Khost Page 2

  Khost—a province of death. A place of chaos and madness.

  Khost—a place of war.

  Khost.

  Deep inside the heart of this region lay a lone valley. It was no different than the many others, lost in the wasteland of uninhabited hills and vast plains. The valley of Khost was far from the city of the same name, even farther from Kabul. Located in the middle of no-man’s land, this valley was isolated, obscured by rough terrain, protected by fighting men.

  Khost.

  This valley was a proven hot zone of conflict, important to both enemies.

  The Mujahideen.

  The Soviets.

  A struggle of epic proportions.

  Yet despite the ongoing war, the despair of it all, there was a brief moment when the valley was quiet. A brief instant where it seemed safe.

  It was beautiful actually, the sun rising, the wind still—a serene moment in time where everything remained at rest, everything quiet—where nothing stirred, where peace and tranquility seemed possible.

  Unfortunately, this would soon change.

  1

  Three Soviet Mi-24 attack helicopters approached, racing toward their target, their roar filling the countryside, deafening. They were a menace heard from miles away. They flew in tight formation, approaching rapidly.

  “Kilo Base, this is Firebird Alpha Red,” the lead helicopter pilot said into his headset. He spoke in Russian, as they all did. The pilot’s tone was stoic, composed.

  “Roger, Firebird Alpha Red, this is Kilo Base,” a monotone voice responded.

  A crackle and hiss of static followed.

  “Signal is strong, Kilo Base. We are entering Khost region,” the helicopter pilot reported. “Initiating course change due east. Descending to three hundred meters and commencing to grid coordinate Sierra November. Nine minutes, over.” The pilot’s voice was calm and steady, something customary for any veteran pilot, especially that of a Soviet.

  His name was Captain Ivan Drago, a man with over twenty-thousand hours of flight time, and dozens of missions under his belt. He was a man of honor, of dignity, serving the Motherland of the Soviet Union humbly.

  He took a quick glance at the control panel, ensuring all systems were functioning. He then tilted his head back toward the man seated behind, even though he couldn’t make eye contact. “Nine minutes,” Captain Drago said to Weapons Specialist Alexander Suvorov.

  “Nine minutes, Comrade Captain,” Suvorov repeated, checking his own instruments.

  The Mi-24 had the pilot’s seat situated directly in front of the co-pilot. Behind Suvorov were eight more men.

  Little else was said for the moment. Drago could tell Suvorov was nervous. It was in his tone. Drago had known Suvorov long enough to pick up on the stutter in the man’s words, the glimmer of despair in his co-pilot’s voice. The Captain didn’t speak for a moment, instead keeping his focus on the terrain ahead.

  Finally, after a minute of silence, the Captain reported, saying, “We’re approaching the ridge. We’ll run up it quick, give us the element of surprise.”

  “Copy, Comrade Captain. Keep us low and fast and we’ll be okay,” Suvorov responded, as if attempting to convince himself.

  Drago pushed the throttle forward, the loud whine of the helicopter’s engines engaging. “This valley is hot. Lots of activity, so keep a sharp eye. We’ve got no support, so stay alert.”

  “Yes, Comrade Captain, though I don’t understand the point of this . . .” Suvorov began.

  “It matters not,” Drago stopped him.

  There was no hint of emotion in the Captain’s response, nothing of his true feelings. He continued, saying, “There may be a point, there may not. Doesn’t matter. We’re pilots and we have a mission to accomplish. We’ll do exactly as ordered.”

  “Yes, Comrade Captain,” Suvorov replied.

  “Altitude?” Drago asked.

  “Three hundred meters.”

  “Speed?”

  “Two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour.”

  “Good. Once we cross over that ridge, we’ll push it up, nice and fast down the other side. We move in quick, that’s the plan.”

  “Yes, Comrade Captain.”

  “What’s our angle of descent once we clear the rocks?”

  “Forty-five degrees, Comrade Captain.”

