Khost Read online

  “Sure you did. But I understand, this mission is strange. Nothing right about it.”

  “Comrade Captain, we have no weapons!” Suvorov declared loudly. There, it was finally said. At last, the obvious dilemma at hand was stated, and though it was a touchy subject, the fact that the giant helicopter was unarmed was unnerving.

  Suvorov continued, saying, “We’re loaded with only one rocket. One per gunship, Comrade Captain! In all my time here, I’ve never heard of such a thing. What’s the point? Shit, they didn’t even load our frontal guns.”

  “I know, Suvorov,” Drago replied. “Trust me, I argued with the operations commander about it for an hour. We should be loaded up heavy. This bird is meant for killing.”

  “Nowhere near max weight, either,” Suvorov said, agreeing. “No weapons? Nothing? Comrade Captain, what happens if we’re fired upon?”

  “We hope I’m quick and they miss.”

  “But what did they say? Why did they say we were to only carry one?”

  “Orders,” Drago replied firmly. “They never said, and you know what? They don’t have to. I stopped asking once they threatened a downward turn in my so far flawless career. Yours too.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Tell me about it. But, I prefer not to piss off our superiors. Especially since this war isn’t going as planned. Especially here, in Khost.”

  “Hence why we should be armed.”

  “Well, Suvorov, we’re not. We carry one missile each, and only one. That’s the way it is. Now, perhaps we should focus. We’re approaching the village.”

  “Yes, Comrade Captain. It’s just . . .”

  “What, Suvorov?” the Captain asked, annoyed.

  “The men in the back, the ones we carry? They’re not regular infantry. I saw their patches, they’re Spetsnaz.”

  “Figured so,” Drago replied.

  “And they’re loaded to the hilt. Shit, haven’t seen men that armed in awhile. And yet for some fucking reason, we’re carrying next to nothing.”

  Drago was growing annoyed, for this was out of character for Suvorov. Though he supposed the man had a legitimate concern, one they all carried with them. He finally spoke, saying, “Suvorov, you’re asking the wrong question. It’s not why are we only carrying one missile, but what’s inside the missile we’re carrying?”

  “I didn’t . . . I didn’t even consider—” Suvorov halted his words, looking back to the control panel, blinking his eyes, watching the instruments closely.

  “We’re close, Comrade Captain,” Suvorov stated. “We’ll level in five, four, three, two . . . now level, Comrade Captain.”

  “Level and approaching,” Drago said.

  “Approaching what, Comrade? Do we have our target?” he asked anxiously.

  “No,” Drago replied. “But we’re about to cross over the village.”

  There was a hint of fear in the man’s voice.

  Even though he’d said it, expressed his true feelings, Suvorov didn’t feel any better about the matter. He could have gone on and on, could have perhaps urged the Captain harder, could have been more persuasive. But that wouldn’t have been wise. Captain Drago took his work seriously, and Suvorov felt the man was perhaps the best pilot in the Soviet military. No way would Drago disobey orders.

  Thing is, they should be armed. It pestered Suvorov, whose heart-rate climbed as they raced on, finally leveling off, the ground below them flat. They slowed down, Drago pulling the throttles back. The three Mi-24s were headed straight into a hot zone without ordinance, and they needed a minute or two to assess the situation. It was a grave one, and would have made for a good joke if it weren’t true. And even though the Captain had expressed his own feelings to his superiors, that didn’t stop the man from doing his duty.

  “We’re approaching the village, Comrade Captain. We’re low, too.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Do we have a target yet? I need to know so I can prepare.”

  “We’ll be provided with it soon enough, Suvorov.” Drago understood the man’s concerns. He agreed with them, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. They’d just have to do it right. They’d have to be fast and get out of there on the first try.

  “Altitude?” Drago asked again.

  “One hundred meters.”

  “Estimated time to village?”

  “Two minutes.”

