But in the Soviet Union, that mattered little. The Soviet Union needed to win this war, and their transition into unconventional means took them to the extremes.
Bio-agents and chemical weapons.
They deformed, they crippled the Mujahideen.
But the enemy kept coming. For every one they could kill, three more filled their ranks. Afghanistan had never known what a loss felt like, centuries of warfare and never conquest. They’d fight to the end, every last one of them, no matter what the Soviets used.
Mikhail had thought the demand was impossible, and sitting here now, he still did.
They were setting him up for failure. Their losses would be blamed on his failure to produce the impossible. They didn’t understand the science, their only goal to increase their odds, to compete on the world stage.
The Soviets had assumed, after World War II, that they could fight any military. This wasn’t the case in Afghanistan, because there was no true military.
To counter, the Soviets needed humans that weren’t afraid, that could go places a regular man could not.
Even the Spetsnaz, world renown, were afraid of going into certain areas, afraid of the Mujahideen.
Mikhail was successful, at least in theory. In the hectic months, twenty hour days, he and his team had done the impossible. They loaded warheads on rockets designed with specific devises that would trigger the chemical. A chain reaction would follow once the warhead went off, and when the first chemical met the oxygen, a gas formed.
Then, another substance would release, mixing, then another…
… and little did he know, there was a fourth.
15
The three Mi-24s landed approximately a hundred meters from the base of the mountain. They could see the village in the distance. They saw a lot of movement.
The peak of the canyon’s tallest mountain seemed to climb to the clouds above, rocky and dangerous terrain. The mountain went on and on, connected to the canyon walls, tall sheets of sheer misery.
The cave was less than a hundred meters up, though the journey on foot was only for the most hardened people.
Drago stared, watching the red smoke spout from the cave. He wondered what would happen next. He wondered why the mystery, why the lack of details.
Drago knew why the Spetsnaz were aboard his helicopter. He knew why these elite warriors of the Soviet Union were here, dressed for combat, ready for action.
He figured they were to test the results.
To see how many had been killed.
The thought crept up on him once more, the idea of gassing someone to death, a target where he couldn’t know if it contained any innocents, any commoners caught in this horrible war.
Drago shut the engines down. He could hear the soft whipping the rotor made as all grew quiet. The soldiers were de-boarding, preparing to go into the cave, and Drago reached for his microphone.
“Kilo Base, this is Firebird Alpha Red. We’ve landed, engines quiet. Boots are on the ground. Please advise,” Drago said.
No response.
It was as if he didn’t exist.
Again, such vague orders.
It made no sense. Nothing did.
Though they carried no weapons, they could have offered aerial support. The three Mi-24s would have been much more effective high in the air, looking for targets, looking for possible threats. They were the targets now, alone in the lion’s den.
But an order was an order, and no doubt this mission was of the highest importance. Drago wouldn’t question it, despite the look from his weapons specialist, as well as the other flight teams now congregating nearby.
They felt safer in numbers. They wanted to be close to the men with guns, and looked to Drago for answers.
“What is this, Comrade Captain?” one of the pilots asked, walking up. He was terrified, his face showed it. “This makes us nervous, sir. Very nervous.”
“I don’t like it either, but nothing we can do. That village is about five hundred meters away, maybe six. We took them by surprise, but no doubt they’re arming up. If there’s Muj there, we’ll have some trouble. Within the next half hour, we’ll have them on us.”
“What do we do, Comrade Captain?” Suvorov asked.
“We’re trained, did you forget?” Drago asked sternly. “There’s one AK-47 per helicopter. Two hundred rounds. You qualified, did you not?”
“Yes, Captain Drago.”
“Good. Then take your best man and arm him. Everyone also has a pistol. I would suggest carrying it. Loaded.”
The six men, three pilots and three weapons specialists, stared at one another. With obvious worry on their faces, they obeyed, not liking it one bit, but doing so nonetheless. Drago’s advice was good, and they rushed to arm themselves.
“Now spread out a bit,” Drago said to the flight crews. “Keep a good watch on that village. They get within two hundred meters, we’re starting our engines and climbing. I don’t care about orders, we’ll at least get up in the air and provide some support.”
“We’ll keep watch on the village, Comrade,” Suvorov said. “But what about that cave? Must be Muj in it, since we shot that smoke into it. What happens if they come out behind us?”
A stern voice interrupted. It was low, guttural and serious. “We’ll handle the cave. Just watch our flank.”
Everyone turned. They’d heard the commotion as the Soviet soldiers readied themselves, but paid little attention. Their thoughts were on the Mujahideen, and their predicament at hand.
Upon realizing it was the Spetsnaz team leader speaking, Drago snapped to attention, saying loudly, “Sir!”
16
Colonel Kirov was a legend, known among the ranks. He was a man of mystery, a dedicated warrior that did the Soviet Union’s dirty work. He was Spetsnaz, the most feared special forces group in Europe, and in command of over three hundred.
This particular unit hosted twenty-four, including Kirov himself.
Spetsnaz were great soldiers, though they somewhat lacked the tactics of American forces. They applied what was practical, less specialized but overall feared by the enemy. Though their tactics might have been a step behind the Americans, their harsh ways, their brutality, made up for it. They were an elite bunch, an insane bunch, and most importantly, not bound by any chains of conventional warfare.
They accomplished physical feats that were unbelievable, they were fearless, and vicious.
One tactic of the Spetsnaz, when dealing with rebels, was simple: Kill the guerillas, all of them. If hostages die, so be it. The Spetsnaz took such things as a personal attack, and would enact vicious revenge.
Then, after killing any rebels, they would chop off the heads of their enemy, sending them via care package to the local leaders. Once these packages were received, the Spetsnaz were left alone.
As the course of this conflict spiraled downward, the Spetsnaz learned from their mistakes, and by this point in the war had ditched their conventional methods. They practiced what was used against them, taking on asymmetrical means and tactics, using them to defeat the enemy. Whatever worked was their theory, and it was effective, albeit late.
Kirov had been in combat many years and had the wounds to prove it. He was in his late forties, already fully gray, this war taking its toll on the man. Kirov was battle hardened, a man who lived for war, a man who understood Mujahideen tactics. He employed them — Kirov’s unit was particularly effective in their brutal ways. They learned the Mujahideen only understood equal resistance, the more barbaric, the more the enemy respected you.