PRIMAL Unleashed is the first full-length novel in the PRIMAL series. It introduces the PRIMAL organization.
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Khod Valley, Afghanistan, 1990. An abandoned Spetsnaz platoon fights to the death. What secret are they hiding?
Kiev, Ukraine, current day. A former Spetsnaz soldier, now arms dealer, has entered into a deadly contract with a ruthless client. His greed could plunge the Middle East into war.
From the shadows, a team of professionals is watching. A covert organization, independant of any nation or corporation, free to strike at the untouchable. They are PRIMAL, and they will see justice served.
About the author
Jack Silkstone is a writer with a background in Military Intelligence, Counter-Intelligence and Special Operations.
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Endorsements
“If you like Tom Clancy, you’ll like PRIMAL. It bristles with authenticity because the guy who wrote it used to do it for real.” - Matthew Reilly, author of ICE STATION, SCARECROW and THE FIVE GREATEST WARRIORS
Acknowledgements
PRIMAL Unleashed is dedicated to those who fight for a just cause.
PRIMAL Unleashed
By Jack Silkstone
Copyright 2011 Jack Silkstone. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Warning: this story is intended for mature audiences and contains violence and profanity.
Chapter 1
Mi-17 transport helicopters in Afghanistan
Southern Afghanistan, 1989
The first mortar bombs dropped with deadly accuracy inside the Russian platoon’s defensive perimeter. The whistle of incoming projectiles sent men scurrying for cover, their survival instincts sharpened by three long years fighting the Mujahideen. Captain Alexis Krijenko was sprinting for the nearest weapons pit when the barrage exploded around him, slamming him heavily into the ground.
He shook his head to clear the shock. Strong hands grabbed his equipment harness, dragging him to the safety of a crudely constructed foxhole. A second barrage exploded above; Krijenko was blasted with dirt as shrapnel sliced through the air inches above his skull. Crouching in the bottom of the pit, he faced the man who‘d saved him. Dostiger laughed, his scarred and pitted face split into a psychotic grin.
“About time the Mooj found us, Captain!” he screamed as explosions filled the air with smoke and debris. “I thought they’d never come.”
Krijenko’s tired eyes met the manic stare of the Ukrainian team leader. “They’ll be on us within the hour, you crazy bastard.”
“The Mooj want whatever’s in that godforsaken hole, Captain,” Dostiger yelled, gesturing towards the shaft carved into the heart of the mountain.
“No, comrade, they want our heads,” Krijenko countered.
Dostiger’s eyes grew even wider and his ugly grin more sadistic. “Fuck them! Let the filthy Muslims try. I’ll send them to meet their prophet.” He patted his Dragunov sniper rifle; the notches on its scarred wooden stock were too numerous to count and Krijenko knew that before long many more would join them.
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Twelve hours earlier the Russian Spetsnaz platoon had been relocated from their usual hunting grounds in Helmand province. They had moved east to Kandahar airfield, a staging base for the withdrawal from Afghanistan. After ten years of bloody conflict a ragtag army of Mujahideen had defeated the mighty Russian war machine. Finally the men of the bloodied 40th Army could return home.
The sun was low in the sky as Krijenko’s men waited in the shell of a battle-scarred building, watching their comrades depart Afghanistan in a continuous stream of massive Antonov transport aircraft. They looked on blankly as the long queues of soldiers edged toward the departure point. Dostiger just dozed, slumped against his equipment.
Eyes bloodshot and skin grey from exhaustion, Krijenko managed a haggard smile as a line of regular troops ran forward eagerly, waved on board by a young rosy-cheeked officer armed with a clipboard.
Finally it was their turn. Dostiger whipped his eyes open and watched as the rest of the platoon surged forward. They had almost joined the queue when the young clipboard-wielding officer stopped them.
Krijenko couldn’t believe it. It was their turn to depart but his war-weary Spetsnaz platoon was being waved to another holding area. His team stared angrily as another group took their place. No warning, no explanation; the young officer simply handed Krijenko a set of orders and waved his clipboard toward a pair of waiting Mi-17 transport helicopters. They wouldn’t be going home.
With heavy hearts they hauled their equipment across to the helicopters and began stowing their heavy weapons and boxes of ammunition. They were interrupted by a helmet-clad loadmaster.
“Personal weapons only,” he yelled into Krijenko’s ear over the increasing scream of the helicopter’s twin turbines. “High altitude flight, comrade. Leave anything you can. If we’re too heavy, then…” He gestured with his gloved hand chopping at his neck.
Krijenko scowled as his men discarded their heavy weapons, piling the grenade launchers, machine guns and mortars on the tarmac. Heavy weapons had given the Spetsnaz a distinct advantage over the Mujahideen.
