CHAPTER THREE
Sofiya recovered quickly. She was first into the nearby guardhouse with the coughing Mirela in tow. The suprised guards were pushed aside and Mirela seated roughly in front of the radio.
"Get 40th Army on the line," she told the Romanian before heading back to her squad. "We need medevac, we need heavy equipment, whatever's nearby. Now! This is what you do, do it. I've no more time to hold hands."
Sofiya made for the tunnel entrance, detemined to plunge back into the mouth of the inferno to find the missing Tatiana, but already a massive T-72 was rolling into position, blocking the southern entrance. Soldiers crouched by the metal flanks of the tank with drawn weapons.
"They think it's a bandit attack," she told her corporal later. "No one goes in, those are the orders. We wait…"
She turned away abruptly and almost stumbled over the legs of a man sprawled in the snow. Closer examination revealed it was the driver of the truck, babbling and grateful to be alive.
Throughout the evening and into the long hours of the night they worked, lost among the toiling soldiers who swarmed about the southern entrance. Makeshift stretchers were assembled from whatever materials could be put together. The burned victims who staggered out needed assistance but there was little anyone could do. Screams and moans of agony echoed off the sides of the mountains. Whatever medical supplies could be found were quickly used up.
Morning came as a shade of grey and with it two MI-8 medevac helicopters, struggling through the thin air of the Hindu Kush. They dropped body bags and then lumbered away, unable to land anywhere in the difficult terrain.
"Where the hell are they going?" the corporal said. Sofiya shook her head. "They can't fly away like that. What are we supposed to do with the wounded? What are we supposed to do?"
Orders finally came and the tank pulled back, rescue crews plunged in. The dead were carried out in increasing numbers and stacked in the waiting trucks.
"Tatiana," said Sofiya and jerked her hand back. The corporal lurched aside and threw up.
Sofiya closed the flap of the body bag.
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
Dismayed, Sofiya dropped the unopened rations into the footwell. The stamp on the tin read "1944."
"Grandpapa ate this crap," she muttered, and rubbed at her face. Her fingers came back red from the road dust. Better to go hungry than eat such fare. Was this the best the Soviet Union could do for the troops stationed in Kabul? The back of the truck was packed high with inedible relics from the Great War.
The truck was at the back of the convoy, no other vehicles were behind them. They lurched down a cratered road, hollowed out of a cliffside that literally hung over them. On the driver's side, the wheels of the truck were inches from the precipice that dropped down into a barren landscape of snow-covered stone, ripped and torn apart by narrow fissures and gorges.
If only she had been more in control in the tunnel she would not have lost Tatiana. For a moment, when Sofiya had seen the body, she had thought Tatiana was only unconscious. She had reached out to Tatiana, to touch her cheek, and the head had flopped over. The right side of the woman's face face had been burnt to a blackened crisp.
The smell had been the worst, like overcooked pork. Better to be dead than to live with such a disfigurement, Sofiya decided. She'd put a bullet through her head before she'd become the object of pity and covert stares.
Mirela snored loudly, audible over the grinding of the truck's engine. Her head lolled against Sofiya's shoulder. Annoyed, Sofiya thought about pushing back but decided it was an unworthy gesture.
"Where the hell are we, comrade driver?" she asked the driver. "This can't possibly be the way to Kabul. Why didn't you wake me?"
The Uzbek driver shrugged, the cloud of cigarette smoke engulfing his head barely shifted. "I follow the leader. Not important. They say more accidents on main road, so they take a shortcut."
"A shortcut," said Sofiya blankly.
"Don't worry," said the driver. With a grin as oily as the stains on his pants, he patted the holstered firearm at his side. "I protect you from the dukhis."
Sofiya's bark of laughter was cut off as without warning the truck engine sputtered and went silent. Mirela started awake with a dazed look that quickly became one of alarm as the truck coasted to a stop.
"Damn it all," cursed the driver and pounded the steering wheel in frustration. "I knew something wrong back at tunnel. I should have checked."
The corporal poked her head through the back slot of the truck cab. "What going on?"
"Everyone out," Sofiya ordered. "Corporal, have the soldiers take up position while this fool of a driver fixes the damn thing. We're in bandit territory, no one leaves the truck without a gun. Private, get on the short wave and let them know we've got problems back here."
"It's broken," announced Mirela after a moment wrestling with the radio rig.
Sofiya shook her head. The way ahead opened up and the road slithered along the ravine, up to a jagged outcropping of rock two hundred meters away. The last BMD of the column was about to turn out of sight around the sharp curve.
"They don't know we're here," Sofiya said and grabbed the case. She slung it over her shoulder. "Private, you're with me. Those tracks are barely moving, we'll have no trouble catching them if we run. Let's go."
They both were walking by the time they reached the outcropping. The air was thinner than expected, the roadway had been churned to clinging mud by the convoy and they had to go single file against the side of the mountain. Sofiya noted a narrow opening between the outcropping and a large boulder that turned into a weaving pathway up the ridge. Small patches of melting snow showed traces of footprints on the rough trail and her brow creased.
