PRIMAL Unleashed (2)

by Jack Silkstone

  ***

  The Taliban’s attempt to reinforce the defenses of the extraction site had been decimated by the Pain Train. The few remaining Taliban had only put up a short fight before being overwhelmed by Mirza and the Hazaran’s.

  “Mirza of the mountain,” Syed called out from where his men were crowded around a group of the enslaved workers, now freed and reunited with their kin.

  “Yes, Syed,” Mirza answered wearily.

  The veteran commander strode over to where the PRIMAL operative was sitting propped up against a rock.

  “My people are safe, thanks to you, Mirza.” Syed crouched next to him. “I know it will not go far in easing your pain, but you saved many lives today, my friend.”

  “You saved my life, Syed. Without you, the Taliban would have killed me.”

  “This is true, Mirza, but Allah wanted you to live, otherwise he wouldn’t have sent me to the mountain.”

  “Allah’s will, Syed,” murmured the Indian.

  Syed gestured to the tunnel. “When I was a young man the Russians brought many of my people to this mountain. Only one ever returned and he told stories of the poison that killed everything it touched. I pray to Allah that this evil has not been released upon the world. If it has, our only hope is that there are more men like you and your friend to stop it.”

  “There are many more men braver than me that stand ready to face that evil, Syed. Just promise me that you and your men will guard this site until the Americans come to bury it.”

  “This I promise you, Mirza.”

  The roar of a low-flying aircraft interrupted them. They looked up as the Pain Train screamed over a few hundred feet above them. A small bundle tumbled out of the aircraft. It jettisoned a parachute and the object continued its descent until it landed with a thump on the abandoned helicopter pad.

  “I think that is my ticket home,” Mirza commented. Syed watched him unzip the duffle bag and pull the contents out onto the ground. It contained a fully body harness, a length of high tensile cable and a gas bottle connected to a large red sack. The Skyhook extraction system had been pioneered by the CIA during the Cold War. Although largely abandoned, it was perfect for this situation. Mirza was glad Ice had the foresight to show him how to use it.

  “What is it?” the Hazaran chief asked.

  “It’s a balloon.”

  The old man looked at Mirza in disbelief as he slipped into the full body harness. “You are going to float away under a balloon?”

  Mirza smiled as he tightened the harness straps. “In a way, yes.” He hooked the braided wire cable to the front of the harness and turned the tap on the gas bottle. With a hiss, the red sack inflated into a miniature airship complete with fins. It sailed into the air, dragging the cable with it.

  The older man looked on in amazement. “I think your balloon is a little small, my friend,” he laughed, as the balloon reached the end of its tether and Mirza remained firmly planted on the ground.

  “Thank you for saving my life, Syed.” Mirza pulled on a pair of goggles and placed both hands across his chest. “I will never forget that.”

  “You are a brave warrior, Mirza,” Syed yelled over the roar of the aircraft as it flew directly over them.

  Before Mirza could respond, the Pain Train snatched the balloon from the sky and he was ripped off the ground. The rush of wind filled his ears and his stomach lurched as he accelerated to 300 kilometers an hour in under five seconds. All Mirza could do was focus on keeping his arms and legs pressed tightly to his body. His world consisted of the roar of the wind and the biting pain of the harness. All of a sudden he felt hands grab him and he was hauled into the hold of the Pain Train. The ramp closed with a thump and Mirza climbed unsteadily to his feet.

  “Welcome back on board, Mirza.” Mitch grabbed him in a huge bear hug, almost crushing the smaller man. “I’m so bloody glad you made it.”

  “I’m sorry about Ice. It was my fault, I tripped a flare,” Mirza lamented, removing his goggles.

  Mitch released his grip and looked the Indian in the eye. “You can’t dwell on it now, Mirza,” he said sincerely. “We need to focus on finishing the job. That’s what Ice would want.”

  Mirza nodded. “I don’t understand, Mitch. We had that helicopter on the ground cold. One bomb would have ended it.”

  “It wasn’t that simple. This nerve agent they’ve got their mitts on is bloody deadly. If we’d shwacked that chopper, every towelhead from here to Helmand would be with Allah.”

  “Is that why there was an exclusion zone?”

