Khost Read online

  Dying by the result of chemical warfare was one thing.

  Dying a slow death due to these same weapons was another.

  It frightened them, more than the Mujahideen even, but they locked that fear away, instead turning it into mere caution.

  They would go in. They would hope they weren’t sacrificial lambs.

  “Let’s move,” Kirov finally ordered. “Don’t hear anything, so let’s do this. Go slow, keep your masks on.”

  “Will they even work?”

  “Who the hell knows,” Kirov responded. “Doesn’t matter, we go in anyway. Looks like most is gone at least, just like they said. Expect heavy resistance. They might be dead, or they might be killing machines. Fucking crazies might be in there.”

  The Spetsnaz, in their morbid humor, chuckled at the notion.

  The best, Colonel Kirov thought.

  The best.

  Kirov turned to one of his men, Boris. He was a giant of a man from Siberia, a man not to be trifled with. Kirov said, “If we can get someone to surrender, bag them. If they protest, kill the fuckers. I don’t care what we were told, if they resist, we’ll kill them all. No survivors. They shoot, you shoot back.”

  “Understood, Comrade Colonel,” Boris said.

  “Our orders are to analyze the results, take a few samples, see with our own eyes. Then, we get out quick and get back on those helicopters,” Kirov added.

  “Colonel, what exactly are we looking for?” Boris asked.

  “Don’t know and don’t care. If there are Muj in there, we’ll use extreme prejudice. We’ll eradicate anyone who resists. Now let’s move. Into the cave, ladies!” Kirov ordered. He then raised his own rifle and moved slowly into the darkness.

  21

  The dark abyss surrounded Kirov and his men. They had gone maybe twenty meters in and everything was already black. The opening to the cave was wide, thirty meters, and the tunnel that ran downhill was long, sloping into the mountain. Who knew what lay in its depths. Eighty meters of a slow decline, down into the cave, into the mouth of madness.

  The tunnel had lighting, barely enough. Sporadic lights offered them little support, and the twenty-four Spetsnaz turned on their flashlights.

  Better, but not much.

  They moved onward, green team leading, yellow next, Kirov and red team taking the rear. They closed in, the tunnel gradually tightening, finally closing to ten meters. Shoulder to shoulder, green team marched forward, AK-47s ready.

  They courageously moved on . . .

  . . . trespassing into darkness.

  Their breaths were short, a strange noise as they exhaled through their respirators.

  Hiss . . . hiss.

  Their plastic suits made too much noise, restricted their movement. They kept as silent as possible though, using basic hand signals and proper movement.

  They ventured deep. Their flashlights were taped to the edge of their barrels. It caused the muzzle to be heavy, to drift down, but they’d compensate. Others also carried handheld flashlights, helping brighten the cave.

  Down and down.

  Step after step.

  The temperature dropped as they neared the end of the corridor. Looking back, they could barely see the remnants of the outside light, their only passage back to safety.

  They remained at the end of the tunnel, listening, observing.

  Then, they heard a noise. At first, they couldn’t decipher it. But after a few moments, they realized it was human, a low groan filtering through the tunnel. It was sickening, grotesque, and chills ran up their spines.

  Survivors.

  It was the sound of men and women in agony. It was ominous, and the men then knew they were in trouble.

  “Colonel, what the hell is that?” called out a corporal to Kirov’s left, the man’s eyes wide, his voice muffled through the mask.

  “Maybe the wind, maybe not. Sounds like someone is injured to me. Remember, we need to attempt to capture a few if they’re still alive. If they resist, just shoot them,” Kirov reminded. He was hesitant himself, perhaps the first time in his military career where he felt that feeling. It was strange to him, the uncertainty. The feeling that he might actually die.

  He locked it away; threw away the key.

