My body language must have troubled the serzhánt. “What? Tell me!” she insisted.
“If your president’s alive, he’s been captured by a killer known as Al-Aleaqarab.”
“Who, who is that?”
“The Scorpion, an ISIS commander. A very very bad dude, as our Commander-in-Chief would say. He comes from your neighborhood back home. He’s Georgian.” The Russian warrior spread-eagled on the ground farted loudly. “Wake him up,” I told Alvin. “Do what you have to do to get him sober.”
Alvin checked the man over, patting him down, feeling his pockets and the rest of his clothing. He found some loose change, an empty hipflask and a wallet with various cards – credit and ID. Grunting with the effort required, he dragged the comatose Russian across the ground to a tree, propped him against it and slapped him around the face a few times. “Wake up, Boris,” he whispered. “Places to go, people to fuck up.”
The man said, the words appearing to dribble out of his mouth, along with some drool.
“What’d he say?” asked Alvin over his shoulder.
“Fuck off,” I said.
Natasha was surprised. “Oh, you know Russian?”
“I know hangovers.”
Alvin retuned to the business at hand. A drink of water, a few more slaps, a noisy vomit on all fours into the dirt and the Russian was back with us. Did he even know he’d been spat out of a helicopter before it spun into the ground?
“His name Igor,” the serzhánt informed us.
“Boris. Got it,” I replied.
“Boris?”
“English translation of Igor. Your father never told you that?”
Okay, so I lied, but Boris and Natasha had a ring to it that Igor and Natasha didn’t. You gotta get your kicks any way you can in today’s Air Force.
“Boris? I do not believe this. His name Igor.”
In my worldview, Igor had a hump on his back and walked with a sideways limp. The noncom with a skinful didn't fit the picture and I’m the type that needs to make some kind of memorable association to get a name fixed in my head.
“His name. It is Igor Rostov Ivanovich Astaninnovich.”
Okay, I thought, no chance of remembering that. “What caused the explosion inside the helicopter,” I asked, hitting the subject for a lucky third time.
Natasha stared at me for a few seconds. Then she wiped her cheek with the back of a hand and I realized it wasn’t to remove the caked blood but her own tears.
Eleven
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
It’s a lie. I do not cheat at golf. Golf cheaters are the worst people. I would never do that. Never.
The serzhánt sat alongside the man with the briefcase. There was a dry retch in the back of her throat brought on by the stench of roasting people that was coming through the air vents. The “perfume of victory” President Petrovich had called it.
General Yegorov sat on the other side of cabin, on one of the seats against the bare metal skin and framework of the aircraft, his head gently rolling in small circles with the motion of the Hind. Natasha liked him. He talked straight and acted the same way and he had not tried to sleep with her. He had warned her about the president. “Remember the bear?” he had said, referencing the animal the bare-chested president had wrestled for YouTube cameras. “Beware, pretty young tank driver, or you might wake one morning and find your mouth strangely chaffed, your asshole stretched and a gap in your memory. My advice to you: keep an eye on everything you drink from a cup.” And with that, he had toasted her.
The general had passed along this advice after she had confided that the president was one of her heroes, a man to rival even Stalin in greatness. “All I would say is that it is an essential truth of life,” he told her, “that meeting one’s heroes is rarely a rewarding experience.”
Beside the serzhánt, sleeping it off, his helmet pushed low over his face and with one boot crossed over the other, was Starshina Astaninnovich, a career non-commissioned officer in Spetsnaz, a man who, the general had told her, had won the Hero of the Russian Federation medal. Such awards were handed out rarely, and the deeds that had won Astaninnovich the medal were secret. The general had refused to divulge any details other than he had killed many enemies. The Russian newspaper Pravda had nicknamed him Kapitán Rossiya – Captain Russia, the motherland’s own Captain America. Why was he here, in this helicopter? Was it purely because the president liked to be seen with such types, the ideal Russian with broad shoulders, big muscles and a thirst for vodka? Astaninnovich seemed to sweat alcohol on a daily basis. “But it is good Russian vodka, so that makes it okay,” she had heard the president comment to General Yegorov that morning, when the starshina surfaced from his cabin on the Admiral Kuznetsov, his balance affected and his breath a fire hazard. Yegorov had joked that his liver must be the size of a Trabant.
