Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family

by M. T. Hallgarth

  I would have dearly liked to have just rolled away from the anti-personnel mine, just rolling away as far and as fast as possible. But memories of Vietnam had still been very clear to me, as had the screams of those US Marines who had also rolled and dived for cover into the undergrowth, only to discover that the Viet Cong had planted booby traps for them there, as well. Their screams as they had toppled head first into punji pits, with their sharpened excreta covered stakes; or as they had stumbled on to crude homemade bamboo mines, the splinters and shards of which had driven up deep into their genitalia.

  Where there is one mine or booby trap – there are generally others, close by.

  No. I had retreated back the same way that I had come, very carefully…very slowly – crawling on my gut backwards to the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major, and the protective shelter of the trees.

  Time to go.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  I had heard the jarring tinny noise of a radio playing pop music, long before we had come on to the clearing – and the farm.

  The last few kilometres we had taken slow and sure – ever vigilant for mines. On hearing the sound of the radio, we had slowed up even more, covering the last few metres in a silent crawl. From the cover of tree line we had the opportunity to study the scene below us. The clearing, a crude rectangle, some two hundred metres wide and a hundred metres in depth, had been manmade. Small cavities, evident in the grassy turf, where the trucks of trees had been pulled free from the ground. In the centre of this rectangular clearing had stood the farm and, immediately opposite from it, a motley collection of outbuildings, all in various stages of decay and disrepair. On the opposite side of the clearing from us, there had been a broad cutting through the trees, and a track, which, according to the satellite images, had led to the other building some two hundred metres away from the farm. There had once been a low wall around the farm, some fifty metres away from where we had taken cover at the edge of the tree line. Most of it had fallen and toppled over into untidy piles of cinder blocks, the gaps filled with discarded farm equipment: a rusty tractor, a collection of balers, hoes and ploughs, and as assortment of low level trailers and other rotting equipment. Part of the wall, immediately down from us, had still been standing to a height of just under a metre or so and, on this remaining piece of unbroken wall had sat two figures – their backs turned towards us.

  The two men had been dressed in similar garb to us, tracksuits or similar. Perched precariously between them on the wall, a small transistor radio had been blaring away. Judging by the strong herbal pungent smell, they had both been smoking cannabis; their shoulders rising up as they inhaled and held on to the smoke in their lungs; before collapsing and relaxing again, as they had exhaled out.

  No time like the present, I had thought to myself. Hit them both when while they’re still on a high.

  “Cover me, Starshina, Vissarionovich,” I had quietly ordered the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major, handing him my AK-104 and ammunition webbing. “If I need you to open fire – I’ll drop down and give you a clear line of sight,” I had added, reiterating. “But on no account open fire otherwise – is that understood.”

  “Understood, Major, Sir,” had come his equally whispered reply, as he had brought his Kalashnikov up to his shoulder and had lined up on the two figures.

  Hopefully, I wouldn’t need his covering fire – but, if I did, I knew that it would be timely and accurate.

  Getting up, I had left the cover of the forest and, in a low flowing silent gait, I had made my way down the small grassy incline to the two men…both of whom had been completely unaware to my approach – that is, until I had been on them. I had stabbed the one sitting down on the wall, to my right, first, the blade of the Eickhorn combat knife penetrating deep into his kidney area – instantly stunning him as I had twisted the handle and pulled the knife free…him collapsing down on to the floor, on the other side of the low wall. His startled colleague had stood up, fumbling with his Kalashnikov, in a desperate attempt to turn the gun on me. I had thrust the blade of my combat knife straight into his throat, forcibly enough to grate on the bones of his vertebrae. Instead of pulling the knife straight out, I had slashed the sharp blade to the side of his neck, severing his carotid artery in doing so. The man’s legs had buckled underneath him, blood surging out from his wound in a slow pulsating rhythm, matching that of his dying heart. Jumping over the wall, I had then turned my attention back to the first man, who had been lying curled up in the foetal position on his right side, moaning and sobbing. Placing the sole of my right foot on to the side of his head, I had switched my combat knife to my left hand. Taking a leaf out of Carl’s book, I had leaned over the helpless man and had pushed the tip of the combat knife fully into the side of his neck, immediately in front of the vertebrae, before slicing outwards, severing his trachea and arteries in the process. While he had still been gurgling and gushing his life away, I had dragged him in to a sitting position, with his back placed against the low wall. I had done exactly the same thing with the other man, pulling him up and sitting him next to his friend, carefully placing and positioning their weapons alongside them – hopefully, creating a scene of normality for one and all to see.

  Keeping behind the afforded cover of the abandoned farm machinery, I had made my way to the collection of derelict outbuildings, situated immediately opposite the singe level main building of the farm house. Process of elimination had ruled out the hostages being kept in the main house – or in any of the other buildings that had been without a roof. That had only left two possibilities…a small low dilapidated animal sty, totally unsuitable for the purpose – or the barn standing next to it. I had made my way to the rear of the barn. There had been a door there, but it had been barred and padlocked.

  No other choice but to go round to the front.

