4: Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams
September 5th, 1981
128 kilometers northwest of Samangan, Afghanistan
2:17 PM local time
The three-man spetsnaz detachment had uncovered him as he moved from the abandoned wreckage of a crashed Mi-24 Hind helicopter to a barely-identifiable, burned-out hulk. It was strange for a mudjehedeen to move alone; this tactic was not unfamiliar to the soldiers, though, often having led to enemy ambushes in the past.
This time, though, a buck private from Almaty had overwatch for the fire team. His grandfather had taught him hunting in the snowy Kazakh taiga, and his eyes were adept to detecting movement of white-furred creatures against a white background. The tan of the craggy Afghan hinterlands and their accompanying enemies' camouflage was little different. The private whistled a birdcall, bringing the soldiers to a halt.
Theirs was a normal long-duration patrol. Far under a rocky outcropping, the Kholm-to-Konduz highway passed through a dry riverbed region, making for a hotly contested strip of asphalt running near the border of Afghanistan and the Tadzhik Soviet Socialist Republic. Soviet troops pushed back Afghan mudjehedeen guerilla fighters, the mudje raided Soviet convoys, and Soviet troops deployed to eradicate the guerillas in a cycle that had repeated itself at a steady pace for two years so far. The spetsnaz soldiers, the very best of the Soviet elite troops, were perfectly suited for long-term reconnaissance and patrol missions out in the Afghan mountains.
"What do you have, Danilenko?" the platoon's sergeant, a tough-looking Georgian named Kadashvili, asked quietly as he came up behind the private.
"I saw movement around that shelled-out BRDM at eleven o'clock, down on the slope of that hill, seven hundred meters," the private pulled out a pair of binoculars. "One mudje; he's carrying a Dragunov and has an RPG on his back."
The sergeant followed suit with his own binoculars, letting out a low, impressed whistle. "He's setting up camp. Looks like he's going to take up a sniping position facing east. Good spotting, Danilenko. Stay down."
"Da, tovarisch."
The sergeant ran back in a crouch to the third member of their fire team, a radioman. His bulky old R-123M radio had seen much service in the rocky Afghan hills and mountains, having many parts swapped out and repaired over time. Designed for ruggedness, the R-123M could only reach about ten kilometers, maybe twenty on a good day. Fortunately, sergeant Kadashvili only needed to reach less than two klicks back. The radioman handed over the telephone-like radio handset.
"Red Bird to Nest Egg, over."
"Nest Egg. Go ahead, Red Bird," a deep, crackly voice responded from the earpiece.
"We have one leaf on the ground, don't know if any more are falling."
"I'll be right there."
"Acknowledged. Red Bird out."
"Orders, sergeant?" private Danilenko asked as the sergeant trotted back up.
"The lieutenant is coming up," Kadashvili patted the private on the shoulder. "Just relax, Danilenko. We may have a chance to take him alive."
"Prisoners?" the private asked. "Comrade sergeant, what would we do with him when we capture him?"
Kadashvili smiled, his wry grin an unfamiliar sight on his leathery features. "You haven't been under the lieutenant for long enough," he said almost rhetorically. "That man would be luckier as his captive than fighting against him."
"Da, comrade sergeant," Danilenko blinked. There was clear confusion over his near-Mongolian face.
"You'll understand soon enough."
There was a quiet sound of boots on loose dirt and stone from behind the two men a few minutes later.
"What do we have?" a near-whisper asked from behind them.
"Still the one, comrade lieutenant," Sergeant Kadashvili peered through his binoculars towards their right flank. "I haven't seen any movement in any directions. He really does look alone."
"Hmm..." Lieutenant Andrey Sergeivich Kalinin lifted up his own olive-drab military binoculars, looking around in a low crouch. Their tan pattern camouflage concealed them well enough against the rocky terrain; the mudje was facing the wrong direction in any case.
Kalinin nodded, setting down the binoculars. "He's a spotter," the lieutenant explained, adjusting the black beret that sat atop his shaggy, ill-cropped, sandy brown hair. "I saw a field radio, but it's not one of ours, nor one of the Americans'."