  Kirov shouldered his AK-47, pointing it to the far end of the tunnel. He pushed up close toward the green team, a meter away like a Greek phalanx. Kirov could pump thirty rounds of 7.62x39mm rounds into a Muj in under three seconds, and he wasn’t the sort of man to hesitate. He hated the Mujahideen, hated their unconventional tactics, hated their unwillingness to surrender. Kirov felt as if they were playing unfair, though he was a realist, a seasoned veteran. He knew there were no rules when it came to war.

  That being said, Kirov also hated his own country’s tactics. He despised the use of chemicals, figuring if they couldn’t win this war head to head, there was no point. Chemical weapons had no honor. The kill didn’t justify the means. But the powers that be had insisted, and were adamant about attempting this experiment. Kirov, of course, complied.

  The tunnel had a rock end, and an opening to the right. It turned, a sharp ninety degree angle that led into the next tunnel. This one narrower, just as long.

  Green team fanned out, taking the corner with six men in perfect unison. Two quick steps, they came around. Their muzzles pointed down the hallway.

  “Clear!” they reported.

  Green team moved forward, followed by yellow and red. Less light here, less room to maneuver.

  They neared the end, wondering what was around the next corner. This one wasn’t as sharp, but led in one direction only. Left. They fanned out, green team following the same tactic.

  The smell hit them at once. Even with their masks on, they could smell it. A faint stench, it was putrid, tingling their noses, they tasted its rotten flavor.

  “Fucking masks don’t work,” Boris commented.

  Everyone agree, and within three seconds, they all tossed them to the ground. The smell was a bit harsher, but not unbearable. At least now they could speak. At least now they didn’t feel constricted by the respirators.

  A bit longer and Kirov stepped closer to green leader, asking, “Anything?”

  “Negative, Comrade Colonel,” Morozov said. This was Kirov’s second in command. “The chemical seems to have dissipated, think it’s gone mostly. With some luck, that smell doesn’t mean we’re fucked.”

  “Am I going to get some strange disease?” Boris asked, worried that the women back in his village wouldn’t sleep with him if he had some disease.

  “Our instruments tell us there’s no harm and I just tested another soil sample. Looks clean. Think the chemical won’t hurt us,” Morozov said.

  “Good,” Kirov said, a bit impatient. “Keep moving, take that next corner. This cave will open up at some point. We caught them early, so most would have been sleeping. Now move! They must be in here somewhere.”

  On and on.

  Step after step.

  Kirov and his men continued their search. They’d stop at corners, fan around, move along more hallways.

  Left, then right.

  Right, then left.

  Each turn, each heart racing moment when they came around the corner expecting a gunfight, they grew more tense, more jumpy. This cave was built well, and the Spetsnaz cursed the Americans for helping the Mujahideen build such a fortress. Sure, the Soviets had aided the Viet Cong not all that long ago, but it made them bitter at the moment.

  The farther from daylight, the farther from their way out—the Mi-24s—the more anxious they became.

  They snapped around yet another corner, their motion fluid, as one, a perfect work of art. They’d been through thick and thin many times, had learned valuable tactics as this war raged on. They moved in perfect unison, each man knowing the exact movements of his comrade. Each man willing to die for the next. They were a cohesive unit, prepared for anything.

  Another corner, just like the last. Except this time, green
team halted. They pointed their AK-47s, forward stance, fingers on the triggers.

  Silence.

  No movement, green team was frozen at the opening of a massive cavern.

  “Report,” Kirov said, unable to see and moving forward.

  Silence.

  “Report, dammit! What the hell is it? Muj?” Kirov growled, forcing his way past one of the green team members. He looked into the massive room, and the sight before him filled the Colonel with dread.

  The cavern opened, the space wide. It was the first of many control rooms, perhaps twenty meters tall, forty meters wide. It was big, housing many tables and chairs. A long row of computers, a cache of AK-47s, grenades, knives and other killing devices lined the walls. Electrical lines ran along the wall, communication lines above. There were radios, a complex communications network, running water. File cabinets and desks of papers and maps filled the room.

  Four large lamps were mounted high up, three working, the fourth flickering from time to time. The back of the cave was hard to see, a shadow at the end of this room and the entrance to yet another.

