by Alex Shaw
“I said in the head.”
Ghulam Ali’s nostrils flared, no one gave him orders. He depressed the trigger again and a round hit the spy in the middle of the temple. The top of the head all but disintegrated. The corpse left a blood trail on the wall as it slid to the floor. Dratshev stood emotionless as every other eye in the room stared at the dead traitor. Suddenly its feet twitched, then the body moved and the man started to sit up. Ghulam Ali’s mouth fell open as he saw his vampire’s head slowly rise. He watched as the gaping hole started to close. Within a minute the wound had started to rebuild itself. The man stood and touched his head in disbelief.
“That was a 7.62 round at close range; if it had been further away the injury and recovery time would have been less.”
Suddenly the spy moved his arms and easily broke the bonds holding them. He swung at the nearest fighter, sending him crashing to the floor, he reached for the man’s weapon but Ghulam Ali fired. The vampire stumbled but remained standing, a broad smile parting his face and he started to raise his newly acquired AK47. Ghulam Ali switched his own rifle to fully automatic and unloaded the clip into the vampire who jerked as the rounds hit him and he fell. “You have now given me an immortal prisoner!”
“What were you going to do with him?” Asked Dratshev.
Ghulam Ali replied as once again the spy started to twitch. “Put him to the sword as a traitor to the Afghan people.”
“Then do so.”
The Afghan warlord collected his Pulwar from the corner of the room and held it above the vampire. As the vampire started to rise Ghulam Ali swung the sword severing the head. The body went limp. “This is against Allah and all that we Muslims hold holy!” The Afghan’s face softened. “You are truly the devil, my Russian friend. This transformation, is it permanent?”
“Until the head is severed.”
Ghulam Ali took a step forward and glared intently at Dratshev. “A quarter of a century ago I was twenty five and you were fifty, now I am fifty but you have not aged.”
“I have been fifty for a very long time.”
A thin smile creased the Afghan’s face. “You truly are a Red-Devil and now you will give me an army of my own devils to crush the infidels!” He punched the air with his sword. “Allah Akbar!”
Every other Afghan in the room chanted as one. “Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar!”
Firebase Python, Pasaband District, Ghowr Province, Afghanistan
Rockbridge wearing a surgical mask looked down at Black. Rockbridge was angry. The Russian could have screened Black, but he had left. Vaha had returned without Dratshev stating that the General had the necessary medicine and screening kit with him and would return with the Delta team. A helo had been sent to retrieve the team, it was overdue.
Rockbridge addressed Black. “This is beyond classified soldier. The chamber you found was built by the Soviets to illegally test biological weapons. One of these utilised the Ebola virus. The Doc’s sent your blood off to Leatherneck to be checked by the medical centre there. Until we get your results back you have to be isolated, quarantined. We can’t risk moving you.”
“Ebola, as in African disease? So I’m going to die?”
“If you have been infected then that is a possibility.”
“Thanks for sugar coating it, sir.”
“Look Black, I’ve been informed that the chance of infection is minimal. Styles was the only other member to test positive.”
“Styles made it out?”
“He’s quarantined in the stockade.”
There was a silence as both men considered the situation. The preventative medication administered to Styles by Dratshev seemed to be holding off any noticeable symptoms, but Rockbridge had to get the Russian back and fast. Meanwhile Black wasn’t sure what to think. Would being infected explain his strange, almost out of body experiences at Krasnov’s hut and with the Talibs in the desert?
Rockbridge broke the silence. “Tell me more about your ‘Russian’.”
Black was drowsy and couldn’t summon the energy to tell his CO that Krasnov was actually Ukrainian. Every word seemed to be an effort and his vision was blurred. “He claimed he was a Red Army deserter who stayed behind.”
“Since the 80’s?” Rockbridge thought aloud.
“He said that he rescued me from the Taliban in the cave.”
“Was he going to hand you over to the Taliban for a reward?”
“I don’t think so...I have no idea why he took me.” Black screwed his eyes up and tried to sit.
