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  “I . . . I cannot know for sure,” Mikhail stammered.

  “You knew the importance. You heard the news, right?”

  “No.”

  “A few very important men are headed this way. A few generals who will be displeased with anything but stellar results,” the agent warned.

  “I . . . I see. Again, we needed more time.”

  “Answer the question,” the agent said.

  “If the reports are accurate, the chemicals have properly mixed. The compounds turned the right colors, timing seemed near instant, sounds like the triggers went off as planned.”

  “What of these colors? What’s the importance?” the agent asked.

  “Each represented a different part of the genetic makeup, in a generalized sense. The first chemical heightened awareness. Within moments, the enemy would have been more aware of their surroundings than ever before. The green smoke is a good sign. More importantly, the yellow smoke. This means the first two compounds mixed properly.”

  “What effects does the second one have?”

  “By itself, nothing. But combined with the first, the . . . subject will notice extraordinary changes in his body. The cells will begin to regenerate much faster, almost a thousand times according to my calculations.”

  “What’s the purpose of this?”

  “Everything. The first chemical will sharpen their skills, hone their abilities. Almost instantly. The second chemical will keep the body fit. Any injury will be healed faster, any physical problems will begin to subside. In essence, the subjects will begin healing faster.”

  “And the third?”

  “That’s the iffy part. You see, within moments of the second compound, they’ll either begin changing, or dying. That’s where we’d know our failure.”

  “If the first two did work, then what?”

  “The third. Red. It’s the most toxic, and the one that’s perhaps the most destabilized. It will enhance their performance, their physical features. You’ll have a perfect mixture, in essence the perfect human, though I’ll say that lightly. They will be harder to kill if this works. More thoughtful, more resourceful, much more agile. They will require less sleep, and any damage will be lessened exponentially. As will recovery time of any injuries sustained,” Mikhail explained. He kept it brief, for there was much more to it than stated, instead giving the man what he wanted to hear.

  “Good,” the agent said, nodding.

  “I wouldn’t say good is the right word,” Mikhail replied. “At these levels . . . well, they’ve never been tested. It’ll either kill them, or work quickly. Very quickly! The Colonel and his men have their work cut out for them.”

  “That’s why they’re there. They’ll report and destroy the enemy.”

  “It seems like such a waste,” Mikhail said. “Our resources could have been spent better in other areas.”

  The KGB agent ignored him, though. Instead, he warned, “It better work.”

  “I can’t know that,” Mikhail protested, detesting the whine in his voice. “There were no clinical tests done, not on that amount of chemicals.”

  “Once the last ingredient is applied, we’ll know for sure.”

  “The last?” Mikhail asked, turning his head.

  All the scientists did the same.

  “There’s one more.”

  “I . . . I do not understand. We mixed them ourselves.”

  “You’ve mixed another. The fourth liquid. We weaponized it. According to your calculations, it must arrive within the first ten minutes, am I correct?” the agent asked nervously. He looked to the clock on the wall, then back again.

  “You can’t mean . . .”

  Mikhail knew what they had done. He had been experimenting with certain traits of the human mind, certain genes in the long strand that contained one thing: Rage.

  “Delivery aircraft is one minute out,” another KGB agent reported.

  “What are you doing?” Mikhail asked, though he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “We merely added what you’ve missed, Mikhail. If this works, these men will be smarter, faster, heal quicker. We’re merely giving them a boost. Aggression is what we’re looking for, and your studies—”

  “—Are merely theoretical,” Mikhail protested. “You do not understand. I’ve only tested it on apes, and the results were disastrous.”

  “Have you not perfected your theoretical chemical?” the agent asked.

  “On paper, yes. We synthesized it, but nowhere near the doses you’d need.”

  “It’s been replicated,” the agent responded. “Do not think others are not working on this project, too. Your work has been invaluable, Mikhail. Don’t look so upset. You’ve done a great service to the Motherland. We’ve merely taken your compound to the next level, and replicated it.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? We’ve tested it, in extremely small doses. The results were horrendous.”

  “What could have been so faulty, Mikhail? Are your theories correct or not?”

  “They are, and that’s the problem,” Mikhail answered. “In each case, the primates we tested it on went insane. Utterly insane.”

  “What do you mean?” the agent asked.

  Mikhail answered, his face grim, “They tore one another apart.”

  18

  Captain Drago watched as the three teams of Spetsnaz climbed the trail. It was slow going, but he knew they were professionals, that they’d reach the top.

  They made solid pace and, soon enough, were halfway up.

  Drago hated the notion of being grounded. He felt much safer high above in the sky, where the armor of the Mi-24 provided some comfort. He reached to his holster, pulling out his pistol and ensuring it was chambered and ready. It reassured him, almost convinced him that it would help if they came up against rifle fire. He knew they stood no chance against AK-47s, but nonetheless, the pistol relaxed him some.

  The other five members of the flight crew did the same. Three picked up AK-47s, including Suvorov, the others kept their pistols in hand. They scanned the valley, watching for approaching men.

