CHAPTER SIX
1987
1
Her name was legend, but only in Afghanistan.
"Our convoy was ambushed in Khunar," one soldier told another in a shallow trench on some unnamed hill. They huddled together for warmth. "The bandits had us in their sights. We were all dead men, but then Balalaika came over the ridge."
In Moscow, the geriatric leadership loudly proclaimed the achievements of the international effort. Newsclips played on the evening news showing Russian soldiers cheerfully building orphanages for their Afghan compatriots. The broadcasters never mentioned why the orphanages were full.
"We dug in south of Sheberghan," said the transfer back in the barracks. He shared a joint with his new squad. "We were seriously fucked! We couldn't hold out any longer. It was Balalaika. No one knows where she came from with those Desantniki of hers, but I'm here and still alive."
An official announcement was made from the highest levels of the Politburo. Only six soldiers had died so far in the last nine years. The military and their families knew it was a charade. Almost 15,000 killed in action with no end in sight. The seriously wounded were hidden away in military hospitals and forgotten.
"So what's the deal with your captain?" said the hard faced stranger seated against a corner wall in the crowded bunker. He downed the camp brewed vodka in a single swallow. "That's one hell of a woman, she saved my ass out there. I'd like to check out hers."
The atmosphere in the bunker grew hostile. Boris and Lieutenant Chaikin rose to their feet with clenched fists.
"Stand down comrades," the stranger said calmly. "I see how it is."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Chaikin said with a glare. There were no markings on the stranger's dusty uniform.
"None of your damn business," said the stranger.
No one in Moscow wanted a hero. There was no war in Afghanistan. Her exploits and fame were censored. Balalaika did not exist.
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
"Who was he?" Major Sokolov asked as they made their way through the barracks of the camp, one last sweep before the changing of the guards. They walked side by side.
"Osnaz, probably Zenit, his papers checked out," Balalaika answered. Her breath swirled around her and drifted upwards. The cold night sky was solid with stars and a rising scythe of moon. "I didn't ask anything else. Chaikin had no idea the trouble he could have started."
"What the hell is an Osnaz doing in our zone," said Sokolov sharply. "Oh, the hell with it, what do I care where the Chekists sends their pet killers?"
"He's going right back over the border," said Balalaika, her tone neutral. She listened for his reaction, but Sokolov shrugged his giant shoulders in dismissal.
This war's over," he said. "All we have to do is keep our heads down till demob. Will you try out for the Olympics again?"
"Perhaps," Balalaika answered absently. The places where the moonlight touched the sand glowed white like snow.
Sokolov stuffed his hands into his pockets and crooked a smile at her. "Have you finally grown tired of talk or am I just that boring?"
She shook her head. "Neither. I'm thinking too much tonight."
"Nights like this make us all thoughtful." Sokolov stopped and tipped his head back to take in the stars. "They would follow you to hell, you know... the men."
"But I would do all that I can to keep them from it," she said.
"You are remarkable."
"No." She returned his smile. "I do what I must."
He looked her in the eye. "Don't play modest with me, of all people. You do what no one else can do."
As tall as she was, Solokov towered over her and he outranked her, but his tone was kind and his expression soft. Balalaika had not been expecting this sudden rush of affection. The dozens of men in their combined command looked at her with a zealous sort of adoration every day, but this man respected her. He saw her for who she was.
The effect was breath-taking, but the moment passed.
Solokov resumed their final lap of the camp, and Balalaika fell in beside him. She was not aware that she had followed him to the trailer outside the helicopter hangars until he pushed passed her to open the door. The light spilled out from the trailer, yellow and warm and inviting.
"Would you please come into my quarters, Vladilena?" asked Sokolov and held the door open. "I've got real vodka and some sausages from back home."
The invitation caught her off guard, she hadn't been called by her real name in years. "What are you getting at?"
"It's better than those rotten potatoes and cabbages at the mess hall," Sokolov said.
Balalaika almost accepted the offer and then caught herself. She tried again. "Would this courtesy be extended to Sergeant Boris if he stood here instead?"
"I'm afraid not," said Sokolov with his crooked smile. "I wouldn't share the sausage." He touched her elbow. "Please, come inside."
Balalaika jerked her arm back and covered the fearful abruptness of her gesture by reaching up to adjust her beret against the rising wind.
Sokolov blinked, not understanding.
"Do I even have to say why?" she said.