"Won't they be surprised to see us," said Mirela in between wheezes. The Romanian was obviously no longer the world class athlete she once had been. "Hello boys, for a kiss can we get a ride?"
"Comrade private," said Sofiya. "I was under orders to wait for a flight out of Takshent. Instead, I've lost a soldier and stranded the rest in bandit territory. The last thing I want to do is explain my actions to whoever's in charge of the convoy. They'll radio ahead and then I'm in the shit. At the very least I'll be sent back for disciplinary measures. So spare me the childish prattle."
"Sorry, comrade warrant officer," said Mirela. "I was trying to make a joke. I didn't think."
"Don't waste your breath, I don't need pity." Sofiya said sharply, putting aside her uneasy thoughts about the tracks she had seen on the trail. "I'm responsible for my command and I failed them. Now, let's try not to get shot by a gunner."
Mirela mumbled something indistinct under her breath.
"Did you say something, private?"
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
They rounded the curve. The line of vehicles had halted not far ahead. A dozen or so fuel vehicles in the middle, the low slung BMDs at the front and rear with soldiers clustered in groups on top of the fighting vehicles.
Sofiya began to raise her hand. There was a whoosh and a crash and the BMD vehicle they were approaching blew apart. The impact knocked Sofiya and Mirela off their feet.
Sofiya rolled over by Mirela. The Romanian was crouched on her knees in the mud of the road, cradling a bloodied arm to her breast. The woman's mouth was open in a grimace of pain, but no sound came out. A rock shattered by Sofiya's boot, and fragments tore into the leather tip. She felt it and looked down. They were under attack. Sofiya grabbed Mirela by the collar and dragged her towards the cover of the sheltering rocks as the bullets snapped by.
More explosions rocked the ravine as RPG rounds slammed into the two lead fuel trucks, smoke and flame belched up into the sky. Soldiers were tumbling off the vehicles in a panic. She watched as man after man slumped to the roadside under the relentless metal hail.
Sofiya took a breath and choked on the stench of burning diesel. They weren't safe, so she pushed Mirela in between two boulders and left her there. She began to crawl forward. Then Sofiya thought to herself how foolish the action was, wiggling about as if she was a worm while totally exposed to the gunfire pouring down from above. If she was dead, how could she be here, how could she be?
"While I am, there is no death," she said and stood up.
The soliders milled about beside the halted convoy. Most took shelter on the slope and sought refuge among the rocks and shrubs. Others clustered behind the BMDs, few returned fire, those who did shot wildly about. Sofiya felt a hot rush of anger. These were the desantniks, the air assault troops of the Soviet Union, and they were pinned down like rank conscripts. Someone had to take charge or they were all going to be slaughtered in these wretched mountains.
The men huddled behind the wreck of the rear BMD looked up wide eyed as Sofiya walked up to them with no concern at all for the gunfire. It must have seemed to them that she had appeared out of thin air. "The bandits are up in those rocks. Return fire!" She pointed up the steep slope. "Pull yourself together, where's your sergeant?"
"Dead," grunted a man pre-occupied with reloading his assault rifle to look up. He flung the gun aside with a curse. "Damn piece of crap."
Sofiya snatched up a rifle from the ground, slammed the magazine in and moved to his side. The soldier had lost his helmet revealing a pressed down military cut of dark, brown hair. He blinked at the unexpected apparition crouched near him.
"Here, take this," Sofiya said. "What's your name?"
"Boris."
"Who's in command here," she shouted.
"Captain Rodenskoi and his second are in the lead vehicle," announced Boris.
"Are they fools?" she shouted. She ran alongside the burning trucks towards the command vehicle, bristling with tall antennae "That's a total violation of orders, what if they get hit…"
The lead BMD exploded. Debris rained down upon the column, the gun turret rolled down the slope in a loud series of metallic clangs. They could hear the screams of the trapped men inside as they roasted within the burning vehicle. Vladilena lunged forward to help, but Boris pulled her back to cover. The soldier had followed her.
"The ammo," he shouted. The heat was cooking off the stored rounds, it sounded like a drumroll. "You can't help them."
"Then who's in charge?" she shouted back. "Where are the other officers?"
"There's no one else," Boris said. He eyed the epaulets on her coat. "It appears you are the commanding officer."
"Good." Sofiya took a deep breath and spoke. "Get the men up and moving. I want them off the road, they're exposed and the fuel trucks are a menace. I need everyone in those rocks shooting up at those damn bandits. I need two men to go with me down the road. I saw a path, I'm going up."
"Who the hell are you?" asked one of the soldiers nearby.
"I'm the bitch of war, and you're my dogs!" Sofiya told him loudly enough so the others would hear. She didn't wait to see what impact the words had as she was too busy opening the case and heaving out what she had carried all the way from Takshent.
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
The weapon was over four feet in length, a customized rifle.
Sofiya's first love had been the Dragunov SVD, not any of the awkward pimply boys of the Komsomol she simply had no time for. Countless hours had been spent as a teenager shooting under the patient eye of Captain Konev at Grandpapa's dacha. She soon surpassed her teacher, hitting bullseyes at ranges beyond the standard of the Dragunov.