  Drago remembered Kirov’s words, and reached under the front seat of his helicopter, pulling out the mask. It was an awkward apparatus, bulky, and when Drago put it to his face, taking a breath, it felt strange. It was as if he couldn’t breathe. A few more attempts and halfhearted gasps and Drago tossed it aside.

  “Fuck it,” he exclaimed. “We’re far enough out. Besides, that smoke is drifting up.”

  Drago reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He inhaled deeply, eyes still scanning the surroundings, his nerves tight with tension.

  The five other men did the same, nervously bumbling for their own smokes. Though they were to all watch their six o’clock, the village, they couldn’t help but stare up at the cave. It was high above, hidden, and dense smoke floated out, reaching high toward the heavens.

  Drago took another deep drag, then another. He and his men remained alert, watching all sides, especially the village behind. He only hoped Kirov’s men would hurry, that this mission wouldn’t take long. Otherwise, they would certainly face enemy fire.

  Drago remembered to save a bullet for himself.

  Just in case.

  *

  “I’ve done no tests on the respirators,” Mikhail attempted to explain to the four KGB, who all seemed quite uninterested, ignoring him. “They should work, but only if the compound does what it’s supposed to do. Again, I must stress this—I had no time for tests. Not of this magnitude. I can only hope you’re not serious about mixing in the fourth compound. It’s highly unstable, it might be a detriment to your men on the ground.”

  “We’ll take our chances,” a KGB agent replied. Then he turned to his comrade, stating, “Twenty seconds to next phase. The flight is inbound, target locked.”

  “Are you insane?” Mikhail blurted out. “Do you know the madness this will create?”

  But it was too late f
or protests, as if they’d listen anyway. The group heard the static, the radio communication of a lone pilot as he raced toward the cave.

  Mikhail bit his fingernails, his nerves on edge.

  “This is not good,” he stated for the record.

  “This is not good,” he repeated.

  19

  Watching the Spetsnaz close in on the cave, Drago was both dumbfounded and in awe. He had heard the legends of Kirov and his men. They were the elite, the best and most well trained men in the Soviet forces. They were also quite impressive to watch.

  The group remained silent, using hand signals and proper movement. They moved like panthers, creeping up on their prey. Drago was surprised how quickly they made their way up the hill. They were close now, the mouth of the cave nearing.

  Then, he heard a familiar noise, though it took a moment to register.

  From high above, a Soviet jet approached. Drago looked up, scanning the sky, taking a moment before he could see the plane. It was an Su-25, an advanced single-seat aircraft, and it was headed in their direction at breakneck speed.

  “What the—” Drago began, but didn’t have enough time to finish his sentence.

  The Su-25 approached at a downward angle, swooping low, racing in at full throttle, death from above. It was cutting edge design, the Su-25 paving the way for even better aircraft later. It was a single-seater, this one with a single mission.

  Drago heard the noise, looked up and jolted. A lone missile came streaking down from the clouds, headed straight at them. “Down!” Drago shouted, dropping to the ground. The other pilots did the same.

  The missile roared above, much too close for comfort. It moved fast toward the cave, moments later entering the reddish abyss.

  It entered the cave like the others. Direct impact, no explosion.

  Mere seconds later and the Su-25 pulled up, banking high, its engines whining as the pilot flew away.

  “What the fuck was that?” Suvorov exclaimed, pointing. All six men stared at the departing jet, absently brushing the desert dust from their clothing.

  Irritated that he received no warning, Drago jumped up, running to the open canopy of his helicopter. He reached in, grabbing the mic and headset. “Kilo Base, this is Firebird Alpha Red! Be advised, we have an unknown aircraft above. The damn thing just shot into the cave!” he exclaimed.

  “Copy, Alpha Firebird Red,” was his only response.

  “What the hell was it?” Drago dared to ask. He was determined to get answers, uncaring of what his superiors thought. “We were never debriefed. Is that plane cleared?”

  “Alpha Firebird Red, you are to stand down,” came the order. “Stand down and maintain contact. The plane is authorized. Now stay off the radio, red leader. Keep the communications channels clear.”

  Drago shook his head in frustration. He was tempted to bark into the radio, to voice his discontent, but knew that might be a mistake. He didn’t want to risk angering the wrong person, potentially ruining his career. Instead, Drago looked back to the cave, to the special forces men who were fast nearing the smoke at the cave’s entrance.

  It didn’t take long. The red tone began to change, to morph with the newest chemical. Soon enough, the color altered once more.

  Drago watched as Kirov’s men hesitated, nearing the cave entrance, allowing this new batch of smoky substance to clear. It was fast acting, like the others, and quickly began dissipating. Black smoke. The chemical had reacted as it was supposed to, at least in theory, though Drago knew no better.

  A few more minutes passed, time standing still, all life in the valley concentrated on this cave high above. Then, Drago watched the figures of Kirov and his men, wearing chemical suits and respirators, carrying AK-47s, as they entered the cave.

  “I don’t like this one bit,” Drago said.

  20

  Deep inside the cave, Ahmed turned the corner, one last remaining tunnel straight ahead. It ran uphill approximately seventy meters, right toward the opening. He had a tight grip on his RPG, jogging up the incline. A wicked grin was on his face.

  “Today is a good day to die,” he said. “Death to the enemy.”

