A/N: Many thanks to Lakewood for his exceptional beta work. I can't stress enough how he's helped this fanfic turn from the sharpness of an old sword into the quality and precision of a medical scalpel. As he puts it so eloquently, a thousand words of thanks, Lakewood.
At this point, I should let you all know that most of these chapters are written two at a time. I tend to get really verbose when I write and I do so bulky, so I've been trying to keep things ten pages at a time so you don't have to read it forever. The longer chapters will be long when they need to be, though.
Best thing about writing at work? During the downtimes, I just iPod up a bunch of inspirational tracks... at some point, I'm going to throw together a playlist of all the actiony FMP! songs and stuff from Metal Gear Solid OSTs, some Hans Zimmer and Harry Gregson-Williams, etc. to get me in the proper mood. Nothing beats writing the MITHRIL sequences when I've got the music from when Sousuke gets prepped to leave the Tuatha de Danaan for Jindai High playing. Very "Let's get ready!" and inspiring-ish.
My neck has been really stiff and painful lately... I was kinda up on my head during a backward roll practice last Thursday, and I guess I put a little too much stress on it. It was stiff all weekend and pretty painful to move yesterday and today... blech.
On with the show!
5: Such Deliberate Disguises
September 5th, 1981
MITHPAC Headquarters
Sydney, Australia
9:45 PM local time
Mark stepped around the first row of cots laid out in the MITHRIL commissary/overflow sleeping quarters. The commencement of Operation SIGNET RING had drawn in personnel from branch offices all throughout the Asia-Pacific, even some from MITHLANT in Rome and MITHCENT in Tel Aviv; the resulting sea of humanity needed places to eat and sleep.
"Oh, 'scuse me," he apologized, stepping over the legs of a senior corporal from Photointelligence who was trying to stretch out on his old steel-frame cot. A few more twists and turns through the packed quarters, with cots laid out barely a foot apart, brought him up to the commissary's drink machines.
"Man, why'd we have to get stuck on the night shift," Mark asked a young SRT sergeant who was hanging out by the coffee machine.
"I hear that," the SRT troop quipped. "You're in Intel, right? How come they haven't put you guys out in the field?"
"Same to you! You're with Fehu team, right? Aren't you supposed to be on alert at Merida?"
"Nah, they sent me here to liaise with you guys."
"Curtis Marqata, but my friends call me Mark."
"I'm McAllen. John McAllen." They shook hands. "Hey, you gave that briefing, right? They probably took you down for some R&R time after shuttling around about the Leapfrog."
"I should be so lucky," Mark scoffed. "My partner and I are supposed to be on-call for a covert deployment at some point. We're both SRT-qualified, but neither of us got the invite to sign on. Y'all are probably hoarding all the good troops so that you don't gotta deal with newbies."
"We try our best," McAllen grinned. "I actually just got back from Merida. Working with the specs on what you guys brought back is making us tear our hair out to develop a countermeasure."
"Yeah? Come up with anything?"
McAllen's grin turned into a slanted grimace. "Wish I could tell you we did, but those worst-case figures have us really nervous." He leaned in, speaking in a low tone. "I'll tell you this since you and your partner probably know more than General Sachar right now: if it can dodge and move like you projected, it's a cast-iron bitch to even shoot at. We rigged up a small high-speed pneumatic rail system, just sideways movement at the approximate leap and walk speeds, right? Recoilless rifles will reach, but only because they're man-portable. Anti-tank missiles are useless. Tank guns can't rotate fast enough. Machine guns probably won't be able to dent the damn thing. Before I left, they'd started to test out tracking it with those new Apaches. Those at least did the trick, but I'm willing to bet the Leapfrogs will be able to swat 'em out of the sky in five seconds."
Mark shook his head. "Just great. We've got the best of what's new, old, and still in freakin' development from both sides of the Iron Curtain and nothing does anything. I hope to God we've overestimated."
"'Plan for the worst, hope for the best,'" McAllen quoted, sipping at his coffee.
