Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  Turabi took the canteen and drank the last of its contents, grimacing as he swallowed what tasted like welding beads. Shit, he thought, I’ll just as likely die of lead poisoning as I will from enemy action. He knew that hoarding water would do no good—in the desert, one rationed sweat, not water—but he knew also that desperate, scared men would save a liter or two of water on their persons.

  He noticed Dendara come running a few moments later, and Turabi stepped quickly toward him. “What is it now, Abdul?”

  “Just got word from one of our patrols that came back from Mary. The Russians attacked Mary last night,” Dendara said. “Heavy bombers with cruise missiles and antiradar missiles, all from standoff range.”

  “Oh, shit,” Turabi said. “That’s why we didn’t get a resupply chopper, and that’s why the radio’s been down. Any word on General Zarazi?”

  “Nothing.” Dendara looked worried, which was unusual for this veteran warrior. “What are we going to do, sir?”

  “We go back to Mary at once and link up with the general,” Turabi said immediately.

  “But the Russians . . . don’t you expect another attack?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Abdul. Wakil Zarazi is our leader. If he’s alive, we’ll follow his orders. If he’s dead, we’ll avenge him on every Russian we can get our hands on, and then I’ll take command of the brigade.”

  “And then what, sir?”

  Turabi hesitated, but only for a moment: “And then I’ll lead the brigade home,” he said.

  “Home . . . ?”

  “Home to Afghanistan, home to our families and our tribe,” Turabi said. “This fight is Zarazi’s fight, not mine. If Zarazi is alive, we are honor-bound to follow his orders. But if he is dead, once we have avenged his death, I take command—and in my eyes and in my heart, we have accomplished our mission, the one given to us by our tribal elders. We shall return home, turn over our equipment to the elders, and then reunite with our families.”

  “Then . . . then Zarazi’s mission is . . . false . . . ?”

  “Not false, at least not in his heart,” Turabi said. “He truly believes that he is carrying out God’s wishes, and that is good enough for me and for all of us. Every Taliban leader must search his heart and make the right decision. My decision will be different from Wakil’s, but that does not make either one false. Get going now. Organize the patrol, and let’s head back to Mary.”

  “Hawk, this is Snake,” one of the lookouts radioed just then. “Scouts report a chopper inbound from the south with slung cargo. Looks like a water tank.”

  Thank God, Turabi thought. “Acknowledged,” he replied. They needed ammo and diesel to continue this flanking patrol, but they absolutely needed water first. One of the helicopters had survived, and they thought of using it to resupply this patrol. It was a surprisingly heads-up thing for Aman Orazov to do. “Make sure the air-defense squads are on their toes. Don’t let anyone get complacent.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Turabi looked out across the sands and saw Dendara shouting orders to his platoon commanders, telling them to maintain watch while the helicopter came in. Many times the enemy sneaked in while the men were preoccupied with their relief-supply helicopter.

  But his orders were useless. Sure enough several dozen of the men—mostly Turkmen recruits, but a fair number of his Taliban tribesmen followed along as well—were running in the direction of the incoming helicopter, gesturing frantically for it to touch down. Some were waving canteens and buckets, and one man even waved his SA-14 shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapon. That fool was going to get disciplined, Turabi vowed—loudly, painfully, and publicly. He would see to it himself.

  The supply helicopter was coming in fast and very, very high, at least five or six hundred meters in altitude. With Russians possibly in the area, he was taking an awfully big chance coming in so high. It was hard to see clearly, but it appeared that the load was on a very short sling, meaning that the pilot would have to hover closer to the ground to unsling his load—which would kick up plenty of sand and dust and make unslinging the water tank that much harder. Poor discipline, he decided. He would have to see to setting up a retraining course for his chopper pilots as soon as he got back to Mary.

  The helicopter pilot was obviously confused by the onrushing soldiers—and no doubt by the idiot waving the shoulder-fired missile in the air. He swung sharply to the west, the slung load arcing dramatically to the right. Turabi was about to shout out an order to his men . . . when he took a close look at the underslung load. Several of his men, closer to the helicopter, stopped and pointed at the load in confusion as well. It was not a water tank, or a diesel-fuel bladder, or a supply net.

