Without Fear

by Col. David Hunt

  Using his right thumb, he released the weapon’s safety and the actuator, pushing the lever forward, outward, and down until he heard a click, activating the BCU. Within a few seconds, the gyro spin-up noise signaled the weapon becoming operational. He then moved his left hand forward and grasped the missile’s Uncaging switch but did not throw it. The switch worked in conjunction with the trigger to unlock or “uncage” the missile from the launcher the instant Harwich pulled the trigger mechanism to ignite the two-stage solid-fuel propellant.

  Aiming the launcher at the distant target, Harwich looked through the peephole of the sight assembly, positioning the jet in the center of the range ring. The IFF system responded immediately with multiple beeps, confirming a “foe” target.

  He continued following the Soviet jet, keeping his left foot directly toward the incoming threat and his body leaned slightly forward. In his peripheral vision, he noticed the mujahideen chief mimicking his movements.

  The coolant in the BCU chilled the detector cell in the Stinger missile seeker, making it ultrasensitive to any radiation in the infrared frequency spectrum. Given the lack of any other heat source on this cold night, the system responded with a steady, high-pitched sound, the acquisition signal tone that the missile’s infrared seeker had located the Sukhoi’s superhot exhaust plume.

  Slowly, Harwich pressed the Uncaging switch with his left thumb and held it while continuing to track the jet. The IR tone became louder, signaling that the seeker had achieved a full lock on the Su-25TM.

  Keeping the silvery target in the center of the range ring, and while continuing to press the Uncaging switch, Harwich held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

  The missile shot out of the launching tube in a blaze that momentarily bathed the plateau in pulsating yellow light. And an instant later, Al-Amir fired his missile.

  Harwich counted to three before simultaneously releasing the trigger and the Uncaging switch, lowering the launcher. He took several steps to his left, still holding his breath to avoid inhaling the toxic fumes.

  Al-Amir, however, remained in place, undisturbed by the smoke swirling about him, launcher still pointed at the night sky, where twin bright contrails rocketed toward the target.

  * * *

  Mikhail spotted the dual flashes off the side of the mountain just as missile warning lights and alarms came alive inside the cockpit.

  Stingers!

  His reaction followed his training. He notified his base at Kandahar of the attack while cutting hard left, forcing the Sukhoi into an evasive turn toward the northern edge of the storm and dispensing flares.

  Cringing as the g’s piled up on him from the sudden 180-degree maneuver at high speed, the Soviet colonel momentarily lost sight of the missiles while getting dangerously close to the edge of the cloud.

  The g-suit immediately inflated the bladders lining his pants, compressing his legs to force blood to his upper body, keeping him from passing out as the g-meter peaked at 8.4. His instincts screamed at him to cut back throttles to ease the pressure and also to shorten the turning radius to avoid the haze about to swallow him. But he needed the speed to distance his dual exhausts from the decoys blazing behind him.

  Caught in between the storm and the damn missiles, Mikhail chose the lesser of the evils while broadcasting his position to Kandahar and ignoring the darkness suddenly enveloping him.

  Sand hammered the canopy with an ear-piercing crescendo while he dropped the nose and shoved the throttles to the afterburners setting the moment he exited the turn.

  The turbojets kicked him in the back as they roared, as the sandblasting intensified—as the sky ignited behind him when the closest missile lost its IR lock and scrambled after the white-hot countermeasures.

  One down. One to go.

  The control column trembled in his right hand as the Su-25TM shot past Mach 0.88, beyond its maximum rated speed. Debris struck all leading edges, peeling off paint and ripping into the jet’s aluminum and titanium alloy skin.

  Hoping that the sturdy TM, capable of withstanding sustained ground fire and flak, would endure the abuse—and also praying that the RN-40 remained locked in its mounts—Mikhail continued in the cloud for several seconds.

  To his relief, the aircraft’s self-defense suite—plus his engine’s reduced heat signature from being immersed in the swirling debris—fooled the second Stinger.

