Khost Page 4

  Causes can be quite dangerous, quite effective.

  Ahmed soon joined the Mujahideen in their fight, quickly becoming a great leader and powerful warlord. And as his influence grew, so did his mindset. The way of the world changed in his eyes, as did viewpoints, as the pinnacle of the war approached.

  Where Ahmed was once reasonable, he was now far from rational.

  His understanding of politics, culture, respect, had all gone to the wayside of his cause. The more he fought, the more he grew to love war. It suited him just fine, and he realized one thing: He was good at it.

  As Ahmed’s anger built, his intentions altered. Where once he hoped to simply remove the Soviets, he now hoped to kill them all. He was dedicated, a strong teacher whose men loved him.

  Soon, Ahmed became influential.

  His men obeyed for two reasons, fear and respect. The latter overwhelmed the first, though both walked hand in hand. They recognized his talents, for Ahmed was a visionary, he brought hope to his people.

  Yet as the war went on, darkness filled his soul, and Ahmed began to evolve. Each day the Soviets menaced his province, Ahmed’s heart hardened. Gone were the days of prayer, the days of study, of youth, of hope. War was upon him, and he fully immersed himself. The future held only promises of bloodshed and battle.

  In a strange way, Ahmed was happy for this. War has a way of corrupting even the most valiant men with the best intentions, and Ahmed had been no saint. He began to fuel off his hate, to feel joy off killing, the rage that filled his soul gave him quite an advantage.

  Ahmed had done many things. Some were great for his people, some horrific. As the occupation increased in eighty-one, so did the number of Mujahideen. What once were small, unorganized factions, were now a force to be reckoned with. What began as a thousand fighting men soon became ten thousand well-trained soldiers.

  Khost was important—never once had it succumbed to outside rule.

  Ahmed intended to keep it that way. He now had a fighting force, and many armaments. Most importantly, they could use them. Ahmed could summon three thousand warriors to fill this very valley within twenty-four hours if need be. He could have five-hundred at his disposal within an hour.

  He had devised a strategic plan, one to expel the Soviets. The first phase was to establish a resistance movement, capture the hearts and minds of the people. Ahmed was sincere in his belief that this war could be won, and it showed. As he summoned warriors, they came in droves, their numbers growing daily.

  The second phase of his plan was to form an active defense of the Khost province, and more specifically, this valley. It would be a withdraw point if the fighting got heavy. It would be their stronghold, their final defensive position. If matters worsened for the Mujahideen, thousands could defend the heart of Ahmed’s operations. From this region, from this valley, they could regroup. They could plot their next attack. The Soviets were already struggling in nearby regions, and very soon Ahmed would have the advantage.

  He was close.

  The third phase would be a strategic offensive. Ahmed’s forces were taking back control over parts of eastern and northern Afghanistan. His tactics, his willingness to train men, proved to be working.

  Like many others, Ahmed’s goal was simple: to gain back his people’s country. It seemed to be working. The Mujahideen were a thorn in the side of the Soviets. Ahmed and his men ambushed Soviet convoys, attacking supply lines. They were bold, creative, slowing the Soviet occupation. They’d attack, then retreat, only to plan another attack. The Mujahideen were unconventional, always throwing the Soviets off guard.

  They used a certain tactic called Asymmetrical Warfare, and the Soviets were growing desperate.

  8

  The Soviets responded. They mounted a series of offensives against the Mujahideen, and Ahmed, focusing their efforts in the province of Khost.

  It was bloody.

  It was brutal.

  It was suicidal.

  This action, this push, proved to work against the Soviets. It increased Afghani morale instead of diminishing it. Ahmed’s teachings were working, and things were looking good for the fighters. One thing the Soviets didn’t factor in was that the best soldier is one who has little to live for. The best solider is one who has a cause, and no fear of death.

