Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1)

by Azam Hossain

  I got up from where I lay and moved as swiftly as I could to get down to him, taking care that I did not slip and fall on the rocks and uneven ground. I approached him with my Glock still aimed at him. His eyes were staring out into the sky and there was a gentle trickle of blood from his chest – he was quite dead.

  “Splendid shooting Tarquin,” I congratulated myself, gratified at my marksmanship.

  There was no sign of his companions. I then searched him. The only thing of use was a water canteen. Normally I’m very particularly about the water I drink – god only knows from where this water had been sourced. But I desperately needed to slake my thirst, so I took a sip. It would have to do I decided and I gulped down a couple of mouthfuls. I grabbed his Kalashnikov and hung it over my shoulder; and then exerted an effort to move the corpse out of sight.

  I reasoned the least dangerous option was to lure another one of them out of camp, thereby improving the odds of the remaining captors being successfully overpowered. When the man I’d killed did not return, his companions would come looking for him – that would be when I would strike again. I returned to the point from where I originally saw these captors up on the ridge overlooking the camp. My party were sitting around the camp with now two guns trained on them. The orange bearded leader and the fourth man were looking impatient as they spoke in an agitated manner to each other several metres away from the other men. I assumed that they were discussing the failure of my pursuer to return and so it proved, as just then the man talking to the leader, broke off their conversation and ordered one of the two men watching the hostages, to go and find the man I had killed. The man assigned to this task, was I judged my height to within an inch or two. These men were clearly not robbers, for otherwise they would have taken what they wanted and have been long gone. That left no doubt in my mind that they were the JFF – Mesud’s men. I would ambush this second man - as I had done the other. But this time I would do it differently! I had a plan. I lamented my mistake, if mistake it be in moving the body entirely out of sight. I was after all making this up as I went along; one moment I was innocently going to answer the call of nature and the next I was fighting a deadly game of survival. I urgently ran back to the corpse and dragged the body from where I had left it and moved it, so that the legs of the corpse would be visible from a distance as someone came around the corner, whilst the rest of the body would be concealed behind a boulder. Just a couple of metres away there was another big boulder several feet high, behind which I would hide. I placed my knife in my side pocket; so that it would be readily accessible. I removed my Keffiyeh which I had wrapped around my neck. It was made of cotton and square in shape. I unfolded it and rolled it so that bore resemblance to a rope and then held the cloth taut – and wrapped it couple of times around each hand for a tight grip, knelt down behind the boulder and kept watch.

  I waited in ambush, as a Lion waiting for a Thompsons Gazelle. I had never killed a man with my bear hands before. I reminded myself of my exhortation to be ruthless. And then he appeared armed with his Klashnikov. He walked confidently as he carefully reconnoitred his surroundings. He struck me as a more formidable foe than his deceased comrade which rather caused a knot in my stomach, given that I had decided to get to grips with him at close quarters. I watched him intensely. He looked up at the raised ground on his left and then his right and then he looked ahead and saw the legs. I scrutinised his face as well as I could given the distance. It betrayed no fear and told me he was calculating his options. He was clearly intelligent and not to be underestimated. All the more reason for me to give no quarter, lest it’s me who gets slain! He stopped and scrutinised the legs for a moment and then looked around and then started walking towards the corpse.