  But engine alarms suddenly replaced the missile warning lights. Although the fuselage appeared to be enduring the punishment and the RN-40 remained attached to the Su-25TM’s underside, the turbojets were sucking in too much sand and starting to overheat.

  Get out.

  Quickly, he swung the control column to the left while pushing full left rudder, banking the Sukhoi hard toward the mountain and out of the northern end of the storm.

  But it was too late.

  A sudden reduction in thrust signaled the loss of his port engine. He immediately shut off the fuel and ignition to it while using the cross-bleed air from the starboard engine to spin the stalled compressor back up.

  But as the Sukhoi burst out of the cloud and the mountains reappeared in his windscreen, the starboard engine also flamed out.

  Mikhail quickly cut off its ignition and fuel to avoid flooding it.

  “Red Eagle has lost both engines during evasive,” he reported in a voice far calmer than he felt. “Attempting restart.”

  “Red Eagle, Kandahar. Copy.”

  The side of the mountain now filled his canopy as the Sukhoi decelerated to Mach 0.6 and the radar altimeter, which measured the true distance to the ground, told him he had two thousand feet left.

  It all boiled down to the next few seconds. Mikhail engaged the onboard auxiliary power unit to windmill the turbojets’ compressors, listening to the turbines spinning, gathering rotational speed while hopefully expelling enough rubble to clear them up.

  But the moment he switched on the ignition and the gas, instead of firing up, the turbojets simply coughed up smoke.

  Mach 0.5 and 1,300 feet.

  Mikhail went through the emergency restart again, whirling up the compressors before throwing the ignition and injecting fuel into the turbines. But the result was the same.

  Mach 0.4 and four hundred feet.

  Out of options, he shoved the jet back toward the desert valley to give himself a bit more altitude margin before bailing out. Although the Sukhoi’s Zvezda K-36 ejection seat was rated for zero-zero operation, meaning it could be engaged at ground level while standing still, Mikhail wanted to increase the distance from the bastards who had fired on him. With luck, the rescue helicopter would extract him before the insurgents got anywhere near his location.

  “Can’t restart. Getting ready to eject. Repeat. Getting ready to eject,” he reported, as his eyes shifted between the terrain sloping down to the desert floor and the altitude radar. Although the Su-25TM was dropping fast, by forcing the jet in the direction of the very steep slope he momentarily gained significant separation relative to the sand dunes projecting south between the foot of the mountain range and the northern edge of the storm.

  “Red Eagle, Kandahar. We have a fix on your position. Rescue is on the way. ETA two hours.”

  The response filled Mikhail with hope as he read two thousand feet and reached for the dual ejection handles by his thighs, pulling them as hard as he had ever pulled anything in his life.

  The canopy swung open as the pyrotechnic charges of the solid rocket firing mechanism boosted his seat up the guide rails mounted on the rear wall of the cockpit.

  The windblast struck Mikhail as the emergency escape system shot him away from the wounded jet at dizzying speed before the second stage hurled him skyward and back, toward the Sulaimans.

  His vision tunneled from the extreme g-forces as steep slopes, the stars, and the storm swapped places.

  Just before he passed out from the pressure, Mikhail watched the Sukhoi spin out of control and disappear inside the angered clouds.


  * * *

  The full force of the sandstorm broadsided the Soviet jet as it whirled along its main axis, severing the mounts securing the RN-40 to the titanium underside. The centrifugal force shot the weapon away from the fuselage before gale force winds carried it farther south.

  Tossed about in the storm, the weapon finally stabbed the sandy dunes just south of the town of Lashkar Gah, where the storm buried it under several feet of sand.

  Two miles away, the Sukhoi and its hundreds of gallons of fuel crashed in a fiery explosion that briefly lit up the skies before the passing storm smothered it.

  * * *

  The mujahideen began to chant and dance in the moonlight, but Harwich kept the binoculars fixed on the Sukhoi, watching it disappear in the storm after the pilot bailed out.

  His training and intuition were both blaring in his head. Something hadn’t been right with this whole picture from the start: a Sukhoi flying solo in the middle of the night over mujahideen country. And now Harwich had just noticed a very large and long weapon—at least ten feet long—secured to the jet’s underside.

