Khost Read online

  He expected a tragedy.

  14

  Mikhail Ivanovich might have been the brightest mind of his generation, but few would know of his brilliance. Had he been born elsewhere, perhaps things would have been different. He would never publish in the top magazines or achieve world fame—not in the scientific community, not anywhere.

  The scientist had been tasked with the impossible. He was to create a chemical that could be dispersed to Soviet troops in a gaseous state. This would be administered before battle, and transform even the most timid soldier into a battle hardened warrior.

  A super-soldier, capable of great feats. They’d be faster, stronger, more confident because of this. But the chemical wasn’t merely to enhance their physical performance, it did much more.

  The compound required multiple parts, multiple stages. For all intents and purposes, the goal was mutation. A human, yes, but with animal capabilities.

  The inquiry had begun years prior, before the Afghani conflict. Mikhail had provided a theory, his research into DNA and genome structure far ahead of its time. Even decades later, as modern science advanced, Mikhail was ahead of the pack.

  Modern science needed results. A step at a time, over the long course of science, the human body and mind would be better understood.

  Mikhail had taken what he felt were the necessary assumptions. He viewed humans differently, perhaps. Mikhail’s résumé was in advanced molecular restructuring, but also with a background in the human mind, the psychology of what made soldiers tick. What caused them to act heroic? What caused them anger? What caused them fear?

  He based his theories, his mixtures of the proper ingredients, on his viewpoint of the world. Spending many years in Siberia did something that took away a man’s very soul. The darkness, the cold, the lack of empathy—had Mikhail assumed all men were cruel?

  Perhaps.

  But the time. The time wasn’t enough. They had indeed tested the compound, spent many months doing so. Lab rats, monkeys and dogs, and finally prisoners were tested. Always in small doses, always adjusting the ratio of the active chemicals, for it never worked as needed.

  The solution was not the mixture, but the delivery system. Injecting it directly caused it to decay quickly. This chemical needed a fast reaction, but straight pumping it into veins would not be enough.

  They’d devised a better system, liquefying the substance. Multiple parts, multiple delivery systems. This allowed for it to act in stages, each stage a trigger mechanism for the next.

  Over and over again they tried.

  And failed.

  Month after month, as the war raged on, they worked at it. Couldn’t quite get it right, though each time getting closer.

  Then, 1984 brought about bigger challenges, and more pressure. Though they didn’t dare state publically, the Soviets would lose this war. They knew it, they grew desperate because of it. In the early weeks of the year, the KGB had requested—demanded—he fill missiles with the compound. They were to deliver it, to do its first trial run—on the enemy!

  Mikhail didn’t know why. Couldn’t they keep using animals, prisoners? In other countries, it made sense not to kill your own soldiers by way of experiment, or at the very least, keep quiet about it.

  But in the Soviet Union, that mattered little. The Soviet Union needed to win this war, and their transition into unconventional means took them to the extremes.

  Bio-agents and chemical weapons.

  They deformed, they crippled the Mujahideen.

  But the enemy kept coming. For every one they could kill, three more filled their ranks. Afghanistan had never known what a loss felt like, centuries of warfare and never conquest. They’d fight to the end, every last one of them, no matter what the Soviets used.

  Mikhail had thought the demand was impossible, and sitting here now, he still did.

  They were setting him up for failure. Their losses would be blamed on his failure to produce the impossible. They didn’t understand the science, their only goal to increase their odds, to compete on the world stage.

  The Soviets had assumed, after World War II, that they could fight any military. This wasn’t the case in Afghanistan, because there was no true military.

  To counter, the Soviets needed humans that weren’t afraid, that could go places a regular man could not.

  Even the Spetsnaz, world renown, were afraid of going into certain areas, afraid of the Mujahideen.

  Mikhail was successful, at least in theory. In the hectic months, twenty hour days, he and his team had done the impossible. They loaded warheads on rockets designed with specific devises that would trigger the chemical. A chain reaction would follow once the warhead went off, and when the first chemical met the oxygen, a gas formed.

  Then, another substance would release, mixing, then another . . .

  . . . and little did he know, there was a fourth.

  15

  The three Mi-24s landed approximately a hundred meters from the base of the mountain. They could see the village in the distance. They saw a lot of movement.

  The peak of the canyon’s tallest mountain seemed to climb to the clouds above, rocky and dangerous terrain. The mountain went on and on, connected to the canyon walls, tall sheets of sheer misery.

  The cave was less than a hundred meters up, though the journey on foot was only for the most hardened people.

  Drago stared, watching the red smoke spout from the cave. He wondered what would happen next. He wondered why the mystery, why the lack of details.

  Drago knew why the Spetsnaz were aboard his helicopter. He knew why these elite warriors of the Soviet Union were here, dressed for combat, ready for action.

  He figured they were to test the results.

  To see how many had been killed.

  The thought crept up on him once more, the idea of gassing someone to death, a target where he couldn’t know if it contained any innocents, any commoners caught in this horrible war.

  Drago shut the engines down. He could hear the soft whipping the rotor made as all grew quiet. The soldiers were de-boarding, preparing to go into the cave, and Drago reached for his microphone.