  I squeezed the rolled up Keffiyeh in my hands in my anxiety and my mouth went dry in apprehension. I attempted to control my breathing and resolved not to make a sound and thereby alert him to my presence. An image of my bones scorched in the sun abruptly flashed into my mind. He got to the legs and looked down at the body and then looked around in every direction and then it was as if he visibly abandoned his vigilance. He swung his Kalashnikov over his shoulder took a step alongside the corpse and started muttering, what appeared to be lamentations for his fallen comrade and oaths to avenge him. He then squatted down beside him and went to hold his head and look at the face. This was what I had waited for....he was exactly where I wanted him! The sound of his wailing helped to conceal my approach. In a second I had moved from behind the boulder with my improvised garrotte - as his hands were occupied holding the corpse. It made getting my garrotte over his head and around his neck all the easier - which I did in an instant as I came up behind him. He made a croaking sound as I squeezed the life out of him. He dropped the corpse as his hands came up attempting to pull the garrotte away from his own neck and then when that failed he desperately tried to scratch my hands. He tried to get up and move around to better face me and thus fight off my attack. But I did not permit him such movement with the weight of my body bearing down upon him. He made a horrible choking sound as his cries were stifled and his eyes flushed red in terror. It could barely have been but a minute but my arms were tiring. What if the cloth ripped? I persisted as I began sweating in fear and pulled in opposite directions behind his head as my hands crossed over as his neck was wrung. And then all resistance faded away as his arms fell limp. He was lifeless – so I unbound my hands and threw down the garrotte. But just to be sure I then put my left arm around his neck and with the weight and force of my body I snapped his neck. I released him and his head rolled around like some grotesque child’s doll as I let his body fall to the ground.

  I was perspiring, heart pounding, thirsty, sick with fear and utterly nauseous. I felt like retching; but nothing came but some saliva. You might think this all frightfully unbecoming for a former British Army Captain, but I was out of practice, being a civilian and thus out of the military mindset, so to speak. Less than two weeks ago I was living a comfortable, semi indolent and even by some standards effete existence in England and here I was enduring all sorts of discomforts and dangers; whilst wringing the life out of natives who would relish the prospect of smiting me. I composed myself took a swig of my water and washed my face. I started to undress that which I had just killed and began putting on his clothes over my own. This consisted of a turban, a shawl, a frock, a gillet, baggy black trousers and some wretched shoes; I wore all of it – even the shoes, hoping to god I didn’t get a verruca! I unfurled the Keffiyeh with which I had garrotted my victim and carefully covered his upper body with it. Having dispatched him, I resolved that the least I could do was show him some respect in death.

  I disguised myself as well as I could, ensuring my hair was concealed under the turban and that the lower half of my face was masked by his shawl. I then checked the Kalashnikov’s barrel, sights, magazines and trigger mechanism. It was an AK74, a type which was first used in combat by the USSR in Afghanistan. I fired off a round just to be sure the thing was working. It rattled away splendidly. I hoped that on hearing the shots my comrade’s captors would believe that I had been killed by the man sent to find me. I surreptitiously reconnoitred the camp and saw nothing had changed since my last observation. I returned to the path leading back to camp and I took a deep breath - holding the Kalashnikov AK74 in an offensive stance, ensuring the safety catch was off and began walking. When I came in view of the camp everyone turned to look at me. The two men stood up in expectation. I began perspiring in cold fear and my legs were seemingly reluctant to put one foot in front of the other. The older man started bellowing questions to me in Azaki, as he walked towards me, holding his AK74 along the ground. The sole gunman on the other side of the camp moved nearer to the hostages to get a better view. My silence was telling. Once they realised I was an imposter I would be exposed to machine gun fire - standing out in the open. I got closer and the questions became more aggressive as my interlocutor got nearer, he picked up his gun to adopt a more offe
nsive posture. That was enough for me; I opened up on him as my AK74 rattled into life and I felt my entire being vibrating, as the clearing was filled with the rattle of the machine gun. His body twisted and convulsed before falling dead.

  Just then I heard a commotion and looked to my left in the direction of the camp fire. It seemed a scuffle was going on. I looked back in the direction of the older man with the orange beard; he was running away with his back to me. We needed intelligence! We needed him alive! He was too far away for me to shoot with much accuracy with the AK74, so I put it over my shoulder and got out my Glock and took aim at his legs and fired two shots. He stumbled and fell and I then turned towards the camp, where they appeared to have overpowered their captor. I removed the shawl and the turban so as to reveal my identity to my fellows as I ran toward them. Ismail stood watching me, smiling and full of gratitude. Aziz just looked relieved.

