Grigori’s response was delivered without hesitation.
“There’s no time for that. Captain. By the time we got back here, the ones responsible for this massacre will be long gone. I want you to take us to Bamian.”
“What can we possibly do there alone?” queried the pilot.
“We need back-up on this.”
“Like hell we do!” screamed Grigori, his face flushed with contained anger.
“Turn this gunship westward, comrade, or I’ll be forced to fly it there myself.”
Most aware that the man sitting next to him was quite capable of this feat, the pilot turned the nose of the Mi-24 back towards the sunset. Outside, the horizon was tainted with gold as the sun inched behind the encircling mountains. As they continued on down the valley’s spine, a hushed silence settled inside the cockpit’s interior. The pilot’s attention returned to his instruments, and Grigori’s inner vision returned to the smoking column.
Though he was certainly no stranger to death, the thirty-two-year-old commando would take to his grave the tragic sights he had just experienced. To see so many stiff corpses in one spot truly sickened him.
With their putrid scent still flavoring each breath that passed his nostrils, Grigori craved only a single course of action. Revenge would be the medicine that would purge this poison from his system.
The monotonous chop of the gunship’s rotors rattled on, and Grigori stirred with impatience. Below him, by the light of the gathering dusk, he noticed that the terrain was gradually changing. Thick stands of lowlying scrub and an occasional gnarled tree gripped the ground that had supported only rocks and sand before. When their progress took them over a tumbling stream, he spotted acre after acre of ripening wheat in the distance. As they crossed over these fields, the first shabby human habitations became visible. Crudely constructed out of bleached rock and dried timber, these simple structures made for an inviting target. Grigori fought the impulse to spray them with bullets. Nevertheless, his hands gripped the firecontrol panel as the gunship roared over a series of needle-like hillsides and broke into a wide, fertile clearing.
Dominating this clearing were two huge Buddhas, carved into the surrounding mountains. Well aware that they had finally reached their goal, Grigori stirred in anticipation. His eyes narrowed as they swept over the collection of sand-colored stone huts that comprised the village of Bamian. It had been a mecca for the decadent, hashish-smoking American hippies in the 1970s. Now the Mujahiddin considered their rule there undisputed. He’d soon show this rabble how wrong these so-called Warriors of God were in this assumption.
His mouth was dry, his glance expectant, yet he couldn’t pick out a single human being visible beneath them. Swearing under the cover of his breath, he looked on impotently. Had their elusive quarry escaped them once again? And would the lives of his fallen comrades go unrevenged?
He was just about to admit defeat when a massive rectangle of flaming torches became visible, lighting up a distant field. Catching this sight at the same instant, the pilot exclaimed, “It’s the entire town!
They’re down there on the Buzkashi field. We must have caught them in the midst of some sort of festival!”
Most conscious of what this meant, Grigori smiled and his fingers tightened their grip on the gunship’s weapons controls. Without further comment, they soared in to attack.
For the next few minutes, all Grigori Yagoda was aware of was the steady staccato blasting of the gunship’s four wing-mounted gatt ling guns. Instinctively, his index finger depressed the firing trigger and the 12.7-mm. bullets flew forth in a hydraulic flurry of 2,000 rounds a minute. Designed to pierce the surface of a light armored vehicle, the bullets played havoc with human flesh. This fact was most evident as the casualties below steadily mounted.
The Afghans had been in the midst of their national game when the Mi-24 swept in from above.
Hundreds of villagers were watching the Buzkashi tournament and they were apparently caught totally off guard. During their first pass, Grigori was afforded an excellent view of the match itself, which his bullets all too soon disrupted. Dozens of horsemen had been visible in the center of the torchlit field, busy trying to gain possession of a stuffed burlap sack. The object of the game was to secure this sack and ride it around the two poles placed at either end of the rectangular field. In days of old, a sheep’s head was this sack’s contents. As he remembered the decapitated body of Commander Valerin, Grigori’s fury intensified.