  5

  The vast canyon was awe-inspiring. Had it not been home to the Mujahideen, it would have made for a great place of serenity, of beauty. But that wasn’t the case—a wide open range of ragged terrain surrounded by dangerous peaks, this valley was hidden, the perfect hideaway for the Mujahideen. The mountains to the west were even higher than those the three Mi-24s had climbed on the eastern side. There were a few ways out, paths that were concealed, treacherous and filled with danger. Few entered the valley, fewer escaped. Those that tried did so at great peril, for the trek was only for the brave, only for the strong. The Mujahideen did so with relative ease, though, for it was their land, and they were quite accustomed.

  The Soviets had a much harder time.

  The three gunships remained low, skimming the desert floor, kicking up great plumes of sand. The closer they approached, the more the fear sank in. Heavy in the pit of their stomachs, the pilots and the crew had to control their fears, overcome that sinking feeling of despair.

  Drago felt it, and could only imagine the others were feeling the same. They were alone, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, unarmed and without a target.

  What if one happened to get off a lucky shot?

  Just a clip from a Rocket Propelled Grenade to the tail rotor would spell disaster. They all knew it, they all knew there was a chance of this happening. Problem was, if one of the helicopters went down, the other two could not provide any form of cover.

  They’re smart, Drago thought. Don’t ever underestimate the enemy. Don’t ever underestimate the fucking Muj.

  The Mujahideen were fearless, perhaps even more so than the Spetsnaz, who were rumored to be crazy. Someone had taken over the leadership in Khost, a certain warlord who understood tactics, who valued good training. Violence had erupted nearby, and Soviet officials believed the source of this disruption came from this valley. Lately, Soviet losses were high in Khost, the fighting quite brutal. Soviet morale was beginning to wane for those stationed in Khost.

  The Mujahideen were well adapted to the terrain, the mountainous cliffs of no concern, suited for the horrible weather conditions, lack of diet, lack of medical aide.

  The Mujahideen were also excellent warriors, an unstoppable force now having banded together. Indeed there was someone new in Khost, someone new who’d done his people a great justice, and trained the men for combat.

  This fact only made Drago’s worries worse. The Mujahideen would hide in the hills, behind brick walls, pop out of windows or ease from under rocks. They’d fire a shoulder-held Rocket Propelled Grenade, and had proven to be quite accurate.

  And even though the Mi-24 could take on any form of rifle fire, a well-placed RPG was an entirely different matter.

  The thought dried his throat. Drago shuddered at the notion, for the chances of survival weren’t in their favor if one went down.

  And to make the situation worse, this mission was vague, and going in without munitions was unheard of. This bothered Drago. It bothered him more when he questioned it, finding no answers. This lack of information, lack of help from his superiors, was troubling. Khost was crawling with thousands of Mujahideen, each with an innate desire to kill as many Soviet invaders as possible.

  Finally, it came.

  “Kilo Base, this is Alpha Firebird Red. We’re thirty seconds from the village. If it’s our target, it’s time to know.” Drago kept the helicopter low, racing near, his voice solid, nearly threatening as he spoke. Frustrations were running high.

  Finally, a voice returned, saying, “Alpha Firebird Red, this is Kilo Base. Copy your position. Proc
eed straight ahead. Fly over the village. I repeat, fly over the village. It is not your target.”

  “Copy, Kilo Base. Should I expect an engagement?”

  “Comrade Captain, you’re in Khost, sir,” the voice reminded.

  Drago nodded his head, knowing what that meant. He was frustrated and already lathered in sweat. The lack of weapons was one thing, the lack of intelligence was another. Usual protocol said they’d plan their course, prepare for a specific attack. They’d go over the plan many times, know it like the back of their hand.

  But this was different. The odd vagueness of the matters at hand was something new, and Drago thought again to the single missile each Mi-24 carried.

  He wondered again—what did they contain?

  “This isn’t right, Comrade Captain,” Suvorov spoke again. He had heard the transmission, had heard the tone of his pilot’s advice. He opted to try one last time, speaking only to Drago. “Comrade Captain, we’ll be over the village in seconds. Perhaps we should turn around, at least until—”

  Captain Drago cut him off, saying, “There it is, Suvorov. The village is crawling. Damn, they’re freaking out down there.”

