“Yes, Comrade Captain.”
“You know how they are. They like being in caves. It’s a cave we’re after. It’s a cave we’re hunting. I’m guessing you’re right. Actually, I know you’re right, but I didn’t tell you, understand? We must receive our orders before you can know.”
“Ah, I see,” Suvorov responded, beginning to understand. “I’ll say nothing. Thing is, Captain, why are we carrying troops. Why Spetsnaz? Who is in that cave and what are our intentions?”
“More importantly, Suvorov — what’s in the missiles we’re carrying?” Drago reminded.
“Indeed, Comrade Captain. Do you have any guesses?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because I keep thinking of that infamous plane, a similar ambiguous mission.”
“What plane?”
“The Enola Gay. The dropping of the bomb,” Drago said grimly.
“You… you think we’re carrying something similar?”
“I think whatever we are carrying isn’t pretty, Suvorov.”
Then the pair saw a streak cross the sky. A long exhaust path followed, the tale-tale sign of an incoming RPG.
6
A Rocket Propelled Grenade, or RPG, arched across the morning sky, screaming toward them. It came from the cliffs ahead, a new strategy that wasn’t effective in any way, though it did surprise the flight crews. For all intents and purposes, it was a pot shot, much too far away to be accurate. But it was still too close for comfort, causing everyone’s heartbeats to race.
“Watch it!” Drago spoke into his mic, his eyes tracking the streaking RPG. It passed overhead and to the left. Drago pushed the stick, dropping even lower. The others followed, engines screaming.
The morning fog had now dissipated, the sun fully visible, the valley now awake.
Then, another RPG. This one came from the side, closer than the last. Someone was posted high up on the canyon wall, and as they neared the western edge of the valley, the walls closed in, bringing danger closer.
Drago pushed the button, beginning to request permission to fire. Then he remembered — he had nothing to fire.
The thought horrified him.
Ten seconds passed.
Twenty.
Thirty.
It felt like an eternity.
“Watch it!” One of the pilots yelled over the radio. “To our left. There’s another.”
Sure enough, two more RPGs raced across the sky, one barely missing the left Mi-24.
“Push it!” Drago spoke, focusing on the mountain ahead.
A few more RPGs flew by, but most didn’t come close. The helicopters’ altitude made it a tough shot. It did remind them all of one thing — they were now in combat. In combat with no munitions.
The Mi-24s steady tribal rotors beat their drums of death as they approached a rising wall of rock — jagged, rugged, impossible.
Closer and closer.
“Steady now,” Drago said. “Back off on your speed. Let’s hover a moment, see what’s ahead.”
“Are you crazy?” Suvorov asked. “We’ll be marked. One of them will get lucky.”
“It’s our mission, Suvorov. Just watch the hills. Watch out for the fucking Muj and call any shots.”
And they closed the distance, unhurried, hovering in front of a looming mountain, slowly rising, the sun shining down in their faces from above.
7
Ahmed sat quietly, deep inside the bowels of the dark cave, alone in the corner with only his thoughts. While the others stirred from their night’s rest, he had slept little. Much had been on the man’s mind lately, and his thoughts raced.
Though motionless, Ahmed’s anger consumed him.
The invasion of Afghanistan by the Soviet Union two years prior changed the course of history for both countries. The conflict was later compared to America’s war in Vietnam.
It was a complete disaster.
The Soviets came in confident, conventional in their ways. Tanks, artillery, air-support and ground troops. It seemed an easy win, and the defeat of Afghanistan would prove to the betterment of the Motherland. This over-confidence proved to be the downfall of the Soviet Union in this struggle, their forces met with the brutal ways of the Mujahideen, who fought an unconventional war against impossible odds.
The Soviets soon realized their conventional methods wouldn’t work. Against a conventional Army perhaps, but the Mujahideen were nothing of the sort. They were smarter than the Soviets gave them credit for, and resourceful. They had to be.
The Mujahideen developed tactics to combat the influx of troops, the aircraft overhead, the tanks and artillery that stormed over their lands. They used unusual methods, finding unconventional means worked to their favor, and often to the discouragement of the Soviets. When pressed, the Mujahideen even used unsavory tactics and brutal ways to win the psychological battle. Anyone familiar with war knows that the victor is the one who wins the hearts and minds of the soldiers. The tide of war began to change.
As would Ahmed.
He was twenty-six, youthful in looks, his eyes still glimmering with a hint of naivety. The war was starting to take its toll, though. It was aging him. His dark hair was cut short, and his face weathered, his beard tangled. Mostly, Ahmed looked like the rest of his people, save one thing: He had a long scar running down the right side of his face. It barely missed his eye, running up near his scalp, down toward his jaw. He had received it in a knife fight with a Soviet, one he had come out as victor.
Ahmed wasn’t always a warrior. In his early years, he had received a good education. He had gone off to school, promised a better life. He had seen other countries, other cultures, had began to advance himself into a realm of worldly views. He was optimistic.
But this promise was soon broken, and when the Soviets invaded, Ahmed came back home. He came not for love of country, but to defend his village, his home.
There once was a time he dreamt of peace and prosperity. He wasn’t a radical idealist in any way, but merely wanted change. A better life, like most young people. However, the ways of the world are brutal, and despite his prayers to rebuild, his asking for liberation, he was forced into the mess. Ahmed was a natural leader of men. He was educated, resourceful. He knew how to use the terrain, use his province against the invaders. His means were brutal, his tactics all learned, yet effective.
He officially joined the fight eighteen months prior, in nineteen eighty two, when a Soviet division leveled his parents’ home while he was away at school. It was at this time Ahmed decided he no longer needed an education. He cast aside the pen, picking up a rifle, developing a cause.
Causes can be quite dangerous, quite effective.
Ahmed soon joined the Mujahideen in their fight, quickly becoming a great leader and powerful warlord. And as his influence grew, so did his mindset. The way of the world changed in his eyes, as did viewpoints, as the pinnacle of the war approached.
Where Ahmed was once reasonable, he was now far from rational.
His understanding of politics, culture, respect, had all gone to the wayside of his cause. The more he fought, the more he grew to love war. It suited him just fine, and he realized one thing: He was good at it.
As Ahmed’s anger built, his intentions altered. Where once he hoped to simply remove the Soviets, he now hoped to kill them all. He was dedicated, a strong teacher whose men loved him.
Soon, Ahmed became influential.
His men obeyed for two reasons, fear and respect. The latter overwhelmed the first, though both walked hand in hand. They recognized his talents, for Ahmed was a visionary, he brought hope to his people.