KHOST
1984
Soviet/Afghanistan Conflict
Khost Province
The new dawn was red, rays of brilliant light peering over the horizon as the sun rose, morning arriving, gently bringing life into the hidden valley deep within the heart of Khost.
The wind remained calm, a faint breeze lifting the morning fog. Night became day and all awoke from a quiet night’s slumber.
Khost.
Located on the far eastern border of Afghanistan, a land melting across the border of Pakistan.
Khost.
Filled with people of conviction, a people who grew up in war, born into it. Filled with a people not yet defeated, not ever conquered.
Khost.
A region of Afghanistan that had never seen defeat, yet many invaders. Khost had never been overtaken, not by the legions of Alexander the Great, not by the hoards of Genghis Khan. Not once in its history had this land, this province, been turned over to the hands of the enemy. They were an impressive army of common people, with simple beliefs, a warrior’s spirit.
Khost — a province of death. A place of chaos and madness.
Khost — a place of war.
Khost.
Deep inside the heart of this region lay a lone valley. It was no different than the many others, lost in the wasteland of uninhabited hills and vast plains. The valley of Khost was far from the city of the same name, even farther from Kabul. Located in the middle of no-man’s land, this valley was isolated, obscured by rough terrain, protected by fighting men.
Khost.
This valley was a proven hot zone of conflict, important to both enemies.
The Mujahideen.
The Soviets.
A struggle of epic proportions.
Yet despite the ongoing war, the despair of it all, there was a brief moment when the valley was quiet. A brief instant where it seemed safe.
It was beautiful actually, the sun rising, the wind still — a serene moment in time where everything remained at rest, everything quiet — where nothing stirred, where peace and tranquility seemed possible.
Unfortunately, this would soon change.
1
Three Soviet Mi-24 attack helicopters approached, racing toward their target, their roar filling the countryside, deafening. They were a menace heard from miles away. They flew in tight formation, approaching rapidly.
“Kilo Base, this is Firebird Alpha Red,” the lead helicopter pilot said into his headset. He spoke in Russian, as they all did. The pilot’s tone was stoic, composed.
“Roger, Firebird Alpha Red, this is Kilo Base,” a monotone voice responded.
A crackle and hiss of static followed.
“Signal is strong, Kilo Base. We are entering Khost region,” the helicopter pilot reported. “Initiating course change due east. Descending to three hundred meters and commencing to grid coordinate Sierra November. Nine minutes, over.” The pilot’s voice was calm and steady, something customary for any veteran pilot, especially that of a Soviet.
His name was Captain Ivan Drago, a man with over twenty-thousand hours of flight time, and dozens of missions under his belt. He was a man of honor, of dignity, serving the Motherland of the Soviet Union humbly.
He took a quick glance at the control panel, ensuring all systems were functioning. He then tilted his head back toward the man seated behind, even though he couldn’t make eye contact. “Nine minutes,” Captain Drago said to Weapons Specialist Alexander Suvorov.
“Nine minutes, Comrade Captain,” Suvorov repeated, checking his own instruments.
The Mi-24 had the pilot’s seat situated directly in front of the co-pilot. Behind Suvorov were eight more men.
Little else was said for the moment. Drago could tell Suvorov was nervous. It was in his tone. Drago had known Suvorov long enough to pick up on the stutter in the man’s words, the glimmer of despair in his co-pilot’s voice. The Captain didn’t speak for a moment, instead keeping his focus on the terrain ahead.
Finally, after a minute of silence, the Captain reported, saying, “We’re approaching the ridge. We’ll run up it quick, give us the element of surprise.”
“Copy, Comrade Captain. Keep us low and fast and we’ll be okay,” Suvorov responded, as if attempting to convince himself.
Drago pushed the throttle forward, the loud whine of the helicopter’s engines engaging. “This valley is hot. Lots of activity, so keep a sharp eye. We’ve got no support, so stay alert.”
“Yes, Comrade Captain, though I don’t understand the point of this…” Suvorov began.
“It matters not,” Drago stopped him.
There was no hint of emotion in the Captain’s response, nothing of his true feelings. He continued, saying, “There may be a point, there may not. Doesn’t matter. We’re pilots and we have a mission to accomplish. We’ll do exactly as ordered.”
“Yes, Comrade Captain,” Suvorov replied.
“Altitude?” Drago asked.
“Three hundred meters.”
“Speed?”
“Two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour.”
“Good. Once we cross over that ridge, we’ll push it up, nice and fast down the other side. We move in quick, that’s the plan.”
“Yes, Comrade Captain.”
“What’s our angle of descent once we clear the rocks?”
“Forty-five degrees, Comrade Captain.”
Despite his combat time, and many near death occasions, Drago couldn’t help but feel nervous. Perhaps he detected it from his co-pilot, perhaps it was his own fears, but something didn’t sit right; something about this mission was off. Sweat gathered under the rim of his helmet. Drago took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm himself, gazing at the instrument panel once more, triple checking. Then, he looked out the window to his left, then to his right, relieved at the sight of two other helicopters that accompanied them.
“At least we’re not alone,” Drago muttered.
“Sir?” Suvorov questioned.
“Nothing,” Drago stated, staring ahead. “Time to grid-point?”
“Six minutes, Comrade Captain.”
“Radar?”
“Negative.”
“Visual?”
“Nothing, sir. Only a few goats,” Suvorov answered, looking out his small window, anxiously scanning the flat terrain. Nothing but sand and rock and sporadic plant life littered the desert below — it was a wasteland of decay. Only flattened lands that would soon rise as they neared a mountain ridge.
“If they can’t hear us now, they will soon enough. Once we cross over that pass, they’ll know. Make the other pilots aware, keep formation tight.”
“Yes, Comrade Captain. Five minutes to our grid-point, sir.”
Captain Drago and Weapons Specialist Suvorov had flown countless missions together. They’d conducted aerial raids, supported ground units, and taken out communication centers over the past eighteen months. They had flown over a hundred sorties in all, each man quite respected among their comrades.
The two had also grown to know one another quite well. The pair trusted one another, worked well with one another. Drago and Suvorov were professionals, the best at their jobs. Perhaps the best in the entire Soviet Union.
Both had been handpicked for this mission.
“All right, keep an eye out. Those Muj are everywhere,” Drago reminded. “They hide in the rocks, live in caves. Sneaky bastards. They’ll hide up inside the canyon and wait. They’re patient, like good hunters. They’ll pop up and hit you with a hand-held rocket, and they’re pretty good at it.”
“I hear they’ve learned to wait until you’ve passed over. That right?” Suvorov asked.