Signals in the Dark: The Kyiv Bunker Watch
This is chapter one of Signals in the Dark - A novella serialized by Echoes from the Shadows. Beginning in Kyiv moving through Iran, Georgia, Russia and Belarus, you are invited into a world on fire.
(Echoes from the Shadows 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 below:
Burrowed beneath Podil's cracked streets, the SBU command bunker hummed, the exterior walls above pocked with the remnants of falling war debris, a static relic of three years of ongoing Russian attacks against the Ukrainian capital.
A pot's hiss pierced the air, the dented cover no match for the scalding water bubbling over onto a dented gas stove, heavy with the smell of boiling cabbage, carrots, and potatoes. A half-empty Horilka bottle stood on a crate beside a chipped shot glass etched with Ukraine's Tryzub, the kick of the locally produced spirit, a quiet, numbing remembrance of Kyiv's ongoing defiance. The outside world carried on, impervious to the cooking below, as life in the Kyiv district churned despite the near-constant threat of the Kremlin's tools of terror: Ballistic missiles and Death Drones. Horns blared on Kostiantynivska Street as a tram's wheels grated over tracks a couple blocks away. Upstairs, a generator kicked on after a false start, a reminder that the nation's power grid was strained under Moscow's relentless pursuit of genocide.
Five men converged daily in the tight space, and at least two were always in the isolated shelter. With cables crisscrossing the floor and their screens glowing against flickering bulbs overhead, this group was driven as much by passion for their work, as for the glory of their nation and victory for their country.
A heavy whiff of industrial air emanating from an antiquated and recently soldered power outlet and the chipped plaster peeling off the Soviet-era concrete brought forth the constant echo of a decades-long battle for true independence from would-be Russian conquers. A map of enemy territory, stretching from Bryansnk to Vladivostok, covered one wall. With edges frayed and red markers tracing the patterns and paths of the Kremlin's troops, operatives, and agents, destinations began to blur—each line leading to an individual nerve center, part of the war's ever-increasing global web.
Dmytro Hrytsenko rested his hands on the table; fingers spread over a worn notepad, timestamps scratched in tight rows: 22:30—check-in due. Despite his steady grip on the pen, his knee tapped beneath, a habit he couldn't shake. At thirty-eight, he was wiry, some would say gaunt, except for the muscle he still possessed. His appetite was curtailed by a combination of a pack a day—and stomach acid reaching his esophagus; he wore his hair clipped close under a wool cap. A look picked up from nights scanning for drones in buried hideouts. A scar ran along his left temple, a present from the liberation of Bucha when an F-1 fragment grenade nearly left him blind.
He pulled the cap back in the harsh light to check the laptop's encrypted feed. The cursor pulsed. Lis—one of his sources inside Russian intelligence, a keen mind with a science background who'd fed him tips from Volgodonsk for a year now, was overdue. The nonexistent message ate at him. Korol sat across, a Prylucky burning between his fingers, ash dropping onto the slabbed floor. Three hours since he booted the laptops up meant he was smoking for three hours as well. His broad build shifted in the seat; his beard flecked with gray, his eyes piercing through everything they locked onto. Monitoring a line cut that patched him into a Donetsk conversation, he exhaled. "Yeah, she's overdue," he rasped, voice rough, absently flicking another tumble of ash off the table with a quick tap.
"She'll come," Hrytsenko said, eyes on the screen, knee tapping despite himself. Her first note was a flare he couldn't let go of. It led to eighteen hours of digging through intercepts that proved decisive in destroying an arsenal of imported artillery and liquidating the souls in just the right place.
A pipe began leaking, water hitting the floor with a steady beat. Korol blew smoke at the map, eyeing a marked hub north of Ukraine. "Fox hasn't missed in eight months." He scratched his beard, fingers rough from old cuts—he picked at them until raw and convinced himself that habit made him feel less pain at other times. She'd never sought a pullout, but one was available with just one line if the FSB scented their arrangement: "Snow's thick in Poltava." "I'll say it"—she promised him over and over. But what did the promise of a Russian agent mean? And why the hell did he care? Still, he'd memorized the line and, more importantly, the sound of her voice from the few times they spoke. Her voice remained ever steady over the encrypted lines. She told him too much, enough that he wondered if she was the one playing him. Hinting at her deep love of scientific investigation, she recalled her supposed lament at being fully absorbed into the world of shadows. Eight months of tips—parts from Taganrog, troop shifts, whispers of altered cargo under military clearance—each checked out, each a sliver of relief, as events since Bucha taught him trust was illusionary. Somewhere behind the walls, a pipe creaked. In the stifling, subterranean cold, they saw from their phones that air raid sirens hummed outside—no drones had approached yet.