  And though these Spetsnaz had entered many caves, had seen some that were quite sophisticated, this was nothing they’d ever seen before. The room was intricate, no doubt well funded by the Americans.

  Though the light wasn’t bright enough, it added to their vision immensely, the ability to see better was reassuring.

  At first.

  Overall, everything seemed normal.

  That is, except for the carnage.

  An unnerving chill crawled up their spines. Even the legendary Colonel Kirov felt fear. That box that was supposed to be kept locked away—it popped open, and it haunted the man.

  The stench of death, they now knew the source. There were at least two dozen bodies. Mostly men, but a few women and a boy no older than nine. The butchery was unimaginable, and even the Spetsnaz, who were brutal in their own right, were downright appalled.

  They had slaughtered their own.

  The two dozen bodies were strewn about. Some were scattered across desks and tables, others stacked in neat piles, almost as if on display.

  Heads were lobbed off. Arms ripped out. Wide gashes and what looked like bite wounds ravished the dead bodies.

  For some reason, Kirov looked up. He was disgusted by the sight of human intestines hanging from the lights above. He couldn’t imagine how they could have gotten up there.

  As they moved in, Boris felt something at his feet. The teams had spread out in groups of three, and his team moved right. He nearly jumped, looking down, seeing the head of an Afghani woman at his feet. A portion of her spine was still attached to the open throat, its contents seeping out. The woman’s hair was black, long, she appeared to be in her forties, though it was hard to tell. Her skin had turned yellow in color, a sign that death was recent.

  Boris stared down at her, even as his two partners kept moving. He couldn’t help it, the sight terrified him. The woman’s right eyeball had been plucked out, her left eye half swollen. That remaining eye seemed to stare at him. It even blinked a few times.

  “I don’t . . . I don’t,” Boris began, shock starting to take hold of the big Russian.

  Kirov moved in fast, pushing the large man forward. “Move your ass.”

  “But Comrade Colonel, she’s . . . she’s looking at me,” Boris said, panic in his voice.

  “Do your job or get a bullet,” Kirov stated, pushing the man past. He wouldn’t allow one of his men to freeze up, under no circumstances were soldiers to allow such things to mess with their heads in combat. That mind-fuck was meant for later. When they were back home, when they were asleep—in their nightmares.

  But that would come later, and Kirov pushed the man, who finally snapped to and pressed forward.

  More gore, more filth.

  They cleared half the room, keeping a careful eye on the far edge, where it was dark. They scanned the computers, the maps, whatever else they could see. This was an enemy hideout, and they took a few moments to collect INTEL.

  Finally, Morozov came to Kirov, saying, “Colonel, I don’t think it worked. They said the Muj would be alive, but this isn’t alive, sir. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. And how it did, I couldn’t possibly understand.”

  “You think those chemicals did this?” Kirov asked, pointing to the carnage.

  “I don’t know what could have caused this!”

  “The chemical worked just the way they wanted. We need to move on, because there are indeed survivors.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because something did this. Somebody killed these people, and did it in quick order.”

  “Killed their own?”

  “Yes. And did so in a way I’ve never imagined. Now move,” Kirov said.

  They rounded another corner, a short hallway. Three more bodies, all men, all having suffered grievous wounds. Their skin peeled back, insides gutted.

  Ensuring the men were dead, the soldiers moved past, stepping around the heinous scene.

  Another turn and they stopped at the entrance of another wide cavern. It wasn’t as wide, but held four different entrances.

  “What the hell is this?” Morozov declared. He stared in utter fear, terror overtaking him. His words were hardly audible as he lowered his voice to a near whisper, “I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve never heard of anything like this. Colonel, what happened here?”

  The scene before them was worse than the last. It was the art of a madman. They counted sixteen dead bodies, a giant pile of body parts were stacked in an orderly pile. It was the vilest thing these men had seen. One of Kirov’s men stepped back, throwing up, unable to control himself.