  Su-25TMs typically carried a variety of missiles, like the AS-14 or SA-9 air-to-surface missiles, or B8M1 80mm rocket pods—all in support of ground troops. But he had never—ever—seen it carrying just one large bomb.

  And a bomb which size suggested it to be …

  He lowered the binoculars and looked over at Al-Amir. “We need to locate that wreckage.”

  The mujahideen chief tilted his head at him before unsheathing his pesh-kabz knife and using it to point at the storm. “Of course … but not until that passes.”

  Before Harwich could respond, Al-Amir added, “But first we need to go after that.” He shifted the tip of the curved blade to the parachute blossoming over the mountains. The winds were carrying it in their direction.

  Harwich brought the Soviet’s red canopy into focus with his binoculars as it drifted in the wind, following the pilot’s moon shadow rushing over the rugged mountainside. He estimated it to be at least four or five miles from their position.

  “Is that necessary?” Harwich asked. “We’ve already shot it down, proving it can be done. And besides, the wreck is really more important.”

  Al-Amir placed a hand on Harwich’s shoulder, smiled without humor, and said, “Then you do not understand, Ba’i.”

  “Understand what?”

  Turning to face the distant parachute, he replied, “The kind of war we are waging.”

  * * *

  The voice on the R-855UM transceiver secured to his survival vest pulled him back into consciousness.

  Mikhail quickly came about, realizing he had landed in a small clearing, a ledge really, overlooking the desert under a sea of stars and a yellowish moon.

  Where is the sandstorm?

  Sitting up, he verified that the emergency locator transmitter, designed to self-activate upon ejection, was operational and broadcasting his position at 243.0 MHz. Reaching for the transceiver, he said, “Red Eagle, Kandahar. On the ground. Do you have my beacon?”

  “Copy that, Red Eagle. Twenty minutes out.”

  Mikhail frowned. Upon ejection, Kandahar had reported that the rescue chopper was two hours away, which meant he had been unconscious for well over one and a half hours. The storm had already passed, its trailing edge barely visible in the eastern horizon. The fact that he had not yet been captured in these mountains amounted to a minor miracle.

  And let’s keep it that way.

  Standing, he pulled up his helmet and gathered his parachute, quickly hiding it in the surrounding shrubs, before reaching for his old .380 ACP Makarov IZh-70, his country’s version of the venerable Walther PPK/S. The semiautomatic had belonged to his father, Makar Tupolev, also a colonel in the Red Army, who had fought the Nazis at Stalingrad. He briefly stared at the inscription on the side of the stainless steel muzzle: COL. M. TUPOLEV.

  Running a finger over his father’s name for luck, Mikhail removed an RSP-30 signal rocket flare from his vest.

  Inhaling deeply, he knelt in the bushes next to his chute and looked around him, listening to the wind whistling over the mountains under a majestic star-filled sky. The moon had risen higher behind the mountain range, casting the ragged shadows of trees across the narrow clearing.

  Everything looked serene, peaceful, in sharp contrast with the violence of the Stinger attack.

  But that was precisely what worried him. It was too damn peaceful, and there was no such thing in Afghanistan.

  He shifted his gaze between the eastern horizon, where any moment now he should spot the incoming helicopter, and his immediate surroundings, looking and listening for anything that didn’t belong.

  His right hand held the Makarov and his left the flare while he remained in a deep crouch, measuring his breathing while constantly checking his watch. He just needed to survive for another ten minutes, and while he certainly didn’t look forward to his debriefing back at Kandahar, anything was better than—

  It happened very fast.

  One moment he caught two shadows shifting from the trees off to his right before more silhouettes holding AK-47 rifles materialized across the clearing, their loose clothing swirling in the breeze. A few seconds later, he also recognized more shadows off to his left, and more behind him.

  The bastards had already located and surrounded him and were tightening the noose, and that’s when he spotted the curved knives extending from their fists.