  I pointed towards the Orange bearded man, “Make sure he doesn’t get away!” I ordered.

  “Yes Offendi,” Aziz nodded and ran after him.

  I looked past Ismail to the Germans and behind them I saw a body laying a few feet away of the dead gunman. Mueller held a blood soaked knife. The danger had passed. Their eyes and mine met. Looking at von Weizsacker and Mueller, I smiled in triumph and without straying from their gaze instructed Ismail to get me some water and to make some tea.

  “Well meine Kamaraden? This is certainly quite an adventure!” said I attempting to sound insouciant as I swigged at a canteen of water handed to me by Ismail.

  Mueller looked me up and down and recognised the clothing of one of the gunmen and deduced what must have happened. He seemed to be lost for words so astonished was he at my endeavours.

  “Well Herr Collingwood it seems you are our rescuer,” said Von Weizsacker as he attempted to contain his relief and gratitude.

  “Do you think they were members of the JFF?” I enquired brushing aside his praise.

  “I have no doubt of it,” replied the Major.

  “Good. In that case we can see what he has to say,” I said nodding in the direction of our prisoner who was limping into camp and being man handled roughly by Aziz.

  This orange bearded JFF man had not lost his bluster and confidence, despite nursing a gunshot wound to his leg. He was still defiant and cursed us refusing to answer. Aziz and Mueller between them beat our captive mercilessly. In fact they rejoiced at the beating they inflicted, regarding it as retribution for being held captive. When he’d had enough he revealed his name as Idris Tanveer Yaqub. On the occasions when he was still reluctant to answer, he was encouraged to do so by Aziz punching him in the face or shaking him about. He confirmed that they were members of the JFF. With further probing from his interrogators and more chastisement he divulged that Mesud had gone to meet some important visitors near the border with Persia in the area of the Bactria valley.

  “Who are these visitors?” asked the Major in Azaki.

  The answer that came back was obscurely, “Foreigners.”

  I suppose if you’re an ignorant, semi civilised, native of this godforsaken country you hardly make nuanced distinctions about different nationalities.

  “Tell us more, what are their names?” barked Aziz, as he menacingly held a knife close to Yakub’s face, which was now so heavily bruised and bloodied as to be barely recognisable.

  “The Iranians and.....” he began in Azaki, barely able to speak, “...........Zhukov.........” he mumbled and then louder, “....Zhukov.”

  CHAPTER 17 - ADULATION AND ASCENT.

  The name Zhukov struck me like a thunder bolt and only served to galvanise by my desire to get to the Bactria Valley and strike a blow against him and the Persians. I mounted my horse whilst Yaqub, who was sitting on the ground resting against a small rock, looked anxiously at his bloodied leg.

  The others were busy making final preparations to leave camp as I approached the Major and said discreetly, “What are we going to do with him? We can’t take him prisoner.”

  The Major looked thoughtfully and said, “But what is the alternative?”

  I got out my Glock at which point Yaqub turned to look up in my direction and deduced what I was about. I pointed the gun at Yaqub at which he raised his hand and started begging for mercy. Everyone turned to look. I extended my arm and fired a couple of shots at him; they echoed momentarily, such were the acoustics of our camp. His body contorted and jolted as the bullets penetrated and he fell forward, his body crumpled in a motionless heap.

  “That is the alternative,” says I decisively to the Major.

  I took up the reins and turned my Gelding and trotted off so that my back was to the Major, but as I did so I could see him looking at me in disbelief at my casual execution of our prisoner.

