The boy jumped up, reaching out and lashing around a soldier’s neck. His legs fastened around the man’s stomach, hands gripping the man’s neck. The boy squeezed, his long nails digging in.
The soldier screamed.
The boy leaned in, biting off the man’s nose, digging deeper with his nails, finding the artery, pulling it from the man’s neck.
The scream was just a gurgle, the death rattle of a brave man. Blood splashed from his artery, shooting out, soaking his men, his comrades. The man staggered, falling to the ground, the boy still atop him.
Then, the boy looked up, spitting the man’s nose at Kirov’s men.
The Spetsnaz couldn’t shoot while surrounding the boy. They’d hit their own men. They couldn’t easily retreat, the room was too cluttered.
They could only stare, the brave Spetsnaz in utter shock.
The boy’s demonic grin turned to Boris, who backed up a step.
The boy sprang, slashing and biting furiously as the large man attempted to throw him off. He flailed, his efforts unsuccessful.
Crunch. Crunch.
The others could hear the boy bite into their comrade’s face.
Boris’ death came quick, the man now out of the fight.
“Shoot!” Kirov shouted. Yellow team peeled back within seconds, the men positioning themselves away from crossfire. “Shoot!” Kirov screamed again, knowing Boris’ fate was already sealed.
They unloaded, dozens of rounds pumping into the boy — the creature. Their rounds struck true, pumping dead center into his body. The impact of the 7.62 rounds did their job. The child was flung back. Hot steel hit his entire body, burrowing deep in the boys flesh. A few more bursts and the boy was down, his chest ripped open by gunfire.
The men stopped. Green team replaced their magazines, followed by Red, then by Yellow.
The boy remained on the ground, what sounded like a scream of agony coming from him. The men were almost relieved, until they realized the sound wasn’t suffering or pain, but joy. The pain of their bullets, his imminent death, pleased the boy. The child twitched, leaking fluids.
Just before the boy perished, he did one thing. In a thunderous, most un-human sound the Soviets had ever heard, the boy called out.
Moments later, he was dead.
Colonel Kirov took a few steps closer, standing over the mutilated body. He pointed his AK-47 and fired another ten rounds into the boy’s head, turning it to a pulpy mess.
He had to be sure.
Silence filled the cavern, and with that silence brought sounds from afar.
The others.
Hundreds came from the depths of the cave.
Coming from the shadows.
Ahmed led the way.
29
The pilot changed his course. It took a few minutes, but it wasn’t wise to circle in the same direction over and over again. Though he felt safe, an unsettling feeling overwhelmed the young man. The sight below worried him, and he only hoped he might help. He had seen no sign of the Spetsnaz, just body parts. He would circle again to double-check. If any were alive, he’d do the best he could to provide support, even if it meant a delay on his orders to return back to base.
The pilot approached from the south this time, coming over the lower ridge, the cave to his right.
He saw movement, in the hills, on the ground.
Maybe they were alive, he hoped, though he knew better.
There were dozens now. They flooded from the cave. The others, already outside, tore at the broken helicopters, tore at the pilot’s comrades. They flung body parts to the side, appeared to be eating the men.
He’d waste these fuckers, he’d do it for his men. The pilot descended, nose down, guns ready.
Something odd caught his eye, a flash across the right of his cockpit.
Something had zipped past. Something flew directly across his nose.
The pilot yanked his head to the side, seeing an object whiz past. It was a near miss, and the pilot tilted the plane right, banking, getting a better view of down below. He would reassume attack position.
Then, something else arched high across the sky. It wasn’t as close, but close enough to make him worry.
What was it?
A rocket?
An American-made missile?
The pilot wasn’t sure. There was no contrail, no steam of exhaust, no tell-tale sign of something launched.
It can’t be an RPG, the pilot thought.
A second later and another object came racing at him. This was dead on, the pilot watching in horror as a large piece of what looked like metal screamed toward him.
The pilot reacted at just the right instant. He jammed the Su-25 to the left, hard, the object coming close, missing by only a few meters. Much too close for comfort. He yanked back to the right, circling around, eyes on the ground, eyes on the cave.
What the hell is firing at me? he wondered.
“Kilo Base, Blackbird One — I’m being engaged,” he spoke.
“Pull up, Blackbird One. Climb. Get out of there,” the order came.
This was one order he would follow. He pushed the throttle all the way, pulled hard on the stick, grunting and tightening his muscles.
“Oh, God!” the pilot screamed.
Another object approached. Something strange spinning in the air, coming directly for him. The pilot pitched the plane right, attempting to avoid it, but it was too late.
WHACK!
The sound was deafening. Metal scraped against metal. The Su-25 jolted violently, shuddering, engines choking. For a few moments, the pilot thought the plane might come apart.
A split second later and sirens echoed inside the cockpit. Dials spun, alarm bells screamed. The pilot looked down to his instruments, trying to ascertain what happen. It couldn’t have been a missile. There was no explosion.
“I’m hit. I’m hit,” the pilot called into base. “Blackbird One is hit.”
“Damage report?”
“I… I don’t know, dammit. Instruments are haywire, can hardly control it.”
“Blackbird One, you are to EVAC and head to base at once. Proceed to base!”
The aircraft shuddered again, the shock felt throughout the place. More alarms, the pilot realized he was losing oil pressure, fuel.
The engines lurched, but the pilot urged them harder. They maintained, burning hot as the pilot went vertical. The engines struggled, the wicked shimmy rattling his teeth. The Su-25 started feeling sluggish, the yolk felt slow.
The nearest landing strip was eighty miles away. The pilot wondered if he could make it that far. He climbed and climbed, eventually reaching four thousand feet, turning west, crossing the canyon high above. Once he achieved altitude, the pilot struggled to control the plane. He had to compensate, but finally maintained control. One more turn, back over the valley, and he’d be on his way home.
The plane was stable for the moment, the sheer grit, the raw talent and desire to live urged on the pilot. He banked the plane, heading back.
Once level, he jettisoned past the valley as fast as his Su-25 could take him. It took but a few seconds, and the pilot took much longer to calm down. Finally, after a minute or two of flight, struggling with the controls, the pilot looked outside. He hoped, he prayed he could just make it back. He couldn’t imagine if he had to eject. Would they even come get him? He had to make it. He had to make it out of Mujahideen lands.
Finally, far enough away from the valley to breathe a bit, the pilot decided to check the damage. Oil and gas were still leaking, flight controls were still sloppy, but he felt he could make it. The pilot looked out the right side of his canopy, seeing the damage.
A three meter long piece of metal was embedded into the side of his jet.