  “Kilo Base, this is Firebird Alpha Red. We’ve landed, engines quiet. Boots are on the ground. Please advise,” Drago said.

  No response.

  It was as if he didn’t exist.

  Again, such vague orders.

  It made no sense. Nothing did.

  Though they carried no weapons, they could have offered aerial support. The three Mi-24s would have been much more effective high in the air, looking for targets, looking for possible threats. They were the targets now, alone in the lion’s den.

  But an order was an order, and no doubt this mission was of the highest importance. Drago wouldn’t question it, despite the look from his weapons specialist, as well as the other flight teams now congregating nearby.

  They felt safer in numbers. They wanted to be close to the men with guns, and looked to Drago for answers.

  “What is this, Comrade Captain?” one of the pilots asked, walking up. He was terrified, his face showed it. “This makes us nervous, sir. Very nervous.”

  “I don’t like it either, but nothing we can do. That village is about five hundred meters away, maybe six. We took them by surprise, but no doubt they’re arming up. If there’s Muj there, we’ll have some trouble. Within the next half hour, we’ll have them on us.”

  “What do we do, Comrade Captain?” Suvorov asked.

  “We’re trained, did you forget?” Drago asked sternly. “There’s one AK-47 per helicopter. Two hundred rounds. You qualified, did you not?”

  “Yes, Captain Drago.”

  “Good. Then take your best man and arm him. Everyone also has a pistol. I would suggest carrying it. Loaded.”

  The six men, three pilots and three weapons specialists, stared at one another. With obvious worry on their faces, they obeyed, not liking it one bit, but doing so nonetheless. Drago’s advice was good, and th
ey rushed to arm themselves.

  “Now spread out a bit,” Drago said to the flight crews. “Keep a good watch on that village. They get within two hundred meters, we’re starting our engines and climbing. I don’t care about orders, we’ll at least get up in the air and provide some support.”

  “We’ll keep watch on the village, Comrade,” Suvorov said. “But what about that cave? Must be Muj in it, since we shot that smoke into it. What happens if they come out behind us?”

  A stern voice interrupted. It was low, guttural and serious. “We’ll handle the cave. Just watch our flank.”

  Everyone turned. They’d heard the commotion as the Soviet soldiers readied themselves, but paid little attention. Their thoughts were on the Mujahideen, and their predicament at hand.

  Upon realizing it was the Spetsnaz team leader speaking, Drago snapped to attention, saying loudly, “Sir!”

  16

  Colonel Kirov was a legend, known among the ranks. He was a man of mystery, a dedicated warrior that did the Soviet Union’s dirty work. He was Spetsnaz, the most feared special forces group in Europe, and in command of over three hundred.

  This particular unit hosted twenty-four, including Kirov himself.

  Spetsnaz were great soldiers, though they somewhat lacked the tactics of American forces. They applied what was practical, less specialized but overall feared by the enemy. Though their tactics might have been a step behind the Americans, their harsh ways, their brutality, made up for it. They were an elite bunch, an insane bunch, and most importantly, not bound by any chains of conventional warfare.

  They accomplished physical feats that were unbelievable, they were fearless, and vicious.

  One tactic of the Spetsnaz, when dealing with rebels, was simple: Kill the guerillas, all of them. If hostages die, so be it. The Spetsnaz took such things as a personal attack, and would enact vicious revenge.

  Then, after killing any rebels, they would chop off the heads of their enemy, sending them via care package to the local leaders. Once these packages were received, the Spetsnaz were left alone.

  As the course of this conflict spiraled downward, the Spetsnaz learned from their mistakes, and by this point in the war had ditched their conventional methods. They practiced what was used against them, taking on asymmetrical means and tactics, using them to defeat the enemy. Whatever worked was their theory, and it was effective, albeit late.

  Kirov had been in combat many years and had the wounds to prove it. He was in his late forties, already fully gray, this war taking its toll on the man. Kirov was battle hardened, a man who lived for war, a man who understood Mujahideen tactics. He employed them—Kirov’s unit was particularly effective in their brutal ways. They learned the Mujahideen only understood equal resistance, the more barbaric, the more the enemy respected you.

  Despite this, he was a national hero, and the helicopter pilots felt better knowing the man was there, even if Kirov did make them feel a bit uneasy. Kirov had a wild look in his eyes, that of a crazed madman, but this wild desire to pick a fight made the pilots uneasy. Kirov was tall, wide shoulders, thick build. He specialized in one thing in life, and that was killing Muj.

  He was exceptional at the job.

  Kirov’s AK-47 hung from his shoulder at the ready position. It were as if an extension of himself, and the man knew how to use the tool of death. Attached to him were countless magazines of ammo, a gas mask hanging uncomfortably around his neck, a strange plastic suit over his fatigues. Luckily, they wouldn’t be needing to blend in this day.

  Kirov eyed Drago, almost with a look of contempt. “Captain Drago, you will remain here. Be our eyes and watch the village. You see them get close, you shoot back. We’ll come at the first sign of a fight.”

