Khost

by Vincent Hobbes

  Just before the boy perished, he did one thing. In a thunderous, most un-human sound the Soviets had ever heard, the boy called out.

  Moments later, he was dead.

  Colonel Kirov took a few steps closer, standing over the mutilated body. He pointed his AK-47 and fired another ten rounds into the boy’s head, turning it to a pulpy mess.

  He had to be sure.

  Silence filled the cavern, and with that silence brought sounds from afar.

  The others.

  Hundreds came from the depths of the cave.

  Coming from the shadows.

  Ahmed led the way.

  29

  The pilot changed his course. It took a few minutes, but it wasn’t wise to circle in the same direction over and over again. Though he felt safe, an unsettling feeling overwhelmed the young man. The sight below worried him, and he only hoped he might help. He had seen no sign of the Spetsnaz, just body parts. He would circle again to double-check. If any were alive, he’d do the best he could to provide support, even if it meant a delay on his orders to return back to base.

  The pilot approached from the south this time, coming over the lower ridge, the cave to his right.

  He saw movement, in the hills, on the ground.

  Maybe they were alive, he hoped, though he knew better.

  There were dozens now. They flooded from the cave. The others, already outside, tore at the broken helicopters, tore at the pilot’s comrades. They flung body parts to the side, appeared to be eating the men.

  He’d waste these fuckers, he’d do it for his men. The pilot descended, nose down, guns ready.

  Something odd caught his eye, a flash across the right of his cockpit.

  Something had zipped past. Something flew directly across his nose.

  The pilot yanked his head to the side, seeing an object whiz past. It was a near miss, and the pilot tilted the plane right, banking, getting a better view of down below. He would reassume attack position.

  Then, something else arched high across the sky. It wasn’t as close, but close enough to make him worry.

  What was it?

  A rocket?

  An American-made missile?

  The pilot wasn’t sure. There was no contrail, no steam of exhaust, no tell-tale sign of something launched.

  It can’t be an RPG, the pilot thought.

  A second later and another object came racing at him. This was dead on, the pilot watching in horror as a large piece of what looked like metal screamed toward him.

  The pilot reacted at just the right instant. He jammed the Su-25 to the left, hard, the object coming close, missing by only a few meters. Much too close for comfort. He yanked back to the right, circling around, eyes on the ground, eyes on the cave.

  What the hell is firing at me? he wondered.

  “Kilo Base, Blackbird One—I’m being engaged,” he spoke.

  “Pull up, Blackbird One. Climb. Get out of there,” the order came.

  This was one order he would follow. He pushed the throttle all the way, pulled hard on the stick, grunting and tightening his muscles.

  “Oh, God!” the pilot screamed.

  Another object approached. Something strange spinning in the air, coming directly for him. The pilot pitched the plane right, attempting to avoid it, but it was too late.

  WHACK!

  The sound was deafening. Metal scraped against metal. The Su-25 jolted violently, shuddering, engines choking. For a few moments, the pilot thought the plane might come apart.

  A split second later and sirens echoed inside the cockpit. Dials spun, alarm bells screamed. The pilot looked down to his instruments, trying to ascertain what happen. It couldn’t have been a missile. There was no explosion.

  “I’m hit. I’m hit,” the pilot called into base. “Blackbird One is hit.”

  “Damage report?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, dammit. Instruments are haywire, can hardly control it.”

  “Blackbird One, you are to EVAC and head to base at once. Proceed to base!”

  The aircraft shuddered again, the shock felt throughout the place. More alarms, the pilot realized he was losing oil pressure, fuel.

  The engines lurched, but the pilot urged them harder. They maintained, burning hot as the pilot went vertical. The engines struggled, the wicked shimmy rattling his teeth. The Su-25 started feeling sluggish, the yolk felt slow.

  The nearest landing strip was eighty miles away. The pilot wondered if he could make it that far. He climbed and climbed, eventually reaching four thousand feet, turning west, crossing the canyon high above. Once he achieved altitude, the pilot struggled to control the plane. He had to compensate, but finally maintained control. One more turn, back over the valley, and he’d be on his way home.

  The plane was stable for the moment, the sheer grit, the raw talent and desire to live urged on the pilot. He banked the plane, heading back.

  Once level, he jettisoned past the valley as fast as his Su-25 could take him. It took but a few seconds, and the pilot took much longer to calm down. Finally, after a minute or two of flight, struggling with the controls, the pilot looked outside. He hoped, he prayed he could just make it back. He couldn’t imagine if he had to eject. Would they even come get him? He had to make it. He had to make it out of Mujahideen lands.

  Finally, far enough away from the valley to breathe a bit, the pilot decided to check the damage. Oil and gas were still leaking, flight controls were still sloppy, but he felt he could make it. The pilot looked out the right side of his canopy, seeing the damage.

  A three meter long piece of metal was embedded into the side of his jet.

  “Impossible,” he stated, horrified by what he saw.

  A piece of rotor blade from one of the Mi-24s was lodged in his jet. It missed smashing into his cockpit by less than a meter. The right side of the plane was damaged, a gap slashed in the wing.

