by J E Higgins
Sauwa became concerned when he stopped on the ramp placing himself in her line of fire. Despite things going well so far she remained vigilant knowing that bad things could still happen with the right spark. Dealing with guerrillas was always a shifty business, especially when it came to the Kurdish separatists. Kurds were the largest displaced ethnic group in the world. They claimed an ancestral home known as Kurdistan, but their traditional lands were in part of southeastern Turkey, northern Syria, northern Iraq, and a portion in northwestern Iran.
Unlike the displaced Palestinians who unified under the government in exile known as the Palestine Liberation Organization, the Kurds developed their separatist insurgencies independent of one another. Instead of a unified effort, each country spawned its own indigenous group aimed at liberating their particular area from the host country. This created a terribly convoluted political labyrinth. A labyrinth that was exploited by the intelligence services of the countries who used the Kurds as their own proxies against each other. Iran frequently supported the Kurds of northern Iraq against their mutual enemy, the Saddam Hussein regime in Bagdad, while the Turkish government backed Kurdish groups in Iran waging war against the regime in Tehran.
It was a likely assumption that the guerrillas they were currently dealing with were part of the Iranian resistance. This would mean that far from a financial gain, Valikov was doing this at the behest of the Turkish government. It was a way of gaining political favor from the government that was hosting him and his business.
Gorev’s diplomatic instincts had him acting as if he were attending some garden party. He started moving further down the ramp for reasons lost on Sauwa. He was just a step away from exiting the ramp completely when Sauwa called out to him.
“Sir!” she shouted trying to get his attention in a way that didn’t seem suspicious. Gorev turned to face her with a bewildered look on his face. “I have some documents you need to review.” She hoped none of the Kurds spoke English. But just in case she wanted to sound as if her need for him was entirely innocent.
“Paperwork? What paperwork?” the diplomat questioned as he still stood at the edge of the ramp utterly oblivious to the two Kurdish guards standing on either side of him.
Trying not to lose her temper, Sauwa tried again. “It’s instructions the boss wrote down. I’m not sure I understand them. Could you look them over?”
“Can’t you see we have more pressing matters?” Gorev was being more obtuse than arrogant. It was another reminder of how new he was to this business. An even greater question was why Valikov would send him on such an exchange.
“No!” she hollered back curtly surprising the diplomat. “Do your job and review these papers, so we don’t have a problem.” Her course manner caught his attention. He was between shock at her sudden display and irritation that this young lady would speak to him in such a manner. He was about to stand his ground and protest, however, his diplomatic instincts reminded him it was never acceptable to argue in front of a foreign host. He began marching back up to the plane.
Back inside he started over to his young cohort. “Sauwa!” he snapped as if about to discipline an unruly daughter, “this is most unprofessional…”
“Get in the back!” She interrupted as she growled through her teeth in a stern whisper. “I told you not to get off the plane. This isn’t some diplomatic luncheon in the president’s mansion. These guys are dangerous. This whole fucking thing is dangerous. Stay right here. There is nothing you have to say that they care about. They want their guns, and they want to leave. In cases like this, the less interaction the better. No one trusts anyone else, so don’t try to make friends with people who don’t give a shit.”
Gorev was taken aback. She had never spoken to him in such a manner, but her words struck a powerful blow in reality. He looked at her suited up ready for a war. He looked outside at the equally clad guerrillas moving around outside. It was then that her words hit home. Defeated, he slipped past her and made his way to the back of the plane.
At that moment a voice called over the sat phone wedged on the bar. “Ghost, Ghost, do you read, over?” It was Red Wolf.
Reaching for the phone, Sauwa placed it to her ear. “This is Ghost, send it.”
“We have movement. A large force. It looks like the size of a battalion moving in a column in your direction. Judging by the markings on the vehicles, they look to be Iranian military. Most likely they are the Revolutionary Guards Corps. They have several troop carriers and armor support. The force is moving toward you rapidly and should be on you in about ten mikes. What do you want us to do?”
