Денис Седов – One step into Tomorrow (страница 7)

I smiled.

My first smile in days.

"Promise me you’ll come back."

"I promise," I said quietly. "Only… if something happens…"

"No 'ifs'," she cut me off sharply. "Just come back. That’s all."

We were silent for a second, just looking at each other through the screen—as if afraid the connection would vanish. That this would be our last conversation.

"Listen…" I added suddenly, not quite understanding why I was saying it now, "when this is all over…"

"Yes?"

"Maybe we can start over? For real?"

She smiled again—warmly, softly—with a barely perceptible nod.

"I’ve already started. The rest is up to you."

The connection cut.

And my chest felt a little lighter.

As if there really was something ahead more significant than just a sortie into "Tomorrow."

"AK-202 chambered in 5.56—with a telescopic folding stock. Picatinny rails installed for attachments."

"We’ve fitted a Holosun open reflex sight for you—reliable, proven red dot. You’ll get used to it quickly."

"NVG-10 night vision monocular from SPINA OPTICS—lightweight, compact."

"There’s also the BDN-9—our Russian day/night binoculars."

"A bunch of spare batteries, a charger for both rechargeable and standard ones."

"R-45 radio—good battery life, range from 400 to 480 MHz."

All this and more was shown and explained to me in detail by Semyon and his assistant, Sasha.

At my insistence, I kept my own pistol. 9×19 was a common caliber in that world, and no one objected. The only thing they replaced was the barrel. They also issued a suppressor and four magazines with seventeen rounds each.

I packed my backpack. In my jacket pocket was a list of what I’d put inside:

• "Gorka-Sturm" suit

• Universal plate carrier with mag pouches

• Spare underwear

• My own boots—Croatian-made, and in my opinion, they have no equal

• Survival kit

Ammunition:

• For the rifle—one thousand rounds. One sealed "spam can" of 760 and additional 20-round boxes to make up the total. Plus four loaded magazines

• For the pistol—four boxes of 50 rounds each and loaded magazines

Semyon issued a 6×9 knife with tactical sheaths.

I also added:

• Tactical flashlight (rifle mount)

• Headlamp

• Compass

• Action camera

• Drone

The gear was substantial. Weight—about twenty-five kilograms. And when I added the grenades, it reached thirty.

My back responded with a crunch.

"It's fine," I told myself. "I’ll lug it to the Nest where Kolya is lying low. I’ll unload there."

"Semyon," I said, stopping at the exit of the training building, "why is this place called 'Tomorrow' anyway? Who came up with that?"

The instructor smirked and adjusted the strap on his shoulder.

"Good question. You’re not the first to ask. But the answer, actually, is quite simple."

He sat on a wooden bench, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, flicked a lighter, and exhaled smoke.

"When they first opened the passage, the early researchers couldn’t figure out one strange detail for a long time. Time. It moved differently there. At first, they thought it was an instrument malfunction. Then they blamed it on stress, on fatigue. But when they started comparing camera recordings and clocks from both sides… it was confirmed."

"Is it really that different?" I asked, surprised.

"Exactly one year and one day," he nodded. "At first, everyone thought it was just a day—that world seemed to be living one day ahead. That’s how the name 'Tomorrow' was born."

"But in reality—it’s a year."

"They even checked by the position of the planets: exactly a year and a day, everything matches. A professor explained it to me once—it’s due to the physics of the transition. Time begins to slow down at that moment, and the Earth completes its annual orbit."

"So it turns out—you feel like a second has passed, but in reality…"

"So if I go in today, say, on the twentieth…" I began.

"Then you’ll find yourself there on October 21, 2027," he finished for me. "And it’s not just the date. The clocks are synchronized too. Second for second."

"Strange stuff," I muttered.

"What did you expect? It’s not a tourist route. We still don’t know why it works that way. We just accepted it as fact. And the name stuck by itself. First as a joke, then—officially."

"Tomorrow…" I repeated aloud. "Sounds poetic, I suppose."

"Poetic, you say…" Semyon smirked and flicked his ash.

The last day before the transition, I spent at the range. First zeroing the new barrels, then cleaning them.

The conference hall was modest, without unnecessary flair, but the air in it was thick with tension. At the long table sat those who usually stayed behind the scenes.

To the left was Semyon, the project handler—the man I had trained with. Calm, methodical, he inspired confidence.

To the right were two Americans. Officially partners. Unofficially—those who always kept a finger on the pulse, even if that pulse beat in another world.

Everyone present acted relaxed, chatting about something.

But everything changed when Makar entered.

He didn’t rush. A steady gait. A firm gaze. He took his place at the head of the table, and it became clear—he was the one in charge.

"Well, Konstantin," Makar began, "not much time left. We are here to tell you everything straight. Without diplomacy. This mission is most likely a one-way trip. Everyone understands this."