White text flashed across the screen: Activity in BSL-4—materials were taken. Hrytsenko's knee stopped, breath catching as the cursor blinked. Korol shifted back, chair creaking. It might be routine—someone moving gear. More text scrolled up: Possible test. Full lockdown on.
The room went quiet, the screen's light carving their faces. Bilozir, twenty-four, sat on a crate, his Lenovo cradled in his lap. In front of him, a notebook packed with notes on Moscow's invaders— he was a PhD student with a sharp edge from Karazin National University before the war took his studies. "Full lockdown's not a drill," he said, voice fast. "Could be a real run," Hrytsenko said, eyes tight, mind racing to Lis's last drop—high-value cargo shifted north under military clearance, no manifest he could trust, her calm voice masking the risk she'd taken.
Korol huffed, ash glowing as he pulled. "Russia doesn't test—they hit, call it a slip later. Donetsk showed me—chemical mess, 'oops,' they claimed." He scratched at the burn marks running the length of his scarred arm, a grim reminder he knew of what he spoke. The room held still as the notification came that the sirens were finished- for now.
A new line flared on the display: Containment breach logged. Site-4 shut. Hrytsenko's hand tightened, the shift hitting hard—a lab locked down, no word on what was gone, Lis's intel too sharp to be mere guesswork. Bilozir dropped, his voice now low, a near whisper. "Something's out—could be fast, no trace in the leaks." "What's out?" Korol said, cigarette in hand, glancing at Hrytsenko. "No clue," Hrytsenko said, even recalling a deserter's rant last winter: "They'll bleed us all"—rambling he'd dismissed until now, wondering if Lis had heard it too.
The feed updated: Searches underway. FSB on site. Pull out? The room stiffened, a pipe leaking onto the floor. Hrytsenko typed: Hold. Stay quiet. Wait. Korol dropped his elbows on the table. "Test or hit?" "We need eyes out there," Hrytsenko said sharply. "Anyone in the area—any agents, any contacts?" Bilozir frowned, tapping his notebook. "GUR might have someone—SZRU's stretched thin, though. It could be that NIFC's got a line if NATO's still watching." Korol snorted, ash falling. "GUR's too loud—SZRU's ghosts are tied up east. NIFC? They'd rather not watch us than have to share."
Hrytsenko's muscles pulsed and tightened. Lis wouldn't leave us blind without a backup." Text snapped onto the screen: FSB clearing drives. Moscow's call. He paused, tense, his stomach flaring. Imaging Lis, he'd never seen a clear pic of her, just some grainy file images. Kozlov's favored operative, he trusted with the dirtiest jobs, like the adopted niece of Satan's spawn. Her education, twisted by Moscow's desire for destruction, made her more valuable and dangerous. But to whom? Korol said, "That's no test—GRU burned Donetsk files the same way." Bilozir checked logs and glasses low. "Could be covering a move—someone's spooked them." "Or they let it loose and skipped the cleanup," Korol said, hand stopping short of the Horilka—a rare falter for a man who'd seen worse.
A final message blinked up: Cargo shipped west. Army trucks. No destination. Hrytsenko tensed, the map's red lines sharp at his back—shadowed hubs shifting under Moscow's hand, Lis's tips pointing to a plan he couldn't yet see. "Belgorod's near—an option," he said, steady. "If it's real, it's moving now." Bilozir pulled a thermal feed—weak signals headed west from Volgodonsk. "Small group, quick—might hit a rail line north." Hrytsenko typed: Use or move? Sleet began falling on the darkened Kyiv pavement—a faint echo of her code. The cursor sat, then blinked: Unknown. Likely fieldwork.
"We need eyes—GUR, SZRU, NIFC, anyone," Hrytsenko said, cutting through, her absence a spur—he'd trusted her, Kozlov's pick, too much not to act. He tensed—Lis, stuck, no way out—but sent: Hold. Stay quiet. Wait. The cursor froze—line cut. Korol stubbed his cigarette, ash falling. "She's out." Hrytsenko stared absently toward the map, Lis's last words and all her previous ones weighing heavy—her voice, delivering words with poignant precision, replaying in his head. A favored piece in Kozlov's game gone dark. The bunker went silent, except for the slurping noises of soup.
Tell me what you think of Chapter 1: Signals in the Dark
Compelling. Very.