"Perhaps you should," said Valery, determined to press the issue. "The war's going to end, Vladilena. What then? When the guns are silent and you're all alone in a Moscow flat - nothing to show but a cheap medal or two gathering dust in a box, what happens then? The army won't keep you. They're scared of this Balalaika you've become – the merciless angel who rides upon steel chariots to the fray."
"Why Comrade Major," said Balalaika. "I had no idea poetry was a passion of yours. I admit I've no interest in words, only deeds."
Embarassment choked Sokolov's reply. She meant to shame him, but it hurt to do so. Balalaika stepped back from the light. "
"When the officers drink, I remain sober. When they hire in girls, I stay outside like a sheepdog, forever on watch. I am Balalaika, and I can't be like you men. It's better if I am alone."
Sokolov shrugged, attempting to regain his composure. "Solitude's a piss poor comrade, don't you think? I'm not trying to make you less than you are. Do you want me to say it? I don't want pleasure. I want you."
Balalaika set her features against him. "I've enough problems with political deputies like Sarychin, the asshole of Kabul. I can't afford to have anyone question my abilities as a commander. Even now, I'm sure someone is watching right now as we stand in front of your quarters. The men gossip for lack of anything else to do."
Sokolov tightened his jaw. "Then you won't have me."
Her answer was crisp. "No."
He positioned himself so he stood silhouetted in the light spilling out the door, so any one watching could see him clearly. He snapped out a salute. "Very well Captain, get what little sleep you can."
Balalaika returned the salute- smart and sharp.
"I serve the Soviet Union," she said.
The door closed between them. "I'm not going back, not to that," Balalaika thought and realized she had spoken out loud.
The walk back to her quarters took longer than normal.
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
"Twice now these bastards, this Arab brigade, have ambushed our men and slipped across the border where we can't follow," said Lieutenant-Colonel Babushkin. He looked round at the closely asembled group of Airborne and Spetsnaz officers. "Martyanov's company was completely wiped out. I want revenge."
"40th Army won't allow us within five kilometers of the border," said Sokolov. He pointed at a location at the map. "The dukhi have a major base in the Krer Valley, twenty miles south of Asadabad. It's right across the border where we can't touch them... or these Arabs."
"Fuck the niceties," shouted Babushkin. "This is no way to fight. Central bleats about glasnost while we get slaughtered because of rules and regulations! As long as they keep shooting at us it's still a war."
"Permission to speak," said Balalaika from the back.
"None needed," said Babushkin with a grin. "We're all brothers, and sister, here. Step forward Captain, if you've something to say."
"Lines on a map only exist because someone draws them on a piece of paper," Balalaika said. "The enemy thinks they are safe here because we are held back by "international" rules. I say enough, there is only one rule, the enemy dies. If Osnaz operators can cross the border, so can Airborne and Spetsnaz. I say we launch a raid. Once we begin, 40th Army will have to back us up – as long as we succeed in destroying the bandit base quickly."
"My thoughts exactly," burst out Babushkin. "A surprise attack the dukhi won't expect. We'll catch them unawares and destroy their base and be back across the line before the Pakistanis can react. This is the kind of mission we've trained for."
"We attack from the air," said Balalaika. "Rely entirely on the Hunchbacks to carry us in and out of the battlefield. We shouldn't be at the mercy of the terrain and these outdated maps."
Sokolov coughed. "The 66th in Jalalabad had an outbreak of hepatitis among the pilots – and the engineers. They barely can put twenty helicopters in the air. We'll have to do the main strike on the ground."
"We've done recon," said Babushkin to Sokolov. The Spetsnaz LTC looked on with approval as Balalaika indicated points on the map to the gathered officers. "We'll do a land and air raid then. This can be done."
A line furrowed Sokolov's brow. What was Balalaika doing? Why was she playing along with Babushkin? Nothing good was going to come of this.
2
Seated among the flight crew in the lower canopy of the Mi-24V gunship, Balalaika monitored the assigned frequencies through the head-set. She kept radio silence as the formation of helicopters plunged into Pakistan, hugging the mountainous terrain to avoid radar detection. They had gone wheels up at 0500 and would catch the sunrise at the right moment.
"This is Falcon Base, Hummingbird on the air. Situation report. Over."
The voice came through loud and clear over the static and the overwhelming noise of the rotors beating overhead. Balalaika almost broke a smile hearing Mirela's familiar voice until she heard the response.
