“You know about the FSB General, Starshina, Vissarionovich?” I had asked.
“Yes,” Colonel Dmitri K…had answered for the Sergeant Major. “I considered that it was important that Starshina, Vissarionovich should be kept fully briefed on all aspects of the operation – especially its desired outcome.”
“Rightly so,” I had agreed. I had then turned and directly addressed the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major, himself. “Starshina, Vissarionovich, I had thought that we might drop in to this clearing here.” There had been various detailed maps and photographs of the target area, neatly arranged over the surface of table. Indicating to a large satellite image of the area, I had pointed to a small clearing, some ten kilometres up the forested slope from the farm house and its cluster of outbuildings. “Then we would make our approach to the farm on its south side, through the forest,” I had continued, before asking: “What do you think, Starshina, Vissarionovich?”
“I understand that the forest might be mined, Major,” he had replied, a placid expression on his round face.
“Then, we will have to be very careful where we put our feet, Starshina, Vissarionovich.”
The Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had smiled. “When do we move in Major?” he had asked.
“Providing that the Colonel has arranged transport – we leave here at first light, tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, helicopter transport is arranged,” the Russian FSB Colonel had confirmed. “They will approach the drop off point from the east, so as not to overfly the farm.” he had gone on to explain. “Pick up will be by helicopter gunship – as soon as you call for it.”
“Weapons?” I had asked.
“Oh – you mean equipment,” he had replied.
“No, I mean weapons.”
“What would you like? I am more than sure that Starshina, Vissarionovich can fulfil your every requirement.”
The Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had stood up straight to attention. “What are your weapon requirements, Major?”
“Firstly, I would like an AK-47,” I had said, matter of factly.
“Not an AK-74?” the Colonel had queried. “You use the 5.56 American M16, so why not our AK-74 – what have you got against it?”
As a point of interest, the ammunition we use for our M16 derivatives are the high velocity, 77-grain 5.56x45mm ‘boat tailed’ round…tear your arm or leg off – literally. However, the round that the AK-74 uses is the slightly small and lighter 49-grain round, 5.45x39mm. With the right amount of propellant, and velocity, this small round can demonstrate a pronounced tumbling effect, producing horrific fatal injuries. However, if there is not sufficient velocity, the diminutive Russian round will only punch a neat small hole through the body causing little damage; as most human organs are too flexible and resilient to be severely damaged by the temporary cavity caused by the round. Whereas, the heavier more powerful 123-grain 7.62x39mm round, of the AK-47, will punch holes clean through cinder blocks…and that is exactly what I had wanted. Besides – I quite like AK-47’s.
“The Major is correct in his choice of weapon, Colonel, Sir,” the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had agreed with me. “Poor ammunition – and the AK-74 is not much better than pellet gun, Colonel, Sir.”
“Thank you for your comment, Starshina, Vissarionovich, but please stand easy,” I had smiled back at the Russian. “I would like a used AK-47 that has been well loved and well cared for.”
“In that case, Major, Sir,” he had replied, snapping back to attention again. “It is not an AK-47, but I would be most honoured if the Major would take my weapon – my AK-104, Sir.” Turning smartly round, he had taken the Kalashnikov from off the back of his chair and, in both hands, had offered his carbine to me. “It is chambered for the 7.62 round, Sir,” he had quickly added.
“Thank you, Starshina, Vissarionovich,” I had responded, gratefully. “But I could never separate you from your mother, your wife…your lover – or you’re AK-104. I’m sure you can find me a suitable weapon,” I had then added.
“Yes, Major, Sir,” he had said, shouldering his AK-104 before standing back to attention, again. “Is there anything else that the Major requires, Sir?” he had asked.
“Yes, Starshina, Vissarionovich – I require a sidearm that is adapted to take a suppressor,”
“Suppressor, Major, Sir?” The Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had looked inquisitively across at me.
“A silencer,” I had quickly rephrased my request.
This time the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had looked directly at his Colonel – shrugging his broad shoulders.