  Despite this opportunity, this good news, Ahmed grew disgruntled. Sure, the Soviets were unable to beat his forces, no matter the constant wave of major combat units, but he didn’t know how long that would last. For every Mujahideen who died, Ahmed could recruit five, but the Soviets were increasing their pressure, endless in their pursuit to take over his country. They had the weapons, the technology; the Soviets didn’t want the embarrassment, and were dedicated in their own right.

  Ahmed wasn’t sure if his men were up to the challenge, for the average Mujahideen fighter was an illiterate farmer or herder. Few knew how to read or write. Few knew much about combat.

  At first.

  Under Ahmed’s tutelage, these farmers and goat herders grew to become excellent fighters. Up against a world super-power, this rabble group of men put up a good fight. At first, they suffered great causalities, as did all who opposed the Soviets. The enemy was brutal in its ways, and had no right to be in their country. The men fought, doing so heroically.

  The problem was, the Mujahideen disliked the field craft of warfare. They were stubborn, even reluctant to crawl while being fired upon. They rarely practiced tactics, opting to pick fights when the time felt right, often for no reason other than they were in the mood. And despite popular belief, these Mujahideen warriors were usually unwilling to conduct sabotage missions. Such a thing wasn’t seen as glorious, as honorable.

  But, Ahmed trained them hard, using his knowledge of basic military training. He modeled much of his tactics on things he had learned from the West. The Americans were supporting this war, both with money and training, and Ahmed was quick to learn. He hated the Americans, too, but not nearly as much as the Soviets. Both the Americans and the Soviets were infidels, but he would use the American’s money to help kill Soviets. Later, his fight would be against the Americans, but he would remain patient. He remembered reading Sun Tzu, and a certain tactic stuck with him—he would remain ‘friends’ with one enemy to kill another enemy. Later, that would change.

  So, Ahmed took advantage of American funding, their training, their weapons, and soon his men grew to become excellent soldiers. They learned to shoot, how to take cover, how to flank, how to lay suppressive fire. The Mujahideen already took great pride in centuries of tribal warfare, and adapted quickly. He felt they couldn’t be defeated, he knew they couldn’t be defeated. His people had fought to defend their lands for centuries, Afghanistan having never seen defeat.

  Still, something bothered Ahmed, something weighed heavy on his shoulders, on his soul—a burden he held as this war raged on. It consumed him, fueling his primal needs for revenge, not justice.

  Bitter sweet revenge.

  Ahmed hated the Soviets.

  He vowed to kill every last invader.

  9

  Over the course of the war, Ahmed’s attitude changed. As Ahmed once prayed for peace, he now prayed for blood. His once youthful dreams of hope altered into something new, morphing into something darker, the recesses of his mind, his soul, now black.

  Ahmed’s resentment, his hatred, caused him to be bitter. As he formed his militia, as he became respected and powerful, Ahmed also became violent.

  At first, he targeted his violence toward the Soviets. They were clearly the enemy, and he fought back harshly. But over time, as the darkness overwhelmed him, he turned darker, vicious—even to his own people. He grew disgusted, disenfranchised toward the people as he witnessed their fear, their apprehension to fight the Soviets. Despite his training, his leadership, he realized not every man or woman wanted this fight.

  Some, he even considered traitors.

  And it was true, for a faction of his own people, going back genera
tions, indeed helped the Soviets.

  Ahmed hated the thought. He began to turn on his own people, enacting revenge on those who helped the Soviets, sometimes on suspicion, sometimes for the sheer desire for violence.

  When the need arose for human shields, for diversions, he used his fellow Afghanis. This war had become personal to the extent that Ahmed’s own loyalties were to himself and to himself only.

  “Ahmed,” a voice whispered, stirring him from his thoughts.

  He glared. “What is it, Fajii? I commanded you to leave me alone.” He ran his hand through his wavy dark hair, then down his face, tracing the long scar and tangled beard.

  “My apologies,” the man said. “It’s just—”

  “Speak up, or I’ll slap you for the disruption.”