“Shit!” she responded. “Roger! We don’t have time to unload the merchandise. We’re going to have to make a run for it. Concentrate your fire on our clients and prepare to give us fire support. The Kurds are gonna get hostile when we make a break for it with their property.”
“Roger. If they're smart they’ll make a run for it themselves,” Red Wolf stated.
“Just be ready for a serious firefight,” Sauwa replied as she stuffed the phone into her pocket.
Even though Iraq was firmly under the control of the Iraqi dictator, Saddam Hussein, northern Iraq had long been a no-man’s land left largely to the Kurds. It was the closest thing they had to an actual Kurdistan. Because the Iraqi government was only marginally involved in the area, it had become the prime haven for almost all Kurdish separatist groups. They set up training camps, headquartered their operations, and ultimately launched attacks over the border into neighboring Turkey, Syria, and Iran. For that reason, the Iraqi government tended to ignore military actions taken by neighboring countries into the northern region of their country. As a result, artillery and aerial bombings from over the border were common. Iraq seldom intervened when Iran or Turkey briefly deployed ground forces over the border to engage Kurdish guerrillas in their camps.
Turning to Gorev, who was standing behind her, she said, “Gorev, shit’s about to get bad. I need you to shout out to the Kurds that the Iranians are coming and will be here any minute.”
The color drained from the diplomat’s face right before her eyes. And his jaw began to waver. He seemed frozen in his tracks.
“Gorev, do it!” she growled. She took up her weapon preparing for what was inevitably about to happen. Gorev inched slowly closer to Sauwa who was near the ramp, wedged against the side of the opening. Taking a deep breath, Gorev worked up the courage to shout out to the guerrilla commander what Sauwa had told him. Over the loud roar of the plane’s turbines, he could barely be heard. One of the guards, positioned at the ramp, perked up when he heard the diplomat. He, too, must have spoken Russian. He quickly turned and began shouting back to his comrades.
The Kurds turned and looked on in shock. The guerrilla commander quickly reasserted order among her troops. She waved and shouted toward one of the Toyotas which promptly started off down the road. Not inclined to take the word of shady arms traffickers, she was likely sending her own people to confirm the story. She then turned back to the two men she had posted at the ramp of the plane.
This was the moment Sauwa had anticipated. “Get to the back!” she shouted to Gorev. The Kurdish guards began their ascent onto the plane. Gorev whimpered something in Russian as he made for the rear of the plane. Her rifle already lifted to eye level, she fired a burst. The bullet tore into the upper torso of the guard who had made it onto the ramp. Instantly, his weapon dropped to the ground as he fell back. Sauwa had no time to assess anything as the other guard began firing wildly in her direction. She dropped her rifle as bullets whistled inches past her. She barely caught sight of the guerrilla as he leaped up onto the ramp using his legs and free hand while firmly maintaining his rifle at his shoulder and a finger on the trigger mechanism. He continued firing in her direction as he ascended, keeping a barrage of fire on her that kept her from being able to fire back. The tactic was known in the military world as cover by fire.
He continued firing while racing onto the ramp. This m
aneuver served to keep Sauwa from being able to retaliate as he made his way inside the plane. Crawling on the floor, it was pure chance when her hand fell on the barrel of her weapon. Grabbing it, she managed to slide behind a pile of sandbags.
The shooting had stopped, and she heard a metallic clicking sound ─ it was a magazine being ejected from a weapon. Rolling onto her back she looked up to see the Kurd guerrilla approaching rapidly. She assumed his magazine weld was empty, and he was reaching into the pocket of his tactical webbing to retrieve a spare. Seizing the opportunity, she thrust her foot hard into a couple of the top bags of her stack. Weighing fifty pounds apiece, she didn’t expect the bags to launch far. As close as the gunman was, they managed to fall at his knee forcing him to jump back. Scrambling to get her rifle into her hands, she lined it up on the Kurd, hastily sighted in, and took her shots. One bullet grazed his head and another cut across the top of his shoulder. It was enough to get his attention. He lifted his head to see her aiming at him again. Tilting the rifle a little more to the right she fired another burst. This time the round tore through his skull. The lifeless corpse fell back plopping onto the floor.