They had completed over a half-dozen passes, and the area was now littered with hundreds of prone, bloody bodies, yet still Yagoda craved more. It was only when an anti-aircraft tracer shot out from a surrounding hillside that Grigori cried out angrily.
“There’s the bastards responsible for the deaths of our comrades, they’re in the hills! Let’s show those spineless cowards what it is to fight like real men. For the glory of the Motherland!”
Possessed by the intensity of battle and the strength of Yagoda’s words, the pilot didn’t hesitate to turn his attention to this new target. With throttles wide open, the gunship streaked through the dusk-colored sky, its nose pointed straight for the rugged hills that lay to the north of the village. Again a tracer shot out toward them. To answer this blast, Grigori released a pair of 5.7-mm. rockets, which streaked out from their storage racks and smacked into the hillside with a fiery vengeance. As the Mi-24 turned to make another pass, Grigori noticed a good-sized contingent of armed rebels scurrying for cover among the rocks beneath them. Signaling the pilot of their presence, Grigori spoke out.
“We’ll never get them all from this vantage point, comrade. I want you to drop me and my squad off on the crest of that hill. Then we’ll show that rabble what it means to provoke the are of the Motherland’s finest!”
A quick scan showed them clearly outnumbered, yet the pilot didn’t dare challenge Yagoda’s request.
Even though standard military practice would have them call in reinforcements, he guided the chopper over to the rocky crest the commando had pointed out. Yagoda stood and flashed him a victory sign.
“Don’t go far, Captain. This won’t take long. Take us down to twenty meters. We’ll use ropes to go the rest of the way.”
Signaling that he understood, the pilot saw the tall, blond-haired Spetsnaz operative turn and disappear back into the Mi-24’s main cabin. With practiced ease, he then began the difficult task of settling the lumbering gunship over the proper landing site.
As the chopper hovered and slowly began descending, three sets of ropes flew from its opened main hatchway. Lit by the light of dusk, three figures, with rifles strapped over their backs, expertly slid down the ropes. Hardly had their boots touched the ground when they sprinted for cover behind some nearby boulders. The down draft of the now-ascending gunship veiled the crest in waves of dust, and all too soon the helicopter’s racket was gone, to be replaced with a hushed, primordial silence.
Utilizing a system of birdcalls to communicate with each other, the three men silently leapfrogged down the mountainside. It was Dmitri Andreyev who first chanced upon the enemy. As he crawled from the cover of a particularly jagged boulder, he found himself face-to-face with a trio of startled rebels.
Taking in their characteristic baggy pantaloons, long, loose shirts, and beard-stub bled faces, Andreyev put a bullet neatly into each man’s forehead long before they could even raise their Kalashnikovs.
The report of these shots caused a half-dozen Mujahiddin to suddenly show themselves from the rocks immediately to Andreyev’s left. Just as he turned to put his own weapon into play, six shots sounded out from behind him. Before any of these Afghans could even hit their triggers, each of them received a single, fatal wound from the hidden barrels of his two comrades. Still not certain exactly where they were located, Dmitri allowed himself a sigh of relief. He had been caught oft guard and that breath could very well have been his last.
The shrill cry of a quail sounded to his right, and Andreyev knew
it was time to be on the move once again. Answering with a call of his own, he continued on down the hillside. This time it was the booming blast of an automatic weapon that caught his attention. Unlike any rifle that the members of his squadron used, he picked out the distinctive whine of a 7.62-mm. PK machine gun. A series of bullets ricocheted off the rocks immediately before him, and he desperately scanned the surrounding hills to pick out their source. Only when a raven’s harsh cry emanated from his left did he know that the machine gun was set up behind him. With his back pressed up against a solid ledge of rock, he cautiously moved in the direction the raven had called from. Again the machine gun whined, and this time its bullets bit off several chips of nearby rock. One of these fragments grazed his cheek, and for the first time in weeks Dmitri Andreyev tasted his own blood.