“Black, stay on your back – that’s an order.”
“Sir…” The sound of a helo arriving cut him off. Its engine note was strained.
Coming in faster than usual the helo kicked up a huge dust cloud as it landed. The rotors continued to spin as Rockbridge saw Miller, followed by Flagon and Eaton leap out and run towards their basha, head’s down covering their faces. Through the swirling dust cloud, that seemed to block out the last rays of the late afternoon sun, Dratshev appeared. In double time he headed for Rockbridge who noticed the Russian’s face seemed reddened, almost sunburnt.
Dratshev stepped into the safety of the medical centre. “Major.”
“General.” As Rockbridge spoke the Russian’s face seemed to become less ruddy. “We have one more man for you to test. Our missing Delta operative has returned.”
A narrow smile appeared on Dratshev’s face. “That is excellent news, Major. How did he get here?”
“He walked.”
Dratshev could not hide his surprise. Perhaps the soldier had not been sired? But it made no difference; the man would be taken care of. All of the ISAF personnel would be taken care of. “Let us not waste any more precious time.”
Gonzalez stood as Flagon entered the tent. “You took your sweet time…” The words fell from his mouth as a tranquiliser dart hit him in the neck. Gonzalez’s knees buckled and he was unconscious before he hit the floor. Without a word Petro, dressed in Eaton’s fatigues grabbed Gonzalez and hauled him onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He exited the tent and hurried towards the helo. Oleg, wearing Flagon’s uniform, followed at his side with an HK up and ready.
Rockbridge gestured towards Black’s bed. “That’s our last guy. Now please hurry.”
Dratshev opened his greatcoat and pulled out a syringe. “I will need to take some blood.”
“This is General Dratshev from the GRU. He’s going to test you for Ebola.” Rockbridge informed Black.
“Hold still. This will not hurt.” Dratshev reached for Black’s arm. Black raised his head and looked into the eyes of the Russian. Dratshev paused and confusion briefly crossed his pallid face. “You walked back from the cave, through the mountains and the desert?”
Black felt the needle enter. “It was a like Switzerland, but without the grass.”
Dratshev smiled thinly. There was something here that he did not understand. “You travelled at night?”
“Night and day…” Black could suddenly feel himself getting drowsy.
In the stockade Styles opened his eyes and called out. The sentry on duty moved nearer, and bent over the cot, his face partly obscured by a white surgical mask. Before the soldier could speak Styles sprang up and sank his fangs into the exposed neck. His victim convulsed, arms flailing, hands grabbing at the Delta operative’s head trying to pull him off but to no avail. The soldier became limp as his life drained away. Styles wiped his lips and left the stockade. Dratshev’s commands had been clear: disable the communication equipment and then make for the helo. Moving faster than even he imagined he could, Styles sprinted across the firebase and entered the communication’s shack. Another pre-fabricated building but this one linked to the world via satellite. As the door swung open two operators looked up, their faces registering surprised more than shock. This changed however when they saw the grenade that Styles rolled into the room before calmly closing the door on them. A
s Styles moved away there was an explosion and the communications desk and operators were no more. Dratshev’s operation had now gone noisy.
Rockbridge instinctively ducked as he heard the explosion. “What the hell was that?”
“A grenade.” In a fluid motion Dratshev plunged a needle into Rockbridge’s neck. The tranquiliser hit immediately and the CO of firebase Python hit the floor. Vaha appeared. Dratshev pointed at Rockbridge. “Take him to the helo.”
“Da, Comrade General.” Vaha saluted and with ease lifted Rockbridge into his arms and left the building.
Dratshev looked at Black. After taking a sample of blood he had quickly shot him with tranquiliser. Dratshev shook his head dismissively, the man had not been sired he was mortal and as such was of no value to him. Dratshev had what he had come for, he had his men and he had two HVH’s – high value hostages. Now the Taliban could have the firebase and his test would be complete.