  “Your sister. I’m afraid she doesn’t have much longer. There’s no cure. Whatever they gassed her with has taken its toll. There is no hope. I’m sorry, my friend, but she is dying.” Fajii lowered his head, fearful of Ahmed’s reaction.

  “I see,” Ahmed said with a sigh, looking into the nothingness of the dark cave, his face without expression.

  “Perhaps . . . perhaps you’d like to spend her last moments by her side?” the man suggested.

  “I’ve made my peace with her,” Ahmed responded, his voice firm, distant. He knew this wasn’t true, though. He felt no peace. His hatred had grown so fierce that even the thought of losing his last remaining relative didn’t seem to bother him. His soul was hollow, and Ahmed welcomed it.

  “I see . . .” Fajii responded, glancing up at Ahmed.

  “These Soviets . . .” Ahmed began, taking a moment, attempting to control his rage. “There’s no honor in what they’re doing. There’s no glory, no respect.”

  “Your leadership has proven worthy,” Fajii commented.

  “They bring tanks, planes, helicopters—and still, they can’t defeat us!”

  “Indeed. I believe you will lead us to victory.”

  “Perhaps, though I’m doubtful. We kill their men, yet more arrive daily. We kill them too.”

  “And we’ll continue this fight. In the name of Allah, we’ll drive the invaders from our homes.”

  Ahmed turned to the man, his eyes cold. “This!” he spat, disgust in his voice. “These strange chemicals they fire upon us. It isn’t war, it isn’t noble. It’s cowardice. There’s no honor in such vile measures.”

  “They’re desperate, sir,” Fajii responded. He was still youthful, optimistic. “They’ve changed the way they’re waging war. They know they can’t win, so instead they use chemicals on us.”

  It was true. Conventional warfare was no longer working, the Soviets taking too many causalities. This was an embarrassment. The Soviet Union was supposed to be a world super-power, and they were appalled by the losses they took from farmers, from goat herders, from simple men.

  Thus they began a different approach, a new strategy—the use of chemical weapons. The Soviets put much time and effort into the development of them. They tested blistering agents, nerve gas, whatever was at their disposal. Scientists worked day and night to develop stronger chemicals, the KGB funding newer, advanced chemicals. Their test subjects were the Mujahideen, and they used them without remorse, without regret.

  They launched chemical strikes, often filling villages with their deadly toxins. These chemicals killed indiscriminately, women and children as much targets as the fighting men. The Afghan people suffered vile deaths, often taking days to perish. And though the other nations of the world knew of this disturbing behavior, the Soviets denied it, and the world remained idle.

  “These weapons are meant to discourage us,” Ahmed commented. “The Soviets know we can’t handle such losses.”

  “They’ve killed many of us, yes,” Fajii agreed.

  “They aren’t meant to just kill. They’re meant to decrease morale. They’re meant to dishearten us, to cause us to surrender.”

  “It will never happen!” Fajii stated boldly. “By the good grace of Allah, we will have our victory. Our scientists will—”

  Ahmed slapped the man, hitting him hard across the face. Fajii stumbled, falling to the ground, looking up in horror.

  Ahmed spoke, saying, “Now you listen to me—there is no God. Do you understand? There are no loyalties, there is no love. Only death. And I vow to kill as many of them as possible. Now, why do you still bother me?”

  Fajii slowly stood up, holding his hand to his stinging face. Silence filled the room as he struggled to find the words. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I merely wanted to tell you of your sister. She’s dying, and I only thought . . .”

  “You thought wrong,” Ahmed barked. “My sister has been dead to me for a long time. My entire family is gone, and she’ll be the last. I have no need for amends, for I have no soul. Do you hear me, Fajii? Am I clear on this?”

  “Y . . . yes, sir,” Fajii stuttered.

  “If you desire to help her, go back down the tunnel and end her suffering.”

  “I . . . I couldn’t do such a thing. She’s your family, a friend to my own family. We grew up together.” Fajii was mortified, not knowing what to say or how to react.