"Falcon, this is Tiger Leader. 1st and 2nd companies suffering losses, they're pinned down on the approach. Heavy resistance encountered by the 138th. Request gunship and medevac immediately for wounded. We have Russians dying. Over."
"They knew we were coming," muttered Balalaika. She shook her head. No plan survives contact with the enemy and already the land assault is in trouble, she observed silently. There had been no surprise, the Mujahideen had been waiting in fixed positions all along the ridges for the Soviet attack. Something had gone terribly wrong.
"All the gunships I can get will be at your disposal," Babushkin went on. "The most important part of the mission is to be carried out by you and your Desantniki. We need a decapitation strike. Hit them hard here…" Babushkin jabbed a finger at the map, "…kill their leadership and they'll be crippled. These aren't Pashtuns, these are the Arabs. Don't fail us."
"Tiger Leader, this is Falcon Base. Hold position. Over."
The only gunships in the area were the v-shaped formation of Mi-8's and Mi-24 thundering over the fractured landscape in Balalaika's wake. 40th Army command would waste time waiting for orders from Central. By then Babushkin and Sokolov's embattled formations could be overrun if the situation continued to get worse. Balalaika turned up the volume and grabbed the hand mike.
"Tiger Leader, this is Goose Leader reporting. Gunships are on the way. Over."
The pilot looked over, the question apparent even through the mirrored visor.
"Units 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 are to hold position on our wing," she shouted over the roar of the engines. "The rest are to break off and immediately provide air support for the ground assault."
"This is Falcon Base. Hey – who the hell are you? Get out of my tower!" The transmission was cut off.
"This is turning into a real goat fuck,"Balalaika cursed. She could hear nothing but static.
The Hummingbird was off the air, what that meant could only be guessed at. The majority of the helicopters were veering off as commanded and with them went Unit 7 with Boris and his squad – too late to order them back, she'd forgotten in the heat of the moment. She struggled out of the canvas seat.
"What was that all about? Are you trying to start World War III?" demanded Sokolov.
"The Colonel wanted a course of action. I suggested one," she said.
"And you knew Colonel Babushkin would approve," Sokolov shouted. "We're days away from going home and you want to create an international incident? What about keeping the men out of harm's way?"
"This war is the only thing I have," she shouted back. "This is my home and they're my soldiers. They'll do what they're told!"
"There's been a change of plans," Balalaika told the pilot. "Drop down, pull the guts out of this machine if you have to for more speed. Get the sun behind our back."
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
The desantniks eyed Balalaika uneasily as she lurched back into the cabin. Several of the men had thrown up and the interior smelt like vomit. No matter how familiar one was with helicopter flight, the experience was never pleasant. The pilots pushed the choppers to the limit, almost 241 kilometers an hour. They kept to within 8 meters of the ground so none of the dukhis could react in time with one of the dreaded American Stinger missiles.
"Listen up," she said. "We don't have the manpower. I had to send half the Hunchbacks off to help comrades Babushkin and Sokolov. The bandits knew we were coming."
"Are we aborting the mission, Captain?" Lieutenant Chaikin leaned forward. The stub of a foul smelling Belomor cigarette dangled from his lip. He'd finished smoking long ago.
"No," she told them. "We're going right in. Like an invincible sword, we'll thrust right through their heart. The crews are going to fire everything they have and drop right in the middle of the compound. What I want is destruction and domination. I don't have interest in anything else. Show no mercy."
"Coming up on the landing zone," the pilot's voice crackled in Balalaika's ear and she tossed aside the headset. She'd left her Dragunov back at base and carried an AKD and a Makarov semi-auto holstered at her hip.
There was a stomach churning lurch as they dropped over the ridge and a roar of heavy machine gun from the forward pod. The helicopter lurched as the full complement of missiles from the wing pylons was fired.
The desantniks scrambled to their feet, they braced themselves for landing.
"Open the doors, prepare for battle," she shouted.
The turbines whined in protest, the helicopter landed hard. Some of the men were knocked flat. They flung the doors open and the chalky tasting dust rushed in. Balalaika leaped out almost twisting her ankle. The draft from the rotors was enough to blow her over so she moved quickly away. The squads followed hard on her heels, weapons at the ready
"Go, go, go!" Balalaika shouted. In the swirling dust in front of her, figures moved. She fired the AKD from her hip and cut them down. All around the crack of Kalashnikov's told her the other squads were in action, but she needed to see what was happening. She kept running until she came up against a mud wall. The desantniks swarmed about and took up a defensive position. She could barely see the outlines of the adobe-like buildings ahead, all of them on fire.