Mark poured himself a cup of MITHRIL's legendary brew. "Honestly, what worries me most is NAPA VALLEY." He stirred in his usual packet and a half of sugar, cupping the mug in his hands to warm them. "When I saw that signature on the computer, I wanted to look over my shoulder. I didn't know if he'd have a rifle trained on my head, a bomb at the end of the message... I mean, hell, I can hack my way into anything and even put together a motherboard from silicon chips, solder, and chewing gum. I know my electronics, bro. But when I saw that, I thought that the computer was about to blow up and kill me. NAPA fuckin' VALLEY, man." Mark shook his head. "I never felt so out of control in my life, seein' that name up there."
"I hear that." McAllen nodded. "NAPA VALLEY literally wrote the SRT training manual back in the early seventies. It's filled to the brim with everything we do... unarmed combat, hostage negotiation, first aid... if he catches us in our own game, I could lose an entire combat team."
"To think it had to happen to my partner, too..." Mark sighed. "Kenji and NAPA VALLEY... they got a history."
"Moriyama, right? Hell, NAPA's probably the one who'll be shaking if he has to face Kenji down. His entire body's a collection of lethal weapons from any direction. I only wish I had the time to learn some of his techniques."
"You seen him, anyway?" Mark asked. "We're supposed to be on shift in the command center in fifteen minutes."
"Yeah, I passed by the gym on my way here. I was just coming off shift in the armory. He was practicing with someone. Didn't see who."
"Oh, practicing?" Mark raised an eyebrow and turned down the collar on his trademark denim jacket, adjusting the turtleneck sweater he wore under it. "Betcha ten bucks he ain't practicin' no kung fu, my brotha," he finished off in ebonics.
"Heh. You're all the Richard Roundtree we need around here, Mark," McAllen clapped the taller man on the shoulder.
"I'm out, bro. Nice meeting ya, McAllen," Mark shook his hand, shifting his coffee mug to his left.
MITHRIL maintained a small gymnasium within its compound for recreation and training purposes. All manner of mats, practice gear, and athletic equipment were out, but there were no half-court basketball games or racquetball matches going on at this hour. Mark passed by two fencing strips—one with two Italian-style epee fencers practicing, another with two people working on kendo—and past a set of unmanned weight machines before he came up to the quieter half of the gym.
Mark set down his coffee, stepped out of his shoes, and bowed towards the small altar at the edge of the gym's dojo. He stepped in and sat down on his knees, back respectfully straight, not saying anything as he watched Kenji practice with his partner.
She was several inches taller than Kenji, with her athletic build concealed somewhat under her gi and hakama; her dark chestnut hair was tied back, conveniently out of the way. Kenji was directly opposite her, left foot back and pointing to the side, right foot forward, in a basic hanmi pose, holding out his right hand. The taller woman grabbed his wrist, her stormy gray eyes meeting Kenji's, and in one swift motion, Kenji had stepped to her left and brought her arm directly backwards, twisting her hand into a lock. He stepped forward, extending his free left hand across her neck, and bent his knees gently.
She fell easily to the mats, with Kenji holding her down, until she tapped the mat with her free hand. He released the lock, she got up, and they repeated it with his left hand.
"You really are a fast learner," she remarked through her thick Middle Eastern accent between rapid breaths after taking another fall.
"I've been meaning to incorporate aikido into my routines," Kenji wiped his perspiring forehead off with the sleeve of his gi. "I have too many actual styles of fighting, but little in the means of throws and locks."
"I feel like I don't even need to teach you anything," she said, entering into a series of cool-down stretches. "All you need to do is keep practicing."
"I will," Kenji replied, stretching himself out, suddenly spotting Mark out of the corner of his eye. "I take it you're not here for aikido, Mark?"
"Seems like you two're doing enough aikido for the both of us," he grinned. "How long you been down here?"
"Far too long," the woman grinned wryly, a sparkle in her eyes. "It took plenty of time to get your partner to stop being so tense while he practices."
