by Jack Terral
With the work under way, Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan called a staff meeting with his 21C and chief petty officer. Rather than go into the CP, they stood outside for the session, gazing at the men working hard at their various tasks.
Brannigan liked what he saw. "That's real discipline."
Chief Gunnarson frowned in puzzlement. "What are you talking about, sir?"
"Some people--especially civilians--think military discipline is a combination of harsh training and punishment," Brannigan replied. "Chickenshit stuff, y' know? Like making guys spit-shine boots and Brasso their brass. But real discipline is the voluntary spirit to be willing to do whatever it takes to make yourself the best man in the best unit in the best service of the Armed Forces. And that's especially true when what you're doing is pissing you off or busting your balls. Like the platoon out there."
"Yes, sir," Senior Chief Buford agreed. "Guys in outfits like ours put out a hundred and ten percent without a boot up their ass."
"Your statement may be grammatically flawed," Lieutenant Cruiser said, "but it is filled with volumes of truth."
The senior chief grinned. "As long as I'm understood, sir."
"Well, understand this," Brannigan interjected. "We're up here for the long haul, and I've reached the conclusion that nobody anywhere in any SOCOM has the slightest idea of what is going to happen around here. They've stuck us on top of this fucking mountain and are waiting to see what kind of shit is going to be thrown at us."
"They must expect a lot of trouble," Gunnarson said. "Why else would they give us all these extra goodies, not to mention have us improve the fortifications on this ridge top?"
"If they expect a lot of trouble," Cruiser said, "why don't they reinforce us or send in a larger unit?"
"Because nobody else is available," Brannigan replied. "Whatever happens here is going to drop right in our laps."
"Ouch!" the senior chief said with a wink. "That's where I keep my balls."
"I was just thinking the same thing," Brannigan said. "Now! Let's organize the Watch Bill, shall we?"
"Aye, sir," the other three answered together as the administrative side of the session began.
.
1115 HOURS LOCAL
THE Odd Couple, dirty and sweating, returned to the ridge after struggling up from the valley below. They climbed over Bravo Fire Team's improved defensive positions and looked around.
"Wow!" Dave Leibowitz said. "What the hell have you guys been doing?"
"Working our asses off," a disgruntled Gutsy Olson replied. He and Connie Concord were filling sandbags. "How was your stroll?"
"Oh, God!" Mike moaned. "We're gonna need to see psychiatrists after this."
Chad Murchison stopped his shoveling. "So what's driving you two into the depths of derangement?"
"Them buzzards, man," Dave said. "They're eating those dead mujahideen down there."
"And they're just about finished," Mike added. "They're picking the last bit of meat off the bones."
"Shit!" Gutsy said. "That's worse than a horror movie. Don't tell me no more."
Mike felt wicked. "They're even eating the eyeballs right out of the sockets."
Gutsy scowled. "You make me fucking sick!"
"We must've really kicked their asses," Dave said. "Not only did they leave their dead behind, but all their weapons and gear are laying around too. All that shit's gonna be covered all winter by the snow when the blizzards come."
"That'll be quite a sight next spring when the sun melts the ice," Mike commented. "It'll look like something out of hell with skulls and rusty weapons all over the place."
"Godamn it!" Gutsy said. "Ain't you guys got a report to make or something? Don't you think you should take care of it?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "We better get over to the CP." He grinned at Gutsy. "Have a nice day."
"Sure," Gutsy said, shoveling angrily. "Thinking about dead humans being eaten by big birds will make the time pass faster."
The Odd Couple left the position, cutting across the top of the ridge to check in with the Skipper.
.
AL-SARAYA CASTLE THRONE ROOM
NOON LOCAL
THIS visit was much more pleasant than the previous one for Ayyub Durtami and Ahmet Kharani. They sat cross-legged at a small table, each with a dish of deep-fried yogurt and flour called jalebi, to be washed down with sabz chai, green tea. Warlord Hassan Khamami sat across from them, sharing the dishes in a magnanimous gesture of hospitality. Two bodyguards, however, stood behind the warlord, glaring at the guests to let them know they were still second-class residents of the fiefdom.
