‘It is snowing, Comrade General,’ he said.
‘What of that, Colonel?’ was the retort. ‘Where I come from, it snows eight months in a year.’
‘We will not be able to call for the MiGs in such weather.’
‘With the Hinds to provide support, we will not need them.’ Dudylev turned to his staff officer. ‘Anyway, what are the chances of fighter planes getting targets in a narrow mountain valley?’
‘Hardly any, Comrade General,’ the staff officer replied woodenly, his eyes averted.
‘See?’ the general told Petrov, his voice mocking. ‘I have
earned
these badges, Boris, and I suggest you begin earning yours.’
The phone on the table rang. The staff officer answered it and handed the receiver to the general.
‘I am going out to check the perimeter,’ Petrov announced after a moment, his voice tired.
This moron wants his battle
, he thought grimly.
Well, he can have
it. A pity that good men will die unnecessarily for it.
The general nodded dismissively while still engaged in his phone conversation.
There was nothing overtly wrong with the general’s plan, the colonel mused as he left the room, steeling himself for the onslaught of the bitterly cold wind outside. One might even describe the plan as a good one. They would insert a company of Spetsnaz to seal off the valley from the north, while simultaneously combing it, moving systematically up from its southern mouth. The high ground in the centre, which intelligence said was occupied, was their primary target. General Dudylev had set up an elaborate fire plan, with medium artillery and the BM-21 Grad or ‘hailstorm’ – the multi-barrelled rocket launchers. As a follow-up, the mechanized infantry would move in, with the attack helicopters providing cover, dismounting only when they had to mop up. The Hinds, which would be patrolling the valley, would take on the fleeing mujahideen. If any managed to get past them and attempted to leave the valley, they would encounter the Spetsnaz. There had been no talk of civilian casualties at all, but that wasn’t what bothered the colonel. He had spent more time in this area than he would have cared to and the bitterness he had felt over the loss of too many of his men had made him cynical, removing any qualms he might have experienced. But Boris Petrov could not get the feeling of unease that swamped him to go away. He pulled out from his pocket the strip of chalk tablets the medical man had given him. It was too easy, he thought, so damn easy that it was
fu-fu
, he thought. It stank.
* * *
Ashton and Peter were in a small cave high up on the eastern face of the valley. The darkness was almost impenetrable and first light was some time away. They had moved into their position the previous evening and established the missile base. It was an ideal lookout, from where they could see the village, surrounded by orange trees on the pimple-like feature that marked the centre of the valley. In the far distance, they could see the mound which marked the
pir
on which the Russian outpost stood. The valley was at its widest there, with the western face approximately six to seven kilometres away. Farther north, the valley narrowed. It was for that very reason that Peter had selected this position. This was where the Hinds would have adequate space to manoeuvre, ensuring that the Afghans had the maximum number hovering in the flight space in front of them.
‘It’s going to be like shooting ducks,’ he told his team. ‘Nothing to it.’
The six young Afghan boys nodded happily, grinning and laughing, their faces shining with excitement. They chuckled over Peter’s bad Pushtu, which he compensated for by gesticulating extravagantly to make his point. They seemed to catch on.
‘It’s not a game of buzkashi, you know,’ Peter told them sternly, before breaking into a wide grin himself.
Ashton, who was looking on, half smiled in approval. Peter was a natural leader and these Afghans adored him.
Peter woke up when it was still dark. He saw Ashton sitting with his back against the cave wall, smoking a cigarette. He rubbed the sleep away from his eyes and approached the Englishman.
‘What’s on your mind, Colonel?’ he asked in an undertone.
‘I’m thinking about Susan,’ Ashton said softly.
If the Russians overran their village, she would be captured. Peter had noticed that Ashton wasn’t worried about Duggy; the Russians wouldn’t get him – alive.
Peter made to say something, but couldn’t find the words.
They heard a buzz. In the distance, just above the outpost, they saw the tail lights of helicopters flashing.
‘Mi-8s, I think,’ Peter observed.
Ashton nodded.
‘They’re probably setting up their TAC headquarters there,’ Peter added.
‘So it will be today,’ Ashton said with finality.