"It takes time to get him to stop bein' tense in the field, too," Mark joked, standing up and leaning back against the wall. "I didn't know you were back, Gef."
"Can you believe they cut me loose?" Her grin transformed into a smile.
Sergeant Major Gefen ben Lebedov—'Gef' to everyone except her grandparents—strode up to Mark and gave him a quick hug.
"Everything calmed down in the Black September cell in Haifa before the Mossad came in to spoil the party. I even recognized some of my old squadmates from the Army who came crashing through the doors."
"No shit? Mossad came down on you guys? Rough luck."
"Rough luck!" The Israeli laughed, pulling out her hair tie. Although sweaty, her chin-length hair never seemed to degrade her attractive, trim face despite the thin scar on her cheek. "You're betting your ass it was rough luck!"
"It's 'you bet your ass,' Gef," Kenji corrected, finishing his stretches. He bowed to the dojo altar, stepping off the mat and into his shoes.
"Whatever it is, it is," she scoffed, bowing and stepping off the mat as well.
"Kenji, when you've got time, do some calming stretches, some breathing exercises. You're tenser than steel. Here!" She thrust her hands down onto his shoulders, pressing into them a little. Kenji grabbed her wrists by reflex, but before he could disengage from the hold he was anticipating, Lebedov had lightened her grasp.
"I'm going to give you a massage, Kenji, whether you want it or not," she laughed mischievously, rubbing the tips of her fingers into the fleshy parts of his shoulders. "I swear, you're going to pull something and it'll cripple you! To think that all the martial arts you know haven't gotten you to simply go with the flow."
"Oh, I'm 'a get him with the flow," Mark chuckled, suddenly mimicking a stereotypical black inner-city voice. "We gonna kick back with some Colt .45 and some Curtis Mayfield, and he be flowin 'fore you know it!"
Kenji sighed, but he smiled a little. "Gef, it'll have to wait. Mark and I are due in the command center soon."
"So am I." She untied the belt of her hakama, stepping out of the broad, skirt-like pants to air out her legs. Hakama, worn over a gi, tended to disguise one's leg movements, but they made for an extra layer that one normally didn't need during a workout. "Meet you outside? I need a shower."
"Sounds good."
"Yeah, see ya' outside," Mark mock-saluted as she headed for the women's locker rooms. Both men watched her leave, then Mark suddenly had his partner in a full-Nelson.
"Yo, why didn't you tell me you were down here with Gef!" he laughed, pulling Kenji's arms behind him rather painfully. "Yo, man, she teach you any moves to get outta this?" The tall black man kept laughing as he hefted Kenji up into the air, four inches off the ground. "You's one heavy mo'fo!" he lapsed back into ebonics again. "Day-am, Kenji, you been' snackin' on pig iron!"
Mark's laughs were cut short as Kenji kicked his legs forward, then quickly backward, sliding backwards between Mark's combat-stanced legs and behind him, instantly free of the hold. Kenji quickly flipped Mark face-down onto the floor, commanding his right arm in a vicious lock.
"Okay, okay, I give, I give!" Mark winced as Kenji pressed the arm-lock further. "Dang, she's one helluva teacher!"
"That she is." Kenji let go of Mark's arm and stepped in front of him, extending a hand to help him back up before he headed off to the locker room.
"Man, you two haven't seen each other in a while, huh?" Mark shouted over the water in Kenji's shower.
"Not since we were all back in Kabul, just before the Soviets invaded," Kenji responded from behind the opaque curtain. "That was back in '79. She told me about going in with some of the mudjehedeen when the Americans started to send in small batches of test equipment. You remember how we were about to call in an air strike to cut off the supply lines they were feeding in from the Pakistani border, right?"
"That was when they had those air skirmishes over Lahore. Other side of the country, man."
"Well, that was the Americans sneaking in their first round of Stingers and M-16s. Turns out the Pakistanis were running interference. We couldn't go up against them."
"Yeah, I remember how I was back at the base for most of that operation," Mark grumbled. "A black man can't get no justice in Afghanistan."
