Stanislav loved his country. He was loyal and was a firm believer that he always will be. He joined the Soviet army after learning radio deciphering and engineering in Kiev, stationed in an aerial-defense base, exposed to the forefront of the newest and most recent technological advancements in their fight against the American forces. After all, they’re bound to be the first to buckle under pressure and break the balance of terror between the two powerhouses, and when that happens – the Soviet army will be ready with a counterattack that would level cities in an instant, leaving its nuclear mark for hundreds of thousands of years to come.

On a day in late September, a drab gray one, if he had to make an educated guess from his underground station, Stanislav was watching a new missile detection system that has recently been installed at the base, meant to monitor, and alert for missiles coming from the Western front.

The recycled air in the room felt exceptionally dry and heavy in the past couple of weeks, ever since the American spy plane got shot down earlier that month in a desperate attempt to egg the Soviets into making the first drastic move. Since then, everyone in the base were high on their toes, more than ever before, and the atmosphere felt increasingly volatile the more time has passed, knowing the Americans are surely planning a counterattack of some kind, even if not the nuclear kind.

While Stanislav didn’t have as much military experience as the rest of his shift comrades – all of which were soldiers in active service for far longer than he was – it was his knowledge and expertise in radio engineering that landed him in the frontlines of the behind-the-scenes of the warfare. Considering the predictive nature of his division, perhaps they could be considered the true frontline of this global standoff, especially with word coming in of early detection systems developed and put in use by the Americans.

Falling behind in this race was not an option. Being at any technological disadvantage in this situation meant losing the delicate balance of power.

Betting on the day when the Americans would launch their attack became a common part of the daily small talk at the base, so much that on every round someone bet on their own shift, so the Rubles just switched hands without anyone losing any money, even if the pooled funds were hardly worth the time spent on putting the bets. It was a simple way to lift the tension, even for a few minutes at a time, and Stanislav found himself listening in part to the enthusiastic justification of the bravest of the bunch to why they picked the single date that they did since betting rounds started, and in the other part paid his mind to the detection system.

This drab September morning felt like many before it, but as he was starting to feel himself getting invested in the heated debate rising from other stations, a red light shining from his own station snapped his attention back to work, as his heart skipped a beat and picked up the pace.

Contrary to how cold he felt, sweat began to bead and roll over his forehead like sticky sap as he realized the other soldiers were huddled around the station, all bathed in the same foreboding, hellish light, casting dark shadows on their faces. Someone must’ve finally won the bet, but they all knew this was not the time to collect the winnings.

BALLISTIC MISSILE INCOMING

An alarm went off from the station as four more missiles appeared, one after the other, as their cross-continental trajectory showed they were heading to USSR grounds.

The ominous red lights framed an indication of a location on a map representing an American missile launch detected by Soviet satellites. Stanislav felt a chill penetrating through his skin like needles, a hundred and thousand times colder than the one that stood constantly in the room up to this moment.

The writing updated as everything around Stanislav felt as though it was moving in slow motion. The murmur of the soldiers next to him and the whirring of the machinery in front of him distorted and mixed into a crescendo of static noise filling his head, deafening his ears.

Without realizing it, he was holding the receiver in one hand and the radio communicator in the other, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn either of them on with the same instinctual response.

His muscles seized and his breath halted.

INCOMING BARRAGE

He had to report any warning of that sort.

It was his job.

Every second he didn’t pass it on put an entire nation at risk, leaving them helpless.

His heart hammered against his ribs and every fiber of his being screamed to pass this along to higher authority to enact a counterattack.

This was what they were preparing for, right?

No.

Something felt wrong.

But what if he’s mistaken? What if he’s putting his entire country in danger?

He wanted to prove his loyalty to the motherland, send an irrefutable message of superiority to the enemy in the West that they can’t be taken by surprise, not without delivering a powerful blow back.

But…what if he’s right?

Falsely reporting an enemy missile launch in this volatile atmosphere might drag them into a full-blown nuclear war that will be their fault. His fault.

Feeling light-headed, Stanislav only now realized he was still holding his breath and coughed the air out, taking another few deep breaths and feeling how the cold, dry air felt like glass in his throat and his lungs felt at though they were crumpling like balled up sandpaper.

Doing his best to ignore the pointed fingers of the soldiers around him, the attempts to grab the communicators from his hand and the agonized screams of future victims of war echoing in his mind, Stanislav tried to think this through.

The alarm may have gone past 30 layers of security measures in the code, meant to prevent any false detection, it felt as though it went through it all too quickly – even though time was of the essence. The system was still relatively new, and Stanislav knew that its production was sped up, to compete with the American development.

He shuddered at the mere realization that his loyalty and trust in his people has wavered and did his best to shake it off.

With no other sources to confirm or disprove the detection, the potential damage caused by a wrong decision would rest on his shoulders alone, and the guilt was already twisted his guts before he even made a call.

But he had to make one.

Stanislav straightened up, determined, and the other soldiers fell silent and moved back, as if physically struck.

The communications line came to life with a single push of a button.

“Report, Lieutenant Petrov,” the stern voice of one of his commanders answered on the other side.

“False alarm, sir,” his voice was steady, but the blood rushing through his veins threatened his already waning consciousness.

The call ended and they waited.

And waited.

The silence never felt sweeter.