Private 1st Class James Anders yawned. He’d been looking at the same piece of terrain for what felt like days but in actual fact had been only four hours. This second tour of ‘Asscrackistan’ had put him over the edge. Their first tour had been spent operating out of a larger base which had a proper canteen with hot food, showers, laundry and even free internet access at the Morale, Welfare & Recreation Office. At firebase Python, although they got real food more often than many other firebases MREs actually did replace most meals when the helos had more important things to do than ferry in food for the troops. They were not as bad off as some bases where the men lived without coms and even without cold showers, but he had now had enough. Enough of the sand, the dirt and the constant threat of losing parts of himself to an IED. He’s seen it happen, out on a patrol right in front of him. A friend shredded, scraped up and put in a bag and all the while jubilant chatter over the airwaves from the Talibs. He thought of Marcy, his girl back home and how every time they had a mail drop he braced himself for a ‘Dear John’ letter, but she stayed true to him, or at least her letters did. No she was ‘his love’ and he would marry her, once the tour was over. The question was would she accept life as an army bride or force him to quit and take a job with her father’s firm? Selling insurance was not his idea of excitement but then neither was sitting and staring at the desert for hours on end. He’d enlisted to make a difference, to take democracy and the rule of law to those who sought to terrorise the innocent and pervert religion. Yet he felt that he’d done nothing to aid this cause. Endless patrols and smiles directed at sullen locals, who would as soon stab him in the back, had left a bitter taste in his mouth. COIN was the official term for what his unit was doing here, ‘counterinsurgency warfare’ showing the Afghans that ISAF cared, that the international community cared about them, their mud huts and their goats. They were here to help these people, to rid them of the Taliban and their friends in low places, al-Qaeda. Anders shook his head. This wasn’t a war; it wasn’t even a fight as these cowards left their bombs and ran, hiding behind women and children. They took pot shots at the ISAF soldiers but would only engage if cornered. The people who did any good, to see any real action were the flyers and of course the ‘Delta Boys’. Even now they had a helo – ‘rotors hot’, ready for some ‘Black Op’ or other. Anders read a lot, now more than ever since he got his kindle and his books of choice were action and adventure, Alex Berenson, Vince Flynn, Jack Silkstone and Stephen Leather - anything where the Islamic fundamentalists got the wrong end of a 9mm round. He wished the reality of his life was more like the fiction. He wished he was about to head off in a helo…
“Two o’clock, movement behind that second compound. Yeah, looks like a bunch of Talib trucks.” Private Errol Jinks excitedly held the NV enabled binos tight to his eyes. In the distance one of the innumerable peaks of an Afghan mountain contrasted against the desolate desert and scrublands that surrounded the firebase. Several Afghan compounds with their ten foot high mud and straw walls, hugged what green zone there was next to an all but dry irrigation channel. Barren and sparsely populated the province had been a haven for insurgents, the firebase taking incoming mortars and RPGs in the first few weeks of its existence, but after a couple of drone lead ops had seen the death of nine Taliban fighters and the capture of three more, the local Taliban had taken the wise decision to just ‘watch’ and leave the base alone.
Anders looked through his own binos and in the uncanny green NV world counted a convoy of twelve wagons with what he took to be PKMs mounted on the back. “What the hell are they up to? They know they’ll never get within range.”
“Crazy bastards, looks like they….” The explosion made Jinks drop his binos. “What the?”
Anders spun round and saw the comms trailer ablaze. “Shit…”
The explosion made Hakim’s eyes snap open. He tried to get up but then remembered his shackles. Chained to the blast-wall just outside the main ANA tent, Hakim slowly pushed himself back and up until he was standing. Captain Osman, emerged from his own tent rubbing his eyes as the unmistakable sound of gunfire rang out, barks from Kalashnikov’s followed by the heavy boom of .50 cal rounds from the watchtowers.
“Untie me, Osman!”
Osman blinked and reached for his belt, doing it up as he continued to pull his pants up over his stomach. “You are a prisoner. You shall stay there until we transport you back to Kabul.”