Durtami took a sip of tea. "We thank you for your kindness and consideration in sharing this bounty of delicious food and drink with us, Amir." Like his people in the refugee camp, Durtami and Kharani had been almost starving on the one meal a day allowed them. By Khatib the Oracle.
"Yes!" Kharani said. "May Allah shower you with ten thousand blessings, Amir."
"You are welcome at my table," Khamami said insincerely. Rather than exchange any preliminary pleasantries with his guests, he impolitely moved the conversation to the reason behind the invitation. "I wish to find out exactly what happened in your fiefdom these past weeks."
"It was a treachery brought upon us by Satan," Durtami said. "By the time I had declared jihad, their black magic had grown too strong."
Khamami, who was not in the least bit religious, picked up a jalebi and bit into it. "Perhaps it is as Khatib the Oracle says. You and your people had sinned so much that you angered Allah, who is all merciful and beneficent. Thus he would not come to your aid." He enjoyed the oxymoronic aspect of the statement he had just uttered. It was an expression of disrespect for the tenets of Islam.
Before Durtami could say anything rash, Kharani interjected, "We would not argue with one so spiritually inspired by the Oracle, Amir."
Khamami had already recognized that of the two visitors, Ahmet Kharani was the most intelligent. The warlord was silent for a moment, appearing to be thinking deeply as he considered the past conduct of Durtami. "Tell me, brother-in-law. How many of these infidels were arrayed against you?"
Durtami, almost speechless with pleasure at finally being recognized as a kinsman of the warlord, leaned forward. "At least a thousand, Amir. Perhaps more."
"That does not seem possible," Khamami remarked. "Such a number of foreign devils could not enter these lands without my being informed of them."
Kharani, no longer fearful of Durtami, spoke boldly to his new warlord. "I have heard that the infidels have special fighting forces that are most skillful in the more clandestine aspects of making war."
"Did they make massive attacks against you?" Khamami asked.
"Yes!" Durtami exclaimed.
"No," Kharani answered calmly, making an obvious contradiction.
Durtami turned and glared at his companion. "Was it not a mighty force that attacked those walls when the hostages were taken from us?"
Khamami stifled a laugh.-"Were those the hostages whose ransom you were going to use to pay me for the French mortars I sold you?"
"Oh, no, Amir," Durtami said desperately. "My finances were never so strained." He changed the subject quickly. "A very heavy attack against our walls breached them. They even fired mortar shells into my fortress."
"Those were the same mortars you purchased from the Amir," Kharani said. He turned to the warlord. "They were stolen from us by the infidels."
Now Khamami knew he wouldn't get any reliable information out of Durtami. "You are both dismissed!" he snapped.
"Your will is our command, Amir," Durtami said.
The two quickly got to their feet, bowing deeply before backing toward the door. Just as they reached the exit, the warlord spoke directly to Kharani. "You may move your family into the village beside the castle walls."
Kharani was almost giddy with happiness. "My gratitude toward you will last ten thousand eternities, Amir!"
The two exited
the room. As soon as the door closed, Khamami looked up at the bodyguards. "See that Captain Sheriwal is brought to me."
"Yes, Amir!" they said, immediately rushing toward the door. When the great warlord issued an order, he expected immediate and enthusiastic obedience.
Khamami took a deep sip of tea. The situation in Durtami's former fiefdom was precarious and worrisome. It was time to go to war.
.
WEST RIDGE CP
24 AUGUST
0930 HOURS LOCAL
A rocky outcrop of bare ground extended from the ridge, which offered an excellent view down into the valley. The area below could be seen from the north all the way around to the southeast of the base camp. This position had been ignored before, since it would have been too difficult to maintain a firing position there. But with the receipt of camouflage covers and sandbags, the SEALs were able to establish an excellent OP where the eastern valley and East Ridge could be kept under surveillance.
It was the forenoon watch and Charlie Fire Team was on duty as the other platoon members continued to expand and improve the positions put in the day before. Joe Miskoski was doing the honors at the new OP, staying undercover as he used binoculars to scan the eastern side of West Ridge. The number of buzzards feeding and scolding one another among the dead mujahideen had diminished noticeably, and many had despaired of the dwindling food supply, soaring away in search of more abundant carrion.