"Platoon sergeant!" she shouted.
"Right here," said Menshoff, one of the older troopers on her right. He was panting like a dog, his eyes staring bright out of his dust covered face.
"We need to get clear of the helicopters, or we'll be shooting each other," Balalaika said. "Take your squad, go right. Lieutenant, follow me. We're going straight into those buildings."
They rushed forward out of the clinging smoke. Scattered about the courtyard were bodies and body parts. But she couldn't spare a look around at the carnage, her attention fixed as the door to one of the building flew open and people staggered out.
"No, no," Balalaika shrieked. But it was too late, all around her the Desantniki opened fire. The women and children went down in a heap, blood splattering back upon the walls.
"Cease fire, damnit!"
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
"Our intelligence was wrong," insisted Chaikin. "Who gives a shit if we killed some bandit auxiliaries, Captain. It happens all the time."
Balalaika sat down heavily and cradled her head. "Lieutenant, we're in Pakistan. This is a refugee camp, I've made a horrible mistake. We should have landed outside the village and scouted it properly instead of blowing it to hell. A few extra minutes, that's all it would have taken."
Moments ago Menshoff and the other squad sergeants had reported in. A search of the smoldering ruins had turned up no sign of the Arab fanatics. The dead were all women and children.
"Get the bodies in a pile," said Balalaika dully. "Douse them in gasoline and set them on fire. Then we need to get the hell out of here and back to base."
Nearby, one of the desantniks bent down to check a body. Suddenly he yelled, "This one's alive!"
Balalaika looked up as the soldier jerked a girl, perhaps seven years of age to her feet. She'd been lying alongside her mother in the vain hope the Russians wouldn't notice.
"I'll take care of it," said Chaikin and walked over. He raised a Makarov and placed it to the girl's head. Balalaika scrambled to her feet.
Balalaika struck Chaikin's arm aside. The girl screamed as the gun fired. She pulled the trembling child away.
"Comrade captain, what are you doing?" protested Chaikin. "What we've done here is a war crime, we can't leave any witnesses. Those are our standing orders."
"Not her," snarled Balalaika and held the girl tight. "She lives."
"Who's the one who told us no mercy?" shouted Chaikin "Do you think this mongrel Pashtun's going to thank you? We've just killed everyone in this village!"
Balalaika opened her mouth to speak. There was a blinding flash, the air was burning hot. The explosion lifted Balalaika and the girl and slammed them into the ground. Everything was black as night and then turned to a rusty orange shade. Balalaika kept a grip on the girl's collar and tried to stand up. She fell back down and fought off the urge to throw up.
"The helicopters are hit!" she heard someone shout and dimly saw Chaikin kneeling down by her side. Above in the sky the swept back shapes of Pakistani F-4 Phantoms banked away over the mountains. There was another explosion, and another.
3
"Casualty estimates, helicopter status," said Balalaika automatically. "Have we established any radio contact with base?"
She had pulled herself up onto the low rooftop of a still standing building. From there she was looking south down into the valley plain with the binoculars. Everywhere she looked there were trails of dust; all headed towards the village. In the far distance, hidden behind the northwest ridges, she could hear the faint sound of explosions and gunfire. Babushkin and Sokolov pinned down against the main force. She couldn't worry about them.
"Twelve dead, twenty wounded," replied Chaikin scrambling up beside her. "Only one of the Mi-8s can lift off. The rest are junk. Base does not respond to calls."
Half the attack force incapacitated. The Pakistani planes could return at any moment and destroy the last helicopter. The desantniks would be stranded. If she hesitated further, they would be overwhelmed by the approaching mujahideen columns.
"We're on our own. I want the wounded on the chopper," she ordered, making rapid calculations in her head. At best she could get all the wounded and one squad out now. "Unload everything, including rockets and ammo. Get as much weight off that thing as possible. I want it airborne now before those jets make another run at us."
The soldiers sprang into action. Balalaika leaped off the building and almost fell.
"You're wounded," said Chaikin. She looked down; her pants were shredded and bloodstained. The shrapnel embedded in her legs was beginning to hurt as the shock from the blast wore off.
"I'm good," she shrugged off his concern and grabbed the girl. She'd been huddled against the base of the building, too terrified to move. Balalaika finally spared her a glance and was surprised to see the child was blond haired. An unusual trait, had Alexander's army been through here thousands of years ago?
