No word yet.
He twisted a dial, the small box on his desk now louder, for a storm was brewing outside and it was hard to hear. Mikhail could hear the crackle of static, the hiss and pop of dead air, and from time to time the communications. He listened intently as the helicopter pilots spoke to base command, closing in on their target. Though many miles away, Mikhail could sense their apprehension, their fear. These brave men were playing their role, doing their duty just as many warriors before them had done theirs. Little did they know, this certain mission might turn out to be the Soviet Union’s greatest triumph, or its biggest tragedy.
Just like himself, these men were hand-picked for their talent and skills, though they were clueless as to their part of this grand show, this puzzle that was unraveling.
Mikhail couldn’t understand exactly why these men weren’t told the truth, and it made him think of those pilots flying the Enola Gay, wondering if they’d feel the same after. He wondered if men such as Captain Drago would be honored or horrified, if this event would alter the man’s life. An officer of the Soviet Union whom Mikhail would never meet, never speak to. He would never know to what extent this test would endure. The scientist couldn’t help but feel sorrow for the men and their actions.
It isn’t fair, he thought.
Still no word.
Empty static.
But Mikhail knew it would come soon, he knew that at any moment he’d know if all his hard work would be fruitful to the Soviet Union.
Mikhail shifted in his seat, looking to his papers, scanning his notes looking for something wrong with the calculations, as if he could do anything about it even if he did find an error. He hoped he had done everything right, hoped his research would pay off. Mikhail feared failure most, knowing his life might become worthless if this proved useless. He understood one thing: in the Soviet Union, one was only needed if he was worthy to the cause. If this didn’t work, if something went wrong, it could prove disastrous. They might continue his work, but perhaps replace him, and Mikhail knew exactly what that meant.
He knew what happened to those who failed.
Mikhail tapped his forehead, a nervous habit he had started long ago, though he couldn’t remember its origins. He had to remind himself he was one of the greatest scientific minds of his generation, that he was needed. But this didn’t seem to help his worry either. He knew the Soviet Union’s ways, the Russians were notorious for them. If this project was determined a waste of valuable resources and time, they’d surely send him packing.
A remote gulag didn’t sound appealing to the wiry man. Everyone was expendable in the Soviet Union. You either served the cause or you served no purpose. And though Mikhail was more of a prisoner here than a professional, he knew he wouldn’t last long in a prison camp, despite the fact that Vector Lab much resembled one.
He only hoped it worked.
He hoped they’d still need him.
Mikhail’s research was advanced, cutting edge and ahead of its time. Locked in a secret vault smack in the middle of the most isolated place on earth, Mikhail worked on the most exotic, radical chemicals ever created by man. He imagined even God himself, if he so existed, would never tread in such a territory as his own research. This new weapon might far surpass that of the Americans when they developed the first atomic bomb. This invention, this creation of his, might change the entire political world spectrum. This chemical, his very own design, might even change the course of history, and though the idea didn’t necessary fit his own morals or ideals—for something was indeed wrong about this—Mikhail did so for his country, for the troops who fought.
For the Motherland.
The goal was simple—to create a super-soldier.
He was tasked to create a chemical that didn’t kill or maim, but one that would enhance a soldier’s ability to kill, to increase his awareness, his fortitude, his intelligence. This compound was radical, capable of not only enhancement, but far more. It would literally change a man’s DNA, his genetic makeup, creating something not human. If successful, it would be revolutionary.
Mikhail day-dreamed for a moment, wondering if he’d be remembered alongside the great minds, the Da Vincis, the Edisons. Or would he remain unknown?
Would he be honored by the Soviet Union?
Would he be known as a superior Soviet scientist and allowed to leave Siberia?
Or would they keep him hidden away, giving somebody else his glory?
Mikhail supposed it didn’t matter.
11
Ahmed raced down the long hallway, turning and running around the corners until he was now descending down a sharp embankment, into the depths of the cavern. These caves weren’t completely natural, but man-made, intricate, complex. They were built on the hardworking American taxpayer’s money, were American design, and this particular cave housed over four hundred men, women and children.