  “Yeah. Vance made it pretty clear that spreading a nerve agent over half the sandpit wasn’t an option,” Mitch explained, as he helped Mirza out of the harness. “Right now we’re tracking the chopper. You need to get some rest.”

  Mirza was a mess: clothing torn and tattered, eyes bloodshot. “Good idea,” he said. “Wake me when we catch that helicopter. I’m not letting those evil bastards get away. I owe Ice that much.” He staggered down the aircraft and collapsed onto a roll-out mattress.

  Mitch helped the loadmaster refurbish the extraction kit before returning to his terminal. He brought up the radar feed and confirmed the pilot was on course to intercept the helicopter. It was heading northwest towards the border with Turkmenistan, due to cross at least ten minutes before they caught it. Borders, though, meant nothing to the Pain Train.

  Chapter 57

  Kalai Moir Airfield, Turkmenistan

  The airfield at the isolated township of Kalai Moir, fifty kilometers west of the Afghan-Turkmenistan border, had once been a staging base for Russian fighter-bombers. During the war jets had screamed across the border to bomb Mujahideen targets deep within Afghanistan. Over two decades since the withdrawal of Soviet forces, the 2000 meter airstrip was abandoned and had fallen into a state of disrepair.

  The local authorities turned a blind eye to Dostiger’s use of the runway. His aircraft, an ancient and battered AN-12, landed on an irregular basis. Every few months or so, the old prop-driven transport plane would bring in a shipment of weapons, transfer the cargo with one of his helicopters, and return to Odessa with a load of drugs. It was a small, yet highly profitable venture in Dostiger’s business portfolio.

  It had taken only an hour and forty minutes for Dostiger’s helicopter to travel the four hundred kilometers from the extraction site. Yanuk ended up spending most of the time sitting in the cockpit, chatting with the two veteran Soviet pilots about their time in the Russian military. As the old airfield appeared in the distance, the senior pilot pointed it out. “You ever been here before, Yanuk?” he asked.

  “Nyet, comrade, Afghanistan was just before my time.”

  The pilot laughed loudly over the headset. “Good for you. This place is a shithole.”

  Yanuk scanned the airfield as the helicopter did a lazy loop. It certainly looked like a dump; rusting abandoned aircraft sat alongside derelict fuel tankers and the runway was covered in growth. The ramshackle town wasn’t much better, reminding Yanuk of a ghost town from a western movie.

  The pilot noticed his intense gaze. “No need to worry, my friend,” he said, taking one hand off the stick to point out a vehicle moving along the edge of the runway. “Turkeman Army: nearly a whole brigade down there. Missiles, tanks, all looking after you and your precious cargo. No one can touch you here, comrade.”

  The helicopter banked and Yanuk could see the armored vehicles and men positioned at the edges of the airfield. The surface-to-air missile systems and the anti-aircraft guns made him feel a little more secure.

  “Do you fly here often?” he asked.

  “Once or twice a month. We fly in with drugs, meet with the plane, and return with guns.”

  Yanuk whistled. “Useful arrangement.”

  “Pays for the vodka and whores,” the pilot laughed. “Hold on, we’re coming in to land.”

  The helicopter flared and started to descend. Yanuk moved back into the cargo hold and strapped himself into the webbing
seat. He peered through the side window, checking that everything was in order. The AN-12 was on the runway with its four engines idling and ramp lowered. A group of heavily armed men were carrying plastic trunks out of the aircraft, stacking them on the tarmac. He finally started to relax.

  The helicopter rotated slowly, and when the rear doors faced the ramp of the transport plane, it touched down with a gentle thud. The pilots shut down the engines and the high-pitched whine faded as the spinning blades came to a halt. Even Khan looked happy as they disembarked, followed by his men carrying the two canisters.

  One of Dostiger’s men greeted them in English. “Welcome to Kalai Moir, my friends.” The Ukrainian looked like he was straight from the pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine, complete with modified AK-47, low-riding thigh holster and baseball cap.

  Khan gave the man a withering look. “Here is the chemical,” he said, as his men placed the two canisters on the ground. “Do you have my payment?”

  Dostiger’s representative was a little taken aback by the Warlord’s directness. “Yes, comrade, the weapons and cash will be transferred now.” He gestured to the line of armed men carrying black plastic cases off the ramp of the transport plane.