The turbos powered up with a whine and the rotors began to spin on the remaining helicopter. They ran through the burning wreckage with the girl in tow. The desantniks were moving the most critically wounded onboard, too slowly.
"There's no time," she yelled. "Throw them in. Chaikin and first squad, you're going. You have to go, you have to go now!"
"Captain," protested Chaikin. She reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Look at me, Piotr," she said and the lieutenant met her stare. "Get the wounded out of here. I want you to take the girl, I won't leave her behind. And when I get back to base, she'd better be there or your gambling debts aren't going to be the only concern you have. She's not to be tossed out during the flight. Are we clear?"
"Yes, comrade captain," said Chaikin, he knew better than to ask why. "But I will gladly give up my place. Let me lead the men out."
"I leave no one behind," said Balalaika tersely. The twelve bodies of the desantniks lay nearby in a row among the scattered dead of the Pashtuns. The words turned to ashes in her mouth. The chopper was already overloaded. She turned away.
Moments later the Mi-8 transport rose slowly above the destruction and struggled north.
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
"Only weapons and ammo," Balalaika said to the remaining desantniks outside the village gates. "Drink the canteens dry and lose them. Get rid of the rucksacks. We're going for a run. The border's ten miles away, and the shortest path is straight ahead."
"What about the mountains?" someone protested.
"We're airborne," she retorted. "We'll leap right over all obstacles. Now move."
Balalaika began to jog across the uneven terrain and they spread out behind her like a herd, it didn't matter – there were no minefields here in Pakistan.
This is how must have been long ago," she thought. "The Tatars riding fast behind on an open steppe, the villages burning, a last prayer choking in your mouth."
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
It was late afternoon, with the sun hammering the desantniks down. Balalaika's throat was dry as bone, thighs cramped and screaming with each step up the steep slope. The socks of her boots soaked through with blood. The soldiers labored in silence except for the breath ripped out of their lungs. Six hours of running with the enemy hard at their heels.
The mujahideen were on top of the ridge waiting. They opened fire, the snarling roar of Kalashnikov's on full auto, their aim wildly inaccurate. But enough struck true; around her the Desantniki fell and rolled down the slope. One dropped before her. His lower jaw was shattered, he choked on chunks of bone and blood. She stepped over and kept going.
"Come on," shouted Balalaika. She picked up the fallen soldier's AKD and opened fire with both guns from the hip, driving up the loose slope towards the mujahideen. Nothing mattered but getting to the top, the figures above her scattered and ran in confusion. The men followed with an "urrahh" bursting forth in triumph from dried out throats. The fallen were bayoneted in a savage frenzy.
Balalaika looked around and her cheer went stillborn. Her stomach clenched. They were on a road that ran the length of the ridge east to west. The ascent was jammed with vehicles coming towards them, pickup trucks loaded with black clad figures waving guns. The mujahideen had no fear of Soviet air power here in Pakistan, they could move openly.
Between a cleft in the ridges ahead she could see the gleam of the Kunar River, the border was beyond their grasp. There was nowhere to retreat to, more mujahideen followed their trail.
"Desantniki, airborne brothers," Balalaika said in the silence that gripped the exhausted few. "It has been an honor to be your captain. I could not have served with more valiant men. I will not surrender."
An RPG round crashed into the road before them, showering them with dirt and rocks.
"Take up positions and return fire," she said. "Make each bullet count."
The mujahideen came up the road on both sides. Balalaika and the desantniks took up what little cover they could find and opened fire. They were so close she could hear the sound of the bodies hitting the ground. As fast as one went down she shifted the barrel to another and pulled the trigger again, felt the butt stock slam into her shoulder with each shot.
They broke under the withering hail and fled from the desantniks. The magazine of the AKD was empty, so Balalaika reloaded. It was her last clip. She took out the Makarov and pulled back the slide. She put it down within easy reach on the gravel.
"Listen to them," the desantnik lying prone on her right said. She couldn't even tell who it was. "The Arabs knows you're here. Save the last bullet, captain."
Two hundred meters down the road, the mujahideen were regrouping around the parked trucks, using them for cover. The black clad ones, the Arabs were moving to the front. A jolt of adrenalin coursed through her in a nightmarish rush, she realized they were the ones shouting her name, a cheer that mocked the one she'd heard so many times before from her desantniks.