"Maybe you should have told them you were Louis Farrakhan."
"Ouch, bro!" Mark laughed. "It was no fun pulling out, for sure. MITHRIL coulda stopped the entire Soviet advance force if we'd stuck around and sent in the Harriers."
"No place to send 'em in from. The Valley Mistress was still in the Red Sea. So yeah, we pulled out, the Soviets took over, and Gef went back to MITHCENT. She's busted up Black September cells like nobody's business." There was a squeak as Kenji turned the shower faucets off. One stocky arm reached out for a towel, and Mark handed it to him.
"Too bad we're on lockdown. You guys could go for a nice romantic evening. Sydney Opera House, man! Sydney Opera House!"
"That's as inappropriate as it gets for a fellow enlisted officer," Kenji responded. He emerged from the shower, all dried off, with the MITHRIL-logo towel wrapped around his waist. "Mark, you don't quite get the fact that Sergeant Major Lebedov and I are purely professional about our relationship."
"What relationship?" Mark rolled his eyes. "You never even think about women, do you, Kenji?"
"I'd rather not." Kenji went to a locker and retrieved his uniform, the MITHRIL-issue khakis with his name and rank badges on them. "Aren't you going to change?"
"Mark Marqata doesn't change for the tides, my brother," he scoffed, running a hand through his fro.
"What about for the Command Center?"
"Command? Command can have me runnin' laps after SIGNET RING is over. This is a five hundred dollar jacket!" Mark bragged, turning up the wide lapels. "Original Versace!"
"Suit yourself." Kenji stepped behind a wall to change, emerging fresh in his pressed uniform. "Ready?"
"Yeah, let's go clock in."
"What's taking you guys so long?" Lebedov's voice called from the hall. "We're supposed to be on shift in ten minutes!"
Outside Konduz, Afghanistan11:40 PM local time
The Soviet base camp was a hastily-constructed, but well-organized, cluster of steel prefabricated shelters, tents, medical and barracks facilities, and even a motor pool that could accommodate half a regiment of tanks or armored vehicles. The near-constant takeoff, refueling, landing, and re-arming of powerful, swift Mi-24 Hind and bulky Mi-8 Hip helicopters had the entire base in a constant low-grade sand storm. The air blew a dark, opaque haze of all the dust and dirt, forcing unnecessary personnel to stay inside during intensive operations.
Kalinin's spetsnaz detachment was lucky enough to get a building with a solid roof, a small steel-walled medical tent that wasn't being used at the time. The stone-faced regimental surgeon had informed them that they were to clear out the moment a casualty came in, but the doctor wasn't fooling anyone with the intimidation he tried to put into his eyes. He left with a pitying stare, looking Kalinin straight in the sandy-hazel eyes. You will be either the cause or the savior of many victims with what you brought back, the look said. Tread lightly.
"So what are they going to do with him, comrade lieutenant?" Sergeant Kadashivili asked Kalinin as the four soldiers broke out a deck of military-issue playing cards and a 1.5 liter bottle of completely non-military-issue vodka.
"Only the worst things imaginable," Kalinin said flatly as he lit up a portable burner, setting his canteen over the fire. "The base commander already informed me that the Party has taken great interest in our Helmaji prisoner and will be flying him to Kandahar tomorrow."
Private Danilenko and Corporal Kuyvishev looked up at the mention of Kandahar. The provincial capital of the area by the same name, Kandahar was the KGB's established operational headquarters for Afghanistan. A trip there by anyone lower than the rank of colonel usually meant bad news for that person.
"What are they taking him for?" Danilenko shook his head. "When the Helmaj find out that they have one of their men in captivity, we're going to take the brunt of another raid for sure."
"That's probably why they're taking him to Kandahar," Kuyvishev interjected. "To get him off of the front lines... and to keep the heat on us up here."
"Enough, you two," Sergeant Kadashvili snapped. "We've been given orders that need to be followed. That should be enough for young bucks like yourself."
