Wiping the blood off with a handkerchief, Dmitri retorted, “This is no war wound, comrade, it’s only a mere scratch. I wonder where Konstantin has run off to.
As if to answer this query, the gentle cry of a quail sounded to their right. An all-knowing grin spread across Grigori Yagoda’s face.
“I believe that’s our esteemed comrade calling to us now. I’ll give you odds that he’s cornered our quarry down below, and that he’s only waiting for our presence to do them away.”
“I learned long ago never to bet against you, Grigori Yagoda, and this time proves no exception.
Let’s go see what he’s found.”
Dmitri’s cheek wound had already stopped flowing by the time they spotted their coworker. Perched on a rocky ledge, several meters below them, Konstantin Lomakin pressed his index finger to his lips and beckoned them to join him. A minute later, they were at his side.
“We’ve got the whole lot of them, comrades. While you were busy with that machine gun nest, I spied over a dozen Mujahiddin crawl into a cave whose entrance is right below us. Not only were they heavily armed with two rifles apiece, but they were carrying several ammo crates that could have only come from our convoy.”
With this revelation, Grigori Yagoda couldn’t help but smile. Not taking the time out to verbally respond, he began examining the composition of the rock shelf on which they currently stood. Only then did he speak.
“This limestone should be easy to fracture. I’d say that, if we lay a line of plastic explosive along the lip of this ledge, we should be able to take down a good chunk of the hillside above us. If the concussion doesn’t return them to Allah, I’ll guarantee you that they’ll be trapped inside that tomb of rock for all eternity. That should give these Warriors of God plenty of time to contemplate the type of adversary they’ve chosen to challenge.”
Most happy with this plan, the three Spetsnaz commandos began the task of lining the ledge with white, clay-like chunks of plastic explosive. It was Grigori who expertly connected the remote-controlled detonators. Then he led his men off to shelter. Once they were settled at a safe distance, Grigori held up the battery-powered detonator trigger and, before pressing it, whispered vindictively, “This is for the lives of General Pavel Valerian and the rest of his brave troops. May their deaths be not in vain!”
With the completion of this brief valediction, he hit the button and a deafening series of blasts sounded.
This was followed by the terrifying sound of an avalanche, as the wall of rock lying above the exploding ledge tumbled downward in a single, swift motion.
The crashing wave of solid rock caused a huge veil of debris to form over the blast site. It took almost five full minutes for this cloud to settle and for the commandos to check the results firsthand.
Careful not to slip on the tons of loose rock that their detonation had created, the three soldiers picked their way down the mountainside. They were surprised to find that the ledge on which they had set the explosives no longer existed. In its place was a tumbled mass of huge boulders. Since this ledge had also served as the cave’s roof, there was no doubting that the Afghans who had been hiding inside it were nothing but crushed heaps of bloody flesh and smashed bone. With this in mind, the soldiers knew their revenge was finally completed.
A hushed silence possessed their ranks as Grigori Yagoda led them back up to the hillside’s crest. Once they had reached the summit, Dmitri Andreyev activated a flare. Minutes later, they were aware of a chopping clatter echoing down the valley’s sheer walls. It was Konstantin Lomakin who first spotted the Mi-24 gunship as it swept in from the northeast.
A single rope ladder was visible, swaying from the vehicle’s fuselage hatchway. Soon it was hovering above them, and one by one the squadron made its way upward into the helicopter’s main cabin.
Taking only the time to straighten his beret, Grigori Yagoda proceeded immediately to the cockpit.
There he was greeted by the anxious pilot.
“Welcome back, comrade. I hope your mission was a successful one because top priority orders are calling you back to Kabul. I’ve been instructed to return you there with all due haste.”
Without further comment, the pilot turned his attention back to the vehicle’s controls and initiated a long sweeping turn. Soon they were headed back down the valley, toward the southeast.
The dusk had turned to night, and Grigori sat back emotionally drained. This empty feeling always accompanied him when he returned from combat.
The thrill of standing on the precarious border between life and death was an exhausting one. Fighting the heaviness that weighed down his eyelids, Grigori thought about the nature of the orders that were calling them back to Kabul. He could only hope that this directive would further allow him to take the war deeper into the enemy’s homeland. This anticipation dominated his thoughts as he surrendered himself to a sound, dreamless sleep.
As darkness enveloped the dry, desolate hills of Afghanistan, the noon rains were drenching the plains of French Guiana. No one was more aware of this downpour than Colonel Jean Moreau. For the past five minutes he had been guiding his jeep down the mud-splattered roadway, towards Ariadne’s southern security perimeter. At his side sat his assistant, Jacques LeMond.
Both men did their best to see out of the vehicle’s windshield, yet the rains fell in such a volume that the jeep’s wipers fought a vain battle. Inside the non-airconditioned vehicle, it was hot and sticky. In order to keep the inside of the windows free from steam, Moreau was forced to keep his window cracked open several inches. Oblivious to the rain that completely soaked his left shoulder, he hunched forward in an attempt to get a better view of the road before them.
Not a word was exchanged between them” as Moreau focused his total concentration on his driving.
Even then, the kilometers seemed to pass by with a maddening slowness. Hesitant to increase their speed, the colonel fought the instinct to hit the brakes when the jeep plowed into a rain-swollen depression. Only when they passed through a familiar, overgrown portion of the jungle did a breath of relief pass his lips.
On the other side of this thick copse of fern and coconut palms was a wide clearing. There the road skirted its southern flank. A seven-foot tall, barbed wire-topped, chain-link fence separated this portion of the clearing from the jungle beyond. They followed the fence, visible on their right, for almost a half kilometer before Moreau spotted the parked security jeep blocking the road before them. Pulling in behind this vehicle, he hit the brakes and turned off the ignition.
“Well, here it goes, Jacques,” observed Moreau solemnly.
“I have a feeling it’s not going to be pretty.”
Responding to this comment with a shrug, Le-Mond pulled down the visor of his Montreal Expos baseball cap and shoved the door open. Moreau was quick to join him outside.
The rain fell in blindingly thick sheets, yet they spotted the three armed sentries almost at once.
Standing beside the fence, the sentries had their attention locked on the ground beside them. By the time the newcomers joined them, both Moreau and his assistant were thoroughly soaked.
To a crackling boom of thunder, Moreau caught sight of the sickening scene that held the guards’ attention. Lying on their backs in a straight line were five black laborers. They were stripped to their waists, and each of the corpses had its throat cut and a bullet hole squarely in its forehead. Because the rains had long ago washed the stiff bodies of blood, they seemed like artificial mannequins, yet Jean Moreau knew otherwise.