  It was a bomb, an incendiary bomb, pointing downward, resembling a huge cylinder with a long fuse on its nose and stabilizing fins on the aft end. The pilot was not swerving to get away from the soldier with the SA-14 missile—he was swerving to toss the bomb toward Turabi’s patrol while he turned away to get as far from the blast as he could. And, as he watched, the bomb fell away from the helicopter directly at his encampment.

  “Take cover!” Turabi shouted, waving his arms downward. “Take cover! Incoming!”

  “Get down!” he heard a voice shout. It was his first sergeant, Abdul Dendara. Turabi turned just in time to see the man plow into him at full force, pushing him into the trench Turabi used as a temporary command post. Dendara then leaped in right after him, covering Turabi’s body with his own.

  Turabi looked up and was about to order his first sergeant to get the hell off of him—just as a bright flash of light instantly turned the dawn into high noon in summertime. Seconds later he heard several loud pops, followed by an ear-shattering explosion. Turabi saw Dendara pulled backward as if caught in a powerful vacuum, seemingly sucked right back out of the trench.

  And then Dendara’s body was instantly turned to a cloud of ash as the sky—no, the very air—was transformed into a wall of white-hot fire.

  Turabi rolled over onto his belly and buried his face in the sand as the ocean of fire raged barely two meters above him. He felt his clothing and skin turning to flame, and he covered the back of his head with his bare hands and screamed and pleaded for God to take him before he could feel himself burn to death. The searing heat crept up his legs, and he could do nothing else but slap and kick the fire out and try not to expose any more of his body to it. What a nightmarish way to die, he thought. At least poor Abdul got the privilege of dying instantly, not bit by bit like this. . . .

  It was the powerful explosion itself that saved him. The furious blast and overpressure swept hundred of kilos of sand down into the trench, extinguishing the spontaneous flames that burst out all over Turabi’s body and threatened to broil him to death, creating a thin but effective layer of insulation over him.

  He had no idea how long it was before he awoke. At first he thought he’d been buried alive, but he found he could easily move aside the sand and create enough space to take a deep breath. The sand felt very warm, almost hot, but it didn’t seem to be burning him. He experimented with his limbs and neck, trying each body part carefully, and found himself in pain but able to move, with no apparent serious injuries. Turabi reached above himself and found that his hand had popped out of the sand. He struggled to his knees and then to all fours, brushing sand from his face, marveling that he was still alive and dreading what he might find above.

  The first thing he found, praise be to Allah, was a squad of his fellow Taliban soldiers searching the area. They had managed to chase away the Russian attackers, Turabi thought happily. He looked over and saw Aman Orazov himself, standing on an armored vehicle, listening to a verbal report from one of the men. Yes, Orazov was an ass, but right now he was surely a welcome sight. Turabi thought it appeared to be about midmorning—he might have been unconscious for three or four hours. He brushed more sand out of his ears as he hunted for a foothold on the edge of the trench.

  As he did, he heard Orazov say, “Excel
lent. Looks like our attack worked perfectly.”

  Turabi let go and immediately dropped back down into the trench. What in hell did he mean, “our” attack?

  “Negative, sir,” he heard another soldier say—another Turkmen turncoat, like Orazov. “There’s no sign of any living thing here. One hundred percent casualties. Everything that was aboveground was incinerated. The fuel-air explosive worked exactly as planned.”

  It wasn’t a Russian attack? It was Orazov? Their own men had attacked them? Impossible . . . !

  No, not impossible. For Orazov it was very possible. It clearly meant that Wakil Zarazi was dead also. Orazov had obviously betrayed Zarazi and then undertook his first mission: to kill Turabi and the rest of his patrol. He probably intended to win favor back from his former Turkmen officers or the Russian army, once they’d completed their reoccupation.

