“Yes, Sergeant! I . . . don’t believe the Lieutenant likes me much. I don’t quite know why. ”
“Marcinko’s an odd one, even for an officer.” Timoshenko’s grin expanded, masking his unease. He’d heard talk about this Lieutenant and hoped it was untrue—or exaggerated, at least. It was obvious that Marcinko took a dim view of anyone so foolish as to have been born anything except a Great Russian.
All we need here, he thought now, the damned Memory Society!
“You’re a smart one, Sergeant. Know about these Afghans?”
“Some,” Timoshenko conceded. “Part of my training, actually—primitive peoples in general. At the University…” His voice faded away. Oh, Timoshenko reflected, how long ago that was!
Less than a year, and yet a lifetime ago.
“University?”
“Yes, in Gor’kiy. I was only there a year or so. Then I was conscripted.”
“Perhaps, but Dmitri says you know everything about these people!”
“Dmitri exaggerates. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
The conversation grew lighter and friendlier. However, Rykov did not forget himself again.
Good, his Sergeant thought, he’s no fool. Very good, indeed!
At last, the young Ukrainian smiled a special, shy smile. Even before he spoke, Timoshenko knew the question—they were both nineteen, after all.
“You wonder about the girls, the Afghan women?”
Rykov blushed, his wind-burned face darkening further. “Yes, Sergeant.” And he beamed a more hopeful smile.
Timoshenko almost returned it—until a sudden memory confronted him with her, in every shattering detail.
The gunships, the MI-24s, went in first—blasting away at unoccupied, mud-brick houses. The fighters were, as always, deployed in the surrounding countryside, waiting. They had no Stingers this day, so the gunships did their useless job in unaccustomed safety.
Meanwhile, the women, children and old folk of the village were in the nearby caves—fairly safe, too. While the battle raged, they would all stay there.
It was always like that.
Well, almost always…
In any case, the transport copters, the MI-8s, landed with the troops—including Timoshenko’s platoon. They fanned out into the hills, hoping to locate their elusive enemy. They did: one squad stumbled blindly into an ambush.
The resulting firefight was no worse than usual. But later, as he formed his men to return to the copter, Timoshenko found her.
Fifteen or sixteen, he estimated. She had been almost pretty, and almost surely already the wife or widow of a Mujahedin. If the man still lived, he would soon return to this spot, to grieve and to swear vengeance.
Timoshenko bent down to examine the expert job the killer had done. Ear to ear, her throat had been neatly slashed—one long, clean, crimson arc. It was the fatal wound, and surely the last inflicted—for even then, even after all he’d already seen Timoshenko somehow could not imagine how anyone could bring himself to rape a corpse.
“Sergeant?” Rykov drifted closer, carefully. He bit his lip and gingerly touched Timoshenko’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong again? Sergeant?”
“No!” Timoshenko shook his head a shade too violently. “I’m fine.”
More and more, it happened. He would drift back into the past and stay there, too long. Dr. Aleksandr had told him not to worry, but Timoshenko remembered the concern on that thoughtful, Asian face.
He was more grateful than surprised when the first pebble bounced off Rykov’s back.
“Saw his campfire, did he? Damned literal-minded fool of a Tatar! While Vlad was staring into the distance, the blasted Malang was slipping right past him! Behind our perimeter.” Another well-aimed pebble flew from behind the massive, flat-topped boulder not five meters above and behind their sentry post. Rykov ducked it inexpertly. “Good thing it wasn’t a squad of Muja Death Commandos!”
“Shall I call?” Rykov asked, glancing toward his pack, complete with walkie-talkie.
Timoshenko squinted. The radio would only bring Marcinko. “Negative. We’ll handle this. Kick him out before he gets us in trouble. Then I’ll have a good, long talk with good old Vlad!”
“Whatever you say, Sergeant.” Rykov returned his rifle to his shoulder, confident it would be unneeded. Unlike every other sort of Afghan male, these Malang carried no weapons. They were blessed, or cursed, or something. Anyway, they had no use for earthly weapons.
“Sergeant!”