“I think what Starshina, Vissarionovich is trying to communicate is that we don’t have any suppressed weapons on the base,” Colonel Dmitri K…had responded. “I am sorry, that is my fault, I should have anticipated your exact requirements,” he had gone on to apologise to me.
“That’s quite alright – I’ll just have to use a knife if I need to be silent,” I had replied, stoically.
“I can get you a combat knife, Major, Sir,” the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had offered.
Reaching behind my back, and under the blue and white hooped vest that I had worn, I had taken my Eickhorn German military combat knife from its sheath with my right hand and had placed it on to the table. “Thank you – but I have my own,” I had replied, perhaps a little too superciliously. “But I would still like a sidearm,” I had added, this time in a more courteous tone. “Again, used but well loved and well cared for.”
There had been a movement to the side of me. “Here,” the FSB Colonel had said, dropping his side arm, a Makarov 9mm PPM automatic and shoulder holster, on to the table alongside my knife. “I am sure you will put it to far better use than I ever will. And don’t worry,” he had added. “This is definitely not my lover.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The pilot of the Mil Mi-24 ‘Hind’ had overshot the small clearing by several hundred metres but, rather than have him turn back to make a second approach and possibly draw unwanted attention, we had rappelled out of the helicopter just above tree height, the wash from the downdraft of the powerful rotor blades throwing us about in its turbulence – I so much do not like heights!
What had been left of that previous night, and the early part of the morning, I had spent memorising all the photographs, maps and satellite images of the farm. Just before dawn, the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had gently knocked on the door of my billet, entering with an AK-104; its loaded magazine having two more clips tightly fastened securely on either side of it with duct tape, and it’s folding skeleton stock tucked away neatly alongside the guns receiver.
Bless him – he had spent all-night, and most of the early hours of the morning, creating me the Kalashnikov AK-104 from out of no less than four others.
“A weapon that will do you justice, Major, Sir,” he had positively beamed down at me as he had handed me the AK-104. “It is as sound as a drum and as sweet as a sewing machine, Major, Sir.”
“Thank you, Starshina, Vissarionovich – I am most grateful.” I don’t know how he had been quite able to make analogies of metaphors that were so dissimilar, but I had been delighted with the Kalashnikov. “You look very pleased with yourself, Starshina, Vissarionovich.”
“Yes, Major, Sir, I am very pleased – it is my last day, today.” His smile had grown even wider.
“What exactly do you mean – your last day?”
“At midnight, tonight, my five year contract it is finisheeed, Major, Sir,” the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had almost chortled with glee. “And I won’t be signing contract for another five years. At midnight, I finisheeed with the fucking army for good, with respect, no offence, Major, Sir,”
SHIT – they’ve only gone and given me somebody on ‘short time’. Very fucking ‘short time’…sixteen hours – tops.
“Are you sure that you still want to accompany me on this mission Starshina, Vissarionovich – I’m sure that the Colonel could find a suitable replacement for you; under the circumstances?” I had offered.
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“Oh no, Major, Sir,” he had replied, grinning again. “I would like to…how do you English say – go out with a bang.”
Hopefully not a self fulfilling prophecy, on his part! I had quietly reflected to myself.
The technician of the Mil Mi24 crew – ‘technician’ being a very broad euphemism to cover the multiple roles that he had been expected to carry out…everything from cargo handler to gunner – had given us a nervous half glance as we had boarded the helicopter. Not surprising the way that we had been dressed. Ill fitting Bulgarian counterfeit black ‘Nike’ tracksuits, complete with obligatory white stripes, covering the blue and white hooped vests that we had worn underneath, and our regulation standard issue combat boots. The manner of our guise, along with our darkened faces and the field camouflage on our AK-104’s, had said but one thing to him, and one thing alone – ‘Special Forces’. And ‘Special Forces’ had meant ‘Special Ops’; and a real risk that he could end up becoming an obvious target for rifle or machine gun fire, or worse still, a rocket propelled grenade or a shoulder fired surface to air missile. He had been young, an obvious conscript who would have much rather been somewhere else. Underneath his helmet, he had worn a thick woollen balaclava hat – not to keep the cold out, but to stop the helmet, that had been far too big for him, from falling off! Pulling down the folding seats, bolted to the floor of the main cabin, the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major and myself had sat down and made ourselves as comfortable as possible – the conscript choosing to sit opposite us, close by to one of the main cabin’s two PKB light machineguns.
