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 control 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 flyi
ng 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.
Thus, Gregori Ivanovich Parkalov became Mohammed Sheriwal, who now had personal quarters in the castle, where he kept his three wives and one Dharya concubine. Also, through the aid of Zaid Aburrani, Sheriwal had been able to send 750,000 euros to a secret Swiss bank account. Now all he had to do was figure a way to get out of Khamami's fiefdom to get the money. Then he could return to Russia for a life of luxury.
WARLORD Hassan Khamami eagerly awaited Mohammad Sheriwal's arrival in the throne room. He had heard the helicopter land and needed the pilot's report before he could seriously begin a campaign against the infidels who had driven Durtami from his fiefdom.
Sheriwal was admitted into the warlord's presence, and reported to Khamami with a proper Soviet salute. This was a habit he had never been able to break. "Amir," he said in fluent but accented Pashto. "I have returned from the reconnaissance patrol over the suspected enemy area."
"And what did you find, Captain Sheriwal?" Khamami asked with undisguised impatience.
"The ridge is occupied by an armed force," the experienced combat pilot reported. "I am not sure of the exact size. They are definitely under battalion strength. I think at the most they might be a reinforced detachment or company."
"At the most?" Khamami asked. "Are you saying there is a chance they might be less than company size?"
"Yes, Amir. In truth, I would say they number somewhere between a dozen to perhaps two dozen that are cleverly camouflaged and dug in on that mountaintop."
Khamami broke out in loud laughter. "So! Those are the thousands of infidels who routed Durtami and his miserable band of hill bandits, eh?" He began laughing again, barely able to control his amusement. After a couple of minutes he calmed down enough to speak. "I can tell you one thing, Captain. The easy life the invaders have enjoyed up to now is about to come to an abrupt end."
"My men and helicopters are at your service," Sheriwal said.
"And so are my eight hundred mujahideen infantrymen," Khamami pointed out.
Chapter 13
WEST RIDGE BASE CAMP
25 AUGUST
0530 HOURS LOCAL
CHARLIE Team had the responsibilities of the morning watch, but they didn't have to sound the alarm to wake the platoon when the loud "chop-chop" of helicopter engines broke the early morning silence.
Everyone stayed under cover as per SOP, looking to the east in the direction of the disturbance. The noise grew steadily louder, but the sun's low position on the horizon made it difficult to see the exact positions of the aircraft or what nationality they might be. Then suddenly three dark shapes could be discerned approaching the ridge in trail.
The lead Mi-24 turned to the north and the others followed, maintaining exact distances between themselves in the formation. This was skillful, precise piloting, and in less than a minute -they made a leisurely turn toward the south, perfectly aligned with the ridge line. Then the noses dropped and the speed increased as they sped toward the base camp.
The rapid staccato of heavy machine gun fire from the first chopper broke out as slugs kicked up the dust on the ridge top. The gunner, sitting in the front cockpit, swung the barrel back and forth as he hosed the ground below. Immediately the second chopper followed suit, sending steady fusillades to splatter heavily along the top of the mountain's apex. The third did the same, then the small group swung out to turn for another run.
"Keep you heads down!" Brannigan bellowed so loud that even Kevin Albee on the OP could hear him.
The Hinds came back three more times, skillfully covering areas that had been missed. Cartridge cases rained down, some bouncing off the camouflage netting and colliding with one another as they made little pinging sounds. A couple bounced into Bruno Puglisi's fighting hole and he grabbed them, being careful not to burn his fingers.
"Soviet," he said to himself. "Twelve point seven millimeter. Big bad shit!"
The helicopters flew away as quickly as they'd arrived, leaving an eerie silence over the Afghanistan countryside. The next sound was Chief Matt Gunnarson's voice. "Corpsman! Clifford's hit!"