  This was impossible he told himself over and over again. Impossible! What, who, could send such a piece of metal so high, so accurate? Impossible, he thought again. He couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t understand the brutal truth that was so plainly obvious.

  Something had thrown it.

  The pilot pushed the throttle as far as it would go, engines moaning but still pushing. He sputtered across the sky, the large valley below, his comrades in pieces.

  He had seen them, watched them damage metal, tear flesh, with their bare hands.

  He had watched them feast.

  The pilot flew toward base, silent in his misery.

  30

  Back in Siberia, at Vector Laboratory, the mood had changed. Silenced. The KGB wondered what it would be like to report such bad news.

  The scientists wondered if they’d see the light of day again.

  Mikhail sat motionless, as if the transmissions were but a nightmare.

  After much time, much silence, someone finally spoke.

  A KGB officer, his voice grumbling, offensive, said, “Mikhail, you need to come with us. You others, stay put.”

  Mikhail bowed his head. He knew what was next.

  *

  The firefight was intense. At least four killed by friendly fire. A this moment, as the enemy flooded the room, it was every man for himself.

  “Retreat!” Kirov screamed, firing. “Run for the helicopters.”

  They did without hesitation. Problem was, the humans—the creatures—came from everywhere. They rushed from behind, some running on two legs, some on all fours. Others scurried across the walls. Even more jumped from the shadows, leapt from the hanging lights.

  The Spetsnaz ran, sprinting with all their might. They’d stop, fire, reload and run. Over and over, they killed as many as they could. But the numbers weren’t what they expected. It wasn’t a dozen or two, but hundreds. Hundreds of angry Mujahideen who moved in impossible ways.

  Around corners, through rooms. With every turn came the scream of another Spetsnaz, the slaughter of these valiant soldiers.


  On and on, the killing continued. Sure, they got a few, but the creatures were too many, the cave too dark, the way too far.

  The remainder of Kirov’s men died honorably, though, turning to spray the last rounds from their magazines, getting at least a few before they met their demise.

  All in all, they had good deaths.

  *

  Kirov alone managed to make it to the main tunnel. He raced up, his left arm ripped open, his stomach dripping blood from a puncture. He turned, fired ten rounds, and kept running.

  Halfway there.

  His heart raced, his breathing rapid.

  He could see the light, he could see the daytime and safety and it beckoned him. It pushed him to ignore the pain, ignore the loss of blood.

  Finally, Colonel Kirov reached the tunnel’s entrance. He dropped to the ground, exhausted, the blood loss too much. He pulled a radio from his pocket, clicking it twice and muttering the words, “Alpha Firebird Red, this is Colonel Kirov . . .” he coughed, blood splashing out. “Get out of here! That’s an order. We’re all dead. Save yourselves,” he gurgled.

  Then, he dropped the radio, too weak to hold it. Kirov took another step, his eyes up, looking at the clear skies, the warm sun.

  His grandfather had given him this advice once. That when the moment comes, take a look to the sky just before you die. It’s the last time you will.

  And he did.

  And Ahmed walked up behind him. His mouth was agape, flooded with blood and foam. Fire raged in his eyes, his breathing low.

  Kirov heard him, looked down, saw his AK-47 was empty.

  He sighed, taking in a fresh breath before Ahmed dragged him back into the cave.

  “Grak-ta,” Ahmed grunted, pulling the Colonel back into hell, already feasting on the man.

  In the meantime, his Mujahideen warriors, his mutating and raging men flowed from the cavern. They scurried down the hill by the dozens, managing the rocks with ease, on the ground in no time.

  And despite the efforts of Captain Drago and his men, they were no match. The creatures came and the Soviets died, killing as many as they could before moving on to the next life.

  Captain Ivan Drago remembered to save one last bullet for himself.

  KHOST

  2010

  United States/Afghanistan Conflict

  Khost Province

  31

  General Wesley Kline was sixty-one years old and came from a long line of Army officers. He was proud of his position, proud of his command. He had worked hard to get to where he was, and if he played his cards right, he’d receive another star to his already three soon enough.

  That is, if things weren’t such a mess at the moment.

  This incident—the missing Delta Force Unit—was a thorn in his side. He despised most Special Forces, despised their ways, despised their attitudes and unconventional way of doing things. Who did these guys think they were? General Kline was a man who followed the rules, who believed in strict order, and he didn’t think Delta should receive special treatment. Not in the United States Army. No way! Kline preferred the structure of the rules and regulations, and felt that nobody had call to break them. He hated the way they did what they wanted—the loud music, long hair, not having to shave. Delta drove nice cars, had the best weapons. Detachment Delta fired more rounds in a single day of practice than the LA SWAT team did in a year.

  Practice was fine, but Kline hated catering to them.

  And even worse, Kline hated that these men weren’t under his direct command.

  These past few weeks were a disaster. Ever since the Delta team went missing, Kline’s base had been in absolute chaos. He’d never seen so many bureaucrats, so many intelligence officers, so many men and women making demands, questioning his ways. The phone calls from the Joint Chiefs, the phones calls from Langley—they all annoyed him. This incident made him look bad, and the past three weeks gave him a headache. To make matters worse, the top brass weren’t happy, and this made Kline look incompetent, and he didn’t like that.

