“Kapitan, there’s no reason to be upset,” Vlasov says. “We can report that our secondary goal is accomplished. No more Bandits will fly in here, that’s for sure.”
“This is not fucking happening to me!” the still enraged Maksimenko shouts. “I had that bastard right there and again—“
Vlasov shrugs. “Kiev doesn’t know that he was on that plane. So far so good, I’d say. I suggest we move to that facility and establish a perimeter. Then we see what’s next.”
Still tense, Maksimenko is about to snap him when a howl comes from nearby.
“Did you hear that?”
“Sir, I suggest we move quickly.”
Bronsky arrives.
“No trace of the sniper,” he reports, fighting for breath.
“Screw him,” Maksimenko snaps. “He can’t get far with his hands tied anyway.”
Another howl comes from much closer, followed by several more.
Bronsky pales. “Mutants?”
“Must be coming for the corpses on the airstrip,” Vlasov observes anxiously. “We better get ready!”
“Shit!” Captain Maksimenko takes his helmet from the ground and straps it back on. “Get back to the hill and prepare for defense!”
78
Smoke rises from the ruined mud houses in the Alamo’s living quarters, concealing the mountain across the valley from the Colonel’s sight.
He doesn’t see the besieging enemy but knows they are out there, probably preparing for a last assault to break the Tribe’s battered defenses. At least that’s what he would do if he were the attacker and the defenders pushed back behind their last line of fortifications.
It all comes down to a last stand, he thinks.
In the years past, everything had been done to turn the ancient citadel into a stronghold that could easily withstand any attack from outside. In hindsight, the trick of the attackers appears so logical and easy, but then no one could have suspected that anyone knew about the underground vaults. Apart from the Tribe, the only ones who had ever seen it were Tarasov’s Stalkers on their way to the City of Screams. The Colonel would never believe that they betrayed this secret to the Taliban, or the dushman as the Stalkers call their mortal enemies. Money could always prevail over enmity, of course, but knowing of their weak point would not have been enough — one needed the perfidious idea of using that strange creature to find a point where the underground walls could be broken through. Even so, the attack could have been easily repulsed if their human enemies hadn’t been supported by the smiters.
But Colonel Leighley knows that all speculation is in vain now. Soon, the smiters will charge, followed by the human waves of ragheads that will sweep over the Tribe’s last defenses like the rising tide would sweep away a sandcastle built on the seashore.
His room is only dimly lit by a nick in the boarded up window and a lamp on his field table. He steps to the sink and glances into the shaving mirror fastened to the wall to check his combat armor, then adjusts the bars holding the ribbons of his decorations. Today is the day to wear them all.
Below the Navy Cross with two award stars, the Navy Distinguished Service Medal and the Silver Star, four rows of ribbons — several with award stars and valor device — tell about a more than distinguished military career; they include the Legion of Merit, the Bronze Star, the Purple Heart and the USMC Good Conduct and Expeditionary Medals. The lower rows hold ribbons for service and several campaigns.
It’s been a long way from Parris, he thinks. Today it will come to an end.
The thought of this battle probably earning him the button, as Marines refer to the Medal of Honor, makes him give his own reflection a grim smile. Nobody will know of this last stand, yet for him and his men who are about to die, it will be a fight for honor indeed — a very much unneeded proof of their valor. And anyway, what’s good in a posthumous award to a soldier, a real warrior, who dies with the thought that his honor needs not to be confirmed by politicians and generals?
A freshly cleaned M4 and a pistol lay on his field table. He shoulders the carbine and takes his sidearm too. It is a MEUSOC, the standard-issue firearm of the USMC’s force recon units. It has none of the extra components usually found on these weapons and looks like any of the over 2 million M1911A1s produced in the past century, save for the white lettering on the slider: To Colonel James W. Leighley for 25 years of faithful service. SEMPER FI.
The shadow of a smile plays around his lips as he glances at the pistol. The black gun metal bears the promise of faithful service to the end. He lets the magazine eject and removes all bullets inside except one.
“That should suffice, should need be,” he tells Lieutenant Bauer who is patiently waiting at the door. “How are the warriors feeling today?”
“We all are eager to fight, sir.”
“Do they think they’ll die in vain?”
“No, sir. They know that no man dies in vain who dies for his ideals.”
“Too bad our enemy thinks the same.”
“Permission to speak freely, sir? It is not our enemy who beats us, sir, but this land itself. The ragheads will not enjoy victory. They know that if it hadn’t been for the smiters they would have never bested us.”
Seeing the Colonel’s agreeing nod, Bauer carries on.
“As to us, there is no shame in falling to a superhuman force. As to our enemies, there’s nothing honorable about using such power to overcome us. No sir, our enemy shall not rejoice.”
“Is that your opinion, Lieutenant, or that of the rest as well?”
“Sir, this is where we all stand.”
The big man bows his head. Silence descends over the two men.
Suddenly, the Alamo’s anti-aircraft battery reports in the radio.
“This is Hawkeye.”
Colonel Leighley takes the headset and mike. “Hawkeye, proceed.”
“Reporting an airplane identified as a Belarusian cargo carrier. Approaching fast and attempting to contact us.”
“Break contact. You know the drill, Hawkeye.”
“Sir—with all due respect, I suggest you listen to this.”
The Colonel frowns. “Have it transferred it to my radio set.”
“Right away, sir.”
After a few seconds of crackling radio noise, a young male voice comes through the channel. The Colonel turns pale upon hearing it.
“Corporal Leighley aboard BLC 479T calling Colonel Leighley. Come in, over… BLC 479T, Alamo, come in, over…”
“Sir! It’s—” Bauer wants to shout but a flash of the Colonel’s eyes shuts him up.
“Calling Alamo, come in. BLC 479T inbound. Alamo, come in, over.”
Leighley emits a sigh that makes his nostrils tremble, then clears his throat.
“Alamo to BLC 479T. You must break off your approach.”
The reply on the radio sounds relieved.
“Sir! We are low on fuel. Need Alamo runway for emergency landing. Aboard are Major Tarasov, Lieutenant Collins with his SR squad, Nooria and a friendly force. We have several WIAs and POWs.”
“What is the Sergeant Major’s status? Why is it not he who reports?”
“The Top is KIA, sir.”
Watching his commander, Bauer is certain that if by a major miracle he still had a long life ahead he would always remember the pain appearing on Colonel Leighley’s face.
Yet it takes only a second for the big man to recollect himself.
“Corporal, Lima Zulu is hot, I repeat—Son, you must not come here! The enemy is about to overrun our defenses. Turn around and do whatever you can to join First Lieutenant Driscoll’s force in the Bagram area!”