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Meeting Slavenko's gaze, you give a curt nod towards the courthouse and then begin to ascend the steps towards the building's broad stone front. You hear dry soft thuds and the scratching of fabric against grit as your staff maneuver the bags between them before following you into the courthouse. There is another sound too, unsuspected and unwelcome: the engine of the UAZ-469 turning over.
You halt your progress up the stairs, spin around, and hail the driver and call out to him to stop. He catches your eye and waits in the idling vehicle as you hustle back down the stairs and across the square towards him - your guards wait off to the side, loaded with baggage. The driver unlatches the top of his window and, holding onto a strip of dull-green synthetic fabric attached to the window frame, carefully lowers the frame so it rests against the outside of the driver's door. Not waiting to get to a comfortable conversational difference, you call out to the driver: "Why have you started your vehicle? Who has given you orders to start this vehicle?"
The driver stiffens at your clipped tones. He calls out, a bit too loud and almost shrill, "Southern Military District Headquarters Group!"
"What."
"Orders come from Southern Military District Headquarters Group, sir! Orders are to deliver Lieutenant General Liptsov G. N. and his staff to Gordon city courthouse, then return to Southern Military District HQ, sir! I was ordered to return this vehicle to motorpool, sir!" He has managed to correct his tone, this response is at an appropriate volume.
Hmm. An unexpected development. You do not immediately reply, but no one could know you are still formulating your response with how steady and resolute you keep your march towards the jeep. Your march brings you right up against the door and your intense stare radiates frustration at this previously-unknown decision of command. You take a breath in through your nose and release it in a short, violent burst. The driver is clearly uncomfortable meeting your eye contact but unwilling to be so defiant as to look away. You ask for the order and he rushes to retrieve it from an interior compartment. Sure enough, it orders the vehicle returned to the district. Nothing to do; the final word has already been pronounced. You hand the paper back to the driver and say, in a voice loud enough for your guards to hear: "Very good. Return to district headquarters."
Without another glance, you turn again and resume your brisk walk towards the courthouse. You can hear the jeep rumble away behind you and the dull echo of three pairs of footsteps hurrying to match yours up the staircase. You reach the wooden double-door to the courthouse and push inward on the handle. The door buckles slightly and makes a noise indicated mechanical resistance. Stepping back, you pull the door handle and this time it swings wide.
