Ilana tossed in her double bed. As they so often did, the demon dreams had once again invaded her sleep. At 12 years of age she was already developing into a young woman, and she was back in her parents’ home on the shores of Lake Lukomskaye to the north-east of Minsk in Belarus.
‘Shall I tidy the lounge room, Mama?’
Anna Rabinovich, slightly built, glanced nervously at the old kitchen clock on the wall. ‘No – do the pancakes, Ilana. It’s getting late and your father will be home soon.’
Ilana felt a shiver run down her spine and she busied herself with the buckwheat flour and eggs while her mother sautéed onion and bacon and then dropped white sausages into a mixture of boiling beer and water spiced with cumin, bay leaf and pepper. Vereshchaka was one of Ilana’s favourite recipes, but she knew from bitter experience that unless the consistency of the meat sauce was just right, her father would fly into an uncontrollable, drunken rage, and there would be worse to come. Suddenly, the sound of the staff car in the driveway exacerbated her fears.
‘Der’mo! Shit!’ Her father, General Sergey Rabinovich, swore as he tripped at the front door. He lurched down the corridor and into the kitchen.
‘Ish dinner ready!’ he demanded, his speech slurred. He fumbled with the catches on his briefcase and retrieved a half-empty bottle of Beluga Noble vodka.
Ilana’s mother timidly placed the big earthenware pot of meat sauce and a plate of pancakes within easy reach of her husband. An air of silent foreboding descended over the kitchen table as Ilana and her mother took their places. They watched in trepidation as General Rabinovich, his hair hanging untidily over his bloodshot eyes and reddened face, slopped the sauce over the table and onto his pancakes, washing them down with generous swigs of vodka.
As soon as she could, Ilana escaped to her room, burying herself in her physics texts and the nuclear model of the atom.
‘You useless bitch of a woman!’ Ilana winced as she heard a bowl shatter against the kitchen wall. ‘Why is it just fruit for dessert? Where is the kisiel?’ The General heaved himself unsteadily to his feet, staggered toward his long-suffering wife and swung a punch. Anna ducked and ran from the room.
‘You’ll pay for this, woman!’
The house fell silent. Ilana looked at her watch. Nine p.m. She hastily got into her pyjamas, turned out the light and crept into bed. ‘Please not again, Bozhe. Please . . . please . . . please, not again.’ Ilana made her entreaties to the God of the Russian Orthodox Church, the same God Christians worshipped in the west, but despite her pleas, Ilana had already concluded that God did not exist. No God with a skerrick of compassion would allow this to happen.
The door to her room creaked open. In a forlorn hope he would think she was asleep, Ilana had faced the wall, breathing heavily. She could sense her father standing over her, leering.
‘Come to Papa. It’s time for you to do your duty,’ General Rabinovich rasped. The air was thick with garlic and vodka fumes and Ilana shuddered involuntarily as her father reached under the bedclothes and began to fondle her budding breasts. He grabbed her wrist and Ilana cried in pain as he shoved her hand through his open fly and onto his erection.
‘Nyet, papa . . . papa pozhaluista nyet. Father, please no.’
General Rabinovich took no notice of his daughter’s desperate plea. ‘Do your duty!’ he growled, forcing Ilana back down onto the bed.
As she so often did, Ilana jolted awake in a sweat. She angrily shed the bedclothes, moved to her ensuite and doused her face with icy water. Four-thirty a.m. There would be time for her normal 4-kilometre run along the snow-covered banks of the Vichkinza River before the first-light departure of the FSB helicopter.
‘Taliban! High ground, two o’clock!’ Petty Officer Rogers yelled, returning fire. SEAL Team Six took cover, and O’Connor reached for his handset to call in the Apache.
‘Gangster One, this is Hopi One Four, we’re taking fire from the ridge above us, grid 476914, over.’
‘Gangster One, copied. I see the muzzle flashes. Starting my run now, out.’ The response from Chief Warrant Officer Lieberman was typical of the ice-cool courage for which she had become legendary in providing support for teams in trouble on the ground. O’Connor’s men kept their heads down as the Taliban fighters raked the area around them with fire.
Rogers crawled up beside O’Connor. ‘The towelheads are not short of ammunition,’ he observed.
‘Naomi’s dealing with him,’ said O’Connor, hugging the ground as another burst of fire crackled around them.