  We made good progress to the Qursani Valley. I had little to say for most of the day as I was feeling emotionally drained. I had after all just killed four men and one of them with my bare hands. Ismail came up to me on his horse later in the day and expressed gratitude, as he saw me as his deliverer from what he believed would be certain death. He claimed that I was a great warrior and that whosoever should ride with me would be victorious. Ismail took my right hand when I was unawares and proceeded to take it to his lips, before kissing it fervently thrice. I said not a word to his approbation and words of reverence to me, but merely smiled and nodded wearily. It was not because of any hubris on my part that I failed to disabuse him of his excessive adoration for me, but because I was too caught up in my own thoughts; and experience had taught me that when peoples of the East get a notion into their heads its a devil of a job getting them to change their minds. Mueller hadn’t said a word to me since we had left camp, which was fine by me, especially if it spared me another one of his insolent asides. There was no longer the contemptuous air about him. I suspected that he either found it difficult to come to terms with the fact that I, whom he held in disdain, had been the cause of his rescue or he was jealous of my glory, as Ismail would have it, in killing four of the enemy. Although there was nothing particularly glorious about the fourth killing – that of a wounded man whom as a prisoner I dispatched with a calmness and insouciance that began to trouble me in the hours since the killing. I consoled myself that it was the right thing to do. God only knows how many killings and other foul deeds Yaqub had been responsible for. The Major said not a word to me all day, and avoided my gaze. He may have been filled with revulsion at my dispatching of Yaqub, or just appalled at the unpalatable truth and logic of the need to do as I did. No Geneva Convention bound me – or indeed Queens Regulation.

  The Major explained that we would continue even after it got dark in order to get to the Qursani Valley tonight. It was akin to a forced march. Everyone was tired and weary after the encounter with the JFF and then a hard day in the saddle. My backside was unbearably sore and my sides ached. The horses did admirably well with only one stop in mid-afternoon for water and some fodder. We arrived in a sheltered spot with the Qursani Valley walls about half a mile on either side of us. It had got distinctly chilly after the sun went down and a wind had blown up. Ismail’s keenness to serve my needs was a blessing. Aziz took my horse after I had dismounted and I sat down on a small rock – painfully. Ismail erected my tent, unfurled my bedding and got me some water to wash. The fatigues of the day told on the face of everyone as we sat around the fire eating dinner later that evening with a minimal amount of conversation. Dinner consisted of a rice and pulse type kedgeree with a few vegetables. It tasted quite decent and the hot food as it went down my throat seemed to rejuvenate me somewhat. Towards the end of the meal Aziz asked me to recollect what had happened to me after I’d left camp. All I omitted to mention was my fear and self doubt. I noted that Aziz and Ismail were more effusive in their praise whilst the two Germans were more subdued. I was not seeking praise, nor indeed to boast. I dare say that if either of the two Germans had been out of the camp when the JFF arrived, they would have done the same.

  Later when w
e had dispersed after dinner the Major came up to me and said, “You did well today, however tomorrow is another day. Do not be unduly flattered by the praise of Aziz and Ismail, they are natives whose loyalties will bow in whatever direction the wind is blowing. Experience informs me that the glory of one day will count for nothing the next.”

  I went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately. I awoke to a chilly but sunny morning. I staggered out of my tent to see Ismail boiling up some water, he saw me and smiled.

  “Tea?” he asked.

  “Yes please,” I said as I gave out a half stifled yawn, “Why did you not wake me earlier?”

  “The Major say we deserve longer in bed after yesterday.”

  I returned inside my tent and suddenly a painful stiffness over took my sides and legs. After such a hard day in the saddle it was to be expected. I proceeded to do some stretching to loosen them up. After breakfast we left camp. A short while later we saw from a distance a group of locals on the other side of the Valley, most likely a family, travelling on two horses a camel and a wagon moving in the opposite direction to us. It brought home the fact that we were now getting close to the Bactria Valley. I fondly recalled our 4WD Toyota as I reflected on the soreness of my body. But I could not reproach my Gelding who was compliant. On two occasions the tedium of the ride induced me to get him into a gallop and overtake everyone as if I were on some leisurely hack, much to the irritation of the Major. We arrived at the end of the Valley in late afternoon and camped by a large rocky outcrop, which served to significantly conceal us. The horses grazed nearby, whilst we snacked on dried fruits and coffee.