  Not one bit.

  If there was ever such thing as an Army elitist, General Kline was a super Army elitist. Superior at heart, he was most proud of his three stars. He felt he had earned them, though he’d never seen a day of combat in his life. Coming from a privileged military family, and with the right political connections, his career had been a good one. And despite the fact he’d never actually been in combat, he sure acted as if he had, often over-riding those who had seen combat, often putting them into place, giving orders he shouldn’t have been giving, giving advice he had no right giving.

  But Kline, being a general and base commander, felt he had every right, felt he knew it all, and as long as his bosses were happy, he was happy. Since entering this hellhole known as Khost, the general had succeeded where others had failed. Though it wasn’t all his doing, he sure took credit for such matters. And even though the war effort didn’t always go according to plan, Kline’s numbers looked good on paper, and that’s all that mattered to him.

  But Delta, he thought, fucking Delta.

  Oh, how they pissed him off. They irritated him constantly, their knowledge, their expertise, their wild ways. They made him look bad to his own men, they made him feel inadequate, they made him feel as if he didn’t deserve the praise he often received.

  But Kline tolerated them. Why? Because 1st SFOD-D were successful.

  It was different in Khost. The fighting was rough, progression slow. The politicians demanded results, and over the years many base commanders had come and gone. But Kline had stayed longest, and though he didn’t want to admit it, The Unit had much to do with his success. He often turned a blind eye to their ways because of this. That is, until the incident three weeks ago.

  The missing Delta team, and the return of the sole survivor.

  Sergeant York.

  The past three weeks had been stressful, a nightmare, actually. General Kline felt he was losing control, and he knew this incident would put the spotlight on him, for even though he didn’t directly run Special Operations, the Delta team were stationed here, at his base. Therefore, the burden was his.

  The previous Delta commander, a man named McClain, had actually been decent to get along with. The two butted heads, sure, but Kline was only interested in results, and McClain’s men produced just that. They killed the Taliban, did it well. Kline allowed McClain’s men to do what they pleased, and in return, Kline could brag to his superiors and take the credit. It had been a fair trade-off.

  But now with Commander McClain gone, transferred three weeks ago along with two dozen Delta Operators, things had gotten worse, not better. Kline had been given no reason for their removal, and dared not to ask. He knew one thing, though—without 1st SFOD-D around, he was now in a precarious position. These men were the best, though he’d never admit it, and Kline was beginning to feel the effects of their removal.

  More attacks came, the Taliban acting more brazenly. It was as if they knew. They assaulted more vigorously, their actions bold, and these facts were hard to conceal from the top brass.

  Though General Kline didn’t know the reason Commander McClain had been moved, he had signed off on the release orders himself. It wasn’t his doing, but he didn’t protest when the D-boys were sent packing. He had never thought of the ramifications, and signed the transfer paperwork without hesitation, without remorse, without thought.

  Now, in some ways, he wished they were still here. The Taliban were growing worse in the region, growing more daring by the day. Kline was a man who knew that for every one of his soldiers killed, there’d be more pressure from his superiors, and though he wouldn’t admit it, he was beginning to miss them.

  Especially Commander McClain. The man always got the job done, and didn’t care that General Kline received the praise for it.

  Three weeks of chaos, of kissing ass. The countless entourages of military brass, inquisitive CIA, and other Alphabet agencies was annoying, sure. Their demands, an
d Kline’s ass kissing—well, he could handle that.

  But three days ago, as things began settling down, as life went back to normal, a new team arrived.

  Only six men, but another thorn in Kline’s side.

  1st SFOD-D.

  The Delta Force.

  At first, Kline was satisfied, relieved. Better yet, there was no Special Operations commander, therefore, these six were under Kline’s direct command. They couldn’t pull that ‘speak to my superior officer’ shit. Not any longer.

  Regardless, Kline still felt the pressure. The team’s leader—though The Unit had no leader, something Kline could not understand—was a man by the name of Dale Comstock. He was a man not to be trifled with, a man of exceptional skill, tremendous honor, and a man who took his job quite serious.

  Immediately, Sergeant Comstock began asking to go out. To look for the missing Delta team, to do their thing and kill Taliban with a vengeance.

  But Kline couldn’t risk that. It was one thing when one soldier died in combat, especially when the ‘blame game’ ultimately falls on the man in charge—himself.

  But this was different. Kline couldn’t risk another missing Delta team. He knew if he allowed them out, these warriors might find trouble, and that’s the last thing Kline wanted, or needed.

  They were to stay put. They were to receive no missions, and under no circumstances were they to look for the missing Delta team.

  It made sense, too. There were merely six of them, and they were new to the base, new to the specific area. Commander McClain had thirty-six. Twelve had been on that mission, only one survived.

  But that didn’t matter, for McClain was gone, and Kline’s reason for keeping these six men grounded was backed by those above him. They didn’t need any further instances.

  These six members of The Unit despised him for it.

  But there was nothing they could do. They were under orders, and despite being Spec Ops, Kline was currently in charge. Enlisted men, even Sergeants with the best combat experience, had nothing on a three star general.