She heard the multiple screams of RPGs being launched, She saw the reddish flames as the rockets arced high overhead and began to fall back to earth. The Arabs were using the RPGs as mortars, the exposed Russians on the road were the targets.
"Fuck!" Balalaika heard someone yelp. "Here comes hell, comrades. Eat dirt and pray!" and then the blasts threw them about like rag dolls.
She was lying on her back staring into the sky. Her ears were ringing and when she looked about the world was out of focus. A hail of rock, sand and scraps of flesh pelted all about.
Balalaika rolled over and pushed herself to her knees, the metallic smell of the RPGs mixed with the stench of burnt bowels and hair filled her nostrils. All around the Airborne soldiers - her Desantniki - lay in a in a welter of broken limbs, shattered heads and spilt intestines.
Dead, Balalaika thought. All of them. I've failed. I was supposed to die, not them.
Where's my pistol?
I have to die.
Now.
The Arabs pushed aside the mujahideen and rushed forward, shouting, in a solid mass up the road, hands outstretched. They were no longer shooting. Balalaika couldn't find the Makarov, she'd lost it in the barrage. She scrambled over on hands and knees towards nearest bodies of her men. She wrenched free two of the small entrenching shovels they had kept for the forced march. Only weapons, she'd told them and these were weapons of last resort, one in each hand.
She swung the shovels like axes and took the first two out at the knees. When they fell forward with shouts of agony she slashed them both across the throats and lunged into the crowd. The shovels rose and fell with blinding speed. She used them as only she knew how. She left a trail of broken Arabs in her wake. Someone was shouting and she realized it was her.
"Kill me, you bastards!"
They came again from all sides. She spun about like a top, buried the sharpened edge of one of the shovels too deeply in the shoulder of an attacker and couldn't wrench it free of his collarbone, she had to let it go. He lurched forward and grabbed her in a crushing embrace. Blood bubbled forth from his lips and splattered her face. She pushed him aside and stumbled. A heavy blow struck her and she fell to her knees, and they were on her.
4
"They're coming back!"
The helicopters descended upon the runway in a giant flock, kicking up a hurricane of dust. Mirela stiffened and tossed aside the burnt out cigarette. She was nursing a black eye and a blacker temper, she'd been forcibly thrown out of the control tower when units of the 40th Army taken control of the base
All afternoon long the Airborne and Spetsnaz land units dribbled back from the cross-border raid. The men filthy, tired and angry at the setback they had suffered. The 40th Army conscripts stood aside in awe or helped haphazardly with the relief.
Mirela couldn't tell who anyone was in the brown fog engulfing the air field. She ran forward among the crowd. She struggled against the windblast that almost knocked her down as the engines started powering down. Everywhere she looked the wounded were being hustled off in stretchers, too many were dead. For five minutes she looked for a familiar face while choking on the thick dust and found Boris and his squad wearily walking away.
"Sergeant," she grabbed his arm. Boris had only a blank, emotionless stare to give her. "Boris, it's me… the Hummingbird. Where's Vladilena? Is she with you?"
He shook her off, "You bitch."
"What? What do you mean?" she said, shocked.
"We heard the chopper pilots calling back for assistance," Boris grated. "And all we got was 'we're not allowed to because of the international border.' You left us out there for the slaughter."
"That wasn't me," Mirela insisted frantically. "They threw me and my team out, look at my eye. I haven't been on communications since this morning. I've only heard rumors. Major Sokolov is dead, he's not coming back – they got him. 40th Army's sent somebody to take over until there's an official investigation. They're going to relieve Colonel Babushkin and Captain Balalaika of command, but she's not back yet."
The desantniks clustered around Mirela, lean and hungry. They smelled like animals. "Sokolov's dead?" said Boris softly. "Tell us everything you know, now."
Before she could speak further, a lone helicopter clattered towards the base. It made a wide arcing turn and landed hard further down the airstrip. None followed.
"That can't be good," said Mirela and joined the rush.
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
"Reload and refuel," shouted Lieutenant Chaikin to the ground crew. The casualties were taken away by willing volunteers. He saw Boris and waved him over. "I'm going back. We have a sacred bond with the captain and the others left behind. Airborne is Airborne. We've got to bring them back."
"Not alone," said Boris. The assembled desantniks murmured their agreement. It was a statement.
"You men aren't going anywhere," a voice shouted. "This mission's over."
The officer who strode through the crowd, trailed by frightened looking conscripts, was unknown to them. His uniform was too clean to have seen combat this day. Chaikin and Boris exchanged glances.
