Signals in the Dark: Freight to the Front
This is chapter two of Signals in the Dark - A novella serialized by Political.Tips - Beginning in Kyiv moving through Iran, Georgia, Russia and Belarus, you are invited into a world on fire.
(Signals in the Dark is my way of presenting my fact infused fiction to readers who understand the world is on fire, and have a desire to both escape it and immerse themselves in it. I ask that if you appreciate my work, to please help contribute to my writing through PayPal or by subscribing now. - Please like, share, and comment on this story and every chapter from Signal's in the Dark. Your feedback matters.)
Shahid Rajaee Rail Terminal, Bandar Abbas, Iran |
The diesel engine hummed, churning at a low idle, the locomotive it rested in saw its metal frame streaked with grime, exhaust fumes steadily disappearing into the humid night. Wheels, manufactured with steel produced during the reign of the Shah, gleamed with streaks of oil magnified under the floodlights' steady buzz. Towering high above the railyard, the lighting illuminated the constant motion of those occupying it. Workers moving through shadows, shouting in Farsi—"Boro, zood bash!"— words cutting through the night air as they tightened cables over flatbeds, keffiyehs snapping in a Gulf breeze heavy with salt from the harbor a kilometer west. A faint clink of metal echoed from a chai stall where a vendor stoked a brazier, embers flaring red against the dark, his muttered curses rising due to occasionally singed skin, an occupational hazard. Beyond the terminal's tarnished fence—strung with faded "Vared Nashavid!" signs—Kuh-e Namak loomed under a crescent moon, a jagged ridge over Bandar Abbas's sprawl, where dhows creaked at their moorings, a lone lantern swaying on the tide.
The Tehran-Minsk corridor ran on necessity, a thread from Iran to Russia's war machine, along with trading partners across the region feeding a conflict clawing ever wider since Moscow's full-scale invasion of Ukraine three years prior. Officially, the train hauled actuators and crankshafts—cargo bland enough to pass customs with a nod and a folded stack of rials tucked under a clipboard. The truth hid in sealed crates under Zagros Heavy Industries labels: Shahed drone parts covering the 107 and 136 variants, kits for glide bombs, and shells of the 122 and 152 mm variety all forged Tehran's industrial haze—tools for a fight stretching beyond the Don.
Kamal Nouri paced the gravel, boots crunching as sweat beaded under his collar, night's warmth pressing despite the wind tugging his frayed keffiyeh. Two decades in this trade—starting as a dockhand hauling fish crates when the Soviet collapse cracked open the Gulf, climbing through backroom deals to oversee shadow runs—had carved deep crevices into his brow His daughter Leila tested alloys at Zagros Heavy in Tehran, her pay keeping insulin stocked in their Isfahan flat above a textile shop, looms rattling below since sanctions tightened last spring. Every crate he signed was a shield for her—or so he told himself, though a knot in his gut echoed a customs raid from the Irwar's chaos, when a Qom loan bailed him out and locked him into this game, the rules of which forced him to stop counting the lies years ago, but the Russian grip—their brusque orders, their cold hands on every load—stoked a quiet resentment he buried under necessity, Leila's future a tether which bound him tight.
A Russian stood under the terminal's tin-roofed desk, wind rattling its edge as he studied cargo logs with gloved hands, pages turning slowly under the floodlight's glare. Late-thirties, stout, remnants of stitches permanently etching his cheek—a lasting impression from an Ichkeria sniper's round during the days when Grozny's streets ran red, and he thought himself an invincible kid. His drab coat hung loosely over a frame honed across Moscow's backrooms, a stance sharp and calm carrying a flat, nearly withdrawn demeanor. A Sobranie pack peeked from his pocket, unlit—control trumping the urge tonight, his focus strictly on the papers.
"These cars aren't rolling where they're listed," he said, tapping a line, leather creaking under his glove. Nouri's grip tightened on his pen, voice steady but thin against the weight of expectation. "Tehran set this for Minsk. It's a straight run. My head is gone if there are changes."
The Russian's gray eyes opened up, flat and cold. "Tehran's out tonight. Orders shifted. This is straight from Kozlov. Deal with it. Or don't."
Nouri exhaled as the muezzin's call drifted from Hormoz Avenue, its wail threading amongst the yard's clatter, his faith and his daughter, duel anchors he clung to before the inevitable cave. "Where to? I need a name for the paper when they check."
"North—first stop is..." the Russian clipped the page and corrected himself, "Your job ends here." A whistle ripped through the air, short and final, the TGM6 locomotive lurching forward, sparks on the rails—its Tarkhankut Rail label a relic. Workers secured the last chains across the containers, as the padlocked freight cars slowly rolled out— their path shrouded by altered manifests.
Nouri scratched a signature, ink smudging under moist fingers, the Zagros seal blurring as his hand shook. "Customs will need clearance. Last batch sat a week..."
"Clearance is handled," the Russian said, tucking logs under his arm, a thin smirk pulling his lips—a look that belied his presence. "Sahed squared it from here to the border. All handled." Nouri had walked the same line too often. Often enough to know that changes were never good.
Three thousand kilometers north, at the Krasnoe/Osinovka rail hub, another specialized shipment awaited its scheduled departure. Bound for Bobrovniki station, preparations by Russian security services were well underway. Unlike earlier transports, station masters weren't mandated to remain at their posts, amplifying the nature of the operation—and the expanding tapestry of war.
In case you missed it, here is chapter one of Signals in the Dark: The Kyiv Bunker Watch.