The helicopter lurched and the saliva bridging Astaninnovich’s chin with his collar collapsed as his helmet-encased head fell on Natasha’s shoulder. When she went to push his helmet away she instead found the back of his close shaved head, soft bristles damp with alcohol sweat. Another sudden movement woke him, but only long enough for Igor Astaninnovich to let out a belch, a sudden hiss of air like a stabbed car tire, audible through the headsets. He went back to his snoring, just as he had done since they had lifted off forty minutes ago from the carrier out in the Med.
And then it happened.
It was Arkady Geronosovich, one of the president’s two bodyguards. Natasha glanced across in time to see him reach inside his jacket. There was something about his face, blank and trance-like. She knew then that something was wrong. When his hand came out, his fingers were gripping something tight, a small round object. A grenade. A grenade! The pin must already have been removed because when he released the spoon, it sprang off and looped up over his arm. A loud popping sound came next, a small explosion, and the grenade head emitted a plume of white smoke.
No one moved and no one yelled. Because no one saw it, except for her. But she did not move, either – there was no time. It had happened so fast, but also slowly, each second stretching like elastic. And then Arkady stood. He glanced at her and shouted, “Allahu akbar!”
Natasha did not hear the explosion, but felt a blast of wet heat cover her.
Twelve
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
Europe needs to get its own house in order. Especially Germany. Their immigration policy is causing big, big problems for the rest of us. Big.
Well, that’s what Serzhánt Novikova told me as we stood in the clearing. She concluded with, “And thirty minute ago, I wake up on forest floor.”
“Hmm,” I said, nodding. A fascinating story with a familiar ring. The bodyguard did it. Bodyguards and butlers must be cut from the same cloth. How much of it was true? Then again, why would the woman lie? What I did know from my gumshoe days was that people with long and intricate statements usually give them in order to hide something. Truth is more often than not provided in brief, sweeping explanations. Question: “How did you fall out of a helicopter and end up covered in gore, alive and in one piece on the ground?”
Answer: “Dunno.”
A statement like that I could swallow whole. How much of Natasha’s interesting and detailed story would Boris support? How much of it could he support given his pickled state? Was she lying? If so, why was she lying? And what part was she lying about? All of this assumed I gave a damn, which I didn’t, because none of it was the new Vin’s business. Check. “Jimmy, on the way to you. Your position?”
“Down by the intersection, sir,” his voice replied in my earpiece. “Got traffic coming and going.”
That figured. The Russian Hind would have been a beacon for every hostage taker with a keen nose for a business opportunity for miles around. “Jimmy, muster us a vehicle.”
“Roger that,” he said.
“Alvin, how’s Boris?”
“Don’t know, Major,” he replied, “But slapping him around
sure is entertaining. Wanna try?”
“Only if it will get him on his feet.”
Natasha planted herself in front of me. “Where you going?”
“Home.” Well, not exactly home, more a shipping container in the desert with a cot, WiFi and a bottle of single malt. Close enough.
“And Igor and me?”
“You mean Boris. That’s up to you, but I would come with us.”
“No.”
That was a surprise. “I can leave you here if that’s what you want, but you have no supplies, no comms – nada. We’ve got the opportunity to dust off at 0730 and I don’t want to miss it.” I checked my watch. “And we gotta hustle. Once we’re airborne we can call in the situation with your president. I can guarantee you there’ll be keen interest. So what’s it gonna be?”
“We must find president now,” Natasha insisted, “before is too late.”