  Jalaluddin Turabi knew that his mission had now changed. Instead of capturing booty for his tribe back in Afghanistan, Turabi’s new mission was simple: avenge Wakil Zarazi’s death. He was sworn to do it. Orazov had to die, and by Turabi’s own hand. Nothing else in life mattered. Zarazi might have been misguided, blinded by some invisible, mystical calling—but he was still the leader, and Turabi’s new duty was to avenge him. Then he could lead the loyal survivors back home, tell the elders what had happened, and prepare to take command of the tribe—or face the wrath of the elders.

  But he couldn’t confront Orazov now. That would be suicidal. He had no choice but to play dead and hope they would go away.

  Turabi slinked back into the sand, slowly, carefully nudging it aside, intent on burrowing back down and burying himself. Standard procedures would be to search the trenches for survivors or bodies—he hoped Orazov was lazy or stupid enough to merely look around, decide there were no survivors, and go back to Mary. Maybe, maybe, if he did so, Turabi could escape, make his way back to their stronghold in Chärjew, then assemble a fighting force, sneak back to Mary, and carry out his new mission—kill Orazov.

  Turabi was about three-quarters of the way back under the sand when he heard the first dog bark. Shit, he thought, maybe that Turkmen pigfucker Orazov wasn’t so stupid after all—he’d remembered to bring guard dogs with him. Turabi fairly dove into the sand, but it was too late. Seconds later two scrawny whelps jumped into the trench. One clamped his jaws onto Turabi’s left hand, and the other took a bite on the back of his neck and right ear before grabbing his right sleeve. Soon men were leaping into the partially sand-filled trench, and Turabi was dragged over to Orazov’s vehicle and thrown onto the blackened desert floor.

  “Well, well, the colonel is still alive,” Orazov said, jumping down from his armored vehicle. “What a pleasant surprise. We should search all the trenches for survivors.”

  Turabi was held suspended by his arms between two Turkmen soldiers. Several surviving Taliban soldiers from his detail saw Turabi and rushed over to him but were pushed aside by more Turkmen soldiers. “Brilliant idea, Orazov,” Turabi muttered.

  “Is that any way to talk to your rescuer?” Orazov asked.

  At a nod from him, one of the Turkmen soldiers punched Turabi in the side of his head. The Taliban soldiers surrounding them shouted a warning and tried to rush to Turabi’s aid but were again roughly shoved back. Orazov didn’t seem to notice—he was too intent on seeing Turabi suffer some more.

  He stepped closer to Turabi and pulled his head up by his hair. “You’ll wish you had died in that fuel-air blast, Turabi, I guarantee it.”

  Turabi tried to spit in his face, but he no longer had any moisture in his mouth at all. “What has happened to Zarazi?” he asked.

  “The same that will happen to you, Turabi: I’ll put a bullet through your stupid head, watch your brains splatter on the wall behind you, and then I’ll wrap you up in a carpet and have you buried in the desert,” Orazov said.

  “You’ll die for that,” Turabi croaked through dry, cracked lips. “I’ll slice out your heart myself.”

  “You didn’t believe in the old man’s holy mission any more than I did, Turabi. You’re just too blinded by that idiotic clan-loyalty nonsense to realize it,” Orazov said. “Forget about your ridiculous blood oaths and feudal allegiances, Turabi. Spend your last moments on earth thinking about this entire useless mission of yours in Turkmenistan and how badly you wasted the last few weeks of your life, waging a war with an idiot like Zarazi who thought he was fighting for the greater glory of God. Spend the next moments looking at the faces of your loyal men—because they’ll join you in hell in a few minutes, too.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of a giant trench dug in the desert, where men and vehicles were dumping the remains of dozens of horribly burned and mangled men. “Good-bye, Colonel. Give my regards to General Zarazi—in hell.”

  Unable to stand and only half conscious, Turabi was dragged off toward the mass grave. He heard shouting and then gunshots behind him, followed by laughter, some shouted words in Turkmen, some screams, more gunshots, and more laughter. His men were being slaughtered trying to save him. He especially heard Orazov’s screeching, high-pitched laugh, more like a young girl’s than a man’s. “You will have plenty of company in hell, Colonel,” Orazov shouted with glee. “Your men seem more than willing to sacrifice themselves trying to save you!”