James Bradley grabbed his medical kit and leaped from his fighting hole. He ran past Bruno to where the chief stood by Adam Clifford's position. James pulled the netting off the emplacement, and could see Adam slumped over with his back against the earthen wall. A quick check for a pulse found nothing, and when James pulled the bloody BDU jacket open, he could see there was no chance for survival. The entry wounds were large and the exit wounds even more ghastly. Bits of flesh and lung were plastered against the side of the position behind the corpse.
James looked up at the chief, who waited for the word. "He's dead."
"Shit," Gunnarson said. He went into the hole and checked for himself. Violent death puts a certain expression on a man's face at times. It's neither shock nor anger, just a sort of dazed, slack-jawed appearance. The chief got Adam's poncho and poncho liner and tossed them out. James laid them out properly as the other SEALs gathered around. He helped the Chief bring the corpse out, and they laid it on the covers.
Lieutenant Jim Cruiser walked over and knelt down. "Our first one." He'd seen it before, but in a new outfit it was almost as shocking as the first time he had gazed down at a dead SEAL who had been under his command.
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan joined the crowd. "He'll have to be buried ASAP," he said, hoping he wasn't sounding too sanguine about this first casualty. "No telling how long we'll be up here?'
"I'll have him interred and we can note the exact location of the grave with a GPS," Cruiser said.
"Have your squad take care of it," Brannigan ordered. "I need a word with you and the chiefs."
Frank Gomez came up with an apologetic expression on his face. "Sir. The Shadowfire radio was hit. It's nothing but a piece of crap now. Sony."
"It wasn't your fault," Brannigan said. "You couldn't have done any more to protect the commo gear other than keep it under cover." He turned and walked toward the CP. "Let's go, team leaders."
They stayed on their feet outside the CP's confines as they gazed back at the Second Squad beginning the burial process for their buddy. Brannigan sighed, then got back to the business at hand. "Did anybody note an insignia of any kind on those choppers?"
"No, sir," Cruiser replied. "Too bad we didn't know the enemy had aerial attack capabilities."
"Yeah," Brannigan said. "At any rate, we're cut off. We got no anti-aircraft weapons, but I guess nobody thought it would be necessary. We've also lost our long-range commo. There's an unknown enemy facing us and you can bet your asses that the sons of bitches are going to want to take this mountain."
Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins jerked his thumb toward the supply dump. "At least we got lots of ammo, sir, even if none of it is AA. It's more'n enough to knock down a whole bunch of jihad jerks."
"It may or may not be that easy, Senior Chief," Brannigan said. "Right now it appears we're caught dead in the middle of one of those battle-of-attrition scenarios. And if they have more men than we have bullets, we'll have a real load to carry around here." He turned and looked out over the terrain. "Get back to your units and do like they say in the Bible. Gird your loins for battle." He nodded to Cruiser.
"We'll want to say a few words over Petty Officer Clifford. Let me know when you're ready for the services."
"Aye, sir," Cruiser said.
The 2IC and the chiefs headed over to their squads and teams.
.
WARLORD DURTAMI'S FORMER COMPOUND
NOON LOCAL
THE trio of Mi-24s came in and landed in an echelon right formation. As soon as they touched down, the troop compartment doors opened and twelve fully armed mujahideen fighters quickly exited each aircraft. As soon as all were off to one side, the choppers took off, once more turning toward the fiefdom of Warlord Hassan Khamami.
Although the thirty-six men wore the traditional Afghanistan puhtee caps, the rest of their uniforms were modern military. This was brand-new Russian Federation kamuflirovani kurtki pattern camouflage garb as was issued to the Federation's Border Guard outfits. The men also had their features streaked with black and green face paint, and they sported AK-47 assault rifles with plenty of bandoleers of ammunition.
The leader of this group was Warlord Khamami's senior field commander, Major Karim Malari. He was a graduate of the Soviet Army's Infantry Academy and had taken other military training courses in the USSR. The officer had not been home for very long before he defected from the Democratic Afghanistan Army to join the mujahideen to fight the foreign invaders from the Soviet Union.
Seals (2005) Page 14