They had no way of conveying this information to the men down below, for there were no radio sets for communication. But Ashton was confident they would catch on; they were good fighters, these men. The tail lights flashed again in an arc and were lost in the dark; the helicopters had gone back. They heard another hum which grew in intensity. Ashton and Peter exchanged quick glances.
‘Mechanized infantry,’ Peter remarked.
The three battalions of BMPs from the garrison at Baharak were moving at maximum cruising speed, using the cover of darkness to hide the dust cloud they raised in their wake. They were the latest generation of APCs, carrying a ‘stick’ of ten soldiers, in addition to their crew, and armed with a 30mm smooth-bore cannon and four anti-tank guided missiles.
‘Any time now.’ Peter’s voice was calm and steady.
Even as he spoke, the flashes appeared, pockmarking the area over which the village was spread. Then they heard the flat reports. The barrage had started.
‘Grads and Mediums,’ he murmured.
He noticed the expressions of the men next to him turn sombre. Their families were getting pounded.
‘Not to worry, boys,’ Peter reassured them gently in Pushtu. ‘Just kicks up a big fuss, but can’t touch you if you’re dug in.’
That wasn’t strictly true, but some of the boys around him, who hadn’t ever witnessed an artillery barrage before, nodded.
The light was improving and there was no let-up in the shelling. A few prophylactic rounds had been dropped on the slopes of the valley faces on both sides. One had landed close, but it was evident that the Russians were concentrating their fire on and around the village. The APCs were now quite clearly visible as they approached the valley mouth. They were in battle array, two battalions up, moving forward cautiously, the leading APCs stopping every once in a while to reconnoitre the area ahead.
As they closed in on the village, the forward battalions moved to the flanks. It was clear to Peter and Ashton that the Russians intended to encircle the village. The artillery shelling stopped abruptly. But there was no respite, for the mortars with their higher trajectory came on, their shells landing almost vertically on the village in clouds of noxious black smoke. The Russians were extravagant in their use of artillery, as they could well afford to be, because the mujahideen had no way of countering the assault in kind. As the BMPs drew closer, the artillery shelling stopped altogether. To Ashton and Peter, it was a sign that the helicopters would come on. This was the first tactical dilemma the Russian commander had to deal with. The helicopters could come in only when the shelling stopped, since there was no effective way of preventing them from being hit in the narrow valley. As if on cue, the first two Hinds made their appearance, a light scout helicopter preceding them.
Straight
from the book
, Peter thought. He heard a sharp intake of breath from the young boy lying next to him; he had sighted the most feared enemy of the Afghan War.
The Hind was a formidable weapons platform. With a full load, it could carry 128 rockets, apart from four napalm or high-explosive bombs, while its cannon was capable of firing at the rate of 1,000 rounds per minute. By staying at an altitude of over 5,000 feet, it could strafe the ground with impunity, while remaining out of range of almost every weapon the mujahideen had at their disposal.
The two helicopters came deliberately from the direction of the sun, aiming to momentarily blind a potential adversary. They were staggered both horizontally and vertically, forcing a choice on anyone taking aim, while exposing him simultaneously to the fire of the other. The weapon pods were loaded with rockets hanging like heavy grapefruit.
The helicopters were greeted with a volley of fire from the heavy Oerlikon anti-aircraft gun in the village which, other than pushing the light helicopter higher, proved ineffective. The Hinds circled the village, before one of them went in for the kill, firing rockets and cannons and managing to take out the anti-aircraft position which exploded in a cloud of smoke and dust. Ashton had already discussed this possibility with Suleiman, who had insisted they needed to open up the Oerlikon; from their previous forays into the valley, the Russians knew the mujahideen had it. Against his will, Ashton had agreed; they needed to put up a show of the resistance the Russians expected and keep them interested. It was a way of allaying their suspicion that something might be amiss.
Bloody brave men
, Ashton mused, mentally raising a toast to the Oerlikon gun crew.
* * *
‘We have knocked out the anti-aircraft gun, Comrade General!’ the staff officer said excitedly.