  Despite his combat time, and many near death occasions, Drago couldn’t help but feel nervous. Perhaps he detected it from his co-pilot, perhaps it was his own fears, but something didn’t sit right; something about this mission was off. Sweat gathered under the rim of his helmet. Drago took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm himself, gazing at the instrument panel once more, triple checking. Then, he looked out the window to his left, then to his right, relieved at the sight of two other helicopters that accompanied them.

  “At least we’re not alone,” Drago muttered.

  “Sir?” Suvorov questioned.

  “Nothing,” Drago stated, staring ahead. “Time to grid-point?”

  “Six minutes, Comrade Captain.”

  “Radar?”

  “Negative.”

  “Visual?”

  “Nothing, sir. Only a few goats,” Suvorov answered, looking out his small window, anxiously scanning the flat terrain. Nothing but sand and rock and sporadic plant life littered the desert below—it was a wasteland of decay. Only flattened lands that would soon rise as they neared a mountain ridge.

  “If they can’t hear us now, they will soon enough. Once we cross over that pass, they’ll know. Make the other pilots aware, keep formation tight.”

  “Yes, Comrade Captain. Five minutes to our grid-point, sir.”

  Captain Drago and Weapons Specialist Suvorov had flown countless missions together. They’d conducted aerial raids, supported ground units, and taken out communication centers over the past eighteen months. They had flown over a hundred sorties in all, each man quite respected among their comrades.

  The two had also grown to know one another quite well. The pair trusted one another, worked well with one another. Drago and Suvorov were professionals, the best at their jobs. Perhaps the best in the entire Soviet Union.

  Both had been handpicked for this mission.

  “All right, keep an eye out. Those Muj are everywhere,” Drago reminded. “They hide in the rocks, live in caves. Sneaky bastards. They’ll hide up inside the canyon and wait. They’re patient, like good hunters. They’ll pop up and hit you with a hand-held rocket, and they’re pretty good at it.”

  “I hear they’ve learned to wait until you’ve passed over. That right?” Suvorov asked.

  “Like I said—patient. They aim for the tail rotor,” the Captain replied. “They pop up and you don’t see them until it’s too late. Sneaky bastards,” he repeated.

  There was resentment in Captain Drago’s voice. And though well-disguised, he too held great contempt for the enemy.

  Khost was hell on earth, Drago was certain of this. This province was a cesspool of death, filled with barren, harsh terrain and unforgiving mountains.

  And behind every rock was a potential threat.

  The Mujahideen.

  2

  The Soviet conflict in Afghanistan had already begun to take its toll. The tide of war was changing, the Soviets beginning to take heavy losses, both sides of the conflict upping their efforts.

  The province of Khost had proven to be a great struggle, filled with intense firefights and heavy causalities on both sides. The region was important—many Mujahideen lived there, and both sides wanted victory.

  The war was a total mess. A clusterfuck, Captain Drago thought. He’d never voice such an opinion, no Soviet would, but he felt it. He was sure his fellow comrades felt it too.

  Why? Because despite their mass of numbers, despite the modern technology and equipment, the Soviets were losing this war. Deep down, Drago wondered if they could truly win.

  Were the chants of victory a mere propaganda tool to entice the young Soviets to fight h
arder?

  Yes, Drago thought. He feared the war might never end.

  Even worse, he feared they’d lose.

  This past year had been the hardest yet. The farther south they pushed, the more losses the Soviets took. Khost was the most chaotic province they’d ever entered, and most Soviets feared the place.

  Whereas the western realm of Afghanistan was secured, it was different here.

  Here, the Mujahideen ruled.

  Here, the Mujahideen fought victoriously.

  The province of Khost resides on the far eastern border of Afghanistan, one hundred and fifty kilometers south of Kabul. The Valley of Khost is closed on all sides, hidden by a mountain range of tall peaks, some over nine thousand feet high. The terrain is barren in Khost, rugged—meant only for the toughest of men.

  The true survivors.