‘Oh – it’s Naomi now, is it?’
‘Thought that’d get a rise out of you!’
Lieberman put the Apache into a dive, and her gunner tracked the Taliban’s muzzle flashes with the Apache’s infrared system. A burst of big 30-millimetre rounds thundered over O’Connor’s position and the Taliban fighters’ screams reverberated across the valley, but O’Connor’s forward scout issued another chilling warning as bullets continued to crackle around them. This time, they were coming from the valley below.
‘They’re moving toward us!’ Lopez yelled from his position further up the ridge. O’Connor focused his binoculars on the valley below. ‘Jesus Christ, there must be 150 of them.’
‘Gangster One, this is Hopi One Four, have you got the enemy visual, over?’
‘Gangster One, copied.’ Lieberman pulled the Apache into a tight turn to allow her gunner to line the enemy up again. ‘I’m on my way in, but there are an awful lot of them. We might need more support, over.’
‘Hopi One Four, so I’ve noticed, I’m on it, out.’
O’Connor summoned the fire control team and Ventura and Rayburn crawled forward. The crack-thump of the Taliban small arms was accompanied by the crump . . . crump . . . crump . . . of the Apache’s 30-millimetre rounds exploding amongst the enemy.
‘How’s that air support going?’
‘We’re on it,’ Ventura yelled, making himself heard above the din. ‘Two F-16 Vipers airborne, time over target two minutes, call sign Bandit One Nine. Ghost Rider inbound, call sign Burglar One Three!’ The big AC-130 flying weapons platform, fully loaded with 250-pound guided bombs, air-to-ground missiles and 30-millimetre cannons that fired at an astonishing 200 rounds per minute, had lumbered out of Bagram 20 minutes before the Vipers.
Lieberman turned again for another run in and her gunner shook his head at the number of Taliban fighters in his sights. He could see dozens of them on the ground, all firing toward O’Connor and his men. Dozens more, dressed in their turbans, loose black trousers and knee-length skirts, dashed forward for 25 metres before going to ground in another classic fire and movement manoeuvre to allow those behind to rise and run toward SEAL Team Six’s position.
‘Engaging with Hydras,’ Lieberman’s gunner announced. Lieberman responded with a quick squelch on her internal communications. The Apache’s Target Acquisition and Designation Sights system relayed the target images to Lieberman’s helmet-mounted sights and she held the Apache in a dive as her gunner fired again and again. The one-metre long rockets left the Apache in an explosion of fire and smoke and their rocket motors propelled them toward the advancing Taliban.
‘They’re still coming!’ Lopez yelled.
‘Hit ’em with everything you’ve got, danger close,’ O’Connor directed Ventura, as he took careful aim with his Colt M4 rifle and calmly picked off first one Taliban and then another. The ‘danger close’ was an indicator to the gunners and pilots that if the bombs and rockets were not delivered accurately, there was a danger of them taking out O’Connor and his team.
Ventura and Rayburn ignored the increasing cacophony of bullets crackling around their rocky outcrop, behind which Rayburn had set up his SOFLAM – a special operations forces laser acquisition marker which he used to ‘paint’ the Taliban still moving in waves from the valley below.
Ventura’s call sign was Tailpipe and his earpiece came alive. ‘Tailpipe Two Two, this is Bandit One Nine.’ The F-16 Viper figh
ters had arrived overhead.
‘Bandit One Nine, loud and clear, Taliban in the open, 200 metres to the west of our position, marking now. Traffic is Apache attack helo, Gangster One holding at 4000 feet, 1000 metres to the south, and AC-130, Burglar One Three inbound, over.’
‘Gangster One, copied.’
‘Tailpipe Two Two, do we have clearance, over.’
‘Bandit One Nine, affirmative, you have clearance.’
‘Roger, target acquired.’ The powerful jets streaked overhead and their Litening targeting pod sensors locked on. The onboard computers calculated aircraft speed, wind velocity and direction and the altitude difference between the Vipers and the targets below.
‘Vipers inbound!’ Ventura yelled, warning O’Connor and the others that the F-16s were about to deliver their deadly bombs close in. First one fighter, then the second rolled in at over 600 feet a second. The roar of the aircraft could be heard above the bullets whining off the rocks. The open ground in front of O’Connor and his men erupted in two massive explosions. The shrapnel tore into the Taliban, causing them to pause, but only momentarily. Twenty of them rose and advanced. Suddenly, a deeper sound rent the air.