  “I think we’ve pissed them off,” Suvorov replied. “Halfway over. Ten more seconds. We’re sitting ducks over a village that size.”

  “Yeah, I see plenty of Muj,” Drago replied. “Trying to arm up, I would imagine. Think we got the drop on them, though.”

  They raced over the village, low and aggressive and angering the villagers to no extent. It was the sheer surprise of their arrival that slowed the Mujahideen from shooting. Pure luck, really. The people below shook their fists, screamed obscenities, gathered arms.

  Ten seconds.

  Twenty.

  Twenty-five seconds later they crossed successfully over the village. Both men breathed a sigh of relief.

  “We’re clear, Comrade Captain,” Suvorov reported. He knew they weren’t out of danger yet, though. The village was now behind them, no doubt readying to pursue the three Mi-24s. Gearing up any attempt to bring them down.

  Still, as they crossed a greater distance from the village, Weapons Specialist Suvorov felt calmer. He could focus on the task at hand, the deployment of their single missile.

  “Now, if we only knew the target . . .” Suvorov said.

  “I know the target,” Drago stated bluntly.

  “Comrade?”

  “I cannot say. Don’t even ask, but I know it. Just figured it out. Makes sense, in a way. Not sure why they would have withheld the location, either.”

  “My God, have our superiors never planned a mission before? This secrecy is uncalled for. We’re loaded with two dozen special forces, and out in the middle of nowhere. What are we doing here, Comrade Captain?”

  Under normal circumstances, Drago would have come down harshly on his weapons specialist. It was simply his way of doing things in the Soviet Union. Mercy was for the weak, and they were in one hell of a war. But Drago held his breath. He knew this war was taking its toll, that these vague orders were out of the ordinary, that this expedition was something of a baffling matter. So, instead, Drago kept his composure, his voice low, saying, “Alexander, keep calm. Our target is on the other end of the valley.”

  “There’s a mountain on the other end. Oh, I bet I know,” Suvorov spouted.

  “What’s that?”

  “Command found some high value targets. I bet they’re Americans, Comrade Captain.”

  “Doubtful,” Drago replied. “Look here, I’d expect Muj in that mountain ahead, you understand me?”

  “Yes, Comrade Captain.”

  “You know how they are. They like being in caves. It’s a cave we’re after. It’s a cave we’re hunting. I’m guessing you’re right. Actually, I know you’re right, but I didn’t tell you, understand? We must receive our orders before you can know.”

  “Ah, I see,” Suvorov responded, beginning to understand. “I’ll say nothing. Thing is, Captain, why are we carrying troops. Why Spetsnaz? Who is in that cave and what are our intentions?”

  “More importantly, Suvorov—what’s in the missiles we’re carrying?” Drago reminded.

  “Indeed, Comrade Captain. Do you have any guesses?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I keep thinking of that infamous plane, a similar ambiguous mission.”

  “What plane?”

  “The Enola Gay. The dropping of the bomb,” Drago said grimly.

  “You . . . you think we’re carrying something similar?”

  “I think whatever we are carrying isn’t pretty, Suvorov.”

  Then the pair saw a streak cross the sky. A long exhaust path followed, the tale-tale sign of an incoming RPG.

  6

  A Rocket Propelled Grenade, or RPG, arched across the morning sky, screaming toward them. It came from the cliffs ahead, a new strategy that wasn’t effective in any way, though it did surprise the flight crews. For all intents and purposes, it was a pot shot, much too far away to be accurate. But it was still too close for comfort, causing everyone’s heartbeats to race.

  “Watch it!” Drago spoke into his mic, his eyes tracking the streaking RPG. It passed overhead and to the left. Drago pushed the stick, dropping even lower. The others followed, engines screaming.

  The morning fog had now dissipated, the sun fully visible, the valley now awake.

  Then, another RPG. This one came from the side, closer than the last. Someone was posted high up on the canyon wall, and as they neared the western edge of the valley, the walls closed in, bringing danger closer.

