Peter and his men heard the drone and watched as two pairs of Hinds entered the valley, separated laterally and vertically. They appeared to be moving slowly, until they passed directly in front of him and he realized that they were actually moving at a speed of no less than 100 km per hour. The scout helicopter was still high up in the sky. Peter knew it would have picked up quite a few targets, but hoped the recent fusillade had confused the Russians somewhat. He quietly gave an order and the four teams of two men each readied themselves.
* * *
‘We’ll really get them now!’ Taut and simmering with excitement, the general’s voice rose almost to a shout as he barked his orders to his staff officer. ‘Get me the squadron commander on the radio. I want to tell him to give these dog shits the complete treatment. To napalm them, especially, to napalm them!’
The staff officer busied himself calling out the attack helicopter flight commander’s call sign for a response.
General Dudylev smacked his boots again with his swagger stick.
They’re in there
, he exulted.
We have them surrounded now!
It’s just a matter of time before the Hinds finish them off!
‘And get me General Karchoff,’ he now barked.
The time was ripe for speaking to the divisional commander.
* * *
So this is it
, thought Peter. Nobody would have known it from his body language, but he was afraid. He was the only one who had actually fired the Stinger; he couldn’t predict how capable the others would be. From their raid at the Dera, they had acquired just four launchers with two missiles apiece. Three of his teams consisted of men who had fired the Red Arrow, the highly inaccurate Chinese wire-guided missile; he was manning the fourth team. They hadn’t been able to practise; it would have been a giveaway. Besides, they didn’t have that many Stingers. He had counted on the standard order of battle the Russians followed, with a squadron of eight attack helicopters backing up the brigade group they were facing. The only advantage the Afghans enjoyed was a topographical one: the valley narrowed and the hill face flanking it on either side rose sharply as the helicopters entered it, restricting their manoeuvres. As a result, only four helicopters could be in the valley at a given time. So far, Peter’s hunch had proved accurate; there were two pairs of helicopters – four in all – in the valley. A couple of them would be hovering behind, moving in when the first wave got out of the valley, while the other two, he figured, would be at the armament and refuelling helipad, taking off when the first pair got back. The bluff was to take out all four in the very first salvo and hope the Russians, who did not know how many missiles the mujahideen had, would be intimidated into scooting from the valley.
There was a lot at stake, including the Stinger’s credibility. The mujahideen had heard a lot about it, but never seen it in action so far. There were many who had questioned its capability against the almost invincible Hind. There were valid grounds for their reservations; the mujahideen had become the dumping ground for every obsolete weapon in the world. It was ironic, Peter mused, how the CIA was, on the one hand, funnelling almost three billion dollars into this war being fought against their arch enemy, the Soviets, and permitting a corrupt weapons pipeline, on the other, to purchase and supply rifles like the bolt action .303 in thousands to the mujahideen.
The first pair of Hinds had begun their strafing-and-bombing run, while the other pair circled overhead. Peter quickly allocated targets and rechecked with the men to ensure they had got the correct one. Then he gave the orders quietly but firmly: ‘Fire when you acquire target.’
The Stinger was the best in the world, a fire-and-forget missile; you acquired the aircraft on your optical sights and it was locked on to the target’s infrared heat emissions. It even had a ‘smart’ capability, whereby it could distinguish between flares and the aircraft itself. Not that the Russians were expecting to have to use their flare dispensers. They were expecting to take out a target – which couldn’t hit back.
Peter heard the men murmur ‘Allah hu Akbar!’ as they pressed the release lever. The missiles followed their targets, expelling a flaming and smoky-white exhaust, slightly oblique, correcting in flight for drift and heading, inexorably, towards the Hinds.
Peter looked up after he had released his missile; all four of them were in flight now. One after the other, the missiles hit their targets, detonating their three kg high-explosive warhead. Three of the Hinds went down in a spectacular display of orange and black fire as their deadly ordnance exploded in mid-flight. The fourth turned and came at them. Peter guessed that one of his teams had fired prematurely, before the target had been ‘locked on’ by the Stinger. Up in their cave, they watched the ungainly monster loom up ahead, coming at them with guns blazing. The pilot of the Hind knew that he had to take out the firing position if he wanted to escape from the valley unharmed.