‘Heavy machine gun!’ Lopez yelled. ‘Two hundred metres to the north of the Taliban, in that stone house!’
‘Got that, Ventura? Get the AC-130 on it!’ O’Connor yelled, as the heavy .50-calibre bullets tore into the earth and rocks around the SEALs’ position.
‘Got it! Burglar One Three, heavy machine gun giving us grief. Two hundred metres to the north of advancing Taliban. Are you inbound, over?’
Chief Lieberman broke in. ‘This is Gangster One, I have the target flashes visual, am I clear to engage, over?’
‘Affirmative, break, Burglar One Three, acknowledge.’
‘Burglar One Three.’
Ventura grinned at Rayburn. ‘I could get a job as an air traffic controller when I get back!’
‘Fucking sight more peaceful than this!’ yelled Rayburn, focusing his laser range finder on the heavy machine gun.
Lieberman rolled into the attack, concentrating on the machine gun position and ignoring the ground fire from the Taliban below.
‘Hydra’s gone!’
The rockets smoked toward the stone hut, and Lieberman’s gunner held his sights on the target. The hut exploded in flashes of orange and black smoke and the heavy machine gun fell silent, but to make sure, Lieberman’s gunner engaged the area again, this time with the big 30-millimetre chain gun. The aircraft shuddered as the grenade-size rounds screamed toward the target. Suddenly, the aircraft shook violently. The Taliban gunners on the ground had found their range.
‘This is Gangster One, we’ve been hit,’ Lieberman announced calmly, as she wrestled with the controls. ‘I’m going for an autorotation to the south across the river.’
On the ground, O’Connor’s men were still taking fire, and the remaining Taliban were getting closer. ‘Fuck!’ O’Connor could see the stricken Apache, smoke streaming from both engines, gliding toward open ground across the river from the battle.
‘Alley Cat Four,’ O’Connor transmitted, calling up the Black Hawk. ‘This is Hopi One Four, did you copy, Gangster One.’
‘Alley Cat Four, roger, inbound.’ The Black Hawk pilots had been holding to the east, but they were nose down and speeding toward the downed Apache. The starboard door gunner was already engaging the Taliban, laying down a carpet of fire at long range.
At the last moment, Lieberman hauled on the collective, using the kinetic energy of the still free-spinning rotor blades to slow the descent. She had done this many times before in training, but never under fire. The landing was heavy, but she and her gunner managed to exit the crippled aircraft. Together they doubled to the rocks behind the downed chopper and returned the Taliban’s fire. But the Taliban wasn’t the only concern. The Apache was still loaded with rockets.
Ventura reached for his handset to clear in the AC-130 heavy gunship holding just to the east. ‘Burglar One Three, this is Tailpipe Two Two, you are cleared to engage, danger close, over.’
‘Burglar One Three, danger close, engaging.’ The Taliban were now within 150 metres and closing and the Hercules pilots calmly turned their big aircraft toward them while the flight engineer monitored the AC-130’s myriad systems. The Fire Control Officer, Electronic Warfare Officer, Infrared Detection Set Operator, and the Low-Light TV Operator were bent over their screens. Toward the rear of the aircraft, the five aerial gunners were sweating, loading the heavy ammunition.
Choonk . . . choonk . . . choonk . . . With the target acquired, the big chain gun pumped out the 30-millimetre shells, the huge spent cartridges spewing onto the aircraft floor. As the gun heated, smoke wisped from the vents.
On the ground below, the Taliban were again on the move and Lopez shouted another warning. ‘The camel jockeys are coming again!’
‘But there’s less of them!’ yelled O’Connor, reassuring his men. Even hardened SEAL team members knew fear. Anyone who said they didn’t would be lying. Suddenly, all of the remaining Taliban rose and charged, firing their AK-47s as they made a final assault on O’Connor and his men.
Crump . . . crump . . . crump . . . crump . . . The Taliban had made a grave tactical mistake. By attacking in a straight line, the crew in the AC-130 above had been able to direct the rounds to explode along the length of the Taliban assault. O’Connor and his men hugged the rocky ground, 30-millimetre rounds exploding to their front.
The AC-130 gunship roared overhead and turned for another run, the four big Allison turboprops clawing at the thin air.