"Maybe they're getting them from India?"
"No, India gets them from us." Kalinin shrugged off the strap of his AKM rifle, unfolding the stock and taking up the weapon in a combat grip. "Sergeant, bring Danilenko up and have Kuyvishev stand ready on the PKM. We're taking him alive. Shoot to injure only, but keep in mind that we'll have to carry him back with us."
"Da, comrade lieutenant." Kadashvili whistled a different birdcall, and their radioman came forward, hefting a PKM heavy machine gun. He had one hand hefted under the weapon, carrying it along, and one hand holding down the ammo belt to prevent its metallic chink-chink-chink noise from giving away their position.
"Kuyvishev," Kalinin turned to the radioman as he folded down the bipod of the machine gun. "You deploy one hundred fifty meters to the south. It'll put you within his viewing range, so time your movements carefully. He can barely see around the corner of the BRDM, but he's bound to be looking. Lay down covering fire, but don't aim directly at him."
"Right away, comrade lieutenant!" Kuyvishev set off stealthily to the south.
"Danilenko, you approach around the far end of the BRDM from the north and wait for me. I will approach him from the west and you from the north. Kadashvili, back me up." Kalinin pulled back the charging handle on his AKM assault rifle, chambering a bullet and cocking the gas-powered rifle's mechanism. "Watch your fire and stay out of Kuyvishev's arc. I want all of us back alive; I will not risk anyone's lives over the capture of one Helmaj."
"You really think he's one, comrade lieutenant?" Danilenko asked enthusiastically, hefting up his own AKM. "We were briefed that they weren't operating this far west."
Kalinin narrowed his eyes. "If I had no reason to suspect him, I would not risk your lives by attempting a capture. You would already have shot him dead if he was another mudjehedeen."
Danilenko nodded vigorously.
"Let's go."
In a manner of minutes, the four spetsnaz troops had come within thirty meters of the wrecked scout car. Kalinin could see the barrel of the Dragunov sniper rifle facing south, towards the highway, still not even moving. He met Sergeant Kadashvili's eyes; the lieutenant held up a fist, pumped it down, and flashed two fingers.
The sergeant nodded; he picked up a stray handful of pebbles. With a mighty heave, he threw the pebbles in a far arc, landing to the front and left of the mudje. Kalinin couldn't see the man's reaction, but the barrel of the sniper rifle pointed upwards, just slightly enough, for him to know that the man had pulled down on the butt of the weapon to look left at the source of the sudden noise. He was looking up, away from the gun.
Kuyvishev opened up on his PKM, the repeated krackakrackakracka of 7.62mm sustained fire echoing throughout the wide valley. He was skillful, firing on the position not thirty feet away from Kalinin but making sure that every bullet impacted on the broken armor of the wrecked BRDM or the rocks near the cratered scout car.
Between the spang sounds of bullets crashing into the BRDM, Kalinin yelled out a hoarse "MOVE!" With one single movement, Kalinin moved in from the side of the scout car's burned hulk, rifle shouldered and pointing downwards at the man. Kadashvili had already climbed on top and taken up a cover position from the roof of the car, angling dangerously downwards. Danilenko came around to cover the other side of the man.
"Don't move! Put your hands up!" Kalinin shouted both in local Pashtun and Dari Persian, pointing his AKM aggressively at the man's head.
"Yatalarivy kadparuni!" the man exclaimed, fear in his face. He got up from his belly-down position with the rifle at his knees, holding his hands over his head. "Bakiri, bakiri! Starijush bakiri vilayas!"
"Pashtun? Do you speak Pashtun?" Kalinin asked in that language. Seeing nothing but a look of fear in the man's eyes, Kalinin pulled him to his feet, kicked the Dragunov away, detached the RPG rocket launcher from his back, and beckoned to Kadashvili and Danilenko. "Kadashvili, go bring Kuyvishev up. He knows Baluchi and some Hindu. Danilenko, you're from Almaty; does this sound anything like Kazakh?"