ANA soldiers now poured out of their tent in various stages of undress, some wearing dirty white vests others in uniform shirts but all to a man clutching their shiny new M4’s funded by the international community.
Osman shouted at his second in command. “Yusuf, go to the command centre, see what is happening. Men take defensive positions on the wall!”
“Untie me you fool! I am the most experienced man you have!”
“Hakim you are a goat. Now keep your mouth closed or I shall have it gagged!”
Dratshev tapped Vaha on the shoulder. “Go.” The Chechen nodded and the Black Hawk lifted away from the firebase. Dratshev looked at the men in the chopper, two originals and two new ‘recruits’. The Americans would add new blood, new skills to the Brigada and would aid him in his quest. They would now take the hostages and give them to Ghulam Ali who would do whatever he wished with them to further his own cause.
The warning shots had gone unheeded; in fact the Talibs had returned fire. Jinks sighted the cross hairs on the lead Taliban pick-up and yelled. “Hammer time.”
A stream of lead, highlighted by evenly spaced tracer rounds tore towards the Toyota Hi-Lux. The front of the vehicle was ripped to pieces as the grill disintegrated. The fuel tank then went up in a fireball. Two flaming fighters staggered out of the cab and another two fell from the back. Jink’s eyes widened as he saw the fighters continue towards them on foot, AKs raised. He depressed the trigger and sent more .50 cal rounds into the insurgents. They went down hard, all but disintegrating under the heavy rounds. He then saw more vehicles emerging from the green gloom. As he swung his binos left and right, trying to make sense of what was happening Lieutenant Mullins joined them.
“A grenade has taken out the comms shack; we don’t know where it came from. We are being attacked on two fronts; I need you to keep the Talibs at bay until we can somehow get hold of air support.”
“Must be the friggin ANA.” Jinks growled; he’d never trusted the native army.
“Just keep the Talibs away.” Mullins took the steps down and made for the next watch tower. En route he saw Captain Osman and pulled him to one side, ignoring the fact that the Afghan out ranked him. “The comms are down. Are all your men accounted for?”
“Yes and as you see they are fighting!” Osman waved his arms expressively at the top of the blast walls. Mullins nodded and was about to speak when a round ripped his skull in two. Osman froze; the American’s blood sprayed his face. And then he too was hit. A round tore into his back. His legs buckled. Osman fell to his knees over the American’s corpse, he felt himself sway sideways and raised his arms to stop himself from f
alling but his arms would not respond, his arms would not move. His head lolled and he fell into the dirt, his brain blearily registering the impact before darkness enveloped him.
Hakim pulled at his chains as he saw Taliban fighters on the wall above Osman. They dropped into the firebase apparently immune to the impact of the fall and hurriedly searched for targets. Hakim heaved at his shackles but they would not budge. He let his head loll to one side and feigned death as two Taliban fighters came his way, one peeled off and into Osman’s tent. The other leaned over Hakim and prodded. Now was the time, a split-second to act. Hakim quickly raised his arms, wrapping the chain around the insurgent’s neck and pulled as hard as he could. This move should have at the very least rendered its victim unconscious but the Taliban dropped his AK and wildly grabbed at the chain affixed to his neck. He straightened up and tried to move away, the chain tightened but he pulled again and a link snapped. Both men fell forward and hit the dirt. Hakim landed half on top of the Taliban still holding the chain to his throat. The fighter bucked. Hakim was thrown sideways, his right arm reached the Taliban’s AK. He grabbed the pistol grip and pulled the trigger. On full-automatic a cluster of rounds exploded from the barrel and created a large hole in the fighter. Hakim got to his feet, and then saw the fighter move and his eyes open. At that instant Hakim knew that he had been right, he knew what he was facing and he knew what he had to do. He placed the Kalashnikov’s barrel against the Taliban’s neck and emptied the magazine. The rounds obliterated the neck, severing the head. Hakim had killed his first vampire for a quarter of a century.
“They’ve breached the perimeter!” Anders yelled as he saw movement along the blast walls. The next tower to them went silent.