Once the platoon was on board, the two aircraft immediately took off, circling Kandahar before heading north. Krijenko noted the absence of the attack helicopter escort that usually accompanied all air movement in Afghanistan. An ominous sign that this was no regular mission. Krijenko kept his doubts and concerns to himself as they gained altitude. His men were veterans and he had earned their trust. They would follow him on any mission, no matter how bone-tired and no matter what the odds. He watched them, one-by-one, dip their heads as the thud of the rotors and vibration of the aircraft lulled them to sleep. Battle-hardened, they had long ago learnt to rest whenever the opportunity arose.
Dostiger peered with anticipation through the plastic bubble window, the sun-faded dome morphing the barren rocky ridges and green valleys below into an alien environment. For three years this mountainous terrain had been his home; a harsh and unforgiving place that had claimed the lives of thousands of invaders. It was a land of warriors; Mongol, Persian, British, and now Russian blood had soaked this soil. For the Ukrainian it had become a hunting ground. At last count he had sent one hundred and seventy Mujahideen to meet their maker, and now whatever god was watching over him had given him the opportunity to make it an even two hundred.
Dostiger smiled sadistically as he looked back at the platoon dozing in the belly of the helicopter. They had wanted to go home, but not him. Something in the depths of his soul told him that this was where he was supposed to be. In these rugged mountains he would find his fortune.
A change in the pitch of the rotors woke the rest of the platoon. The scream of the turbines increased, the helicopter approaching ceiling height.
The loadmaster held up two fingers to indicate two minutes out. All signs of sleep gone, the men checked weapons, tightened equipment and prepared for possible combat. Their eyes were alert, bodies tensed and ready.
Krijenko’s steely gaze locked onto the window. The rocky crags looked close enough to touch but nothing seemed fa
miliar about this area. His men would not have the advantage of knowing the ground. Nor would they have the reassurance of heavy weapons and air support. He looked back from the window and met Dostiger’s stare. The mad Ukrainian almost looked happy. He shook his head in disbelief.
The helicopter shuddered as it clawed its way upwards to a small flat outcrop on the side of a barren mountain. With a final lurch it cleared the razor edge and descended on to the roughly constructed landing zone. The clamshell doors swung open as it hit the ground and the loadmaster frantically waved them clear. The men fanned out, weapons ready, eyes scanning for any possible threat. They found cover behind boulders and in folds of the earth, encircling the aircraft as its rotors idled.
Krijenko stepped off onto the windswept mountain and rapidly assessed the terrain. The landing zone was large, easily accommodating the two helicopters that had landed. It was dominated on three sides by jagged ridgelines and rocky outcrops, while at the lower end a rudimentary road snaked away to the south. Parallel to the road, large boulders and deep gullies would allow any enemy a protected approach. Krijenko spat into the dust as he stared at the terrain; experience told him he lacked the manpower to defend this ground.
The Platoon Commander gave a nod to let his team leaders know they had positioned their men well, and his eyes were drawn to an open pair of giant blast doors set into the northern aspect of the mountainside. The opening leered at him like a gaping mouth. Around the doors a small team of army engineers were rigging explosive charges. They were preparing to seal the tunnel.
An officer walked round the idling aircraft to Krijenko. Everything about the man screamed military intelligence from his swagger to the long leather jacket that flapped in the wind, snapping against his black boots. Krijenko rose from his crouch and stood to meet him face to face.
“Captain,” the intelligence Major said curtly. “Captain, you will hold this position until the engineers are ready to seal the shaft.”
A question formed on Krijenko’s lips, but the superior officer cut him short.
“No questions. The mission is simple. Keep the Muslim rabble away until our men seal the shaft.” He gestured to the engineers still hard at work. “This facility must not fall into the hands of the Mujahideen. God help you if you fail.”
Without waiting for a reply the man turned on his heel and joined a small group of civilians as they scurried out of the tunnel into the waiting helicopters. Krijenko noted the fear etched on their pasty white faces. These were non-combatants, men who were supposed to be kept far from the reaches of the enemy.
As the scientists hurried up the rear ramps of the helicopters, the intelligence officer paused in a side door and looked back over his shoulder at the Spetsnaz platoon. Krijenko thought he saw the slightest trace of pity, then the door slammed shut and he was gone.
The ramps on both helicopters closed and Krijenko stared back at the tall blast doors, where the engineers were busy moving explosives into the shaft. Brown wooden boxes were stacked ten high. Enough explosives to bring down a mountain.
The scream of turbines snapped his attention back to the helicopters beating their blades as they lifted off. Stones, flung like shrapnel, pelted the men as the rotor wash tore across the landing zone. The thumping cadence of the choppers faded into the wide expanse of the Afghan sky. The mountain grew silent. Krijenko, his platoon, and a handful of army engineers were alone.
Chapter 2
Outpost 66, Khod Valley, Afghanistan
The Soviet High Command had not expected the Mujahideen forces to advance so quickly. Driven by a ruthless commander, they had surged south with a determined focus, moving heavy weapons on the backs of mules and horses. Familiar with the terrain, their scouts located Krijenko’s platoon without being spotted. Mortars and heavy machine guns had been carried up the steep ridgelines in silence, skilled crews sighting the weapons with deadly efficiency. As the sun fell behind the horizon and darkness set in, they attacked.