Peter had prepared for this contingency as well. At his command, the boy Suleiman had vouched for as the best had picked up his loaded rocket launcher. ‘Fire,’ Peter said softly, as the boy took aim. Rockets fired by the Hind now hit the cave, but the boy would still not fire.
Fire! Don’t funk, please! Mother
in heaven, don’t funk
, Peter screamed in his mind. And then, in what seemed an agonizingly leisurely manner, the boy fired, aiming carefully at the Soviet Red Star painted on the fuselage where, inexplicably, the helicopter had least protection and an oil tank was conveniently located. The backblast of the rocket launcher filled the cave with a flaming hot wave that lifted them clean off their feet. Peter found himself being violently thrown against the cave wall. But through it all, his eyes never strayed from the Hind, which now disintegrated in a flash, emitting thick, oily black smoke as it fell vertically down the rock face before their very eyes.
Peter looked at the boy who had fallen next to him.
The Afghan smiled shyly, murmuring an explanation for his delay. ‘I wanted to look into the pilot’s eyes as he saw death.’
‘Sure thing, kid, sure thing,’ Peter said dazedly, patting him on the shoulder.
He could see the men cheering wildly, but couldn’t hear a thing; his ears were filled with a drumming sound and his whole body tingled, as if electrified, a taste of iron in his mouth. It was the taste of victory in battle, basic and primordial, unchanged since the beginning of civilization, and he savoured it. There was nothing that tasted better, he was sure, in this world or the next.
* * *
The squadron leader and his wingman who were outside the valley had not been hit, but they had watched in horror as the other four helicopters went down. Instinctively, the squadron leader pulled on the stick and tried to gain elevation, screaming on his radio, ‘Surface-to-air missiles! Get out! Break contact! Get out!’
On the ground below, the mujahideen had no time to cheer. Twenty of them, armed with Carl Gustavs, had crawled out and were closing in on the BMPs, getting into firing range. They were dangerously close and could easily be mowed down by the machine guns coaxially fitted to the cannons on the turrets. But that did not bother them much. These were men who would have used a Molotov cocktail if they had nothing else at hand; and they were much better armed this time around. Eleven of them achieved hits and the explosions of the BMPs rocked the valley.
The Russians were now in panic, with everyone getting on the air. General Dudylev recoiled in horror, unable to speak, his swagger stick falling to the ground. He could hear one of his battalion commanders order the troops back to battalion release point; that was the first step to a tactical withdrawal. The BMPs were all trying to get into some kind of position which offered cover from this new threat, their machine guns and cannons firing indiscriminately at the hill slopes.
The Afghans could see the two helicopters extricating themselves from the valley and Peter had to use all his persuasive powers to prevent his teams, who had reloaded, from trying to bring them down. They were no longer in range. He hoped they had made their point. They would need whatever missiles they had when the Russians regrouped and returned – if they did.
* * *
The Soviet staff officer, who had the headset on, turned ashen and whispered to General Dudylev, ‘It’s Delta One Alpha; he wants to speak to you, Comrade General.’
Dudylev looked dazed, but recovered fast. ‘Tell him something – anything – you fool! Tell him I’ve gone to assess the situation, that I am out of radio contact.’
With that, he sprang to his feet and stumbled towards the helipad where his helicopter was waiting, his orderly scampering after him with his helmet and weapon.
General Karchoff, the divisional commander, responded in a gentle, reasonable voice, when the stuttering staff officer got back to him on the radio with his report. ‘Get me the deputy, young man,’ he urged softly. ‘And hurry, please, before I give orders for your court martial.’
The staff officer sent a man to fetch the deputy, who seemed in no hurry as he ambled to the radio. His face was composed, but he hurt inside, as good soldiers do when they lose men.
‘Colonel Petrov for Delta One Alpha,’ he said into the radio.
‘What is the situation?’ the divisional commander enquired.
To Colonel Boris Petrov, the voice sounded like that of a tired old man trying to keep the body bags on his conscience to a minimum.