"Of course, comrade sergeant!" Danilenko eagerly replied. "But still... if we can barely talk to him, how will a nekulturniy officer be able to interrogate him?"
"They're not going to interrogate him, comrade Danilenko," Kalinin shook his head. "You're correct in assuming they can't speak his language. I'm willing to bet that no Soviet officer even studied basic Pashtun before the invasion began."
"Comrade lieutenant..." Kadashvili said in a cautionary tone.
Kalinin shook his head. "Sergeant Kadashvili, I have been a Soviet soldier since I left the university. I was immediately put in for officer training and have led men ever since. Though I may be a Soviet soldier, I am still a soldier, bound by basic realities in armed combat. One of those is to treat my enemy the same way I would want myself to be treated. I would extend nothing less to a prisoner."
"Da, comrade lieutenant. "Comrade Danilenko, do you want to know what they will do to that Helmaji soldier?"
Kalinin leaned towards the private. The young man's eyes were as dark brown as they came, still a little shiny from having been plucked out of his conscription training and sent to the front in Afghanistan.
"Do you want to know what the KGB will do, even though they cannot understand a word that comes out of his mouth?"
Danilenko was silent, having forgotten all about the flush that Kuyvyshev had dealt him.
"They will string him up by the wrists." Kalinin held his own arms up to demonstrate, his eyes completely neutral. "They will take battery cables and clasp them right to the engine battery from a BMP-1. One cable to each lead. Then, they attach the negative cable to the man's left earlobe."
In a swift motion, Kalinin had reached out and grabbed Danilenko's earlobe, gripping it tight. "Think of it like this, only with razor-sharp metal teeth. Battery clamps are not designed for comfort."
The private was shuddering, half from the shock of the lieutenant's sudden maneuver, the other half from the harsh grip. "W-w-what about the other one?"
"They will ask him where his base is in Russian first," Kalinin continued. "Then, they'll try for Pashtun, Dari Persian, even Arabic. If he's lucky, they'll try some of the other major tribal languages. He will understand absolutely none of it, even though we know he only speaks Kalama, but their tape recorder will be going nonetheless. As he tries to plead for his life, begging to be spared, telling them everything they want to know, he won't be able to ignore the red positive lead. Whoever holds that lead will do so through a thick, insulated rubber glove. This is so our good KGB comrade does not shock himself when he attaches the positive lead to the man's other earlobe, completing the electrical circuit with a voltage running through the man inflicts a pain greater than any he has yet felt in his life."
In another lightning grab, Kalinin had both of Danilenko's earlobes in an iron grip. The private cried out in terror before he realized that he was not being shocked.
The small medical room was silent. On the burner, steam was coming up from Kalinin's canteen. The lieutenant let go of Private Danilenko's ears, wrapped a thick canvas cloth around the boiling hot canteen as not to burn himself, and poured the water into a tin mug, filled with Russian caravan tea leaves.
"But... but comrade lieutenant," Corporal Kuyvyshev ventured. "Isn't it worth it? They'll analyze the tape to find more info about the Helmaj so we can go after them, right?"
"Of course they will." Kalinin gently tilted the mug back and forth to steep the tea. "Eventually, with every Helmaj soldier they capture, they'll have all the more information to finally quell the rogues and pacify that section of the country. There are enough Kalama speakers at the University of Almaty to give us complete translations eventually. We were lucky that you went to the university there and studied the language that spawned it, comrade Kuyvishev. I fear that the KGB has none yet."
"But why such measures?" Danilenko blurted.
"Because our government feels that it is necessary for our security in Afghanistan, which then directly translates into security for our borders and prosperity for the rodina." Kalinin leaned back in the metal folding chair in which he sat. "They feel it is important to do this."
The medical tent fell silent. "Is it worth it, comrade corporal," Kalinin asked, "to sacrifice the humanity of even one man for the sake of the Soviet Union? Comrade Danilenko, you are a Kazakh, are you not? Would you want the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic to be known as a state which tortures people?"
