“Nothing!” Bruiser nervously replies. “I mean, I told them to land!”
Mac nods. “He didn’t warn the pilots.”
Collins is about to give Bruiser a smash with his rifle butt when he sees a grenade box next to the crate on which the Bandits’ radio is placed. He quickly opens it.
“Smoke grenades?” he angrily asks. “You forgot to tell us about that!”
He takes a grenade, rushes out and pops a smoke. In a minute, purple smoke is rising from the middle of the dirt runway.
Back to the shack, he gives Bruiser an incapacitating blow and anxiously watches the airplane from the door. To his relief, it turns back and begins to approach the landing strip once again.
In a few minutes, the huge airplane touches down on the runway. The dark exhaust of the engines mixes with the purple smoke and the brown dust swirled up by the propellers.
Collins realizes that he might have made a mistake by arranging his own team behind the radio shack; with all the dust, the area around the Antonov’s tail and ramp is not clearly visible from this position. He hopes that the sniper has a better view from his vantage point. Even through the dust, Teams One and Two will lay down a deadly crossfire once he gives the word. The Bandits who will inevitably scatter around will give his own team still enough work.
All he has to do now is to wait for the sniper to finish off the Bandits’ leader to ensure disarray. Then his riflemen can begin their grizzly work.
“Glory to the Tribe,” he whispers in anticipation.
76
Bandits might be a reckless bunch, but when the pilot at last announces their impending touch-down even the most dashing among them has anxiety mixed into his excitement. Rifles are checked, balaclavas and helmets fastened, assault vests pulled over the light jackets.
“Time to revenge Bruiser’s boys at Ghorband,” a Bandit says pulling over the hood of his leather jacket. “I wanna kick some Tribe ass!”
“Can hardly wait to bag a bear,” boasts another one working the safety on his AKS-74U assault carbine.
Hearing all this Tarasov and the Top exchange a grin.
“Yeah, yeah, manchildren,” Hartman grumbles. “The more poop in your pants, the louder you boast.”
Buryat gives Ferret a grin. “Reminds me of—”
“Cut teasing each other for a minute,” Tarasov interrupts him in a low voice. “We’re all set?”
“Yes, boss,” Buryat nods. “But… what the hell is the pilot doing?”
Suddenly, they all feel the airplane climb. Hartman pulls a Bandit from the nearest window and peeks out. “He’s turning away!”
“Watch Nooria,” Tarasov barks. “Pete, on me!”
They dash into the cockpit. “What’s happening? Why don’t you land this damned plane?”
The pilot gives Tarasov an anxious look. “Something’s not right. Bruiser told me to land but he was supposed to pop smoke. Told him I’m standing by for the confirmation but he just said ’roger’ and cleared the channel!”
“I don’t care. Land the plane!”
“Put that gun away, you stupid Bandit! I don’t want to piss off Sultan by risking this flight!”
Tarasov puts his pistol to the pilot’s head. Pete follows suit and aims his rifle at the co-pilot who watches the scene with his mouth wide open.
“No, captain, it’s me you don’t want to piss off,” Tarasov barks at the pilot. “Land the airplane now or I’ll fucking shoot you!”
But the pilot is a veteran of many perilous flights with illegal cargo and not easy to intimidate.
“And who will fly my machine then, eh?” he shouts back. “Go back to your place, you bloody passenger!”
“I see the smoke,” the navigator shouts from his position. He repeats to make sure that his trembling voice is understood, “I see the smoke!”
“See, captain?” Tarasov says with satisfaction and holsters his pistol. “You’ve almost pissed off Sultan and me.”
Grumbling something in Belarusian about Bandits being sons of bitches and out of their mind, the pilot steers the Antonov back to landing approach.
“Guess that idiot Bruiser just forgot about the smoke,” the radio operator says from his seat behind. “I’m glad it came to his mind at the last moment!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll punish him for that with my own hands,” Tarasov responds with a grin. He holsters the pistol and waves to Pete to follow him.
“What happened?” Ferret asks him when Tarasov and Pete are back to the tail.
“We had a problem with ground control but everything’s fine now,” replies Tarasov. “Stalkers, get ready!”
Ahuizotl lies on his stomach behind the shrub covering the hilltop. He opens the flap covering the front lens on the scope of his M107. For the next minutes, his sight will be limited to what appears in the reticule. He wishes Mac were next to him watching over their position. However, his last scan of the surrounding area detects nothing.
He watches the airplane land and curses the dust swirled up in the process. All he can see from the Bandits swarming out through the lowered ramp is the long shadows they cast in the rays of the low sun.
The tribals will have a hard time hitting anything in this dust, he thinks.
Even so, he can make out his designated target: one Bandit stands out of the rest by a head, barking commands and holding a weapon that appears to be an RG-6 Bulldog grenade launcher.
The sniper grins.
Just like expected — the biggest son of a bitch with the biggest gun.
The reticule slides over to the head of his target. The Bandit leader appears to him particularly reckless because he is not wearing a helmet; he doesn’t even the hood of his armored suit pulled on. He is waving and shouting at the Bandits running down the ramp.
Ahuizotl narrows his right eye as he looks through the scope. Reading the Bandit’s lips it appears that the Bandit is barking English commands, as if shouting move, move! instead davai, davai! that a Russian-speaking leader would shout. He gives his doubts a mental shrug—there is no way to hesitate and even less so to consult Collins, nor is there a rule that Bandits can only be from the former USSR.
His ears perk as they detect a muffled noise, like a stone falling to the ground.
Relax… it must be the wind. Saw nothing moving a minute ago in a two hundred meters radius. Must be the wind.
Now he can make out his target’s grey hair and dark eyebrows too. Ahuizotl places his finger on the trigger. He forgets about seeing a human face; his mind reduces the spot on the grey temple to nothing but a target.
Exhaling long, he empties his lungs and waits for a clear pause between two heartbeats. Then he softly pulls the trigger.
“Bullseye!”
Startled by the voice behind him, Ahuizotl wants to jump but a rifle barrel pressed to his head forces him to stay prone. Looking up from the corner of his eye, he sees something completely unexpected. The sight of a Spetsnaz watching the airfield through his binoculars fills him with as much surprise as fear.
“Sorry to interrupt your concentration, Stalker, but we take over from here,” the Spetsnaz says without putting his binoculars down. “Sergeant! Position RPK to the left flank, PKM to the right. Let’s wait for the dust settle a bit. Then unleash hell on my command.”
“Yest, komandir.”
“You! Secure the sniper and give me his rifle.”
The sound of gunfire exchanged erupts from the airfield.
“Such a mess,” the apparent commander says. ”Now those scumbags have started killing each other! One could’ve expected the Bandits to turn on each other, but so soon? Anyway, that makes it easier for us.”