  “If your cowardice is such, so be it. I’ll be down shortly and do the job. It’s always me. Without me, this region, this country, is lost. Now go, before I grow angry and whip you, boy!”

  Fajii turned, nearly running down the dimly lit corridor of the cave that ran deep into the mountain.

  Satisfied by his actions, Ahmed took a few moments, soaking in the silence. His love for his sister had long faded, not out of anything of her doing, but of his own rage. He had beat her many times, treating her no different than any other below him, and he felt no remorse.

  No, instead he felt something else.

  Something satisfying.

  Ahmed reached to his belt, his fingers gently caressing the butt of his pistol. He would do her the favor of vacating her from this life, and would do so without emotion, and without remorse.

  He turned to make the trek down the long tunnel system, to the deep catacombs of where she lay in agony. As he turned, he heard something, a familiar sound.

  Turning back quickly, Ahmed looked up the long pathway, the light from outside a small dot in the distance. He waited, listening, wondering if his lack of sleep was playing tricks on him.

  Listening intently, he heard a familiar sound—the approach of Soviet helicopters.

  Ahmed was tempted to rush out himself, to enact his own vengeance, but knew that wasn’t smart. Instead, he turned, grabbing his rifle and jogging down the long corridor, deep into the cave. He’d gather his men quickly, and give the Soviets a little surprise.

  His sister’s fate would have to wait.

  10

  A thousand miles away, hidden deep in the frozen tundra of Siberia, was Vector Laboratory. Unknown to the public, and far from the watchful eye of even the best counter-intelligence agencies, this compound held some of the most guarded secrets of the Soviet chemical weapon arsenal.

  Some of the greatest minds, the most radical thinkers, the world’s best scientists, called Vector Laboratory home. Some by choice, most not. They were kept hidden, tucked away, highly supervised and isolated from civilization.

  Among a dozen other such labs, this certain one hosted the Soviet’s greatest assets and achievements in chemical warfare, if such a thing could be considered to exist.

  The compound lay at the end of a long, isolated road, frozen and harsh, in the middle of a wasteland of nothing but snow and cold. Tall radio towers loomed over the gated and fenced area, armed patrols roamed, high tech surveillance watched, an ever careful eye on who entered and left.

  Few did.

  There were three parts of the lab—living quarters, rest area, and the laboratory. Hidden in plain sight, Vector Laboratory didn’t look like much, more of a compound or gulag than anything. Perhaps this was the intention, perhaps not. This far from civilization life was different, the isolation coul
d drive one stark raving mad.

  Mikhail Ivanovich struggled to remain awake. The countless hours, the endless days of whiteout blizzards, the hopeless cold—it had all begun to take its toll. These past months had been brutal, the harsh reality of his work. His invention now coming to fruition was overwhelming, and at the most critical stage, the most important time where he’d know if it was a success or failure, Mikhail could hardly keep his eyes open.

  He blinked several times, tried stomping his feet, paced, even slapped himself across the face. Nothing helped. A pot of coffee and still utter exhaustion. Mikhail hoped the results would present themselves soon. Good or bad, at the moment he could only think about sleep. He had been up for three days straight, working furiously on the final details, re-calculating and second guessing.

  But the time was now.

  The truth would soon present itself.

  His very life might be on the line, but at the moment, that didn’t seem to bother Mikhail. His exhaustion had caused him to cease caring about his own life for the moment, though he knew he should be careful what he wished for.

  The rest he so desired might just be a permanent one.

  Mikhail sat back down, staring at the clutter atop his desk, looking past it to the wall, the faded picture of Joseph Stalin hanging above him, a reminder they were always watching. The infamous ruler might have been long dead, but his memory would remain alive for generations.

  Mikhail gulped, hoping he could honor the great leader’s legacy. He pulled his thin-frame glasses from his face, laying them atop his notes. Rubbing his eyes, Mikhail brushed his small, fragile hands through his coarse hair. It was thinning, and already beginning to gray. He looked much older than his forty-one years, weathered and battered from the long hours, the conditions, the constant pressure.