The distant bellow made both young men start.
The Officer of the Day was approaching, followed closely by the Afghan translator and a pair of weary Soviet noncoms.
“Oh, hell,” Timoshenko muttered, motioning for Rykov to wait. Meanwhile, the Malang had ceased his petty bombardment and stepped into plain view.
Timoshenko took a long look at him. Their eyes met and the Sergeant shuddered.
“No!” Marcinko stormed, overruling the Afghan Captain. Karmal was outside his chain of command; a mere advisor—not a superior. Marcinko made every effort to emphasize that fact, whenever possible. “You had your chance, Captain. Yesterday, twice! Now we’ll do it my way. Run the beggar off for good, this time! Look at him—filthy, lice-ridden. You call that a man? Ought to do ourselves and him a favor, blow his scraggly head off!”
Timoshenko was shocked by Karmal’s reaction: he’d never seen an Afghan go so pale, or sputter so ineffectively. Even the fabled Afghan politeness failed the Captain.
“No, you fool! You . . . you can’t shot him. Please, Lieutenant—listen, he’s a Malang and we cannot—”
“Don’t wet your baggy Afghan trousers,” Marcinko snarled. He did not appreciate being called a fool. “I heard Danilov’s orders. Unlike some of us, I’m a good soldier. I am in control of myself, Captain. I merely said we ‘ought’ to, not that we will.” His head whipped around. “You! Timoshenko! Come with me. You others stay here—including you, Captain Karmal. Wouldn’t want you inured by this dangerous intruder, would we? So just stay here, at a safe distance and see how the Red army handles such…serious problems!”
Marcinko turned and marched toward the Malang.
Timoshenko, having no alternative, followed.
Timoshenko deflected another pebble with his forearm and shook his head.
Weird eyes aside, the Malang was really quite pathetic—a homeless, wandering madman.
No threat, in and of himself. Marcinko continued to rant about filthy, ungrateful savages and foul-smelling barbarians—and about how he and Timoshenko were different.
How they were brothers, true men! Great Russians both, and therefore bound together.
The sergeant began to sweat, for somehow he knew what was coming.
It had been obvious from the moment the three of them had inched around to the far side the huge stone. Now they were out of sight—alone.
The stream of invective the Malang aimed at them didn’t help, either.
Neither of them spoke much if any Pashto, but one needn’t understand the words to sense the meaning. They were being insulted and taunted—in fact, being dared.
The Lieutenant wasn’t about to let it pass.
With dumb terror, Timoshenko watched Marcinko undo the top of his holster.
“Lieutenant, don’t you think…”
“No, Sergeant.” Marcinko pulled his automatic, hefted it and grinned. “It’ll be all right. I assure you, Piotr Grigorovich! This is how we do it: the lunatic attacks me. You, to protect me, shoot him. There’ll be no trouble; you’ll hear no complaints from that worthless mouse of a colonel. My word, Comrade—as one Great Russian to another!”
Yes, Timoshenko thought. Then we really will be bound together, for all time—by our shared crime. He stared at the ancient Malang.
Or was he even so old? Men aged quickly here. This one might easily be no more than fifty.
My father’s age, Timoshenko thought.
“No.”
It
was a simple word, but it was enough.
Enough to free Timoshenko. Free him from officers and their infernal, often idiotic orders. Free him from the Red Army, and from its pointless, blood-soaked war.
It was enough to free him from everything that had become, all at once, utterly intolerable.
He unslung his Kalishnikov with elaborate care and lowered it into the dirt. Then he sat beside the weapon that he would never use again.
7. THE LIEUTENANT
For an instant, Marcinko stood over him amazed.
What was this? Was the whole world going mad, at once? Even Timoshenko—a Great Russian; a True Slav—an actual, fucking Hero!
“Get up,” Marcinko hissed.
The traitor laughed at him.
Marcinko brought the Makarov around in anger. He struck the disobedient noncom’s face. Timoshenko rocked back on his heels, stunned. But he made no effort to comply with the Lieutenant’s order
The filthy Malang, damn him, he laughed, too.