Even Sergeant Kadashvili, who was several years older than Kalinin, were held rapt in his calm, strong words.
Kalinin calmly took a sip of his tea. "I've been in Afghanistan since we took the Kabul airport in '79," he mused. "Only now, with the rise of the Helmaj and that mysterious photo, has the KGB become so intent on tearing down every bit of human flesh that stands between them and the man and the apparatus in the photo. For the sake of some new and unknown weapon, and the sake of 'security,'" he almost scoffed, "we are about to deny another man his humanity. In doing so, we become sub-human ourselves."
The silence hung in the medical tent in a visible cloud over all four men. They had killed many who would have easily and quickly killed them in their respective tours of duty, both before and during their duty with Lieutenant Kalinin. Every one of them had come back alive from their missions—sometimes injured, sometimes not—and none had any reason to doubt the man's words. A graduate of the prestigious Moscow State University and of the Frunze Military Academy's officer training program, Kalinin was a man they trusted in the battlefield. Seldom had they considered him in the same sense off of it.
"What should we do, Lieutenant?" Danilenko was the first to ask. Everyone noticed the electricity laden with his words: Danilenko had dropped the "comrade" honorific. It was if the Communist Party's influence, akin to that of an earthly god, had been silently and suddenly evicted from the tent.
"What should you do?" Kalinin asked. "I do not know what you should do. That is something each of you must decide." He sipped at his canteen again, slowly and deliberately, savoring the tart, woody sweetness of the traditional Russian tea. "What I plan to do, however, is to ensure that the Helmaj we captured today be treated humanely and in a dignified manner. I have no reason to believe he would do the same should our positions be switched, but I do not wish for my name to be associated with torture in any way, shape, or form."
Kalinin gulped down the tea, letting out a deep, satisfied breath. "If you will excuse me, comrades," he said, the formality returning to his voice. "I must go see the zampolit about our guest."
Kalinin picked up his AKM and slung it over his back, exiting out the stamped-metal door of his tent. He did not expect to hear anything behind him, but the shuffle of three other soldiers retrieving and strapping down their gear was quickly followed by their footsteps catching up behind him.
To be continued...
A/N/Glossary:
Kulturniy/nekulturniy: Russian for "cultured" and "uncultured" respectively. Kulturniy became a watchword for the Soviet Union during the era where Leonid Brezhnev was in power. The aim was to try to match the practices of the Soviet armed services with those of the West by urging them to be "cultured." Kulturniy practices would be nonviolent interrogations and the like; nekulturniy practices would be much, much worse.
Frunze Military Academy: The Soviet Army operated under a different structure than most Western military forces. A universal conscription policy was in effect; basically, all men were drafted for four years' service when they turned eighteen, unless they went into university. Starting at the rank of private, it was rare for most men to stay in, but some were selected for sergeant or officer training. Officer training was conducted at the Frunze Academy, where promising cadets were instructed in strategy and tactics, then returned after a long training regimen to their unit. Officers and sergeants shared the burden of the work in a Soviet army platoon; instead of the officer giving orders and the sergeant carrying them out and enforcing unit discipline (As it is in most Western armed forces), the officer was primarily responsible for keeping an eye on unit discipline and rebelliousness. Frunze Academy only taught that as a secondary course, though; its library (Which is still open today) reputedly has over a million books, all on military strategy.
Zampolit: Soviet political officer. The zampolit, usually a ranking colonel or lieutenant colonel, was responsible for ensuring that a Soviet military unit was adhering to Communist Party doctrine and regulation. Zampolits were usually officers of or under the control of the Second Chief Directorate of the KGB, which was responsible for rooting out spies within the Soviet Union. Normally, this would be handled by the GRU—the military intelligence branch of the Soviet Union—but KGB was most often the point of command for most zampolits. A zampolit was also in charge of overseeing Party meetings and collecting Party dues from their unit. The zampolit was nearly untouchable; he could ruin a military career or even have soldiers and commanders executed on suspicions of spying, treason, etc.