The young private shook his head. "Nothing like Uzbek or Tadzhik either, comrade lieutenant, but some of it seems familiar. Like a bit of Kazakh, Tadzhik, even Pashtun and Dari from a few of the words."
Kalinin narrowed his eyes. "You're a strange one," he said to the Helmaj in Russian.
"Jikhamata livorwazun?" the man angrily shouted. "Mirvarisha watshukil!"
Kalinin shook his head as the man kept ranting at him. Kadashvili jogged up a moment later with Kuyvishev in tow.
"Comrade Kuyvishev, do you recognize this?" Kalinin gestured with a thumb over his shoulder at the ranting man.
Kuyvishev thought for a moment, but only a short one. His eyes lit up in recognition. "Kalamaji dakhvali?" he asked the man.
The mudjehedeen suddenly stopped speaking angrily. He blinked, turning to the source of the words, and after seeing the blond-haired Russian speaking at him, spat on the ground. "Kakhtari Roosian!" he growled. "Yadmal gafdhaka!"
"Did you understand that, comrade corporal?" Kadashvili asked.
"Partially, comrade sergeant," Kuyvishev responded. "He was speaking what sounds like Kalama, a minority dialect of Feyzan. It's spoken only in the northeast; that's the same region where the Helmaj are operating out of."
Kalinin nodded. "So he is one of the Helmaj. Call in a chopper, Kuyvishev, this one should have plenty to talk about when we take him back to camp."
"Immediately, comrade lieutenant!" Kuyvishev knelt near a rock and dialed in a new frequency on his radio.
"No, wait just a minute, comrade. Put the radio down for now. Can you translate into Kalama for a few sentences?"
"I can try, comrade lieutenant. Chances are good he also understands regular Feyzan."
"Good." Kalinin reached into a pocket on his pistol belt, unfolding a photo that had seen one unfolding too many. It was a battered old black-and-white print, the best a Soviet combat photographer could muster. "Ask him if he knows who this is."
"Yadavarta rechustalvish?" the radioman asked as Kalinin held up the photograph to the mudje.
"Rechusta?" the mudje laughed. "Helmajin helmaj, sagurvasti! Khau'ron istivi helmaj!"
"He said 'Do I know? This is the king of kings, our savior; this is the dragon of all kings,'" Kuyvishev said by means of translation. "I recognized most of it as regular Kalama, but the word 'khau'ron' sounds like it might be a dialectical creation. "Khaloron" is Feyzan for 'dragon,' so that's the best I can think of. Otherwise, it looks like the Intel briefing paid off, comrade lieutenant."
"Indeed it did." Kalinin narrowed his eyes as he looked at the photo.
The face in the picture was a lean, young one, clean-shaven and narrow. It was almost Asian in terms of skin tone and the shape of his eyes, but it wasn't the face that secretly worried Kalinin.
The other soldiers weren't cleared in on all of the briefings. The KGB colonel had informed Kalinin that the giant metal head and shoulders on which the Asian-looking man stood matched nothing that they knew from either the Soviet Union or America.
"I want that chopper here in twenty minutes," Kalinin ordered.
"Da, comrade lieutenant!" Kuyvishev saluted and unslung the heavy radio from his back. He knelt to tune in a repeater frequency back to their base outside the city of Konduz, pressing the ear-cup of the bulky headphones close to his ear with his free left hand.
"Private Danilenko, search this man for weapons. Sergeant, do we have anything to bind him with?" Kalinin asked, tossing his head in the Helmaj's direction.
"We've got rope, comrade lieutenant, but I'm hesitant to use it." Kadashivili didn't look Kalinin in the eyes; instead, he kept his AKM pointed at the Helmaj soldier's head as Danilenko patted him down. "Even if comrade Danilenko doesn't find anything, it'd be too easy for him to get out. All we have is thick-gauge for tying down our field tents."
"Danilenko, anything on him?"
"Just this, comrade lieutenant," Danilenko replied, holding up an ornately patterned dagger.
