the hum of machinery they had just gutted. Minutes later, the timers tripped and muffled thumps rolled across the compound as turbines ripped themselves apart. The vibration underfoot ceased. One by one, the lights flickered, then died.
The flow of Russian gas to Europe stopped that night, and would not resume for months. With it vanished hundreds of millions of Euros in daily revenue, a lifeline Moscow could ill afford to lose.
Their work done, the twelve melted back into the night, already angling south through the fields and beginning their long, patient journey toward Ukrainian soil.