The Taliban commander yelled, signalling for his 20 or so fighters still remaining to retreat. They turned and began to run toward the stone huts and buildings in the town of Nangalam, but two of his men either hadn’t heard him, or were not interested in retreating.
‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is great!’ they screamed, racing toward O’Connor’s position.
A round smashed into Chief Rogers’ wrist, and he dropped his Heckler and Koch 416 carbine. ‘Fuck that hurt,’ he swore.
O’Connor took out the first fighter, took aim again and fired, only to find his magazine was empty. ‘Fuck!’ The second fighter let out a bloodcurdling yell and raised his AK-47 toward O’Connor and Rogers.
Further up the ridge, Lopez took careful aim and fired a short burst. O’Connor rolled as the fighter, blood spurting from his aorta, fell in on top of them, firing his AK-47 into the air. Rogers grabbed the fighter’s weapon with his good hand. He could see the deep hatred burning in his adversary’s dark eyes as the Taliban fighter took his last breath.
Crump . . . crump . . . crump . . . The AC-130 gunship made another run, firing at the Taliban who were still fleeing toward Nangalam. O’Connor adjusted his binoculars on the downed Apache. The Black Hawk came in low and fast, flared and landed, the door gunner pouring covering fire toward the withdrawing Taliban. O’Connor watched Lieberman and her gunner sprint from the rocks where they’d taken cover. Seconds later, the Black Hawk rose in a cloud of dust.
‘Anything back at Bagram that can recover the Apache?’ O’Connor yelled to Ventura, ‘Otherwise we’ll have to blow it.’ The aircraft, he knew, had a price tag of over US$52 million, and the bean counters at the Pentagon would undoubtedly be unhappy, but the last thing O’Connor wanted to do was gift the Taliban rockets and ammunition, not to mention the classified gear on board the stricken craft.
‘I’m on it already,’ Ventura yelled back, ‘They’ve tasked a Chinook. Extortion Three Five has lifted off and is inbound.’ O’Connor grinned. One of the many priceless attributes of the few who passed the gruelling training for service as an elite SEAL was their ability to think and act under pressure. The big twin rotors on the Chinook gave it a lift capacity of 26 000 pounds. The Apache, fully loaded, would come in at just over 17 000 pounds, and with fuel and some ammunition gone, the Chinook would do it easily. He reached for his handset. ‘Alley Cat Four, this is
Hopi One Four, nice job, many thanks. What’s the condition of the Gangster crew, over.’
‘Unhappy about their present form of transport, but otherwise some light wounds, over.’
‘Roger, Extortion Three Five’s inbound, so hang around to cover them in case things warm up again.’
‘Alley Cat Four.’
‘Burglar One Three, copied that, we’ll hold at ten thousand.’
‘Hopi One Four, copied. Nice job, break, Extortion Three Five, in addition to the Apache, we may have an additional load. Two generators, if they’re still intact. No more than a few hundred kilos and about the size of small hot water services. Don’t ask, over.’
The two Chinook pilots grinned at one another. ‘Extortion Three Five, copied. We’re not cleared to anything above rumour level here. Just another interesting day at the office. We’re approximately two five minutes out, over.’
‘Hopi One Four.’
‘How’s the wrist?’ O’Connor asked. It was just one of the leadership characteristics that endeared him to his men – they knew he cared.
‘I’ll still be able to hold a beer when we get back,’ said Rogers. Estrada, who doubled as a combat medic, had been on the job, and the chief’s wrist was already bound.
O’Connor summoned his team closer. The battlefield in front of them that sloped down toward the river and the generator hut was littered with bodies. ‘Okay, the Taliban may have taken a beating, but they might still be lurking amongst the buildings of Nangalam. It’s getting toward extreme range for their AK-47s, but you never know what else they’ve got up their sleeve, so keep a good look out. Alternate arcs of fire – we don’t know what might be on the other side of the river either. A Chinook’s inbound for the Apache and the generators. Good job today. Let’s move it.’
Lopez led the way. A hundred metres from the generator hut, O’Connor deployed his team while he and Lopez moved forward, slowly and cautiously.
‘Cover me!’ O’Connor hissed and he doubled up to the hut. Apart from the bodies of ISIS fighters outside and two bodies on the ground inside, the hut was clear and the old generators were intact.
The Russian Affair Page 7