  A final push had been made into the area over the past months. The Soviets struck, the Mujahideen responding. The Siege of Khost it was called, and tens of thousands of dedicated fighting men joined the effort against the Soviet Union. Despite the push, despite the machines and tactics and firepower, Khost was proving impossible to conquer. Here, they were better trained, better prepared, and most importantly, more dedicated.

  The fact that helicopters were being shot down so often troubled Captain Drago as he flew. During the war, he’d never gone this far into the bowels of Afghanistan, and the notion of going with so few men gave him pause. The official reports listed only a dozen lost birds over the past months, but Captain Drago knew this was far from the truth. Five helicopters had been shot down in the past month alone.

  This news would never escape the region.

  Few would know, for the Soviet Union propaganda machine did its job well.

  This hot zone, this region, was filled with men who would do anything to bring down a Soviet helicopter. To make matters worse, Mujahideen tactics were evolving, always gaining the advantage, seemingly a step ahead.

  The Soviets attempted to fight a conventional war against a people who fought with unconventional methods.

  Asymmetrical warfare—a tactic used by the Viet Cong against the Americans not long ago—is a war between two groups whose military power, whose military might, differed drastically. The Mujahideen were outnumbered and they lacked similar equipment, but one thing they had on their side was strategy.

  They used what is commonly known as guerrilla warfare against the Soviets. They used their knowledge of the terrain, the climate, whatever strategies they had learned to combat the powerful forces of the Soviet Union.

  Asymmetrical warfare used unconventional means to win wars. Bombings, traps, mass onslaughts and waves of Mujahideen whom were ready to die at a moment’s notice.

  Unfortunately for the Soviets, they failed to change their own tactics, they failed to adapt.

  It’ll be our downfall, Captain Drago thought.

  He wondered what it would be like—was survival even possible out here? If the crash didn’t kill them, could they survive long enough to wait for help? Would help even come?

  Then, another thought entered Drago’s mind.

  What if they were taken alive?

  Subjected to Mujahideen ways.

  Their ruthlessness was legendary, far greater than rumors; these bastards knew how to fight.

  But Drago kept pushing forward, easing the throttle as his helicopter approached a rising mountain. He knew the risks, the perils of flying in such a place. He didn’t like any of it, not at all, but accepted it as his duty, as would any Soviet officer.

  Anything for the Motherland, he thought.

  3

  Captain Drago eased up on the throttle, pulling at the stick, nose up. He looked to each side, the other two helicopters doing the same.

  “Kilo Base, this is Firebird Alpha Red,” Drago began. “We’ve reached our grid-point, mountain directly in front. We’re climbing, estimated time to valley crest, twenty seconds.”

  And slowly, gracefully, the three birds of war came up over the ridge, climbing the mountain, the easterly rising sunlight lighting them up. The three helicopters were nearly three thousand feet above sea level, rising higher and peering over the ridgeline.

  The triangle of helicopters, the three birds of menace, were Soviet-made Mi-24 attack helicopters. The Mi-24 Hinds, as they were called, were perhaps the best invention of their time. They were beautiful in their effectiveness, hearty and bold, their thick shell heavily armored.

  The Mi-24 was able to withstand multiple impacts from .50 caliber rounds from all angles; even the titanium rotor blades could take direct hits. The Mi-24 was dubbed the ‘Flying Tank’ of Soviet helicopters, unofficially nicknamed ‘The Crocodile’ due to its camouflage scheme. As it approached, it literally looked like a giant crocodile, and once that close, it was too late.

  With a frontal machine gun, thousands of rounds of hot steel, and six rockets resting under the helicopter’s wings, the Mi-24 could take out an entire village if need be. It could be used in aerial combat, though in this conflict, it was best used against ground troops in support of Soviet divisions.

  Two top mounted turbo-shaft engines pushed the beasts, making the helicopters capable of doing over three-hundred kilometers per hour.

  It was a helicopter both well armored and fast.