She may have been bypassed by the selection committee for the Olympics, but she had impressed one group of designers at Izmash while on a DOSAAF field trip to the gun factory. When she made suggestions, they listened and created a weapon to her exact specifications – perhaps because of the stern expression on Marshal Volkov's face that brooked no dissent. Instead of the classic wood, the metal stock could fold to the right side. The barrel was shorter, as was the flash hider. There was no lug for the bayonet which Sofiya regarded as impractical. Even the rifle scope she had chosen to take to Afghanistan was not standard military, the best made by VOMZ with a German post reticle.
Now Sofiya slung the steel black rifle across her back and led the way up the steep mountain path. The two men tried to follow close behind but were weighed down by their gear, their steps slid back in the unstable mix of sand and gravel, she left them behind in her haste. The last stretch was almost vertical, she pulled herself up onto the ledge.
From here, she could see the broken snake of the convoy below. She was fifty meters behind the Afghans. She counted fifteen in number, some were busy reloading RPG launchers, others were shooting down at the desantniks. Her desantniks, she thought.
Boris and the other soldier scrambled up alongside and crouched, levelling stubby AKS-74u carbines. She stopped them with a gesture, and with a jerk of her head alerted them to the even larger number of Afghans two hundred meters further up the ridge.
"Wait," Sofiya said. She placed the stock of the Dragunov to her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Among the Afghans on the ridge, a man was clearly silhoutted against the sky – he appeared to be the leader judging by his gestures. She could see him speaking as she placed his head between the horizontal lines, and adjusted for the distance. She squeezed the trigger and saw the Afghan spin and drop.
"What a shot! Balalaika!" exclaimed the other soldier, dropping his head down to avoid the ejected casing of the round.
"Look at them run about," said Boris. "They've no idea where the shot came from."
The attackers were uncertain, looking back towards the ridge. She switched to the smaller group on the ledge, taking advantage of the confusion. The closest Afghan fell, unnoticed by his fellow bandits, their attention was focused above. In quick succession she took down four more men before the screams of the bandits on the ridgetop alerted the group they were being cut down.
Panic seized the bandits, half turned and fled towards their companions. Five of the Mujahideen saw the Russians and charged. Sofiya quickly aimed the gun at the attackers. What appeared to be a small Afghan led them, his face smooth and youthful in the sights of the scope. She couldn't move, her finger was frozen on the trigger. The boy's mouth was open in a shout, he brandished a knife. He was almost on top of her. She couldn't shoot, she was a soldier – not a murderer.
Boris and the other soldier let loose a burst of gunfire as loud as storm thunder in her ears. The onrushing bandits were cut down in their tracks. The boy dropped to his knees and slumped forward. The outstretched hand touched her boot and the knife slipped free.
Shaken, she lowered the Dragunov. The two soldiers ran forward, single shots rang out as killed the wounded and kicked the weapons away. They hadn't noticed her hesitation.
The boy seemed to stared at Sofiya. There was a hole in his head above his blank eyes. His brains were spilled upon the sand and rocks. She looked away and forced the swelling nausea down with an effort. With her boot she brushed the touching hand aside.
Boris came back, his face smeared with sweat and dirt, the teeth flashing in a wide smile. The look in his eyes was one almost of worship. "Well done, Balalaika. Look. They retreat. The dukhis are retreating."
Her thoughts were frozen as her body had been moments ago, why was he calling her Balalaika? But then the realization struck her and she nodded, only a slight movement of the chin. She had the rifle clutched in a death grip and she forced herself to relax. The airborne's nickname for the Dragunov was Balalaika, she was Balalaika.
"We have to go after them," Balalaika said. The Afghans were moving away, fleeing along the ridge away from the Russians.
"What are you talking about," exclaimed the other soldier. "We've won. We should wait for help."
"We've won nothing." said Balalaika. She stood up and stared the man down till he looked away. "Our detachment's cut off, we've no working vehicles. The lead BMD is destroyed and along with it our communications with 40th Army. No one's coming for us except the bandits, they'll be back and in greater numbers by nightfall. We'll run out of ammo and be cold and dead before the sun touches these mountains again."
"What are your orders then?" said Boris.
Balalaika stood up. The road below was blocked by the burning vehicles. She turned her head and saw the lone truck stranded on the stretch behind. With a feeling of relief she realized the women she had led from Takshent hadn't been noticed or attacked by the bandits.
"Bring the platoons up," Balalaika ordered. "Get the wounded. We've no choice, we'll have to leave the dead. See that supply truck over there? Good. They're with us. There's also a Romanian hiding in the rocks. Find her. We're going to chase down these bandits on foot before they recover and show them what happens when you cross swords with the Airborne. Now move!"
Balalaika sounded so much better than Bitch of War, she decided as the two men scrambled down the path. She saw the the bandits, small as miniature toys, stream out of sight into the safety of a nearby canyon. Her eyes narrowed. They would not run away from the fight they had started. She would pursue and destroy.