‘Four helicopters downed and…’ Petrov looked at the staff officer who sketched a figure with his fingers, ‘eleven BMPs.’ He paused, before adding, ‘We are still in contact.’
‘You mean the mujahideen are still ramming you.’
There was no anger in the voice that uttered those words. It was just a gentle rectification of facts.
Colonel Petrov remained silent. He had learnt early in military service that it was one of the ways to be promoted to a senior rank.
‘What do you propose to do?’ asked the voice.
That, thought Petrov, was a loaded question. It also implied that the divisional commander had dispensed with General Dudylev and handed over charge to his deputy.
At the sudden realization, the colonel reeled. His mouth went dry. He knew what he ought to say, what he expected the general would want him to say – that they should regroup and press on. But he could not bring himself to do it. Taking a deep breath, he decided to go with his heart.
‘It is a tactically unsound position, Comrade General,’ he said into the radio. ‘It would be best to return to a position of advantage.’
‘And then?’
The same soft voice.
‘I would not recommend going in again. The valley is too narrow and would prevent us from developing our combat potential.’ He paused, wetting his lips. He was sweating as he went on, ‘The gains would never be commensurate with the losses.’ He added quickly, ‘Perhaps next year, in spring, after the weather improves.’
There was silence on his handset; Colonel Petrov could hear the static. He wondered if this was the end of his career; surely, it had been for many who had said far less. Incongruously, his thoughts strayed to his son, who had asked him to get a camera when he went home on leave from this tour.
‘Or maybe we are all north of the Amu Darya,’ he heard the older man chuckle. After a silence, the divisional commander said, ‘Get out of the valley. It should be a fighting withdrawal.’ The voice was firmer and more decisive now. ‘I want all cases of insubordination and cowardice to be dealt with firmly. Do I make myself clear?’
Colonel Petrov, who could not believe his ears, mumbled a quick response in the affirmative.
‘I also want a detailed report of the intelligence picture and especially of how those surface-to-air missiles got there.’
‘Yes, Comrade General.’
‘It is my opinion that Comrade Dudylev needs urgent medical attention. Send him here under an escort. As for the matter at hand, it ends right here. If word of it gets out, I will hold you personally responsible and you will find yourself selling opera tickets for
Swan
Lake
in Kiev this winter.’
‘Yes, Comrade General.’
‘And Boris… ’
‘Yes, Comrade General?’
‘Well done. Out.’
Milawa Valley, Western Pamirs, Afghanistan
1986
It was autumn and already cold in the Pamir mountains. The men drew their blankets tight around themselves against the icy winds that stabbed at them repeatedly, flexing their toes continuously in their sandalled feet to keep the circulation going. In a month’s time, there would be snow and the men, at least most of them, would go home to their families.
Gaffar Khan, chief of the Wazirs, the largest Pashtun tribe in the region, walked out from his dwelling, a small cave which he did not, unlike his two hundred or so followers, have to share with anyone. He was to preside over a meeting. It was time for the guests to arrive, the young boy, who wore a huge turban and had two wisps of hair for a beard, informed him. Waiting in anticipation of that moment, Khan began walking down the mountain path, stick in hand and Kalashnikov swung around a shoulder. The path overlooked a flat, open patch, 200 metres square; it was something of an anomaly in such rugged terrain. MiGs had screamed overhead in the past, but the patch was located in too remote an area, with neither signs of habitation nor any trails leading up to it. From the air, it looked like a good place to land, but other than that, there were no signs to suggest to the Russians that it could serve as an administrative base. Moreover, no mujahideen activity had ever been reported in these parts. Consequently, it had escaped being bombed, napalmed or strafed. In fact, after some initial speculative recce, the Russians had not even considered it important enough to mark it as a ‘probable’ target on their intelligence maps.
The chief now made his way to the mouth of a larger cave, where the men had already made arrangements for the expected guests by spreading a number of parachutes bearing Soviet markings on the ground and placing empty mortar shell boxes on them to serve as seats. Most of his men would not comprehend what he was about to do; he would be harbouring the enemy.