He raced around another corner, entering the first of many large chambers. He could see Fajii ahead, walking slowly, head down, on his way to comfort Ahmed’s sister.
“Fajii!” Ahmed screamed. “Quick, gather the men!”
His friend turned, tilting his head, curious.
“The Soviets are here! I can hear their gunships,” Ahmed shouted.
Fajii’s eyes went wide. This valley was deemed a safe-haven, and though the Soviets had recently been pushing hard into the Khost province, this area had remained unmolested. This was perhaps the beginning, and Fajii tensed up. “The Soviets? Here? How? Why?”
Ahmed was now face-to-face, a gleam in his eyes. “I imagine they’ve advanced, though I do not know how. Our communication lines are splintered, I’m afraid. Now go, quickly! Gather the men and tell them a great day of reckoning is upon us. We must fight them off.”
“What about you?” Fajii asked, alarmed. “Where are you headed, Ahmed?”
Ahmed ignored him at first, instead scrambling past, rushing to the opposite side of the large room. There, in the corner, was a large cache of weapons.
Ahmed slung an AK-47 over his shoulder, making sure it was chambered, safety off. He grabbed a handful of magazines, fully loaded with 7.62 x .39mm ammunition. He stuffed them in his pockets until they were quite full. Lastly, Ahmed grabbed an RPG. It was long, bulky, and he ensured it was loaded with a rocket, ready to bring down one of the war-birds, ready to bring Ahmed much honor.
He rushed back, staring at Fajii, his eyes flickering with growing hate and excitement.
“I have business with the Soviets,” Ahmed declared.
“You must wait for us,” Fajii protested.
“Hurry the men,” Ahmed said, ignoring the words. “They’ll circle the village a few times. Most likely, they think we’re there. I’ll catch one from behind. Now go, Fajii. Hurry the men.”
Fajii didn’t hesitate, breaking into a run as he traveled farther down into the catacomb of tunnels to alert everyone. They’d move quickly, many having family and friends in the nearby village, anxious to repel the invaders.
Ahmed turned, beginning his jog toward the sound outside. Though low, he could still hear them, hovering outside, no doubt seeking their whereabouts. Ahmed hoped he had enough time. If he could exit the cave quick enough, he might be able to surprise one. A tail-shot was preferred. Bringing down a Soviet helicopter was an act of honor to the Mujahideen, and would bring him great victory, great respect. It would also buy his men the time needed to gather their arms.
Ahmed raced toward the daylight at a full sprint.
12
The three Mi-24s were close. They slowed as they climbed the eastern rise, unsure as to what they were searching for, ever anxious of any threats.
“There,” Captain Drago stated, pointing, though nobody could see the gesture. “Ahead, do you see it?”
It took a moment before the other two pilots responded, “Yes, Comrade Captain.”
The entrance was wide, perhaps twenty meters, though it was well concealed. The rock formation in front gave it much
needed camouflage, the terrain jagged, partially hidden by boulders and some small shrubs in front.
“What now?” Suvorov questioned.
The captain ignored him, though, instead flicking the switch, contacting his command. “Kilo Base, this is Alpha Firebird Red. Confirm target, over.”
“Alpha Firebird Red, this is Kilo Base. Do you see an entrance to a cave, over?”
“Directly in front of us, over,” Drago responded. The pause caused him to think perhaps they hadn’t heard. Just as Drago began to repeat his words, the voice finally responded.
“Alpha Firebird Red, this is Kilo Base. Do you see any resistance? Any men outside?”
“Negative. Not at the moment, over.”
“Copy that. You are to hover directly in front.”
“I am directly in front,” Drago shot back, annoyed.
“Copy, Alpha Firebird Red. Do you have a clear shot?”
Drago pulled the Mi-24’s nose down just a bit, tail up, rising in altitude another ten meters, the opening of the cave now fully visible.
“Target is clear to engage,” Drago replied.