General Dudylev, who had set up his command post at the summit of the feature in a clump of trees near the
pir
, had a pair of headphones on and was seated in style, a swagger stick in his hand that he waved around, occasionally using it to swat his high patent-leather boots, which were certainly not fashioned according to regulation Red Army specifications.
‘I know, Dmitri,’ he responded. ‘I too am blessed with the facility of hearing.’
To the relief of his much-berated staff officer, the general’s tone was, however, less caustic than usual.
‘I told you they would be there,’ Dudylev went on, ‘but no one trusted my judgement. Not even my own staff.’
He slid a meaningful glance sideways at Colonel Petrov, who sat on a camp chair nearby.
‘Shall I inform divisional headquarters now?’ the staff officer asked meekly. ‘They have been desperately trying to raise us.’
‘No, let them sweat a little. It would be good for their fat butts, the damn paper-pushers!’
Dudylev took the mug of coffee from the orderly who had appeared before him and made a few more swishing moves with the swagger stick. He took a sip of his coffee before saying, ‘I have spoken to the divisional commander. Told him we had moved on some actionable intelligence which just got in this morning. He was very happy to hear it.’
Over the radio, they heard the reconnaissance troops of the battalions reporting that they couldn’t see any movement and their prophylactic firing at the huts in the village was failing to evoke a response. Despite a few rounds fired from the APCs onto the hillside, all continued to remain quiet. Even the pair of Hinds circling overhead couldn’t detect any sign of activity.
The general’s voice suddenly became authoritative. ‘They’re in there all right! They just don’t want to leave that position. I tell you, they don’t have anything else.’ He addressed his staff officer. ‘Tell them to stop pussyfooting around and get the infantry to dismount and begin combing. If they start getting hit, we’ll get the attack helicopters into action.’
He turned to Colonel Petrov. ‘In every battle, Boris, there is a need for a strong hand at the reins.’
The colonel looked on, his expression giving nothing away. The Oerlikon had opened up prematurely, giving away its own position without achieving any result. The general assumed it was a case of nerves or poor fire discipline, but that was the last thing Colonel Petrov expected, given his four years of experience fighting the mujahideen. Infantry dismounting in the open and climbing rugged terrain was an easy target. The general was playing a gambit the way one moved a pawn on the chessboard; only these were flesh-and-blood soldiers, marked for death. Petrov knew there was no need for haste. The battalion commanders had their orders and were going as per the plan. They could play the waiting game. It was just morning; they had the whole day before them. But it was futile giving the general advice. Petrov had a bad feeling about the entire situation and wanted to remove himself from it.
‘I will take a look at the Fire Direction Centre,’ he announced, as he got up and left.
* * *
From their fire position on the hillside, Peter and Ashton observed the soldiers getting out of their APCs and forming up. Evidently, they had rehearsed well for this situation and were guided by expert intelligence, judging by the phased and organized manner in which they could be seen moving on to the feature from different directions.
It was then that the sleepy hamlet which, apart from the Oerlikon, had been out of the action, came to life. It seemed to explode in a frenzy of violence from every direction. The old chief had sited his fire positions well; every approach leading to the feature had a dugout, with fortifications and overhead protection. The fortifications had been prepared in tiers, from the foot of the feature to the very top, and they had cleverly made use of the folds in the ground and the thick, twisted undergrowth of shrubs and orange trees as camouflage, rendering the Konkurs anti-tank missiles and the cannons of the APCs ineffective.
The Afghans pelted the Soviets with automatic fire and their Chinese-made 60mm mortars, but it was their hand-held Swedish 84mm Carl Gustav rocket launchers which proved lethal, both for the APCs and the troops out in the open.
Almost as soon as it had started, the volley of fire from the Afghans ended; the hillside was peaceful once again. Ashton had worked this one out with the mujahideen in advance; though they had their reservations about holding back their fire when they had the Russians in their sights, the old chief had seen merit in the Englishman’s advice.
Let the Hinds enter the valley
, Ashton told himself. That would give Peter and his team the target they wanted. Besides, it was no use taking casualties right now. They could deal with the infantry later, once the Hinds had gone –
that is,
if
they got them,
he thought anxiously.