  “Perhaps a few of your men could remain behind,” Drago suggested, knowing he’d feel more comfortable with a few Spetsnaz around.

  “My men are not your babysitter.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

  “My team will move up to the cave and then enter. You’ll wait until we return.”

  “You’re going inside?” Drago asked, though by their dress, he already knew the answer.

  “We are.”

  “What of that chemical? Won’t it harm your men?”

  “By the time we make it up there, it’ll be dispersed. These suits are only a reassurance. A safety measure is all.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

  “Under your seats . . . there are masks. No suits, but you do have masks,” Kirov instructed.

  “Should we wear them?” Drago asked, hesitant. “I thought you said they are precautionary.”

  “Well, should it make you feel better, you can have them ready. Just in case.”

  “Colonel, I must ask—what was that? What did we shoot into the cave?”

  Kirov merely glanced his way, saying nothing.

  But the Captain couldn’t help himself, uttering, “I can only assume it was a chemical weapon. The color changes . . . I assume they were important?” He knew it was a chemical of some sort, but what were its effects? If he’d been responsible for many deaths, he’d at least want them to have died in short order. Drago was a decent man, and opposed the use of chemicals. It didn’t fit his worldly view. Kirov was much the same—a man of honor, a man who felt the war must be won, but not in such a manner.

  Drago had many questions, but held his tongue.

  If the chemical was to kill the enemy, why go into the cave?

  Everyone was silent, the flight crews fidgeting. Finally, as Kirov’s men neared being ready, he turned to Drago. “Unfortunately, Captain, I’m not authorized to reveal that information to you. That is a classified matter, though soon enough you’ll probably figure it out.”

  “What sort of mission is this?”

  “Extraction of the enemy.”

  “We’ll carry them?” Drago asked.

  “Some, yes. Hopefully.”

  “The dead? Why?”

  “Who said they’re dead, Captain?” Kirov asked.

  Drago paused at this. “You did say there was no danger to your men, but who could suffer through that?”

  Kirov smiled, saying, “Captain, you cannot imagine what a man can suffer through. Now, keep ready, stay close to your helicopters, stay off the radio. We’ll report if we need to move out quickly.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel,” Drago said.

  “And Captain . . . this is Khost. This is the most dangerous place in the world, so stay sharp.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

  Kirov turned to his men. Twenty-four total including himself, hand-chosen due to their malicious behavior. These men weren’t afraid of killing. Quite the opposite, they looked forward to it.

  “Ready?” Kirov asked.

  “Yes, sir!” they answered in unison.

  “Green team, take point. See that ridge to our right? There’s a small trail tucked away. Move up and cover us. Watch the helicopters, watch our backs. That village will be crawling soon. They’ll head our way once they figure out we’ve landed. Now, spread out. I want you ladies at that cave entrance in short order.”

  All eight men nodded, moving out.

  “Yellow team, vector south of the cave, follow green team up. Forty meters, no more, no less. Red team, we’ll watch their six, move in behind. Keep your distance, watch each other’s backs. Those Muj bastards are sneaky, probably a few we missed with the gas. Now move out, ladies!” Kirov commanded.

  The rest took off, maneuvering across the rocky landscape and up the ragged trail. They hurried up the incline, climbing with ease, single file and aware.

  Colonel Kirov remained a moment longer, double checking his own gear and staring high up, looking at the hidden cave. It wasn’t directly visible. He seemed unconcerned, almost bored at the notion. Drago felt uneasy about this; Kirov was a dangerous man.

  But perhaps this mission was safe, Drago thought. Otherwise they wouldn’t dare enter the cave, or risk one of their top men.


  Or would they?

  Kirov remained still as a statue, standing near Captain Drago, unafraid in the hostile environment, watching his men move away. The Colonel knew the risks, of course, but he lived for this. He lived for war. And despite being alone, despite the danger, Kirov seemed exhilarated. His face showed it.

  “We’ll probably take some fire. Especially once we go in. This zone is hot, and the Muj might come from all over. I have no idea how many are in that cave, but we’ll make it quick and be back,” Kirov warned Drago. It was professional courtesy that gave this warning, not care of the men, but care for the cause.

  Colonel Kirov then turned, joining the last group, red team, as they made their way up the trail.

  The six crewmen of the grounded Mi-24s were now alone.

  17

  Four KGB agents entered Mikhail’s office, joining the huddled scientists. The room was cramped, the excitement having turned to anxiety. Stage two was underway, and this was the tricky part.

  These agents had stiff expressions, not a hint of amusement on their faces. They meant business, and as Mikhail looked back at them, he did not recognize the faces. That didn’t matter much, though. The KGB was always there, the KGB was always faceless. Besides, Mikhail tended to keep his distance, as did the majority of his staff. But now, as they closed in and joined the group, Mikhail again realized the implications of the project’s success. Everyone’s ass was on the line, including these men. Sure, blame would be laid, but nobody knew how wide the hammer of justice would come crashing down. There was much invested in this project, much to be lost.

  One of the KGB agents pushed through the huddle. He spoke to Mikhail, saying, “Ivanovich, has it worked? Has the compound properly mixed?”