Joe had been teamed with Connie Concord and Bruno Puglisi on the new 60-millimeter mortar, and the three had spent most of the previous evening running through crew drill as they rotated the jobs of gunner, assistant gunner and ammo bearer. They had plenty of shells, but the Skipper had not allowed any live firing. He was concerned about alerting any unfriendlies who might be lurking within the OA looking for them. The Skipper wanted to conceal this heavy weaponry as a big nasty surprise for any mujahideen who might come looking for trouble.
Joe put the binoculars to his eyes for another look at the top of East Ridge across the valley. It was a comfortably warm morning, with the sun already making the air under the camouflage stuffy. He shook his head to chase the drowsiness away, then stopped. A distant "chop-chop" sound came from the north, and he swung his gaze in that direction. Within moments he could see a helicopter flying straight at the mountain. He picked up the PRC-112 radio. "Charlie Papa, this is Oscar Papa. Over."
Frank Gomez's voice came back immediately. "This is Charlie Papa. Over."
"We got a chopper of some sort coming right at us," Joe reported. "It's flying at an altitude of maybe a hundred or so feet higher than the ridge. I can't determine the type, but the engine sound isn't familiar to me. Over."
"Roger," Frank replied. "Wait." A few moments passed, then he spoke again. "We're going under cover. Stay down. Out."
Within ten minutes an old model Soviet Mi-24 helicopter flew slowly, almost nonchalantly across the ridge top. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan studied it through a small gap in the camouflage across the top of the CP. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins, beside the Skipper, could also see the intruder. The senior chief was confused. "That's an old'un, sir."
"It sure is," Brannigan agreed. "It's a Soviet Mi-24 Hind model, and it's not fully equipped. There's nothing on its weapons wings."
"A machine gun barrel is sticking out the front," Dawkins observed. "That seems to be just about all he's packing."
"As I recall, those Hind choppers have a crew of three," Brannigan said. "The pilot and gunner sit side by side in the upper cockpit while the navigator is in the lower position."
The chopper went out to the south, then turned and came back for a run in the opposite direction. As it swept by, both men could easily discern only two men in the aircraft. One was in the pilot's seat and the other in the front cockpit manning the machine gun.
"They've jury-rigged that baby to work with what's in their arsenal," Brannigan remarked.
"It's prob'ly Afghan Army," the senior chief opined. "I'll bet my next payday that them guys is stuck with surplus equipment left over after the Soviets pulled out."
"That means the stuff they've got is more than twenty years old."
After buzzing the base camp for a few more minutes, the helicopter suddenly turned and headed off onto a northern course, slowly flying off in the distance.
"Okay, Senior Chief," Brannigan said when the sound of the engine had faded completely away. "Secure the men from cover and get them back to work."
"Aye, sir!"
.
AL-SARAYA CASTLE
1015 H0URS LOCAL
THE pilot eased the chopper into a turn, lining up with the helicopter pad near the rear portal of the fortification. A well-trained technician used hand signals to direct him in, monitoring the landing to completion. When the engine was cut, the young guy smiled and proffered a sharp salute. The gunner, a trained mujahideen, opened the Plexiglas cockpit cover and stepped out to drop to the ground. The pilot unbuckled himself and went down to the troop compartment door opened for him by the technician.
"Did you find the infidels, Captain?" he asked eagerly.
The pilot, Captain Mohammed Sheriwal, answered affirmatively. "They were most skilled with their camouflage, but I was able to spot a few positions."
"You must have flown very slow, Captain."
"Yes. In cases like that it is necessary to appear to be looking and looking without finding," Sheriwal said. "In that manner, the enemy thinks you cannot see him, as you seem to aimlessly go hither and thither."
"Very 'clever, Captain!" the technician exclaimed in unabashed admiration.
A young mujahideen officer walked up and saluted. "Captain, the Amir awaits you."
"Then let us go to him immediately," Captain Sheriwal said. "I have important news."