Not certain how he would extra cate himself from this situation, the commando froze. His extensive training taught him to think out a problem fully before committing himself too hastily. As it eventually turned out, his savior was crouched only a few meters away from him. Waiting patiently beside the large rock ledge to his left was the grinning figure of Grigori Yagoda.
Only when Yagoda was certain of Dmitri’s position did he stand up and lob a single RGD-5 hand grenade into the rocks behind them. The machine gun instantly coughed alive, and Yagoda was forced to dive for cover. Three seconds later, the grenade’s 110 grams of TNT burst with an ear-splitting crack.
The sound of this explosion echoed off the rock cliffs and the distinctive whine of the machine gun became noticeably absent.
Dusting the debris off his fatigues, Grigori Yagoda stood and signaled that the obstacle behind them had been cleared. Only then did Dmitri join him.
“It looks like the Afghan marksmen have finally drawn the blood of Russia’s finest,” whispered Grigori, as he pointed to the wound that lined his comrade’s cheek.
Wiping the blood off with a handkerchief, Dmitri retorted, “This is no war wound, comrade, it’s only a mere scratch. I wonder where Konstantin has run off to.
As if to answer this query, the gentle cry of a quail sounded to their right. An all-knowing grin spread across Grigori Yagoda’s face.
“I believe that’s our esteemed comrade calling to us now. I’ll give you odds that he’s cornered our quarry down below, and that he’s only waiting for our presence to do them away.”
“I learned long ago never to bet against you, Grigori Yagoda, and this time proves no exception.
Let’s go see what he’s found.”
Dmitri’s cheek wound had already stopped flowing by the time they spotted their coworker. Perched on a rocky ledge, several meters below them, Konstantin Lomakin pressed his index finger to his lips and beckoned them to join him. A minute later, they were at his side.
“We’ve got the whole lot of them, comrades. While you were busy with that machine gun nest, I spied over a dozen Mujahiddin crawl into a cave whose entrance is right below us. Not only were they heavily armed with two rifles apiece, but they were carrying several ammo crates that could have only come from our convoy.”
With this revelation, Grigori Yagoda couldn’t help but smile. Not taking the time out to verbally respond, he began examining the composition of the rock shelf on which they currently stood. Only then did he speak.
“This limestone should be easy to fracture. I’d say that, if we lay a line of plastic explosive along the lip of this ledge, we should be able to take down a good chunk of the hillside above us. If the concussion doesn’t return them to Allah, I’ll guarantee you that they’ll be trapped inside that tomb of rock for all eternity. That should give these Warriors of God plenty of time to contemplate the type of adversary they’ve chosen to challenge.”
Most happy with this plan, the three Spetsnaz commandos began the task of lining the ledge with white, clay-like chunks of plastic explosive. It was Grigori who expertly connected the remote-controlled detonators. Then he led his men off to shelter. Once they were settled at a safe distance, Grigori held up the battery-powered detonator trigger and, before pressing it, whispered vindictively, “This is for the lives of General Pavel Valerian and the rest of his brave troops. May their deaths be not in vain!”
With the completion of this brief valediction, he hit the button and a deafening series of blasts sounded.
This was followed by the terrifying sound of an avalanche, as the wall of rock lying above the exploding ledge tumbled downward in a single, swift motion.
The crashing wave of solid rock caused a huge veil of debris to form over the blast site. It took almost five full minutes for this cloud to settle and for the commandos to check the results firsthand.
Careful not to slip on the tons of loose rock that their detonation had created, the three soldiers picked their way down the mountainside. They were surprised to find that the ledge on which they had set the explosives no longer existed. In its place was a tumbled mass of huge boulders. Since this ledge had also served as the cave’s roof, there was no doubting that the Afghans who had been hiding inside it were nothing but crushed heaps of bloody flesh and smashed bone. With this in mind, the soldiers knew their revenge was finally completed.