  There had been a pair of large planked wooden doors on the front of the building. With both doors almost hanging off their rusty hinges, the one on the right had been left slightly ajar, its edge protruding out into the yard. I had made for that. Pausing outside, I had listened for sounds coming from within the barn – but there had been none. Then, I had tested the scents and smells in the air, my nose immediately turning up at the harsh stench of stale unwashed bodies – I was in the right place. Crouching low, with my combat knife still in my left hand, I had pulled open the door and had cautiously entered into the dark confines of the barn. Immediately, a swarm of bullets had whistled just inches above my head. To my right, a pockmarked faced youth had reloaded a fresh magazine into the 9mm Škorpion machine-pistol that he had been holding in his left hand. Taking aim, he had fired at me again, his left hand rising high into the air. As he had struggled to load a fresh magazine, into the diminutive machine-pistol, I had quickly crossed the distance between us. Taking hold of his gun with my right hand, with a satisfying dull ‘thud’, I had plunged the blade of the Eickhorn combat knife between his fourth and fifth ribs, with my left. The blade had punctured one of the pumping chambers of his heart, judging by the copious, pulsating rhythmic flow of blood, as I had removed the knife from his chest. This time, however, I had managed to jump to one side and had avoided being covered by most of the warm gore.

  There had been three others in the barn. Dressed in soiled dark blue boiler suits, the three men had been chained by the ankles to the large rear wheel and tyre of a tractor, which had been positioned in the centre of the barn’s earthen floor. It had been easy to see which of the three had been the FSB General – the reserved composure of the body, even though seated uncomfortably on the hard floor; the firm set of the jaw; the steely gaze of the eyes. While his companions had been visibly shaken by what they had just witnessed – he had not. Both the Australians had been cowering, slack jawed and wide eyed – trying to hide, but there had been nowhere for them to hide. The Australians, both young men, had physically winced and recoiled away from me as I had approached them. One of them, his blond hair thickly matted and encrusted with filth, had opened hi
s mouth to utter something – but, quickly raising a finger to my lips, I had prudently stopped him from making a sound.

  It had been the one common thick chain that had bound all three men to the tractor wheel. Crude and pathetically simple, the chain had been wrapped a couple of times tightly round the ankles of each of the hostages, then treaded through holes in the disc of the tractor wheel, before being secured by an old heavy rusty padlock. If there had of been a combined collective will, then it would have been relatively easy matter for the captives to have freed themselves; just by creating enough free movement, thereby allowing sufficient slack for them to unwrap the restraining coils of the chain, from their respective ankles. Perhaps that was why the pockmarked faced youth had been left guarding them – to deter and prevent them from doing such a thing.

  Nevertheless, for the sake of expediency, I could do with a key.

  When the youth had collapsed on to the floor, I had heard the clatter of keys – or something that had sounded like keys. I had gone back over to his body. And, sure enough, attached to the belt pull of his jeans had been a long chrome chain, on the end of which had been a selection of keys. Tearing the keys and their chain free, I had thrown them over to the FSB General, who had caught them deftly in mid air. Within seconds, he had opened the old heavy padlock but, before he had time to release the chain from its clasp, there had come the distinct sound of a door being slammed shut and footsteps running towards the barn – we were about to be joined by someone else!

  I had brought my left arm up, palm outwards, facing the three hostages, and then had quickly lowered it down.

  “DOWN – get down,” the FSB General had ordered the two Australians, as he had taken cover alongside the thick tyre of the tractor wheel – the Australians trying to follow suit, as best they could.

  I had returned back to the corpse of the youth, slumped up against the wall of the barn, where I had left him. Sitting down next to him, on his immediate left, I had pulled his limp body across mine – partially covering most of my chest and my left arm. Through the barn door had burst a man – in his hands a Kalashnikov. Without waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, he had opened fire, spraying the interior of the barn with long chattering bursts of fire. But the bursts had been too long…the recoil of the AK-47 lifting the barrel of the gun progressively upwards, sending the rounds harmlessly into the upper walls, rafters – some stray rounds even punching through the corrugated sheet metal roof, of the barn. Then the gun had fallen silent – its magazine empty.

  My turn!

  Pushing the body of the dead youth off me, I had risen silently to my feet and, in just a few short strides, had placed myself directly between the man and the entrance to the barn. But the knowing looks on the faces of the two Australians had given me away – and the man had turned to face me. Of tall slender build, in his mid-forties, he had worn a bright blue shell suit over brilliantly white unmarked trainers. He had no spare magazine for the Kalashnikov – and the gun had been as good as useless. In futile desperation, he had thrown the assault rifle at me as he had slowly backed away, further into the interior of the barn. Eventually, on reaching the far wall of the barn, he could back away no further. So, he had just stood there motionless, frozen to the spot with his back pressed hard against the wall. With the diminutive 9mm Škorpion machine-pistol in my right hand, I had slapped the base of the magazine with my left, ensuring that it had been fully inserted into the receiver before pulling back the cocking lever. Raising the machine-pistol up to point at the man, from a distance of no more than ten metres, I had fired off a short burst of three rounds – and had missed with each shot! Straight away, I had fired off another burst of five rounds directly at him – with exactly the same result as before, the 9mm bullets digging large ragged holes in the flaky white washed brickwork above his head, but missing him completely! He had obviously thought that this had been his lucky day and sprinted over to the door, at the rear of the barn – me sending another five rounds after him, missing completely, yet again. In desperation, he had torn at the wooden door, pushing, kicking and barging at it – but it had been barred and bolted from outside. He had then turned his attention to a small metal framed window, to the right of the door, but it too had remained stubbornly fastened and closed.

