His gut instinctively tensed as the pilot also saw the smoke and opened up the gunship’s throttles. In instant response, the dual Isotov turbo shafts roared alive, and the helicopter surged forward with a speed of over 275 kilometers per hour.
Less than two miles later, their worst fears were realized as the gunship reached the burning remains of the column that they had been sent to intercept. As they hovered above the wreckage, Grigori identified the burnt-out shells of three BMP infantry combat vehicles. Lying on their sides, in front of the BMP’s, were a pair of eight-wheeled BTR-6 armored personnel carriers. Next to these were the remains of four troop carriers. Even from their present height, Grigori could pick out the dozens of bodies that lay beside these trucks. A wave of anger possessed him as the gunship circled the smoking hulk of the convoy’s lead vehicle, a T-62 main battle tank.
“Take us down!” ordered Grigori Yagoda sternly.
“But the ones who were responsible for this massacre,” countered the pilot, “surely they’re close by.”
Not believing that he was being challenged, Grigori swept his icy stare to his left and directly caught that of the pilot. No more words were needed, and the captain pushed forward on the gunship’s stick. Its nose dipped in response.
The Mi-24 landed on a rock-strewn clearing immediately beside the troop carriers. First out of its fuselage was a pair of Spetsnaz commandos. As experienced members of Grigori Yagoda’s squadron, both Konstantin Lomakin and Dmitri Andreyev knew their responsibilities. Angling their Kalashnikov rifles upwards, the dark, moustached soldiers, who could have passed for twins, took up defensive positions at the clearing’s perimeter. With the gunship’s rotors still madly cutting through the air above them, their leader jumped onto the clearing from the Mi-24’s interior.
Armed with an AKS-74 assault rifle, Grigori signaled the chopper pilot to return the vehicle to the sky. Each of the soldiers covered his eyes as the gunship’s engines increased their whine. To a whipping cloud of dust, the Mi-24 broke contact with the ground and began a wide sweep of the surrounding hillside.
The relief was instantaneous. The dust soon settled and the engine’s roar faded. Grigori Yagoda took in the sickening scene that he had viewed from above.
The mountain air was cool with dusk, yet the ripe, putrid scent of death was everywhere. Fighting back the nauseous urge to empty his gut, Grigori crossed through a line of stiff, blood-soaked bodies. Each of these lifeless corpses was dressed in the khaki fatigues of the Motherland’s infantry. When he noticed that his unfortunate countrymen were stripped of their weapons and some of their clothing, Grigori’s pulse quickened. When his forward progress interrupted a trio of vultures feeding on the body of a sergeant, his rage exploded. Whipping his rifle upward, he let loose with a deafening blast, and seconds later the birds of prey were nothing but a pile of bloody flesh and feathers.
His limbs were still trembling as he made it to the lead truck’s side. Surprised that the rebels were able to take out such a heavily armored vehicle, he inspected its shell to determine the cause of its demise. It was as his eyes spotted the jagged black hole created by an exploding land mine that he stumbled over the legs of one of his fallen comrades. He peered down to identify this corpse and recognized it instantly. Though the body was decapitated, with the head nowhere to be seen, there could be no denying the officer’s bars that decorated this soldier’s corpulent torso.
General Pavel Valerian had been the senior Soviet officer stationed in Afghanistan. Though his rank afforded him the relatively safe luxury of remaining at their base of operations in Kabul, the old-timer wouldn’t think of missing real action. A veteran of the Great War itself. Valerian had personally served with Grigori’s grandfather. Together they had accounted for hundreds of Nazi barbarians in that greatest of all modern military conflicts.
For Valerian to have met death in such an inglorious manner, in this godforsaken, desolate wilderness, was a travesty of justice. Surely a hero of the Soviet Union deserved better. With this thought in mind, Grigori stood upright and issued a resounding curse at the top of his lungs. The urge for revenge guided his steps as he breathlessly rejoined the other two members of his squad and called the gunship back to pick them up.
“What kind of force could have been responsible for this massacre?” queried Konstantin Lomakin as they waited for the helicopter to return from its sweep of the hills.
“Never before have the Mujahiddin demonstrated such firepower.”
“I’ll bet they were using our own weapons,” observed Dmitri Andreyev bitterly.
“May our soldiers who trade their guns for hashish die a thousand horrible deaths!”
Grigori Yagoda watched their gunship sweep in from the northwest.
“Well, the one thing that we can be certain of is that the rebels who caused this slaughter are even better armed now. They’ve gained over one hundred of our last rifles in this attack, and untold amounts of grenades and ammunition.”
“My gut aches for revenge!” spat Dmitri Andreyev, who looked up as the Mi-24 began its descent.
Screaming over the roar of its engines, Grigori Yagoda added, “Join the crowd, comrade. I’d say it’s time we begin to start evening the score. How about it?”
There could be no ignoring the expressions of pure hatred on the commandos’ faces as they piled into the gunship. When it again took to the sky, Grigori watched the fading line of smoldering wreckage from the copilot’s position.
“Shall we return to Kabul and bring back the entire company?” quizzed the pilot.
Grigori’s response was delivered without hesitation.
“There’s no time for that. Captain. By the time we got back here, the ones responsible for this massacre will be long gone. I want you to take us to Bamian.”
“What can we possibly do there alone?” queried the pilot.
“We need back-up on this.”
“Like hell we do!” screamed Grigori, his face flushed with contained anger.
“Turn this gunship westward, comrade, or I’ll be forced to fly it there myself.”
Most aware that the man sitting next to him was quite capable of this feat, the pilot turned the nose of the Mi-24 back towards the sunset. Outside, the horizon was tainted with gold as the sun inched behind the encircling mountains. As they continued on down the valley’s spine, a hushed silence settled inside the cockpit’s interior. The pilot’s attention returned to his instruments, and Grigori’s inner vision returned to the smoking column.
Though he was certainly no stranger to death, the thirty-two-year-old commando would take to his grave the tragic sights he had just experienced. To see so many stiff corpses in one spot truly sickened him.
With their putrid scent still flavoring each breath that passed his nostrils, Grigori craved only a single course of action. Revenge would be the medicine that would purge this poison from his system.
The monotonous chop of the gunship’s rotors rattled on, and Grigori stirred with impatience. Below him, by the light of the gathering dusk, he noticed that the terrain was gradually changing. Thick stands of lowlying scrub and an occasional gnarled tree gripped the ground that had supported only rocks and sand before. When their progress took them over a tumbling stream, he spotted acre after acre of ripening wheat in the distance. As they crossed over these fields, the first shabby human habitations became visible. Crudely constructed out of bleached rock and dried timber, these simple structures made for an inviting target. Grigori fought the impulse to spray them with bullets. Nevertheless, his hands gripped the firecontrol panel as the gunship roared over a series of needle-like hillsides and broke into a wide, fertile clearing.