A hushed silence possessed their ranks as Grigori Yagoda led them back up to the hillside’s crest. Once they had reached the summit, Dmitri Andreyev activated a flare. Minutes later, they were aware of a chopping clatter echoing down the valley’s sheer walls. It was Konstantin Lomakin who first spotted the Mi-24 gunship as it swept in from the northeast.
A single rope ladder was visible, swaying from the vehicle’s fuselage hatchway. Soon it was hovering above them, and one by one the squadron made its way upward into the helicopter’s main cabin.
Taking only the time to straighten his beret, Grigori Yagoda proceeded immediately to the cockpit.
There he was greeted by the anxious pilot.
“Welcome back, comrade. I hope your mission was a successful one because top priority orders are calling you back to Kabul. I’ve been instructed to return you there with all due haste.”
Without further comment, the pilot turned his attention back to the vehicle’s controls and initiated a long sweeping turn. Soon they were headed back down the valley, toward the southeast.
The dusk had turned to night, and Grigori sat back emotionally drained. This empty feeling always accompanied him when he returned from combat.
The thrill of standing on the precarious border between life and death was an exhausting one. Fighting the heaviness that weighed down his eyelids, Grigori thought about the nature of the orders that were calling them back to Kabul. He could only hope that this directive would further allow him to take the war deeper into the enemy’s homeland. This anticipation dominated his thoughts as he surrendered himself to a sound, dreamless sleep.
As darkness enveloped the dry, desolate hills of Afghanistan, the noon rains were drenching the plains of French Guiana. No one was more aware of this downpour than Colonel Jean Moreau. For the past five minutes he had been guiding his jeep down the mud-splattered roadway, towards Ariadne’s southern security perimeter. At his side sat his assistant, Jacques LeMond.
Both men did their best to see out of the vehicle’s windshield, yet the rains fell in such a volume that the jeep’s wipers fought a vain battle. Inside the non-airconditioned vehicle, it was hot and sticky. In order to keep the inside of the windows free from steam, Moreau was forced to keep his window cracked open several inches. Oblivious to the rain that completely soaked his left shoulder, he hunched forward in an attempt to get a better view of the road before them.
Not a word was exchanged between them” as Moreau focused his total concentration on his driving.
Even then, the kilometers seemed to pass by with a maddening slowness. Hesitant to increase their speed, the colonel fought the instinct to hit the brakes when the jeep plowed into a rain-swollen depression. Only when they passed through a familiar, overgrown portion of the jungle did a breath of relief pass his lips.
“Well, here it goes, Jacques,” observed Moreau solemnly.
“I have a feeling it’s not going to be pretty.”
Responding to this comment with a shrug, Le-Mond pulled down the visor of his Montreal Expos baseball cap and shoved the door open. Moreau was quick to join him outside.
The rain fell in blindingly thick sheets, yet they spotted the three armed sentries almost at once.
Standing beside the fence, the sentries had their attention locked on the ground beside them. By the time the newcomers joined them, both Moreau and his assistant were thoroughly soaked.
To a crackling boom of thunder, Moreau caught sight of the sickening scene that held the guards’ attention. Lying on their backs in a straight line were five black laborers. They were stripped to their waists, and each of the corpses had its throat cut and a bullet hole squarely in its forehead. Because the rains had long ago washed the stiff bodies of blood, they seemed like artificial mannequins, yet Jean Moreau knew otherwise.
“Bon your, mon Colonel,” greeted the senior sentry.
“We found these poor fellows less than a quarter of an hour ago. It looks as if they’ve been dead for several hours. All five were assigned to field maintanence. There’s something over here that I think you’ll be interested in seeing.”
Nodding to lead on, Moreau and his assistant followed the sentry toward the fence. There, a long length of chain-link wire had been neatly cut. It allowed plenty of room for a full-grown man to pass through. Protruding from the soaked ground beneath this break was a single rusty machete. Tied to its handle was a red bandana.
Flight of the Condor Page 15