Clearly, this woman had a problem listening. “We as in us?” I gestured back and forth. “Firstly, he’s not our president, so we don't gotta do shit. Secondly, how are you going to find him? And even if we found him, what then? We’ve got four carbines, a sniper’s rifle and Boris’s breath against who knows what else, but I guarantee it’ll be substantial.”
“Igor,” she reminded me, “not Boris.” And then, with a pout, “You must help.”
“No,” I replied, leaving even less room for interpretation. The pout turned into a glare, which she fixed on me for lengthy seconds, and I was reminded of that scene where Darth Vader pinches his thumb and forefinger together and uses the Force to throttle a minion. “Let me say again, the best thing we can do for Mother Russia, Serzhánt, is get you out of here. We’ll hand over what little intel we have and let the people in higher pay grades work it out. This area is crawling with jihadists. We’re gonna move now while we still can. Come with us or stay. Decide.” For added effect, I glanced at my watch like I was in a hurry, which I was. Again, that frosty silence and the feeling of something tightening around my throat. Clearly, this was a woman used to getting her way.
“Okay, we go with you,” she blurted.
Good decision. “Right.”
Alvin had Boris on his feet, finally. I noticed for the first time that the Russian was a big man – I’m talking Redskins defensive-end big. I hoped he was a happy drunk, because he could do some serious damage to his surroundings without even thinking about it.
“Bo, give the area a sweep,” I said, not forgetting the SOP of ensuring we hadn’t left anything behind that announced “USA”. Even the TACAN was stamped all over with “Made in Taiwan”, just in case. The SFC gave me a nod, lowered his NVGs and commenced a quick grid search. “We’ll rejoin at the intersection,” I informed him.
“Got it,” he said.
Alvin herded Boris down through the nettles and the almond trees. The Russian moved well, all things considered; those things being that he weighed close to 260 pounds and was still halfway to blind drunk. As we moved, terse words in Russian were exchanged between Natasha and the starshina. I gathered the feeling between them was mutual dislike. Mental note to self: ask Natasha if they were husband and wife.
I took point. The trip down through the stinging nettles was quicker than the one up and I brought us back to the trail just above the intersection. A screen of young trees and poison ivy obscured it. Dust hung in a thick curtain over the track, which was clearly now alive with vehicles.
“Got a loner coming this way,” said Jimmy somewhere on the track below our position. “One headlight – could be a motorcycle.”
“Unless it’s got a minibus for a sidecar, let it pass. We’re fifty yards north of your position,” I told him.
We crouched in the bushes and waited, Bo rejoining us. And then Jimmy announced, “One vehicle commandeered, Major. An old acquaintance.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Come take a look.”
The red crescent on a side panel solved the mystery. The ambulance, the one that had broken down on us earlier, was nosed into the bushes by the roadside. Two men were moving a log Jimmy had placed in its path. A third man was under Jimmy’s supervision, the muzzle of his M4 pushed into the guy’s back. “This one speaks English – kinda,” said Jimmy with a shrug. “Claims they’re medics. From Latakia. Checked the vehicle for weapons, found none. No medical supplies either. They say they were robbed of this vehicle at an ISIS checkpoint, but found it again some time later, abandoned.”
I guessed that was possible. “They’re a long way from home. What are they doing driving around up here?”
“Said they saw the helicopter come down and came to offer assistance.”
“With no medical supplies?”
Jimmy shrugged. “Shoot ‘em?”
Leaving people in our wake that could identify us as Americans was a problem, but the driver and his friends were unarmed, which placed them in a category the ROE said we couldn't shoot. Of course there are all manner of instances in the past where letting “civilians” loose has ended in tragedy for our guys and I had no wish to write our own scene in that movie.
The two fellas moving the log out of the way finished the job and rejoined their buddy by the ambulance, their hands on their heads with fingers interlocked, as directed by Alvin and Bo. The oldest of the three, the one with Jimmy’s carbine tickling his ribs, was perhaps in his mid-twenties, covered in concrete dust and grime, with dark but intelligent eyes sunken in his malnourished face. He seemed strung out yet strong, afraid and also confident. I pointed to him, and said, “Al Qaida.”
