“It’s called the Fajr prayer. Fajr means ‘dawn’ in Arabic,” Vadim told Ivack.
“That man’s a disgrace, and presumably you know the State’s position on Islam! I’ll have you both on a charge. Now give me the shell casing, captain!”
Vadim was worried that if Ivack didn’t stop shouting at him, one of the squad was going to kill him. Vadim tucked the shell casing into a pouch on his webbing and turned to face Ivack. The captain had starved during the siege of Stalingrad as a child, and since then had never managed to put on any weight. His physical fitness belied his gauntness, of course, though age was catching up with him quickly. He was tall, though, much taller than Ivack, who was the sort of person that it was easy to look down on.
“Lieutenant, I think my men are here as bait.” He leaned in close to Ivack, who took a step back. “I think there is a CIA-backed mercenary sniper in these mountains with a new weapon, a heavy sniper rifle, and I think it would be something of a coup for you to capture it.”
The truth of it was written all over the ambitious young fool’s face. Ivack swallowed and then glanced at Skull, praying with the prisoners.
“There’s no man of fighting age here,” Ivack snapped. “This is clearly a mujahideen stronghold. I want these prisoners executed!” And Ivack was probably right. The men would be up in the mountains, waiting until they had gone.
“And what purpose would that serve?” Vadim asked.
“It would teach them the futility of opposing the will of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the Red Army!”
Somehow Vadim was still surprised at the nonsense he had just heard. Ivack turned to glare at Gulag, who was openly laughing at the KGB lieutenant.
“No, it wouldn’t. It would just make them angry, more committed to the fight.”
Now Ivack leaned in closer to Vadim, though he had to look up.
“Captain, it is clear that this squad is a hotbed of sedition, possibly treason. Now either follow my orders or I will have no choice but to put you under arrest.”
Vadim gave this some thought.
“Very well,” he said. “But we’ll do it at the very last moment before we take off, as the menfolk are probably watching us right now. The VDV will have to leave first so we can get the Hind down.”
“Do you think I’m a fool, captain?” Ivack asked, and it took everything Vadim had not to answer. “You would watch me leave and then disobey my order. I will stay and see that the executions are carried out.”
Are you sure you have the stomach for it, little man? Vadim wondered.
“Lieutenant, the Hind is only capable of carrying eight men. I’m afraid there is no room for you,” Vadim pointed out.
Ivack pointed at the Spaniard’s body. “You forget, there’s only seven of you now.”
“Comrade lieutenant, you make an excellent point.” Vadim turned away from Ivack and beckoned to the VDV officer.
THE SUN WAS up and Fajr prayer, which Vadim had always found quite beautiful, was over by the time the Mi-8 clawed itself up into the cold, thin mountain air and clattered off between the snow-covered peaks. Vadim was still more than a little surprised that Ivack had decided to remain.
He’d had Farm Boy radio the Hind and tell the crew to get ready to pick them up. The gunship crew had done an exemplary job in supporting the squad, particularly given the potential threat from SAMs.
“Well?” Ivack demanded, nodding towards the prisoners.
“Oh, yes,” Vadim said. “Gulag?” Gulag wandered insouciantly over to both the officers. He pulled a claw hammer from his webbing and a bag of nails from a pouch.
“Gulag used to have another nickname,” Vadim told Ivack. “He was called the Carpenter. Do you know why?”
“Just get on with it, captain!” Ivack demanded. A number of the squad bristled, but Gulag just smiled his predatory smile.
“Do you know how Spetsnaz execute prisoners, comrade lieutenant?” Gulag asked. He held up a nail and the hammer. “Tap, tap, crunch. In the back of the head. Saves bullets. Run out of nails, you can use shell casings.” Gulag dropped the bag of nails and the hammer at Ivack’s feet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the KGB lieutenant demanded. “Just get on with it!” He hadn’t noticed Skull and the Fräulein moving closer to him.
“You want them dead, then you do it,” Vadim told him. Ivack stared at him, fear and anger warring on his face. Vadim was almost impressed that anger won out.
“I’ll see you all in a gulag. No! I’ll have you all shot! This is treason!”
Vadim spent a moment looking at the prisoners, and then the village. The low buildings were mostly smouldering now. He wondered how many charred bodies were amongst the wreckage. He looked down at the snow at his feet. Even churned up by their boot prints, it was still pristine, white. It looked so pure.
“You’re right, it is,” Vadim said and then looked up at the lieutenant. “But only a small one, and out here, who’ll notice?”
Ivack was staring at him, perhaps only now realising the mistake he’d made. Vadim nodded to Farm Boy, who started calling the gunship in.
The butt of Skull’s .303 caught Ivack in the face, spreading the KGB lieutenant’s nose across it, putting him on his back in the snow. Then the Fräulein was on him, kneeling on his throat as he clawed at her massively muscled leg. She removed his knife and pistol, handing them off to Skull. Then, with a roar, she grabbed him by the neck and lifted him into the air. She had been a power lifter on the East German team during the 1980 Olympics in Moscow; when she’d joined the army, she’d had to wean herself off steroids and reduce her bulk, but she was still powerfully built and heavily muscled. She rammed Ivack into a mud brick wall.
“You never speak to one of us that way, you do not eye-fuck Princess, and you certainly never raise your voice to the captain, do you understand me, you little KGB shit?” she screamed. The Fräulein was properly angry, it seemed. Ivack didn’t answer, because breathing was a significant problem for him. The Fräulein may have quit steroids, but sometimes Vadim wondered if the rage had ever left her. She turned to look at him. Vadim knew he was being asked if he wanted the KGB officer killed.
Gulag was watching, smiling. Skull was wiping blood off the carved butt of his rifle with snow. Farm Boy was watching what was happening as he talked to the approaching gunship over the squad’s radio. He didn’t look happy, he’d never liked this sort of thing. Only the Mongol, the hulking, bullet-headed medic, was keeping an eye on their surroundings. This was sloppy, but they were all so tired.
Private First Class Nergui Tsogt was the only other member of the team comparable in body mass to the Fräulein, though he had more fat on him. The Mongol had grown up hunting in his native Mongolia. Vadim wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in the Spetsnaz, though the USSR had close links with Mongolia, but the cheerful medic had been a very useful addition to the squad.
“Put him down,” Vadim told his second-in-command. Reluctantly the Fräulein let Ivack go and he slid, gasping, down to the snow. “Leave the hammer and the nails!” Vadim shouted over the noise of the Hind-D as it came in to land, whipping the snow up all around them.
THEY LEFT THE hatch to the passenger compartment open, letting in the frigid alpine wind as the gunship banked over the village. Vadim watched as the villagers gathered around Ivack. He was sure he saw one of the children pick something up from the snow.