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 the 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.
Scorpions and bats.
Spiders and rodents.
The trickling spring of water deep down, the growing moss that needed no sunlight.
He felt connected, as if everything inside of the cave were a part of his very essence, his soul.
Then, he counted the intruders. He didn’t need to see them to know how many — twenty-four intruders were making their way close. They were armed, and he knew they were soldiers. He could hear their footsteps, hear their breaths. He could sense their anxiety.
Ahmed grinned, his mouth dripping long strands of white froth.
It was time.
His hand still placed on the tunnel wall, he called to them. He spoke to his warriors not in words, but with his mind. It was extraordinary, but he knew they heard him. A new awareness filled Ahmed, knowing his people were coming.
It was their time for vengeance.
Ahmed raced from the shadows.
23
The Su-25 was the premier Soviet fighter jet. NATO called it the ‘Frogfoot.’ The Soviets’ nickname for it was the ‘Rook.’
It was a single-seat, twin-engine jet designed for close air support for ground troops. It flew just under Mach one, quite fast for its time, the aircraft’s combat radius three hundred and seventy-five kilometers. It had been in production for six years now, flying counter-insurgency missions against the Mujahideen.
The Su-25s launched a total of one hundred and thirty-nine missiles of all types against their enemy. Each aircraft performed over three hundred and fifty sorties per year. By the end of the conflict, over twenty-one aircraft were lost in combat.
Overall, the aircraft was a work of art.
This one sailed through the sky, graceful and fast. The pilot at the controls was a younger man, knew no fear. He was skilled, perhaps one of the best, and felt invincible inside the cockpit.
He eased the throttle forward with his left hand, his body pulled back into his seat. Like the other members of this experiment, he, too, was hand-selected. He didn’t know why, though his ego told him it was because of his talent. There was some truth to that.
Today, he had a mission to do. It was classified top secret, came from the very top. He could see the tension on the faces of his handlers, and the pilot wanted to impress his superiors, wanted to move up in rank, garner more respect, more power.
Above nothing else, he loved to fly. It was his true passion, and the man was honored to fly into combat for his country. The exhilaration, the rush of excitement, the way he pushed the edge of the envelope — he smiled at the notion.
The pilot was an adrenaline junkie, he got off on flying. But he was also a patriot, dedicated to proving his worth. He believed in this cause, this fight. His perspective might have been different, for he felt this war was winnable. He was optimistic, felt the Soviets could do this. Perhaps this perspective was easy when flying at ten thousand feet. Perhaps it was because he was still young, mid-twenties, and naïve. Perhaps it was because the war machine, the Soviet propaganda worked.