At me! A voice inside Marcinko thundered. This filthy creature dares laugh at me!
He lunged forward, again swinging his sidearm. Once, twice, three times his pistol struck the old beggar’s head.
The Malang went down, blood streaming from his pockmarked face and a freshly broken nose. But he did not cower; did not admit defeat.
Why not? Marcinko wondered frantically. But there was no time; no one to ask—except Timoshenko and he—he had suddenly turned traitor!
And it was all this feeble creature’s fault. This . . . Malang and those huge, horrible Eyes of his!
Marcinko extended his arm to full-length. He brought the nose of his automatic to within a centimeter of the Malang’s still-working mouth. Damn you! Shut up! Show fear! Show me you’re beaten!!
The stubborn Afghan would not cooperate.
With his thumb, Marcinko flicked the knob on the left side of the pistol grip. Now the safety was off. He used his free hand to work the slide-action, cocking the weapon.
From far away, he heard Timoshenko scream a single word: “Niet!”
It did not stop him. Nor did the disapproving glare of the fat, white bird he saw from the corner of his eye. It had absolutely no business being there and for some reason it made him pause—if only for an instant.
Then he emptied the Makarov into the old man’s face.
8. THE DOCTOR
Dr. Aleksandr poured himself another small glassful of the vodka-like tarasun. Long ago, his people had consumed the drink only on special occasions and with much ceremony. But the modern world had little time for ritual.
Ceremony, ritual.
The doctor sighed. It had been such a frantic day! This evening might be difficult, as well. So he had made the time to sip his national drink and to reflect.
They would dispose of the body in the next room tomorrow morning. Bury it under a simple cairn of piled stone. Bury it and the unimportant, tawdry incident it represented.
We ought to make the Russian bastard do it himself—alone and barehanded!
But Danilov would never do that. No nerve at all, that man. Perhaps they could still save Timoshenko from Court Martial. That would be something, at least.
Check on him, Aleksandr reminded himself, before you go see the colonel.
The Buryat tossed down the last of his tarasun and stood. It was time.
He pursed his lips.
Imagine it, he thought—to find oneself a Man of Honor, at this late date!
He gave Danilov a rundown of the young man’s condition, recommended they evacuate him in the morning, as soon as the sedatives wore off enough for him to travel.
“Can’t spare a copter,” the Base Commander said nervously. His round little eyes darted around behind wire-rimmed glasses. “They have to patrol.”
“Not our gunships,” Aleksandr replied. “Supply flight due in before noon from Bagram. They could take him.”
“No! I mean, it might not be wise. Declaring him unfit immediately? It might look, well… ”
“He is unfit, Colonel. Combat fatigue, a near-classic case. Not cowardice, either. We’ve both seen his record, Mikhail. Six months of nearly constant fighting, coupled with the promotions, the increasing responsibilities. I tried to tell you, when he transferred in—”
“Yes, yes,” Danilov interrupted to whine. “But why here? Why did he have to wait until now, until he’s part of my unit to go over the side?”
Aleksandr shrugged. “Perhaps his previous CO saw it coming; decided to ship him out while there was still time?’
Danilov snapped his fingers. “That’s it. That Georgian always was a conniving bastard!”
And you’re not? Aleksandr wondered to himself.
“But Marcinko . . . .”
Yes, the Doctor silently agreed. That was the real problem. The Lieutenant and his mid-level Party family, back in Kostroma—and his other, less obvious protectors.
True, the Memory Society was a shadowy group. Unsanctioned and unofficial—its fanatic Nationalism, its racist Russians-first philosophy ran directly counter to the Official Line. But there were plenty of Great Russians who saw the rise of the various Minorities as a threat to their positions atop the Soviet System.
How, Aleksandr paused to consider, could one encourage freer speech without opening the door to new forms of hatefulness?
So the Memory Society had grown, a cancer on the body of reform—the ugly stepchild of glasnost.
“I’ll handle him,” Aleksandr said firmly.
Danilov sat up quickly, downed a drink of water. “In a dispute between two of my ranking officers, I must of course remain neutral.”