Not wasting time, Sauwa jumped to her feet as she grabbed for the PKM. The bipods had been retracted to make it easier to navigate the wall of sandbags. Unlike the M-6o, the PKM bipods retracted forward when not deployed for stability. She knelt down as she raised the weapon up. She looked out to see a group of guerrillas racing toward the plane. They had obviously heard the shots and were in route to support their comrades.
Racking back the bolt of the weapon, she let loose a powerful barrage of gunfire in the direction of the oncoming force. The rounds tore through the group of men as if they were tissue paper. Several of them dropped to the ground instantly ─ lifeless corpses. The remainder retreated back to their pickups screaming at their comrades to alert them to the machine gun. On the truck, one of the men was grabbing the gun mounted at the cab to turn it into action. Sauwa started to aim in on him. She was about to fire when the mounted gunman suddenly exploded into a splotchy, bloody mess. More guerrillas manning the other gun or driving were being hit. It didn’t take long for Sauwa to figure out it was Red Wolf and his team taking sniper shots from their positions and neutralizing key elements of the Kurdish threat.
Seizing the opportunity, Sauwa launched her gunfire into the Toyotas and their occupants. By now the plane had started to move. The pilots had apparently heard the gunfire and, true to her orders, had started the plane on a course to take off. The gun battle was interrupted by a powerful blast that seemingly came from nowhere. It exploded a short distance from where the Kurd’s hauling trucks were parked. It was followed by another and then another. The truck that had been dispatched to check out the report about the Iranians was speeding back at a breakneck pace with its wheels kicking up huge clouds of sand as they slid across the ground. In the back, the men where flaying their hands wildly in the direction in which they came. It was easy to read the message. And it had come too late.
Sauwa had hoped that this new development would cause the guerrillas to retreat. Instead, the woman commander had her arm extended in the direction of the plane as she barked out orders. Her cool demeanor had switched to an angry, screaming ball of fury. Her troops moved to give chase.
The Kalashnikov assault rifle was the most popular weapon of the modern guerrilla. The Toyota Hilux was perhaps their most popular mode of travel. It was cheap, simple to use, easy to maintain, and virtually indestructible. A fact she was coming to realize as the guerrillas moved to give chase in a pickup that was still operable even after she had put four bullets through the engine block.
The plane was picking up speed as it prepared to go airborne. At the same time, the Iranian tanks had moved closer and come into view. Behind them, a swarm of soldiers was laying down massive small arms fire in support as they raced into battle with the guerrillas. Sauwa continued firing in the direction of the two pickups that were in pursuit. The rough ground, loaded with berms and dips, caused her shots to be wild and sporadic instead of aimed and disciplined. She wondered how many of her shots were even getting close to their pursuers. Her hope was that the gunmen on the pickups were in a similar situation.
The plane was now at full speed only seconds from liftoff, but the ramp was just starting to close. The barrel on the PKM was glowing reddish-orange from all the rounds fired through it. It was hot enough that it started to burn into the burlap bag it rested on. It was fortunate they were in an Ilyushin aircraft. Though it was a virtual death trap in the air, on the ground, it was a perfect contraption for operating in hostile environments. Its fuel line was protected by a thick lead casing that guarded against small arms fire and incendiaries such as RPGs. Its structure was designed and constructed to land on almost any kind of rough terrain. The plane started to rise into the air, and the ramp lifted into the closed position. The feel of the plane as it rushed into the air was orgasmic as Sauwa lowered her gun and fell onto her back. Her mind rejoiced that they had survived.
Her thoughts were soon interrupted by a strange noise behind her. She rose up on her elbow and looked back to see Gorev curled into a fetal ball. He was sobbing so loudly she could hear him over the powerful growl of the plane’s engines. Rising to her feet she walked over to him and knelt down. He was shaking, and the odor of urine was unmistakable.
“It’s alright,” she said softly placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “We’re done, it’s all over, and we’re going home.”