“Copy, Alpha Firebird Red. You are to proceed exactly as directed . . . direct Alpha Firebird Green to acquire lock and fire. I repeat, only Green is to fire.”
“Copy, Kilo Base. Alpha Firebird Green engaging,” Drago replied. Then, he pushed the button, communicating to the helicopter to his left. “Green, this is Red. You heard it. Do you have a clear shot?”
“Affirmative, Comrade Captain,” the pilot answered.
“You must fire directly into the cave. Do not miss,” he commanded. “Fire when ready!”
Moments later and the Mi-24 to his left fired. A streak of exhaust swooshed past, bearing toward the cave’s entrance. Moments later the missile entered the darkness of the mouth.
“Ordinance fired, sir,” the pilot reported.
Drago spoke to base, relaying the engagement.
“Copy. Did it enter the cave?” base questioned.
“Affirmative,” Drago replied. “Kilo Base, be advised—we see no explosions or secondary explosion! I think perhaps it was a dud . . .” Drago stated, though somewhat thinking aloud. It was common for Soviet munitions to not always be in working order. With the lack of explosion, he assumed that was the case.
It wasn’t. The voice on the other end of the radio spoke, tension in the unseen man’s voice. “Do you see anything?” the voice asked.
“Copy, I see no explosion,” Drago restated, shaking his head.
“Report as ordered,” the voice boomed. “What do you see, Firebird Alpha Red?”
It took a moment, then Drago’s eyes widened. It was then he began to figure it out, the mystery of why they were there, why they carried hardly anything. “Kilo Base, this is Firebird Alpha Red. I see smoke . . . lots of smoke.”
“What color is the smoke?”
“Green,” Drago relayed. “The smoke is green.”
He knew it now, understood their purpose. There was nothing conventional about what they were doing. Drago gulped, his throat dry. He knew they had just fired a chemical down the tunnel, and the thought devastated him. He now understood why they carried only one missile each. He now understood their call-signs, for the smoke was the same as the Mi-24’s ‘name’. Then, Drago realized he had missed something. While arguing with his commander about the mission, the lack of armaments, he had seen something odd. The warheads on each missile were indeed different colors, again to match their call-signs.
Drago waited for what felt like an eternity. The green smoke billowed out, wafting in the sky, reaching up toward the heavens. Time seemed to slow before the static popped, and the silence broke again.
“Alpha Firebird Red, this is Kilo Base. Have your second gunship fire its ordinance. Repeat, Alpha Firebird Yellow is to fire.”
Drago gave the command.
Moments later the second Mi-24 fired as well. The hit was true, the rocket entering the darkness.
“Second missile entered,” Drago reported. He waited, still hovering outside the cave. He commanded the two helicopters to circle, to give him room and to watch the surroundings. It wouldn’t be much longer until they received fire from the village.
Moments later and Drago called base, adding to his report, saying, “Again, no explosion.”
Soon, he thought. Soon those fucking Muj will be crawling from the woodwork.
“Has the smoke changed color?” the voice asked.
“Copy, Kilo Base. It’s changing . . .”
“What’s the color, Alpha Firebird Red?”
“It’s now . . . the smoke is turning yellow.”
He watched, eyes wide, the cave spewing its contents. It was thick and heavy, swirling outside the entrance.
He knew what was next. His turn was coming, and he’d have to guess exactly where to fire his missile. He could hardly see the entrance to the cave, visibility steadily worsening as the smoke leaked out. This concerned Drago—he hoped he didn’t miss.
“Firebird Alpha Red, this is Kilo Base,” the voice began.
Drago knew what was coming next.
“You are to line up and fire your ordinance. Report the results at once.”
“Copy, Kilo Base.” Drago took in a deep breath. “You ready for this, Suvorov?” he asked his weapons specialist.
“I hope, Comrade Captain. I’m having problems getting a good lock. Your call . . .”
“Copy that . . .” Drago waited a moment, tense as ever, before pulling the trigger on his stick. “Weapons away!” he said.
His missile shrieked, its exhaust trail racing toward the entrance.