"Interesting..." Kalinin looked the dagger over. He turned to Kuyvishev, but his impromptu translator was mapping out their location to a communications officer back at their base.
"May I see this?" he asked the Helmaj in Dari Persian.
"Roosi dakhav," the Helmaj spat back angrily.
"I'd rather ask your permission," Kalinin explained in as polite a voice he could muster. "If you can't understand me, or if you don't want us using it, that's fine. This looks important, so I'd rather not disrespect it."
"Roosi dakhav, zakharvod!"
Kalinin met his eyes, lowering his AKM on its strap. He crouched down on the balls of his feet, not even saying a word.
"Vertizal takarat khau'ron," the Helmaj finally said, slightly less hostile. "Tekat sarzalja kitlajara."
Kalinin extended his hand towards the dagger, stopping short of taking it. He looked once again at the Helmaj, who nodded.
Kalinin took up the dagger; it was coppery, carrying some minor patina from age. He was no mineral scientist, but he knew enough basic chemistry to place this dagger at almost a hundred years old. Its ornately carved design looked like a ceremonial sword he had once seen in the Hermitage, a gift to Khrushchev from the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic; the inlaid carvings carried a motif of spiraling winds emanating from the mouth and claws of some lizard-like creature. There was a border of lapis and gold around the edges of the sheath and handle, and it had quillon-like protrusions that looked like they could effectively parry a small blade.
"It looks like it came from a mosque..." Kalinin spoke to himself, holding the dagger in the light. "A blend of central Asian styles. I wish I knew more." He partially unsheathed the blade, holding it at a high angle to catch the sunlight. "This is an incredibly well cared for dagger, I will say that much," Kalinin remarked on seeing the unblemished, visibly sharp cutting edge. He sheathed the dagger and placed it back in the Helmaj's hands. "Spasiba," he said. "Thank you."
"Comrade lieutenant! Why are you-"
"Comrade sergeant, we know little about the Helmaj, but there's one thing to be said about all weapons," Kalinin stood up and tossed his AKM over his back. "If you had a rugged combat knife and a one-of-a-kind ceremonial dagger, which would you rather sully with blood in anything but a ritual situation?"
"But comrade lieutenant, we cannot let him remain armed!"
"Comrade Kadashvili, I do not question your prudence and caution; however, as it stands, we have nothing with which to securely contain him," Kalinin shook his head. "He may be a prisoner, but I will not be the one to strip him of his dignity. We will, of course, strip him of weapons he would actually use."
"As you say, comrade lieutenant, but I must protest that you are returning that knife to him."
"Your protest is noted, comrade. Any luck, comrade corporal?"
"Konduz Base is sending us a Hip to pick us up," Kuyvishev reported as he set the headphones back in their securing clasps. "It'll be here in a half hour and it'll look for green smoke. We're keeping him at Konduz until they can fly him out to Kandahar, though."
"To Kandahar?" Kadashvili shook his head. "That poor bastard. They must be desperate to drip him dry of all the blood and information he has in his body."
"Comrade Kuyvishev, who did you speak to at Konduz Base?" Kalinin narrowed his eyes, setting himself down on one knee next to the radioman.
"The communications watch officer was Captain Andreyev, and when he heard that we had a Helmaj, he patched Colonel Varshevsky in on the line, who gave me the orders."
"Varshevsky?" Kalinin chuckled. "That spunky little zampolit is involved now?"
"Da, comrade lieutenant."
"We'll set up a security perimeter around this wreck," Kalinin called out to his assembled men. "I'll stay back and cover our prisoner. Comrade Kadashvili, coordinate an overwatch with Private Danilenko on the overhangs to the north and south," Kalinin pointed out some rocky outcroppings where the soldiers would keep an eye out for movement on the ground. "Kuyvishev, you take up watch on the other side of the BRDM and keep your eyes peeled for the Hip. Those damn helicopters are huge enough to get shot down by some lucky bastard with a pistol."