Aleksandr leaned across the colonel’s desk. “I expected as much. Just tell Marcinko that I will oppose any attempt to bring mutiny charges against my patient. And that I shall answer any such charges with counter-charges of my own!”
“I am amazed,” Danilov admitted.
“Really, Mikhail?” Aleksandr gave his CO a last look at his grin. “So am I. Good evening, Sir!”
It was a clear, outwardly peaceful night.
At least until Captain Karmal found the pigeon.
He and the doctor had been strolling outside the compound, talking of private things when the Afghan saw something small and white and unmoving a little to their left.
The bird was unmarked, but quite dead.
“How did it get here ?” Aleksandr asked. “At this elevation? Abdullah?”
Karmal stared, open-mouthed. At last he whispered, “It’s a sign!”
Then all hell broke loose.
9. THE SERGEANT
The first explosions woke him. He groaned, tried to turn over. Then, dimly, he realized: attack. The base was under attack. Automatically, he reached for his Kalashnikov.
It wasn’t there.
That was strange—and why didn’t it seem to worry him?
Timoshenko listened to the gunfire and the explosions, to the distant shrieks of frightened men—and he felt nothing.
“Drugged,” he mumbled to himself.
Then the roof collapsed.
10. THE LIEUTENANT
Whatever it was, it stood over the base—a great mass of pure-white energy, big as the sun. No, bigger—just not quite as intensely bright.
It had appeared from nowhere, transforming night into glaring day—a gigantic, impossible floodlight.
But it was alive.
Marcinko stared up at it, the pistol forgotten in his hand, and he knew—it was alive, and deadly.
A tiny fragment of it detached itself and darted down, to blast the Command Post and its radio to bits. Now they were cut off, unable to call for help. Marcinko turned his head again to stare at the quick-fried pieces of meat that had been four Red Army officers.
The Colonel was gone. The Major, too. And both Captains. All in the Command Post, when it was hit.
I’m in command now, Marcinko thought. I’m in command. What now? What now? Call for help. Yes, too much for us. Call for
reinforcements! Call Bagram!
But... the radio’s gone. Blasted.
Men. Running. Blind with terror. Fools!
Gunfire. I hear gunfire! Where? Everywhere. All around me! Get away! Get away from me!
Somebody ran headlong into Marcinko. He clubbed, pushed the man aside.
Fools! Let me think!
The copters. Yes, up on the pads! Four big, beautiful MI-24 helicopter gunships—and they have radios!
He yelled with desperate joy and ran for the footpath that led up the slope. Then he looked up and stopped to stare.
Oh, no.
The Thing can divide itself into as many pieces as it wants! The single mass became a hundred shimmering points of light. They scattered, raining down on the base and heliport. Marcinko watched four especially large sections rush to where the copters sat.
They hovered for an instant, much like helicopters themselves—except that they were silent. And bright white. And…alive.
They took solid form—each one a gigantic, gleaming, birdlike claw. They descended. Each grabbed one of the MI-24s.
Marcinko heard the shriek of over-burdened metal, even above the screams of dying men. He saw space-age alloys crumble like paper. He saw sparks fly, as equipment shorted out. Fuel tanks ruptured and the four grounded copters turned into blazing funeral pyres.
At last the ammo—the machine-gun bullets and high-explosive rockets—went in four vast outbursts of numbing violence.
Marcinko backed down the footpath.
Back within the main compound, he saw a smaller fragment of the…the Thing of Light corner a supply clerk named Suslov. The clerk was unarmed and already bleeding in a dozen places, but the light backed him slowly into a flaming corner. It struck him in the belly, like a punch. Only it sank through his greatcoat and uniform, leaving a charred hole behind.
The man screamed; blood spurted.
Marcinko ran.
Blindly. Hopelessly.
Everything was burning. Every building was being destroyed.
He sprinted into the open and met Aleksandr and Karmal as they ran toward the doomed base.
“You!” the Afghan Captain yelled, pulling his knife. “You did this!”
9 Tales Told in the Dark 8 Page 10
