Vladdy fell fifteen swinging feet onto the rock-strewn ground.
Two helicopters made a run at him, fast and with their machine guns firing. They stripped the life from him as he lay oblivious of the pain from a broken shoulder, and cried for their help.
When they had killed the pilot, Vladdy, the helicopters strafed his big bird with rockets. The gunner had been told never to leave a downed helicopter, to wait for rescue. He died inside his nose canopy.
The helicopters rose, flinging their last vengeance at the caves in the valley walls, at the scattered caravan, and flew back to Jalalabad.
Major Medev landed at two o'clock.
As he came down the wheeled steps from the aircraft, Rostov was waiting for him. Medev saw the red rimmed eyes, heard the shocked quaver of the Captain's voice. Medev followed Rostov's gesture. He looked across to the helicopter revetments.
He saw the ground crew scrambling over four helicopters. He saw four.
For a moment Medev seemed to stumble, but he caught himself, and it was the briefest indiscretion. He looked Rostov in the eye. 'Tell me what happened…' Medev said calmly.
In the afternoon, after the sun had dipped behind a rain cloud and the valley lay in shadow, long after the caravan had disappeared up the side valley in the west, Barney walked from his cave.
He walked across the open ground in the middle of the valley carrying the body of Maxie Schumack. He had loaded the last of the missiles and tied the launcher to his back pack. On one shoulder was slung his own rifle, on the other was the American's Kalashnikov. Barney's forearms were out in front of him and made a cradle for Schumack's body.
He walked past the body of the pilot, and past the helicopter. He walked through an orchard where the trees' leaf cover had been stripped to the ground. He skirted an old 500kg bomb crater.
He walked to where Ahmad Khan stood, his men in a half crescent around him.
He said nothing. He laid the body on the ground close to Ahmad Khan's feet, and put the rifle beside it. He knelt and kissed the white cheeks of Maxie Schumack. He wiped a blood stain from his hand onto his trousers.
Mia stood alone, apart from the men.
Barney took her hand lightly in his own. He saw the dribble of tears in the dust on her face.
'We will go in the morning. We have to go before the snow closes the passes,' he said.
Chapter 22
While it was still dark, in the quiet of his quarters, Pyotr Medev dressed.
For once he ignored the brief elasticated pants and the cotton vest that were habitual to him. He pulled over his body the combination thermal wool garment favoured by the pilots when winter is coming, when they fly high in the mountains. He selected a pair of heavy knit socks. In place of a starched shirt, he took from a drawer the sweat top that carried on the chest the crest of Eight Nine Two. He left on the hanger in the wardrobe his uniform tunic top and the matching trousers with the blue piping on the seam line, he struggled into his one-piece flying suit and pulled the zipper from waist to neck.
From another drawer he lifted his flying cap. From the bottom of the wardrobe he picked out his soft leather flying boots, ponderous but lightweight, and dust covered.
He blew the dust from his boots, sat on his unmade bed to draw them onto his feet. He felt a warmth and a sense of comfort now that he was dressed for flying. He looked around his room, it did not concern him that he might not see the room again. The room had been his home for a year. A small bare room with little of ornament and less of decoration. An anonymous room, and easy for a new man to slip into the bed of a flier who had no need of it because a bodybag was taking him home.
Before he left the room he reached out to the bedside table and took from it the leather-cased photograph of his wife. He took her photograph from behind the glass and held it near to the light and close to his face, and saw the slight smile on the lips and the careworn eyes and the blonde hair that had been prepared for the photographer. From the bedside table he took, also, the cellophane folder that contained his military identity card. He placed the photograph of his wife into the folder, covering the card.
He went to the door. He switched off the light, he closed the door quietly behind him. He walked away down the corridor.
The memories of the previous evening swam over him as he walked the bright strip-light length of the corridor.
Start at the beginning, start with Rostov, quivering in jelly nerves, telling the story of the loss of the pilot's, Vladdy's, helicopter. Move on from the beginning to the grounding of the squadron, what remained of it, on the express and personal order of the Frontal Aviation commander. Continue the road, listening to the report of the Antonov's spotter who said that a large caravan had moved immediately after the airborne attack from the valley and high into the mountains to the west. Finish at the end, finish with the scathing anger of the Frontal Aviation commander and Pyotr Medev face to face across the desk of the commander's office.
'The squadron is grounded because it has proved unable to carry out the duties assigned to it, because it has repeatedly provided false information on the capabilities of the enemy. I will not stand aside and see young pilots butchered for a piece of rock that means little to the strategy of our operations. The caravan will be interdicted from Kabul when it is further down the line, out of our responsibility. For fuck's sake, Medev, don't you understand anything? Your squadron has been slaughtered, it's barely operational…I'll tell you what I'm going to do, I am relieving you of your command and I don't give a shit whether you like it or you don't like it. At the end of the week you're going home. Get out of this office, Medev, before you say things that will have a permanent effect on your record, on your career. The valley is not worth the loss of another helicopter, certainly not worth the loss of another pilot…'
Seven doors down, on the left side of the corridor, was the room of Captain Rostov. Medev went inside without the courtesy of a preliminary knock. He switched on the light. Rostov was sitting up in bed, blinking at the ceiling light. He wore florid red and orange and blue pyjamas. Without speaking, Medev went to the wardrobe, rifled out of it a winter anorak with synthetic fur lining and a roll neck sweater, and the severely polished boots, and thick socks and wet weather trouser overalls. He threw the clothes and the boots onto Rostov's bed, across his legs. He thought that if Rostov had protested he would have hit him, bloodied his mouth. He saw the tin of talcum beside Rostov's basin, and the bottle of aftershave lotion, and the canister of underarm deodorant spray.
'Five minutes. In the operations room.' Medev said.
Medev went out of the sleeping quarters building, into the small hours' darkness. He saw the bright perimeter lights. He saw a cruising jeep of MilPol. He saw the tanks, nose down, behind their bulldozed earthworks. He saw the helicopters in their revetments with the gaping spaces between them.