MUHAMMAD Sheriwal had been born Gregori Ivanovich Parkalov in the suburbs of Moscow. His father was a machinist in Manufacturing Plant 21, which specialized in home appliances, while his mother worked as an X-ray technician in a neighborhood clinic. Gregori was an average kid growing up in the Soviet Union. He belonged to the Young Communist League and joined the paramilitary Volunteer Society for Assistance to the Army, Air Force and Navy of the USSR when he was fifteen. This cumbersome title was reduced to the acronym ROCAAct) (DOSAAF). It was in this organization that the Soviet youth were introduced to the various aspects of military service. DOSAFF even tested the young members' aptitude to see where they might best fit into the armed forces when it came time for them to do their bit for Mother Russia. These examinations and interviews determined that Gregori Parkalov was a natural to become a helicopter pilot.
When Gregori was eighteen, he reported to the local draft board for the obligatory two years' service in the Soviet Army. However, because of his DOSAAF file, rather than being assigned to a motorized rifle division, as were most conscripts, he was poSted to the Army's tactical helicopter training center. This was a lot better than having to deal with the brutal bullying and hazing of older soldiers as a recruit in the infantry.
The helicopter training still included plenty of discipline and political indoctrination, but it concentrated on turning the students into excellent military chopper pilots. The downside of the situation was that instead of serving two years, he would be required to put in five. But he and his comrades consoled themselves with the knowledge that when they completed their terms of service, they would be eligible for good-paying jobs as professional helicopter aviators. This meant prestigious positions in Aeroflot, the civil air organization in the People's and Worker's Paradise of the Soviet Union.
But Gregori Parkalov did not complete his five years. After being sent to Afghanistan in 1980, he flew dangerous missions delivering detachments of Spetsnaz Special Forces far into the hinterlands of the mujahideen rebels, to attack them where they lived and hid. After many close calls from numerous Stinger barrages fired at his aircraft, the young Russian was eventually shot down by one of the American-furnished weapons. It was all he could do to cont
rol his aircraft as it spun crazily downward to crash. He managed to bring it to the ground in one piece, but he and his crew were captured.
This was when he met the Warlord Hassan Khamami, who had been fighting the Soviets and their Afghanistan puppets for several years. Khamami had scored significant victories, and mujahideen flocked to his unit to share in the glory and spoils of successful ambushes and raids. The warlord had amassed a great amount of war booty while being paid plenty of American dollars by CIA personnel who supported him and his growing personal army.
Most prisoners were executed outright when they fell into the mujahideen's hands. But helicopter pilots were something else. Khamami had given standing orders that they were to be brought directly to him. This was how Gregori Parkalov and the Afghanistan warlord met.
When the Soviets finally withdrew from their futile war, they left behind a plethora of weaponry and other material. Among these were helicopters. Khamami needed all this if he was to fulfill his personal plan of ruling at least half of Afghanistan within a decade. His army commanders were handpicked, combat-proven leaders who had been well trained by the CIA. As infantry officers they were excellent, and as guerrilla leaders they were superlative. What Khamami needed now was an air force. He had three pilots from the Afghanistan Army, but it was obvious they had received little technical training in the maintenance and repair of the Hind model helicopters. However, the Soviet prisoner of war had already demonstrated a great deal of expertise in the mechanical side of that phase of aerial warfare.
Khamami gave Gregori Ivanovich Parkalov a choice. Stay behind and serve him as his airforce commander or be executed by beheading. Gregori chose to keep his head on his shoulders, and was made an auxiliary member of the warlord's army. He was never fully trusted, however, and during those times he actually piloted a helicopter, an armed mujahideen accompanied him with orders to kill the Russian if he tried any tricks such as flying toward the border of any of the Soviet socialist republics.
After six months of the arrangement, it dawned on Gregori Parkalov that he had an excellent chance to become wealthy. Aside from the war patrols, there was also plenty of flying in opium smuggling. In spite of the suspicion he worked under, the Russian was given a full share of the spoils. With his sights set on making even more money, Gregori went to Hassan Khamami and swore allegiance if the warlord would make him a full member of his army rather than a hostage. To prove himself, the Russian agreed to convert to Islam. Such a gesture was definite proof of his sincerity; not so much because of the religious aspects, but because it required circumcision without the benefit of anesthesia. Khamami happily accepted the offer, even throwing in a direct commission in the rank of captain for the ex-Soviet pilot.