  Ahmed’s intentions were clear—he wanted to take out at least one helicopter. Just one! If he died after, so be it, but he hoped to get at least one.

  He could no longer hear the beat of the rotors. Ahmed hoped they hadn’t flow away. He kept running, though, just in case. He knew this cave was undiscovered, unknown to the Soviets. He knew his hideaway was safe. The Soviets would assume the village contained his men, and they’d approach it, only to be taken by surprise from behind.

  Ahmed prayed they had landed. He could kill more that way.

  The whole point of this cave, of its design, was to camouflage their location by having it near a village. This would keep the Soviets focused in the wrong direction. This cave was an integral part of this war, a base of operations that gave orders to thousands of Mujahideen. They coordinated attacks from here, and if found, they’d have to defend it.

  They should have refrained, remained hidden. But Ahmed insisted they come from hiding and fight. His men thought it was pride, thought it was because he cared for his people below, innocents mostly.

  But it had nothing to do with the villagers, his people. Ahmed wanted revenge, he wanted blood. Nothing more, nothing less.

  It would take his men a few minutes, but they’d gather up their gear and soon join this fight. Oh what a glorious day this would be. They’d exit into the daylight, weapons ready, prepared to kill and die for their cause.

  Just as Ahmed, they, too, wanted revenge.

  How dare the Soviets invade their land?

  How dare they. . .

  Ahmed kept jogging, turning the final corner with visions of a crashed helicopter and helpless pilots. He held his wicked grin and ran.

  Then, something unexpected happened. Ahmed heard a thud. It rattled the inside of the cave, giving him pause.

  Then another. And another. Ahmed paused a moment, listening intently. In the distance, he could hear a hiss, he could smell something strange, see a strange cloud roll through the cave toward him.

  Ahmed’s eyes opened wide. He was frozen in shock. The thick plume of smoke filled the cave. First green, then yellow, then red.

  Ahmed didn’t have time to run. He looked around, turning and taking a few steps. He tucked into an alcove, a mere gap in the rock wall, and pushed his body tight against it, eyes shielded.

  This provided little protection though.

  Minutes passed. Ahmed waited longer, attempting to hide in the rock wall.

  Thump.

  Another thud, this one louder, this was spewing its contents quickly.

  A denser, rolling black fog pushed at him, filling the tunnel and racing down into the cave.

  The smoke filled every crack, every crevice. It overwhelmed Ahmed in its darkness as he took a final deep breath and held it.

  The black chemical fog engulfed Ahmed.

  More came, an endless amount, filling the cave, drifting down deep, toward the others.

  The cave was now pitch black.

  Chaos ensued.

  *

  The twenty-four members of the Spetsnaz teams finally gathered at the top of the path, the mouth of the cave looming nearby. They scanned their surroundings, seeing no signs of life.

  No birds.

  No reptiles.

  The wind was even silent.

  They peered inside, but could hardly see anything. The dense black smoke had filled the cavern, the teams waiting impatiently as it dispersed. They listened intently, rifles ready. Not a whisper, not a groan. Nothing.

  They expected all were dead. This made their job easy. They would investigate, collect samples, but the truth of the matter was, the Muj had to be dead. Nobody could survive that, and the lack of noise inside the cavern was enough to put them at ease.

  The last missile hadn’t taken them by surprise as it had the helicopter crews. They knew of
its arrival. This mission compartmentalized each stage of the operation for the sake of the success of this well coordinated plan.

  Five more minutes passed, finally enough time for the chemical to have fully disappeared. The troops were curious about this, a bit reluctant too. The fog of black slowly wafted out, drifting up and away, eventually disappearing into the sky above.

  They waited even longer. They didn’t have much time to spare, but erred on the side of caution regardless. They knew what they were up against, or so they thought. Their nerves were rattled. None dare show it though, for that isn’t allowed among men in battle. There was no room for fear. It had to be tucked away deep, hidden in a lock box they would never open. Especially in combat.

  They expected combat, and though it appeared the chemical had killed everyone in the cave, they assumed the worst. They hid their fears and waited.

  There’s always fear, it’s a matter of how a man handles it that really matters. These men were of the warrior class, a group few could ever match.

  They would follow Colonel Kirov into the very gates of hell if need be. They’d brutalize their enemy, kill them, defeat them mentally. That was the Spetsnaz way, and Kirov and his men specialized in such matters.

  Finally enough time passed. Holding their AK-47s tight into their shoulders—cheek flush, muzzle control and movement near perfect—they started toward the cave.

  Their experience in unconventional warfare had done something important—they had entered dozens of caves, fought the Muj many times.

  But in this situation, they weren’t sure what to expect, prepared for anything. Not much surprised these men. They’d been up against incredible numbers, outnumbered ten to one at times. They’d fought hand-to-hand combat, they had watched their comrades die. This unit had held their comrades in their arms when the inevitable happened.

  Death.

  This chemical frightened them, though. They eased toward it cautiously. They had been assured by their superiors, by the scientists and tacticians and planners. But still, the unknowing bothered Kirov and his men. They had no clue what the chemical was, and if it had killed everyone inside, what would it do to them.