Despite flying out initially to the east, to avoid over flying the farm, we had reached the clearing in just over an hour’s flying time…or we would have reached the clearing if the pilot of our Mil Mi-24 Hind had not overshot – perhaps, like the conscript, he too had been nervous of drawing fire. I don’t know what the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had conveyed to the pilot over the intercom but, even without any understanding of Russian, the gist and tone of his message had been perfectly clear.
It had still been relatively early in the morning when we had rappelled down into the forest covered slopes, still fresh with dew and that glorious heady smell of pine. And it had been a comparatively easy stroll down the wooded slopes in the direction of the farm – the ten kilometres of so, covered in less than a couple of hours. As is my preference, I had taken point, with the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major following five metres behind. There had been no tracks, other than those of foxes and hares, so we had walked through the short grass and mulch of fallen rotten bark, its wetness shining our boots. As we had approached nearer to the farm, I had started to focus more and more on where we had been walking, ever vigil for the telltale signs of mines. For awhile there had been nothing. No disturbance of the ground or the undergrowth…no difference in the pattern or colour of the turf – nothing. Then, as clear as can be, the prongs of an anti-personal mine, sticking up proud from the sod of turf that it had been buried underneath. Stepping to one side, I had clicked my fingers and had indicated the mine to the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major, following behind me. He had grunted something – something that I had taken to be an acknowledgement of my warning.
Then, as I had continued on, had come the sound of a dull metallic click, followed by a soft whisper from the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major: “Sir…Major – Major, Sir.”
I had stopped dead in my tracks, turning to look back towards the frozen statuesque figure of my companion – the boot of his right foot directly over where the mine had been!
SHIT!
Carefully, I had retraced my steps to near where he had been standing absolutely motionless, his face and eyes steeled in expectation of his fate – normally there is little that can be done in these circumstances. Taking off my ammunition webbing and shoulder holster, I had placed the AK-104 on top of them, and had slowly crawled over on my stomach to the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major.
God knows why! Perhaps I had felt somehow responsible for him…especially as it had been nominally the last day of his military contract and service – and possibly the last day of his life, too!
“Stay perfectly still, Starshina, Vissarionovich,” I had ordered the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major as I had approached up close and personal – definitely, too close and personal!
His right foot had pushed the tilting prong of the anti-personnel mine almost fully forward. Judging by the shape and size of the prong, and the part of the detonator that I could see, it had looked to be a very much like a Yugoslavian PROM-1 bounding mine – one that shoots the main body of the mine up into the air before exploding and covering the area with sharp pieces of shrapnel. If that was case, the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major should have already been diced and sliced – me too! Once the prongs of a PROM-1 have been tilted, there would have been no more than a second delay before a small propellant charge had pushed the main body of the mine about sixty or seventy centimetres out of the ground. Then, a length of wire, tethering it to its base plate, would have been yanked tight which, in turn, would have detonated a second explosive charge, sending fragments of casing, and hundreds of sharp pieces of specially manufactured high velocity shrapnel, out in all directions – including mine!
Once you had trodden on one of these bloody nasty little things, it is complete and utter bullshit to think that you could possibly escape from its blast – but the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had – but why?
In my mind, I had clearly visualised the schematics of the anti-personnel mine. Its design and function had been simple enough – but why had it not detonated? Tilting the prongs on top of the detonator released a spring loaded striker which would strike a percussion cap, detonating a small charge that would propel the business part of the mine up into the air.
But it had not – but why not?
The design and manufacture of the spring release mechanism had been so mechanically crude and simple as to have been functionally faultless. Percussion caps will always detonate if struck – even if with a comparatively light force. There’s also not a lot that can go wrong with commercially manufactured explosive, either – so, why no big bang?