Perfect shot, the missile entered the cave.
“Our ordinance is fired, over,” Drago reported. He took a breath of relief. Thank God, it’s over, he thought. Perhaps we can go home now.
“What color is the smoke?” Kilo Base asked.
“It’s changing again. It’s now . . . it’s red. I confirm, the smoke has changed to red. It’s thicker too,” Drago answered.
“Copy, Firebird Alpha Red,” the voice said. Drago could almost feel the release of tension.
A few moments later and the voice came again, the monotone words haunting.
“Firebird Alpha Red, you are to proceed to ground level.”
“Say again, Kilo Base,” he asked.
“Red, Yellow and Green are to land. You’ll offload your men near the mountain’s base. The mission is now under the direct command of Colonel Kirov. He will instruct you next. Maintain radio contact and report from outside.”
“Am I to maintain altitude after the drop?” he asked, hoping, knowing what the answer would be before it came.
“Negative. You are to remain grounded.”
“Great,” Drago muttered softly, whispering to himself. “The fucking Muj will swarm us. We’re sitting ducks out here.”
That’s when he wondered yet again if they were meant to survive this.
“All teams, commence to LZ. There’s a flat piece, close to the base of the mountain. Follow me down,” Drago commanded the other pilots.
The three Mi-24s circled and landed.
13
Mikhail Ivanovich jumped in his seat as the door flew open. A half-dozen scientists, each a member of this project, had entered the room. They chattered in unison, their voices tense, yet excited. Huddled around his desk, they began speaking at once. They were anxious, wanting to know if their work had paid off. Would they be heroes, or would this project be a complete failure?
“It’s working, Mikhail. The compound has mixed,” one said, patting the scientist on the back.
No doubt it had. This chemical was volatile, unable to be carried together, which is why three helicopters were required. At this ratio of mix, anything and everything was possible.
“We didn’t have enough time to test it,” Mikhail said to nobody in particular.
“It’s mixed. Aren’t you listening? We’ve done it!” one of the younger scientists sa
id.
“Months, years of testing are needed. I cannot claim this compound will work as desired. Not under these conditions, not within this time limit. We need more time,” he kept on.
But they ignored him. According to the broadcast, the chemicals appeared to have mixed exactly as planned. The colors, if reported accurately, had mixed. If not, the chemical would have turned clear, almost hard to see, and they would have known their failure. The three Mi-24s and their crews had done well, proven they were worthy men.
Stage two would be underway soon. They must know, they must ensure the compound worked. The Spetsnaz would guarantee them the facts they needed.
“They mixed,” another said. “This has worked!”
Everyone was excited. Everyone but Mikhail, who sat uncomfortably, feeling claustrophobic with the men huddled around.
“Perhaps it will,” he replied. His tone was drab, his voice unsure. “We don’t have the results yet. Only until we get confirmation can we celebrate.” He looked away from the huddle of men, staring at the voice box on his desk, listening intently. “The ground team will establish if it’s working.”
“We’re about to make history,” claimed a scientist.
“Not so eager,” Mikhail said, turning. He remained stoic, withholding his excitement. He hoped for good news, but wasn’t expecting any. Perhaps he was a pessimist at heart, perhaps he was fearful of what would happen if this didn’t work.
So many things could go wrong.
Why had they not listened, Mikhail thought. Why the rush?
The Soviet Union was intent on this program working, and had rushed his research. He needed more time. He begged for it, but they didn’t listen. Instead, they pushed hard, expecting results—results that Mikhail couldn’t be sure of.
He worried for his future, gulping at the thought of this not working. Perhaps the chemical was too much, perhaps it merely killed the men. There’d be no hard feelings about killing Mujahideen, but the Soviets had invested much time in this project, and failure was not an option. If it didn’t work, Mikhail would have hell to pay. If it killed the men, or if it did nothing to enhance their abilities, it would be deemed a failure. It seemed they wanted something that was untested, even in theory it had holes, and expected Mikhail to deliver a miracle.
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