  Turabi shut his eyes to try to erase Orazov’s bizarre little shrieking laugh out of his head, but it was impossible. If anything, the sound started to grow louder and louder, until Turabi thought his head would explode from the pressure.

  And then, suddenly, the entire world around him did explode.

  Orazov’s armored vehicle disappeared in a burst of fire and smoke not twenty meters away. Turabi and his captors were tossed off their feet by the blast. An earthmover on the other side of the mass grave exploded seconds later, followed by a light tank parked about a hundred meters away.

  It was then that Turabi recognized that screeching sound, what he’d thought was Orazov’s laughter—it was the same sound he remembered hearing what seemed like eons ago, when their little band of Taliban fighters was attacked by American unmanned drones. But it couldn’t be. The Americans were not involved in this. Could it be the Russians . . . ?

  Turabi’s captors ran off to find cover, leaving him by himself. Still dazed and hurt, he needed all his strength to drag himself by his elbows and knees toward the mound of sand surrounding the grave. It was the only cover he could—

  “No!” he heard a voice shout behind him. “You will not get away so easily!” And suddenly Aman Orazov was sitting on Turabi’s back, his hands under his chin, pulling backward and trying to break his neck, or his back, or both. “I promised I would finish you off, and I will!”

  “Bastard!” Turabi shouted. Using the last of his strength, he bucked Orazov off his back. Struggling to his hands and knees, with pieces of burned metal and hot debris digging into his skin, Turabi withdrew his knife from its sheath.

  But Orazov was on top of him again in an instant, and he quickly and easily took the knife away from Turabi. Exhausted, Turabi was powerless to stop Orazov from rolling him over on his back.

  “This is the better way to die, I think—hand-to-hand, face-to-face, by your own blade.” Orazov raised the knife. . . .

  But it did not come down. Turabi looked up—and saw a figure in a dark gray outfit, a bug-eyed helmet, and what appeared to be small tubes running along his arms, legs, and torso. He held Orazov’s upraised arm in his hand, and no matter how hard Orazov struggled, the stranger held his arm with ease.

  With a shock Turabi realized he recognized the stranger. It was the same one he had encountered south of Kiyzl-arvat when he went out to investigate the drone crash.

  “Prasteetye,” the stranger said in Russian in an eerie, electronically synthesized voice. “Ya eeshchyoo Jalaluddin Turabi.”

  “Shto eta znachyeet?” Orazov shouted. “Who in hell are you?”

  With Orazov distracted, Turabi was able to respond, “I am Turabi. Good to see y
ou again, sir.”

  The stranger nodded, then flipped his wrist. Orazov screamed and flew back as if hit by a bull charging at full force, his right arm twisted unnaturally. Turabi unsteadily crawled across the scorched sand, picked up a rock, and started to crawl over to where Orazov was lying holding his arm. “What are you doing?” the stranger asked in Russian.

  “I must kill this man, to avenge my mission leader.”

  “You are barely conscious, and he is like an injured animal,” the armored stranger said. “Better leave him alone.”

  “I am honor-bound to avenge my leader’s death.”

  “We have more important things to do.”

  “I cannot think about saving my own life while my leader lies murdered in a shallow grave in the desert, betrayed by that man, whom he trusted,” Turabi said. “This I cannot stand.”

  “The fate of a nation may be in your hands, Turabi,” the stranger said. “Why not go after him later? Or I will have him taken into custody, and you can deal with him later.”

  “That is not the law,” Turabi replied. He was still crawling toward Orazov. The Turkmen soldier was now on his feet, muttering something. Orazov had slipped his broken arm inside his shirt to support it. Within seconds he had found the knife and held it before him, ready to defend himself or attack if presented the opportunity. He was warily eyeing the big stranger, wondering if he was going to intervene in their fight, but because the stranger was no longer even looking at him, Orazov decided he was going to let the Afghan and the Turkman fight it out.

  “Nike, this is Taurus, I still show you at the objective point,” Colonel Hal Briggs radioed a few moments later via their secure satellite commlink. “What’s the holdup?”