Perhaps, it had been the spring, itself, at fault. Perhaps, it had not been made from spring steel. Perhaps, it had not been properly anodised, or similarly treated. Perhaps, it had been an inferior substitute made from mild steel wire. Perhaps, over the weeks, or even the months, the heavy dew of the forest had penetrated the internal mechanism of the detonator. Perhaps, the coils of the spring loaded striker had been seized, welded together with rust! Perhaps…perhaps – perhaps?
It had been worth giving it a try. Pulling my combat knife from its sheath nestled in the small of my back, I had looked up at the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major, towering above me.
“Major – Sir?” he had said, without moving his head more than just a tilt to see what I had been doing. “Major – Sir, with respect, Sir. What the fuck are you going to do with the knife – stab the mine to death?”
“Something like that,” I had replied. “Now keep very still, Starshina, Vissarionovich – I am going to try something. And don’t worry, if this mine was going to go off, it would have already done so. All we have to do is make sure that it doesn’t change its mind!”
Still lying flat on my stomach, with my knife in my right hand, I had pushed the blade carefully under the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major’s boot, between its lightly ribbed sole and the top of the anti-personnel mine. Very slowly, I had brought the edge of the blade into contact with the prongs on top of the mine, pushed forward by the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major’s boot, gradually applying pressure to the mechanism.
“With respect, Major, Sir, that is not going to work – the mine has already been activated by my stupidity,” he had whispered down to me. “There is nothing that you can do for me. Go, save yourself, Sir.”
The Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had been correct in that respect, the mine should have been activated as soon as the prongs had been touched – but it hadn’t.
“I believe that the spring on the
striker may have seized up, Starshina, Vissarionovich,” I had told him. “So, I will keep pressure on the prongs, with my knife, while you slowly remove your foot. We don’t want them to suddenly flick back and jar the spring free – do we Starshina, Vissarionovich?”
“No – Major, Sir.”
“Then, Starshina, Vissarionovich, slowly lift up and move your foot to the rear and step back, away from the mine.”
For a big man, the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had balanced nimbly on one leg – like a dancer. He had slowly lifted his boot away from the prongs of the anti-personnel mine and had stood away from it.
“Good,” I had complimented him from my prone position on my stomach – my right arm had started to ache slightly. “Now, carefully move away and take shelter behind a tree, Starshina, Vissarionovich,” I had instructed him.
“Shall I get something to keep pressure on the prongs, Major, Sir?” he had asked. “So you may release them and take cover yourself.”
“Thank you, Starshina, Vissarionovich,” I had replied, graciously. “But, as you well know, that will not achieve anything apart from creating more of a risk – to us both.”
“Sir?” he had looked puzzled.
“The mine’s striker mechanism has probably been released, but somehow it has got hung up and hasn’t detonated,” I had reiterated. “Could be rust – could be anything. But I don’t want us to free it by any unnecessary movement or vibrations, Starshina, Vissarionovich. If anything happens to me – you know what has to be done. So, please will you take yourself to cover, Starshina, Vissarionovich – that is an order!
I had waited until the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had taken cover behind the trunk of a tall pine, some twenty metres behind me, before slowly reducing the pressure of my knife blade on the mine’s prongs. I had been under no illusions. If the mine had of detonated and propelled its main charge into the air, lying flat on my face might have saved me from most of the razor sharp shrapnel, shooting out at right angles from the ruptured casing. But nothing would have saved me from a pound of explosive detonating not much more than a couple of feet above my head, tearing apart the thick base plate of the anti-personnel mine, blasting jagged shards of metal directly down on to me – into me! Reducing the pressure of my knife on the prongs, gradually and slowly – after what had seemed to be an age, but, in reality, had been no more than a minute – the prongs of the anti-personnel mine had returned back to their neutral position. I could have unscrewed the detonator mechanism from the body of the anti-personnel mine…but I had thought better of it – if luck is with you, don’t push it.
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 37