"Right away, comrade lieutenant!" The men dashed off to their positions.
Kalinin sat down next to the Helmaj, looking at the man. The prisoner didn't look at Kalinin; he was focused on the ceremonial dagger in his hands, whispering something in his indecipherable native language. He didn't fear from an attack from the man, but he kept one hand on his AKM, just in case; he dangled it loosely from his knees, firmly grasping the wooden pistol grip.
Misha Il'ych, what do you want with this man? Kalinin thought, rubbing his stubble-encrusted chin idly. What is so important that this Helmaj must go to Kandahar?
To be continued...
Glossary:
Spetsnaz: An acronym for the Russian term "Voiska spetsialnogo naznacheniya," or "special forces detachment." Among the most skilled and trained of all unconventional warfare troops, the spetsnaz special forces were the pride of the Soviet Red Army. Trained to operate behind enemy lines for extended periods of time with minimal support, spetsnaz commandos were tasked with being the tip of the spear in wartime. They were originally developed to penetrate deep into NATO territory, with the aim of infiltrating and destroying the critical military infrastructure that NATO maintained to stave off a massive Warsaw Pact assault in Europe, largely considered to be the onset of the Third World War. During the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, the spetsnaz were deployed widely to counter mudjehedeen guerillas with brutal, intimidating tactics. Spetsnaz commandos reportedly cut off ears and fingers of mudjehedeen, trying to frighten them from fighting with such devilish imagery. Needless to say, the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan in the late 1980s demonstrated that such tactics did not work against the dedicated mudjehedeen.
Mudjehedeen: Also spelled mujāhidīn, mujahedeen, mujahedin, mujahidin, mujaheddin, etc. Arabic for "struggler" in the sense of struggling for jihad. During the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, mudjehedeen were loosely-organized, often militantly Islamic groups that were directly sponsored, trained, and supplied by the United States. They were referred to be U.S. president Ronald Reagan as "freedom fighters... defending principles of independence and freedom that form the basis of global security and stability." Their employment of guerilla tactics and terrain-based warfare was legendary against the Soviets. We can assume that Sousuke Sagara fought with a mudjehedeen group during the time he was in Helmajistan.
AKM: The AKM, developed from the AK-47 assault rifle, is a shortened, improved version of the –47. It was and still is widely used by the Russian military today.
PKM: A Soviet infantry machine gun. It is fed by the same ammunition as the AKM, AK-47, and lighter PK machine guns. It is capable of high cyclic rates and is rather hard to maintain, but very accurate.
MITHCENT: MITHRIL Central Command. Headquarters: 2-17 Yehuda Hayamit, Tel Aviv, Israel. MITHCENT is, bar none, the most active command in all of MITHRIL during the timeframe of The Hollow Men. Responsible for the Mediterranean Sea, Indian Ocean, and the entire Middle East from Turkey in the northwest to Afghanistan in the east, MITHCENT is a highly diversified command geared almost entirely towards small, covert operations.
MITHCENT brings in agents and mercenaries from a wide swath of backgrounds, all geared towards infiltration and long-term operations with minimal equipment. MITHCENT agents have been responsible for slowing down the Israeli nuclear weapons programs in the late 1960s, culminating with a ground raid on an Israeli air base to prevent a nuclear air raid from launching during the '67 Six-Day War. Furthermore, MITHCENT has successfully infiltrated terrorist groups such as Black September, Hezbollah, Hamas, and the radical wing of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine; they have also placed agents within the higher structures of the secretive Israeli intelligence agency, the Mossad. Additionally, MITHCENT agents were behind the assassination of weapons designer Gerald Bull in Brussels in 1990. He was in the process of designing an artillery cannon with a 500 kilometer range with a secondary capability to launch small objects into low earth orbit. (A/N: Gerald Bull was a real person and the cannons he worked on were real. His assassination, however, has never been conclusively linked to anyone or any organization...)
MITHCENT does not have call signs per se; instead, their code names are assigned randomly from Arabic and Hebrew phrases, depending on the operative and his/her assignment.