  The scene was a nightmare.

  “Sir?” Morozov asked, turning to the Colonel.

  “Speak,” Kirov grunted.

  “Anyone who would do this must truly be insane. And how was this possible in such a short time?”

  “Agreed, this is baffling. We must expect resistance.”

  “Colonel, the mission is a success,” Morozov said. “I think the Muj are dead.”

  Kirov turned, glaring harshly at his second in command. “You’re calling this a success? It’s a fucking disaster, an utter failure. Whoever thought up this plan to make a super-soldier failed. They created animals—monsters. Not soldiers!”

  22

  Ahmed had crawled deeper into the cave using a small, tight tunnel. The black fog had surpassed him, stretching into the bowels of the abyss, no doubt affecting everyone inside. This didn’t bother him, though. Nothing did. The few people he did pass were already dealt with. Ahmed had killed them, though at the moment, he didn’t know why. What he did know was this: it felt good. Ahmed couldn’t help it. He had used his rifle as a club, his knife, his bare hands. He even bit a few, enjoying the taste of their flesh, their blood.

  Oddly enough, he found nothing wrong with his actions. They felt perfectly normal.

  Coughing, Ahmed wondered what was happening. At first, he believed the chemical would kill him. The fucking Soviets used chemical weapons mercilessly, and he figured this was it, that his time was over.

  Accepting his fate, he had sucked it deep into his lungs, a strange, sticky muck coating his skin. Ahmed’s eyes stung, his joints ached; he knew death was near.

  But, Ahmed felt something different.

  Instead of death, he felt something else.

  He felt more alive than ever before!

  His breathing returned to normal, the salty taste of human blood in his mouth. He was neither remorseful nor glad he had killed them.

  Had he eaten their flesh?

  That was a possibility.

  Ahmed sat in the corner, attempting to gather his thoughts. He had been an intelligent man, but at this moment, intelligence was far beneath him. Something was changing in him, changing how he thought, how he felt.

  Ahmed looked to an AK-47 that lay near, propped against the wall. Then he looked down to th
e discarded RPG, dropped and forgotten. Instincts told him to pick up his arms, to do what he’d always done. The only thing was, he no longer needed them. He knew this, though not why. Something inside Ahmed caused him to cast the weapons aside.

  It was time to hunt.

  The metamorphosis had begun instantly, and Ahmed knew he was changing. He felt his muscles bulge, heard his shirt ripping. He held his hands up in front of his face, and though it was nearly pitch black where he sat, he could see his hands were growing larger, his fingernails longer, almost claw-like. He scratched at his arm, cut into his own skin, the sensation like no pleasure he had ever felt before. He did so again and again, loving the bliss it brought him. Then, he reached up and touched his face, stroking the long scar. This rebirth, this growth, filled him with pain—his jaw protruding, his teeth elongating, his head warping into something bigger, something not human.

  Ahmed screamed out, the pain unbearable, though he seemed to also enjoy it. The insanity of his transformation brought him a new life, a new feeling of hope. He then touched the rock wall, the cavern speaking to him not in words, but in a slow, steady pulse. He felt connected to the cave, to his people. Though he had slaughtered a few dozen, there were many more, and he attempted to control his rage. Ahmed knew he’d need his warriors, he knew he needed them to get payback. He sensed their agony, and wept for their pain. He wasn’t a man to show such concern, but this chemical had done something to his emotions, causing him to feel a mixture of confusing thoughts and feelings.

  Then, Ahmed’s mind cleared. The smoke was completely gone, having seeped into his pores, into the cave walls. He felt something now, a strong feeling he had never felt before. He could hear heartbeats, not of his men, but of intruders. He sniffed the air, smelling the approaching Soviets. Though they spoke in soft whispers, with his amplified hearing, Ahmed could hear every word of Kirov and his men.

  The Soviets had dared to enter his cave, his domain.

  Ahmed’s newly heightened awareness caused him to feel all life-forms within the cave—human, animal, even plant life.