  Drago pushed the button, beginning to request permission to fire. Then he remembered—he had nothing to fire.

  The thought horrified him.

  Ten seconds passed.

  Twenty.

  Thirty.

  It felt like an eternity.

  “Watch it!” One of the pilots yelled over the radio. “To our left. There’s another.”

  Sure enough, two more RPGs raced across the sky, one barely missing the left Mi-24.

  “Push it!” Drago spoke, focusing on the mountain ahead.

  A few more RPGs flew by, but most didn’t come close. The helicopters’ altitude made it a tough shot. It did remind them all of one thing—they were now in combat. In combat with no munitions.

  The Mi-24s steady tribal rotors beat their drums of death as they approached a rising wall of rock—jagged, rugged, impossible.

  Closer and closer.

  “Steady now,” Drago said. “Back off on your speed. Let’s hover a moment, see what’s ahead.”

  “Are you crazy?” Suvorov asked. “We’ll be marked. One of them will get lucky.”

  “It’s our mission, Suvorov. Just watch the hills. Watch out for the fucking Muj and call any shots.”

  And they closed the distance, unhurried, hovering in front of a looming mountain, slowly rising, the sun shining down in their faces from above.

  7

  Ahmed sat quietly, deep inside the bowels of the dark cave, alone in the corner with only his thoughts. While the others stirred from their night’s rest, he had slept little. Much had been on the man’s mind lately, and his thoughts raced.

  Though motionless, Ahmed’s anger consumed him.

  The invasion of Afghanistan by the Soviet Union two years prior changed the course of history for both countries. The conflict was later compared to America’s war in Vietnam.

  It was a complete disaster.

  The Soviets came in confident, conventional in their ways. Tanks, artillery, air-support and ground troops. It seemed an easy win, and the defeat of Afghanistan would prove to the betterment of the Motherland. This over-confidence proved to be the downfall of the Soviet Union in this struggle, their forces met with the brutal ways of the Mujahideen, who fought an unconventional war against impossible odds.

  The Soviets soon realized their conventional methods wouldn’t work. Against a conventional Army perhaps, bu
t the Mujahideen were nothing of the sort. They were smarter than the Soviets gave them credit for, and resourceful. They had to be.

  The Mujahideen developed tactics to combat the influx of troops, the aircraft overhead, the tanks and artillery that stormed over their lands. They used unusual methods, finding unconventional means worked to their favor, and often to the discouragement of the Soviets. When pressed, the Mujahideen even used unsavory tactics and brutal ways to win the psychological battle. Anyone familiar with war knows that the victor is the one who wins the hearts and minds of the soldiers. The tide of war began to change.

  As would Ahmed.

  He was twenty-six, youthful in looks, his eyes still glimmering with a hint of naivety. The war was starting to take its toll, though. It was aging him. His dark hair was cut short, and his face weathered, his beard tangled. Mostly, Ahmed looked like the rest of his people, save one thing: He had a long scar running down the right side of his face. It barely missed his eye, running up near his scalp, down toward his jaw. He had received it in a knife fight with a Soviet, one he had come out as victor.

  Ahmed wasn’t always a warrior. In his early years, he had received a good education. He had gone off to school, promised a better life. He had seen other countries, other cultures, had began to advance himself into a realm of worldly views. He was optimistic.

  But this promise was soon broken, and when the Soviets invaded, Ahmed came back home. He came not for love of country, but to defend his village, his home.

  There once was a time he dreamt of peace and prosperity. He wasn’t a radical idealist in any way, but merely wanted change. A better life, like most young people. However, the ways of the world are brutal, and despite his prayers to rebuild, his asking for liberation, he was forced into the mess. Ahmed was a natural leader of men. He was educated, resourceful. He knew how to use the terrain, use his province against the invaders. His means were brutal, his tactics all learned, yet effective.

  He officially joined the fight eighteen months prior, in nineteen eighty two, when a Soviet division leveled his parents’ home while he was away at school. It was at this time Ahmed decided he no longer needed an education. He cast aside the pen, picking up a rifle, developing a cause.