  I had been making the same mistake that the youth had – I had been treating the Škorpion machine-pistol as I would a conventional hand gun, and it wasn’t. It was a fully automatic machine-pistol…a sub-machinegun by any other name – and you don’t fire sub-machineguns one handed. And, like the pockmarked faced youth – I hadn’t done anything to try and control the recoil of the weapon.

  Tucking my right elbow close into the side of my body, with my left had I had tightly grasped the magazine up close by its housing in the receiver, forming a perfect triangulation. I had fired a short burst of two rounds directly into the man’s back, both rounds hitting him just above the waist, in the small of his back. Muscle spasms had instantly kicked in, sending him into a rigid pose – arms stretched out at right angles to his body, as if being crucified. I had slightly reduced the downward pull of my left hand, on the gun’s magazine, and had fired five more rounds into him, emptying the magazine.

  Perfect – a close tight group nestled directly in-between the man’s shoulder blades.

  Now empty, I had wedged the 9mm Škorpion machine-pistol in the harness of my shoulder holster, replacing it in my hand with the Makarov PPM automatic that the Colonel had given me.

  The FSB General had freed himself and the Australian hostages. They had been crouching down low, by the entrance to the barn, when we had heard the approaching booming bellow of a vehicle’s exhaust, as it had hurled up the track towards the farm. Then had come the distinctive crack of an AK-104, firing four short bursts. This had been immediately followed by a resounding metallic crunching sound as the whole corner of the barn had shook violently, causing debris and dust to fly all about and down on to us. No need for any hand gestures this time, for the FSB General had already forced his two fellow captors down on to the floor of the barn. I had slipped out of the barn’s double doors. Directly to my right, with its nose embedded firmly into the side of the barn, had been a battered pickup truck, its windshield perforated with a dozen bullet holes; two groups of three, on the driver’s side; and an identical two groups of three, on the passenger’s side – the large 7.62mm rounds instantly killing both of the trucks occupants. To my left, by the corner of the single level farmhouse had stood Starshina, Vissarionovich – a big broad grin on his face.

  “Finisheeed?” he had shouted across the yard to me.

  “Yes, Starshina, Vissarionovich,” I had shouted back to him. “Finished – time to call us a taxi.”

  “Already have, Major, Sir,” he had replied, slowly walking over to me – my Kalashnikov slung casually over his shoulder, his AK-104 still lined up on the busted pick-up truck. “They are on their way – Major, Sir.”

  Good-oh – onwards and upwards.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  They had actually sent two ‘taxis’ to pick us up.

  From the east, just metres above the tree tops, the two Mil Mi-24 Hind’s had flown in tandem, with the rear helicopter flying at a lower height than the lead bird – nose down, ready to take out any hostile surface to air fire. While the lead Mi-24 had descended sharply down on to the open grass space at the rear of the farm, close to the tree line – its partner had remained on station, hovering in a nose down attitude, just above the tree tops. With the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major taking point, and me bringing up the rear, we had herded the three hostages up the grassy incline to where the Hind had landed, its massive rotor blades just throttled back slightly ready for a rapid ‘dust off’. We had come up to the low wall where I had propped up the two Chechen terrorists. With the muscles and ligaments of their necks severed, their heads had flopped sideways down on to their shoulders, almost as if they had been a pair of discarded ‘rag dolls’. The Australians
had paused momentarily as they passed the dead men. Like spectators at a car wreck, it had seemed as if they had an overwhelming morbid urge to slow up and drink in the sight of the carnage. I had tried to push them on. From deep in the woods had come the sound of a muffled explosion. The spring striker of the Yugoslavian PROM-1 anti-personnel mine had finally freed itself and had detonated the mine. This had at least served to spur the hostages on – while the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major and I had exchanged knowing glances, with one another.

  The Hind’s ‘technician’ had been waiting by the open door of the main cabin. He had helped the Russian FSB General on to the Hind – the two Australians he had pushed in. When it had come to me, he had backed away. Winding up the power and revolutions of the rotor blades, the Mi-24 pilot had lifted his craft upwards and forwards, nose down, momentarily throwing those of us in the main cabin together. Behind us, the other Hind had begun to ‘beat’ up the farm; sending salvos of its high explosive S8 rockets into the farm and its outbuildings…destroying and obliterating everything, including any traces of what had just happened there and, more importantly, any traces of us – the Russians, like the Americans, are always good at clearing up afterwards!