“No, no, al Qaida, no! SDF! SDF!” he insisted, almost shouting it, apparently taking monumental offense at the label.
“Keep your voice down,” I told him. “So, not medics.”
“You are American! Friends! We are friends. Long live America!” And so forth.
“Quiet!” I hissed. The Syrian Democratic Forces were one of the larger anti-Assad groups operating in northern Syria. That much I remembered from the intelligence briefings I had been made to attend but largely ignored given that contact with the local population was to be avoided at all costs. If these guys really were SDF, then they were allies; the TACAN was in place largely to support them fighting al Qaida, Daesh, the Assad regime and a shopping list of other groups. Except that the other snippet I remembered from the intel briefings was that lying pretty much happened to be the national sport in these parts, and folks took pride in playing the game. While I was weighing all this up, one of the other two, who had been eyeing Boris and Natasha suspiciously, said, “Kunt alrrusi?” And then the guy I was questioning, suddenly realizing that some of us weren’t all the way with the US of A, spat on the big Russian starshina, and then jumped on him and started pounding on his head like this was a horribly mismatched UFC cage fight.
The testosterone levels in our little band soared a few thousand feet in an instant, the two other Syrians yelling what was probably encouragement at their boy, while Jimmy, Bo, Alvin and I raised our M4s as a matter of security, covering all of them, Natasha included. This could turn ugly.
But then Boris managed to get a handful of the Syrian trying to chew on his ear, Tyson-style, and peeled him off. Holding the guy aloft in midair by what appeared to be the scruff of the neck, the Syrian’s legs twitching and kicking, Boris swung him in a half circle into side of the ambulance so hard that the sheet metal buckled. This took the wind right out of him, the fight too. Boris let him drop to the ground and the Syrian’s buddies fell silent. I felt sorry for the ambulance.
“I guess that settles the al Qaida issue,” said Bo, lowering his weapon.
“Yep,” I agreed. Al Qaida and Russians probably wouldn't have had the same explosive reaction rubbed up against each other that we’d just witnessed, and neither would a jihadist from any one of the murdering fanatical bands operating in the area, such as ISIS, the Khalid ibn al-Walid Army, the Islamic Muthanna Movement, and a bunch of others the Russians were supporting in a de facto way by targeting
the anti-Assad folks. Confused? Us too, but that’s how the locals roll around here. In short, maybe the ambulance crew was, in fact, who they said they were. At least I was convinced enough that I didn’t feel we could legally shoot them.
The guy on the ground, whom the big Russian had just rearranged the ambulance’s kidneys with, groaned, lifted his head and said, “You want someone to kill Russians, we will do this.”
That was a kind and generous offer, but our guys back at Incirlik wouldn't approve of that either. Not this week anyway. “Thanks. I’ll consider it. Meanwhile, you’re driving. Bo – shotgun. Everyone get aboard the freedom bus.” I motioned at the ambulance. “Tell your friends,” I instructed the designated driver as he climbed painfully up off the ground, with assistance from Alvin. It would start getting light soon and I figured a Syrian behind the wheel would attract a little less attention than an American soldier. To keep everyone honest, I said to my boys, “Keep an eye on ‘em.”
The Syrian, gingerly checking himself over for serious damage and finding none, held out a hand ingrained with dirt. “I am Mazool.” He pointed to the teens. “Taymullah and Farib.”
I couldn't leave the guy hanging so I shook his hand. “Cooper,” I told him and filled him in on who was who in the rest of our zoo.
“Americans. Allies,” Mazool said.
“Allies,” I replied. “Unless you prove to be otherwise.”
“Okay.”
The Syrian called Taymullah, really no more than a kid, began talking rapid-fire to Mazool, who translated. “Taymullah says the ambulance is, er …” he searched for the word. “It has thirst. Do your men need to make piss?”
Kingdom Come Page 8