  Khan nodded to the Afghans accompanying him and they moved to help Dostiger’s men load the cases through the clam-shell doors at the back of the Mi-17.

  The man continued. “Dostiger wanted me to tell you there is more whenever you need it.”

  “Good, very good. Then we are done.” The Afghan warlord turned to Yanuk, offering the shorter man his hand. The mercenary’s eyes widened as Khan addressed him in fluent Russian. “Good work, Yanuk. I will tell Dostiger how hard you worked to make sure he got his precious chemical. Although I am sure you will be duly rewarded.” He had forced Yanuk to speak English throughout the whole excavation. The tall Afghan turned back towards the helicopter, his white robes dancing in the wind.

  Dostiger’s representative interrupted Yanuk’s thoughts. “Comrade, once the cargo is loaded, we’ll leave. I am under strict instructions to have this aircraft airborne within ten minutes of your arrival.”

  “No argument from me. I’m ready to go,” Yanuk replied.

  He inspected the stainless steel containers to ensure the men had lashed them securely to the floor of the aircraft’s hold, then took a seat beside the rest of Dostiger’s Ukrainian security force.

  Yanuk smiled again as he strapped himself into the cargo netting seat that hung from the fuselage. He was another step closer to his millions. He daydreamed about retiring to a tropical island, then chuckled to himself, looking out the window at the desert that surrounded the airfield. No, too much fucking sand, he thought.

  Chapter 58

  Kalai Moir

  Eight kilometers to the east of the airstrip, the Pain Train began another sweeping turn. The pilots were maintaining what is referred to as a racetrack; keeping the aircraft away from the target to avoid detection, cutting laps to maintain observation. In this case Mitch was using the jet’s targeting camera to watch the transfer of the cargo from the helicopter to the cargo plane.

  “Bunker, this is Pain Train. I confirm that transfer of the cargo has occurred and the aircraft is moving for take-off,” Mitch reported. Now the Pain Train was out of munitions, they could only observe.

  “Roger, Pain Train. Can you give us the tail number?”

  “Negative, we’re too far out. We could move closer, but it would risk compromise.”

  “Acknowledged, Pain Train. Vance has asked if you can push the boundaries. We really need that tail number.”

  “OK, I’ll see what we can do. I’ll get back to you.” Mitch switched to the internal channel with the pilots. “Hey, chaps, we need to bring it in a little closer on the next run. Let’s set the back side of the next loop tighter in, but no closer than three and a half miles.” Mitch hoped no one on the ground was paying close attention to the horizon. Although the Turkmenistan Air Force was unlikely to be a threat with their two working fighters, he was wary of the Army’s short-range surface-to-air weapons.

  The Pain Train banked over to one side, commencing the turn that would bring it nearer to the target. Mitch began recording the feed. As the image became clearer, he captured a number of stills, emailing them to the Bunker.

  “They’ve transferred the nerve agent?” asked Mirza, as he dropped into the spare seat next to Mitch.

  “Hey, champ. Yes, they’ve made the transfer. Couple more minutes and they’ll be chocks away.”

  On screen the antiquated transporter executed a tight turn onto the main runway. As Mitch panned out, they could see the helicopter was already airborne, hovering above the runway. It turned back towards the Afghan border, dipped its nose slightly, and started moving away from the airfield.

  “So that’s it, then. They get away?”

  “Sorry, lad. Not much we can do about it, eh?”

  Mirza didn’t say anything; he just stared at the screen.

  “I’m sorry, Mirza. I want to make the bastards pay just as much as you.”

  The Indian rose out the chair. ”There might be a way. Just let me check on something.”

  “You’ll have to make it fast. I’ve got a feeling Vance is going to cut us away soon. That engine’s playing up again.”

  Mirza left the cockpit and Mitch turned his attention back to his screens. Now that the tarmac was clear, the AN-12 started rolling forward. Mitch could see the heat streaming out of the four turboprops as it lumbered down the runway. With a lurch, it was airborne and heading west.

  The video-conference symbol popped up on the bottom of Mitch’s screen. He closed the feed from the pod, retracting the device back into its recess under the nose of the aircraft, then hit accept on the video-conference. Chua’s face appeared on the screen.