“I hate this!” he screamed as he began to unravel. “I miss my days in the diplomatic service! I miss the parties and the luncheons. I miss having cocktails with government ministers while discussing important international issues. I was meant to live a life circulating in important circles of the political hierarchy, accompanying state ambassadors on private jets. I was not meant to do these damnable black operations while flying around in squalid cargo planes conducting criminal business with criminal ruffians. This is the work for Spetsnaz commandos, not men of the better classes.”
“It’s not an easy life, Ivan.” Sauwa tried to calm him even when she understood he was referring to her with his last comment.
“I’m not like you, Sauwa! I’m not some mercenary psychopath who enjoys this ─ the killing, the violence!” Ivan Gorev’s eyes welled up with tears. He was shaking all over.
Sauwa ignored his comments as she sat down beside him and continued to offer what comfort she could. She tore off her balaclava feeling the sweat pour from her face. She rested her head against the crates behind her and continued to rub her hand over the diplomat’s shoulder. “We’re going home now, Ivan. Hopefully, you won’t have to do this again.”
4
Sergei Tarkov felt strangely out of place walking along the streets of the brightly lit Arab city of Dubai. The city was a stark contrast to the world he had come from, and he took to it as if he were a man from some ancient time arriving in a future he never thought could exist. The city gleamed at night with beautiful glowing lights outlining majestic buildings of varying designs. Electric signs painted words in neon colors advertising the path to all sorts of pleasures only allowed in a capitalistic city. Modern artistry and architecture hung all about him from glistening water fountains that dazzled in coral with manicured trees in blue lighting lining the sidewalks.
This was the capitalism he had only heard about but had never actually seen. The reality of this world was impossible for him to comprehend. He continued looking around the streets marveling at the spectacular beauty. As he walked, he wondered how he came across to those he passed ─ a frowning man acting like a teenage peasant seeing his first city.
Such an assessment would not have been far from the truth. He was a man who had spent his entire life in the people’s state of the Soviet Union. As a child, his world had been long bread lines, planned systems designed by logistical pragmatism with no thought for comfort or personal taste. His grey concrete apartment building was an identical
replica of all the other industrial buildings designed to house the country’s populace.
At fourteen, he was accepted into the prestigious Nakhimov Naval School. His father, a decorated officer and war hero of the Great Patriotic War ─ better known as World War II ─ had aided the young Tarkov to achieve entry into the elite boarding schools that prepared him for a commission in the Soviet military. However, where his father had been a proud career officer in the army, Ivan Tarkov’s love of the sea had caused him to take a different route. Tarkov applied for and gained entry into the Nakhimov academy in St. Petersburg for pre-commissioning training. His family was dismayed by his choice but ultimately understood. The next four years he spent immersing himself in his studies. He constantly went far beyond the requirements spending many long nights in the academy library. He devoured every book and periodical he could find covering naval operations, mathematics, geometry, science, and navigation. He became particularly interested in the role of the naval infantry and amphibious operations.
He graduated at the top of his class and since he was not a conscript, he continued his studies at the esteemed M.V. Frunze Higher Naval School. Like his previous school, he delved into his studies and excelled at his coursework. During this time, he continued his strong interest in the naval infantry. He began to hear rumors of a secret commando unit in the naval arsenal. A mysterious unit of operatives that carried out missions similar to the missions of the army’s Spetsnaz. The only difference was these commandos were highly trained frogmen who could sneak into enemy territory and conduct complex raids and operations.
His interests were peaked by this ghostly, mysterious group. He spent the next few years making quiet inquiries among the more connected members of the faculty. After graduation, he was dispatched to a post at the naval base of Ocharkov in Ukraine as part of the Black Sea Fleet. After a few months on a battleship, he was asked by his superiors to attend a meeting at port headquarters. There he, along with two other men, sat in a dark room with small windows and virtually no lighting facing a man who gave them no name but clearly possessed considerable authority. After a lengthy question and answer period, he was led out of the room. A week later he was given orders to report to another place at the far end of the base. It was an area hardly anyone knew anything about other than it was well guarded and off limits to even some of the highest-ranking officials. Rarely did they see anyone go in or leave.