  His heartbeat rocketing, his choices suddenly as clear as the night sky, Mikhail stared at the Makarov in his right hand as images of his disfigured comrades flooded his altered state of mind. Rather than aiming the slim pistol and its seven full metal jacket rounds at the incoming shadows, he pressed the muzzle tight against his temple as his finger caressed the trigger.

  Tightening his jaw and breathing deeply, he thought of Irina and Kira while building up the courage to—

  A single shot cracked in the night, its report echoing off the mountainside as his right hand went numb.

  Turning his head, Mikhail felt bile reach his throat when he saw the bloody stump where a bullet had severed his hand at the wrist. Dropping his gaze, he stared in horror at his hand on the rocks by his boots, still clutching the Makarov, his Gagarin class ring reflecting the moonlight.

  Leaning forward, he vomited just as the distant sound of a helicopter echoed up the mountain range. Operating on pure adrenaline, Mikhail mustered enough strength to rush to his feet, his left hand still holding the flare as he tried to make a run for the side of the mountain. Perhaps if the helicopter’s gunners spotted him and gave him some cover, he could escape.

  But he didn’t get far.

  The mujahideen converged on him like a swift and dark plague, grabbing him by the shoulders, arms, and legs before he could reach the clearing, dragging him back into the cold forest, away from his hope of being rescued.

  Still, Mikhail tried to resist, to fight back, to wrestle himself free. He kicked and screamed, but the men, whose faces were hidden in the shadows, didn’t utter a single word. They simply carried him in the direction opposite from the incoming helicopter, into a darkness that felt like hell itself.

  Someone pulled off his survivor’s vest and threw it toward the knee-high bushes by the tree line where he had hidden, while others tore at his flight suit and undergarments, shredding them.

  “Mehrabai wakrey,” Mikhail hissed in the limited Pashto he’d learned from local guides. “Mehrabai wakrey yawazi mee pregda.” Please. Please leave me alone.

  But they ignored him as the exposure of his skin caused him to begin shivering in the cold air—as they slammed his bare back against the ground, where many hands held him down, immobilizing him.

  Groaning in anger, in frustration, his eyes stared at the canopy overhead, at the narrow beams of moonlight filtering through branches swaying in the breeze.

  And that’s when he spotted two smaller figures crawling toward him, like faceless demons, dark and sile
nt creatures, their hands clutching those curved knives, their movements slow, deliberate.

  Mikhail gasped, his breathing short and raspy as raw fear displaced his anger, seizing him, arresting his soul, paralyzing him. He began to tremble, quivering uncontrollably.

  The ghouls reached his legs, his waist, hovering over him like dark spirits, like the sons of the devil.

  And just as these goblin-like creatures began to cut him, as Mikhail’s back bent like a bow while he bawled in agonizing pain, a slim ray of moonlight danced across one of their faces.

  It was the face of a boy.

  And it would be the last thing he’d ever see.

  * * *

  Harwich remained in the back, by the edge of the clearing, keeping an eye on the incoming helicopter while the mujahideen did what it did best: inflict terror into the heart of the enemy.

  He wanted to turn away from the calculating mess that Akhtar and Pasha made of the screaming pilot, but he knew better. The eyes of the mujahideen were on him, looking for any sign of weakness.

  Fortunately, it didn’t take long to inflict the desired wounds before the men carried the maimed Soviet back to the clearing.

  Then Al-Amir did the strangest thing. He picked up the Soviet’s severed hand, pulled the bloody Makarov from its curled fingers, and gave the pistol to Pasha. He then removed the pilot’s gold ring and, looping a string of black leather through it, he tied it around Akhtar’s neck.

  “So you remember,” he whispered to the boys, touching their faces.

  “Thank you, Akaa,” they replied in unison.

  Al-Amir then knelt by the Soviet and placed the bloody hand on the man’s chest. “Take your trash back with you, Shuravi,” he said, using the nickname given to the Soviet soldiers, derived from the similarly sounding Russian equivalent of šouravī, meaning “Soviet.” “I want no part of you in my country.”