  At the time, even NATO had no counterpart. Their own helicopters had to be stripped of weapons and backup fuel to incorporate carrying of troops, whereas the Mi-24 did not. It could transport men and act as a gunship.

  *

  The three identical helicopters each carried a pilot in front, a weapons specialist behind. In the back, eight men rode in the vacant space. They hung on tight; the ride was quite uncomfortable.

  There were thirty men in all, six flight crew, twenty-four soldiers. The men behind sat idle, motionless during the ride best they could. They were quiet, saying nothing, their faces showing no expressions of fear.

  Every single one of these twenty-four soldiers was heavily armed. They carried AK-47s, a plethora of 7.62 ammunition, dozens of magazines to hold it. They carried grenades and flares, and were dressed in battle ragged clothing that showed their usage.

  These men had battled many times.

  Each also wore a chemical suit. An off white in color, they were bulky, worn over their clothing, and extremely unhelpful in camouflaging them. Luckily, concealment wouldn’t be necessary on this mission. The men’s heads were covered, masks across their faces, goggles protecting their eyes. When they breathed in and out, the canisters made a strange hissing sound.

  Many felt constricted, claustrophobic inside the suits and masks.

  So the men rode in silence, preparing their minds, their souls, as good warriors do.

  “They know we’re here now,” Captain Drago stated into his mic. The five other members of the flight crews heard his voice, as did the men riding behind. Drago’s voice was cold, emotions not an option at this point, only the facts.

  4

  Over they went, the helicopters seeming to hover at the top of the ridge as if hesitant, floating high, overlooking the valley below.

  Moments passed, a cryptic stillness of all life.

  Then ever so gradually, the noses came down, engines beginning to whine once more.

  Drago eased the throttle forward for his downward descent. He pushed the stick, nose down, beginning to approach toward the valley floor.

  They were inside the valley, racing down the other side of the mountain.

  Closer and closer.

  Faster and faster.

  “Altitude?” Drago asked Suvorov.

  “Two hundred meters above the landscape, Comrade Captain,” Suvorov reported. “Weapons are armed and hot. Just awaiting the target, Comrade Captain.”

  Drago then spoke into his mic, requesting target confirmation from his superiors.

  There was no response from base.

  Ignoring it for the moment, Drago responded to Suvorov, saying, “Copy that, weapons armed.”<
br />
  “Comrade Captain?”

  “Say it, Suvorov.”

  “We have no target, Captain.”

  “I know.”

  “Is it that village ahead?” Suvorov asked.

  Indeed, smack in the middle of the valley was a lone village. Quite large in size, it undoubtedly housed many Mujahideen.

  “I won’t know until confirmation. Just remain calm.”

  “Comrade Captain, this mission makes no sense,” Suvorov noted. He had contemplated it the entire ride, choosing to keep his mouth shut until now. As they flew into the valley of death, deep in the heart of Khost, Suvorov wished to express his thoughts, even if it were to simply voice them. “I’ve heard of crews on missions such as this,” he began.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, Comrade. Lots of helicopters going down lately.”

  “That’s the word.”

  “Thing is, Comrade Captain, we are near the end of our tour. We don’t have much time,” Suvorov said, hoping the Captain would take the hint.

  He didn’t.

  “Say what you mean,” Drago said. “Do it quick, too.”

  “Sir, those that follow through are the ones who get taken down. I just heard . . . I heard that some flight crews just dump their ordinance early. You know, not take too many chances? I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but I’ve heard stories,” Suvorov said.

  “We will do no such thing,” Captain Drago scolded. “Pilots like that deserve to be shot. We’ll never win this war by fearing these bastards. We’ll do this right, and on the first run, so we don’t have to do a second. That is how you get shot down, Suvorov. It’s when you have to go back. We won’t be doing that today. We shoot, hit our target, and drink vodka before nightfall. And in a few months, maybe we’ll go home to our families,” he said, hopeful.

  “Yes, Comrade Captain. Forgive my words, I didn’t mean them,” Suvorov said, ashamed.