"That's the one who threw me out of the tower," shouted Mirela in a furious voice.
"I'm Major Sarychin and I'm in command now," shouted the Buzzard. "All of you are confined to barracks till further notice. No one's going back for this Balalaika of yours. If she's been taken prisoner, then she's a traitor to the Soviet Union."
An angry stir took the crowd and turned it dangerous. They crowded the conscripts aside. Sarychin went pale and drew his pistol and shot it in the air. He hadn't expected this reaction. "This is a direct command from Central. You will obey."
Colonel Babushkin pushed his way through the enrage men and confronted Sarychin. "Are you the reason I didn't have any air support today?" His voice was a low, heavy growl.
"You're relieved of command," began Sarychin, but got no further. There was a heavy thud and he fell to the ground. Colonel Babushkin shook his hand ruefully.
"Siberia can't be much worse, I'm done for after this," Babushkin said. "As if I'd answer to a subordinate… they should have sent a general." He turned to Chaikin. "I heard everything. Desantniki, men of Airborne, you all look fucking exhausted and we took one hell of a beating today. You probably won't come back alive. But I won't stop you."
"We're going," repeated Boris, slamming a fresh clip into his AKD. "They won't be expecting us back."
There was a roar of approval from hundreds of throats. Soldiers rushed forward, men fought to have the honor to carry the fuel lines to the two choppers being prepared for takeoff, others ran to the supply dumps to bring back ammunition. The conscripts dragged away the unconscious Sarychin.
"Can somebody take this girl," complained Sergeant Menshoff. "I hate children, filthy little brat…"
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
If she was dead, how could she be here, how could she be?
The light was a hardship, a bright flickering that spit and buzzed. To go away would be easy, so she closed her eyes. A heavy grip dug into her hair and pulled her head back. The vicious blow split her lip.
She came back into the face. She could make out each separate hair in the dark beard, follow the dizzying track of the blood vessels in the intent eyes. She could taste his breath, as he spoke.
"Are you a virgin?" the words followed. The full lips were still. Someone was translating.
Was she a virgin? What to say. The question was absurd, so out of place she began to gather her thoughts with the greatest of efforts. Was this all the Arabs had to ask of her? What of her name, rank and mission?
"Russian, answer the question."
"Does it matter?" she spit. She felt a sharp blow to her stomach. She couldn't breathe, the wind knocked from her, she fell off the stool. Brutal kicks slammed into her ribs. She was helpless.
"Are you a virgin?" the insane question again. "We can't kill you if you're a virgin. Allah forbids the execution of a virgin."
She refused to answer. The unseen ones were all around.
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
"I don't know where to go," said Lieutenant Chaikin. "I've no idea how to find her, I mean them."
The two helicopters beat back into Pakistan, hidden by nightfall, hugging the barely visible landscape to avoid radar detection and the Stingers.
"We land outside the village," Boris said without any hope, still determined to press on. "We spread out on foot, avoiding contact with the dukhi at all costs till we meet up with the others. We can't let the Captain down."
"Over there," the pilot spoke and they saw the white flare arc out above the ridges.
"She's done it again," Chaikin said. His eyes gleamed with exultation. "Take us down fast, everyone for kilometers around saw that, they'll be swarming on us fast."
The helicopters touched down in the dried out bed of the wadi. Suspicious of a trap, the desantniks fanned out quickly, weapons at the ready. But there was no one waiting.
"What the hell's going on?" Chaikin asked, at his wits end. Boris shook his head
"Don't shoot comrades. I'm Russian," a voice rang out. A single figure slid down the bank of the wadi and moved carefully towards the helicopters with his hands half raised. "It took you blue striped hooligans long enough to get here. You made enough noise."
Chaikin risked a light and swore. "Osnaz, you bastard. I remember you. What are you doing here? We won't take orders from a Chekist, we're here for the Captain."
"I serve the Soviet Union, wherever I'm needed. And I know where your precious Captain is," the shadowed man shifted, and the Dragunov on his back gleamed. "Five kilometers, up on a hill fort. These Arabs may be holy shits, but the mujahideen sentries have smoked so much hash celebrating their victory today, I could have cut all their throats. But I need help. The leader of the Arab brigade is up there, it's my job to take him out. This is the command center you missed this morning."
"What about the rest?" Boris asked.