  “Hey, Mitch, good job on the image capture. We’ve tracked the aircraft. Tail number JAM480 is registered to a company based in Kiev, no doubt linked to Dostiger.”

  “No surprises there.”

  “The aircraft is logged to fly from Mary Airport in Turkmenistan to Odessa International in the Ukraine,” Chua explained.

  “I figured it would have to be registered. There’s no way you can fly through that part of town without being noticed.”

  “Yes, that’s part of the reason we’re sending you back to Abu Dhabi. We can track the aircraft from this end using the civil and military radar nets. The ELINT team has already hacked most of them. Bishop is on the job at the other end,” Chua explained.

  “Righto. For your info, we just lost the number three engine again.” Pushing the repaired turbofan hard coming out of Kandahar had come at a cost. Fortunately, with only three engines and a much lighter payload, the Pain Train had been able to tail the slower helicopter. If they hadn’t dropped that last load of bombs, it might have been a different story.

  Chua nodded. “Yeah, we’ve been monitoring it at this end. Vance is pretty keen to get her fixed up and ready for the next mission.”

  Mitch tipped his head in agreement. “The old girl’s certainly in no state to tangle with a MiG any time soon.” The Ukrainians had a formidable fleet of advanced fighter aircraft. “Look, I think Mirza wants a crack at that helo. He’s got some crazy idea that he’s working on—”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s back in the hold, sorting through the kit Ice brought on board.”

  “Any idea what he’s cooked up?”

  “I’ve got an inkling.”

  “Mitch, the Pain Train is your command. Vance is cutting you away from the mission to head back to Abu Dhabi. If you get a little sidetracked, he’s not going to ask any questions.”

  “Heard you loud and clear, Red Leader.”

  “Good hunting. Bunker out.”

  ***

  The Mi-17 was cruising at 250 kilometers an hour in a direct line for Herat when the giant Ilyushin transporter swept over it. The big jet flew so close it nearly clipped the tail rotor on its way past. The heli
copter bucked wildly as the back blast of the jet’s turbofans hit its spinning rotor blades. The pilot fought with the yoke, his feet dancing on the pedals, managing to keep control of the shuddering airframe.

  “Fucking arsehole, how did he not see us?” the pilot exclaimed.

  “That prick has radar. He should have picked us up from miles out,” the co-pilot commented.

  Behind them, Khan ripped open the cockpit door. “What was that!”

  “Ah, a plane almost crashed into us,” the pilot replied, pointing towards the transport aircraft pulling away from the helicopter, “but don’t worry, we are clear now.”

  Khan positioned himself between the two pilots, staring intently through the canopy at the outline of the heavy transporter. A spark of recognition flared in his eyes. “Dive! Dive!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. The big aircraft loomed in front of them.

  The warning came too late.

  The Pain Train swept over the helicopter, Mirza lying on the lowered cargo ramp behind an XM500 sniper rifle. The loadmaster had lashed him to the ramp and the straps were tight, cutting into his body, but they held as the gusts of the aircraft’s slipstream tore at his clothing.

  Mirza peered through his scope. The helicopter bounced in and out of view. “We’re too far away. Can you slow us down?” he screamed into his throat mike.

  The pilot responded in Mirza’s headphones. “Any slower and we’re going to drop out of the sky like a rock!”

  “I need to get closer; they’re dropping back.”

  “Fuck it, I’m going to flare out. Wait, wait, wait—NOW.”

  The aircraft shuddered, slowed to stalling speed. It felt to Mirza like his guts were trying to force their way up and out of his throat. The helicopter filled the scope and he didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger. The rifle slammed into his shoulder as it spat its deadly projectile at the target.

  The bullet smashed through the Lexan canopy of the Mi-17 at almost 3000 feet per second. The high-explosive projectile detonated inside the co-pilot’s chest cavity, the tungsten slug continuing through his back, the seat, the cockpit wall, and out the floor of the helicopter. To his credit, the pilot reacted instinctively, wiping the blood from his face as he banked the helicopter hard, throwing it sideways. Khan was thrown backwards into the hold of the aircraft and fell against the cases that held his cash and weapons.