"All dead," was the callous reply. "A few tried to surrender. They got the 'Afghan' treatment. I couldn't do anything - I couldn't risk being detected."
"Why now?" Boris said. "Or are you only looking to hitch a ride back across the border?"
"I owe Balalaika one," said the Osnaz.
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
Balalaika lay on the dirt ground and tried to conceal her efforts. She was partially covered by a filthy wool blanket. Her breath was shallow and rapid. She was unable to control the convulsions that shook her abused body, she knew she was going to go into shock if she didn't act soon.
Her wrists were bound in front, but blood and sweat made the bonds slippery, she twisted the rope continuously, felt it loosen.
They were coming for her again, she could hear the voices. She would make the Arabs kill her this time; this would be her passion, her final deliverance.
"Only a witch could lead the hollow men," the now hateful voice translated. "A witch once possessed the prophet and he cast her out and called out the witch out for what she truly was: A demon. The faithful know how to deal with a demon."
It was too late, the ropes couldn't be undone. They held her down by strength of numbers, there were too many. Even with her blown out eardrums she heard the sound; like a pop and then a hiss. The smell of propane filled the cell. A blue flame flared from the end of a metal tube.
"Start with the demon's face, leave the eyes for last," the voice said.
Balalaika screamed, a scream of pain and wordless outrage.
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
Menshoff blew apart the gate with RPO rocket launcher and the Desantniki swarmed in. They tore through the hill-fort with an ease that had eluded them throughout the long, arduous day. Mujahideen stumbled out of the sleeping quarters and were instantly cut down. One of Menshoff's men had a flamethrower and lit those who ran like torches.
A grenade blew up and Chaikin went down with a yell. He held up a hand that was shredded bone, flesh and tendon and waved the men forward.
The Arabs came out to die. The fighting became hand to hand, a vicious brutal struggle. Boris found himself grappling with an opponent who was stronger and faster. A slash from the Arab's knife tore across his face, cutting diagonally down from the forehead to the cheek. The Arab leaped on him, Boris blindly slammed the stock of the AKD into the man's face, thrust the bayonet for the kill.
Boris wiped aside the blood streaming down his face. He saw the Osnaz run ahead and vanish into a building, he followed a step behind. The two charged down a poorly lit hallway and Arabs rushed out the doorway at the end with guns blazing. They were forced to take cover in a side room. Boris was frantic, screams echoed in the confines of the hallway and then came to an abrupt end.
The Osnaz leaped out into the hallway. The Makarovs in his hands boomed in a staccato pattern and the Arabs fell, so did the Osnaz. A shot took him in the head, the man's head bounced off the floor and his brains spilled out. Boris leaped over.
Boris charged the closed door with his shoulder and crashed through the flimsy barrier.
Three bodies lay scattered around the cell. A table had been knocked to the ground, a stool shattered into pieces. He stumbled on metal tools cast about the floor. The sickening smell of charred flesh permeated the closed space.
Boris prodded the nearest corpse. The man lay on his back with with his beard burnt off, his legs still twitching. A metal canister had been forced into the mouth, he realized the burning end of a propane torch had been thrust all the way down the man's throat.
Balalaika was curled in a fetal position behind the upturned table in a huge pool of blood. When Boris knelt down to touch her, she shouted and began to kick her legs as if running in place. Her lips were a pale blue, the closed eyelids white. When he began to turn her over gently, he saw the ruin of her face, the burns that stretched from her neck to her thighs. A broken strand of rope slid off her torn wrist.
Menshoff burst in. "The Chekist bought it. What the hell…"
"Make a stretcher, a blanket, anything," Boris commanded, blocking Menshoff's fascinated look. "The Captain's badly wounded, we need to get her to the chopper fast."
Balalaika opened her untouched eyes. For a moment there was recognition, then disapointment before the glimmer faded.
Still she spoke. Boris had to put his head close to hear the whisper of a little girl.
"I. Wanted. To. Win. A. Medal. For. Papa."
PART ONE ENDS…
update: There had to be a continuity change: Balalaika's real name is Sofiya "Sonya" Irininskaya Pavlovena, this detail is revealed in the light novel. The middle name may be wrong, but that's the closest translation anonspore could find. If Vladilena Vasilianov is her real name "when it was mentioned in full view of Japanese law enforcement, by a Russian guy who suddenly turned up out of nowhere with embassy plates just to pick her up moments after an obviously premeditated shootout that Balalaika herself initiated - isn't that a bit suspicious?"