The Spetsnaz soldiers defended their positions desperately throughout the night. Mortar and rocket fire was unrelenting, the flashing explosions cutting down five of Krijenko’s best men. Stripped of weapons and ammunition, their bodies lay face down to the rear of the fighting positions, blood soaking into the hard earth. Three furious attacks from separate sides had been repulsed and as dawn approached, the platoon was exhausted and low on ammunition.
Krijenko shrugged off the sense of futility as he crouched in a hastily dug weapons pit scraped from the rocky ground by bare hands and bayonets. His two remaining team leaders and the commander of the engineer detachment were huddled next to him. Their tired eyes nervously scanned the perimeter, vigilant for the next enemy assault.
The young engineer faced Krijenko and spoke rapidly. “Comrade, my men have prepared all the explosives and we’re ready to seal the shaft.”
Dostiger, the Ukrainian team leader leant in towards him, his rank breath revolting the engineer. “What the hell is in there?” He gestured towards the shaft, barely visible in the early morning twilight.
“I don’t know - they didn’t tell us,” the engineer stammered. “My…my orders were simple; bury it so it can’t be found.” The young man refused to look at Dostiger’s pock-marked face; the ugly Ukrainian terrified him. “It’s something they don’t want the Mooj to have. I don’t know.”
Dostiger stared at the open shaft and his brow furrowed in thought. “We should look, Captain. It could be worth something.”
Krijenko responded impassively. “My orders are to seal it, Dostiger, and seal it I will.” He looked back at the engineer. “Go. Do it!”
The young man nodded and hurried back to the opening where his two remaining men were laying the final lengths of slow burn fuse. He was eager to finish the job before the sun rose over the horizon and exposed his men to the Mujahideen positioned along the dominant ridgelines. Already the sky was starting to glow faintly with the approaching dawn.
Just as the engineers lit the fuse, the Mujahideen attacked in force. Mortar rounds pounded the landing zone in a fearsome barrage. The lethal bombs killed another four Spetsnaz soldiers, their bodies shredded by the high explosives smashing into their fighting positions.
As the engineers sprinted from the shaft across the open ground of the landing zone, a Dushka heavy machine gun opened up from one of the surrounding ridgelines. The 12.7mm high velocity rounds riddled their bodies, hydrostatic shock destroying flesh and shattering bones, ripping the men to pieces. They were dead before they hit the ground.
The Afghan skirmishers advanced, flitting from cover to cover as their fire support positions suppressed the remaining members of the Spetsnaz platoon. Krijenko, manning a dead soldier’s machine gun, worked feverishly to force back the Mujahideen, but one by one his men fell silent as they succumbed to the relentless onslaught. He watched a grenade detonate in Dostiger’s position. The mad Ukrainian was thrown clear, one leg torn and bloodied.
The barrel of the machine gun glowed red as Krijenko pumped the trigger, sending short bursts lancing into the advancing fighters. The last belt of ammunition disappeared in a final burst and the gun fell silent, the bolt slamming forward on an empty chamber. Krijenko reached into his chest harness and drew his pistol, leveling it at the Afghan warrior running at him. His first round entered the man’s head below the cheek and blew out the back of his skull. There was no second bullet.
Krijenko never saw the fighter who shot him in the neck. The projectile ripped through the spine, killing him instantly. The pistol fell from his hand and he collapsed. As the first drops of the Russian officer’s blood soaked into the ground, the earth erupted, throwing his body into the air. The explosives detonated along fault lines causing thousands of tonnes of rock to collapse in on the shaft. A blast wave of dust and rubble blew out from the mountainside, sweeping the forward line of Mujahideen fighters from their feet. The engineers had done their work well.
As the dust settled on the bloodied bodies of the slai
n Spetsnaz platoon, the Afghan warriors regrouped; their heavy weapons teams filtering down from the high ground to join the assaulting force. They moved out of the shadows and began searching the Russian defensive positions, stripping the corpses of valuables. A tall figure strode through the scavengers, his white robes unmarked by the dust and smoke of the battlefield.
The man’s dark eyes stared intently at the wall of rock that denied him his goal. A look of frustration momentarily passed over his hard features and he turned away, distracted by the moans of a bloodied and broken body that lay at his feet. One of the Afghan fighters drew a wicked looking blade and lifted it back in a sweeping arc, ready to dispatch the wounded man.
“Wait,” the white robed leader demanded. He knelt down next to the wounded man, his Russian halting but clear. “What was hidden here?”
Dostiger smiled, and chuckled. “You and I, we will never know.” The Ukrainian was delirious from loss of blood and the morphine injection he’d stabbed into his thigh.
The Afghan grunted stiffly and leant closer. “You will die here, Russian.”
Dostiger’s grin widened and blood dribbled from his lips, staining his fatigues. He laughed manically. “We all die, comrade. How many of your fighters will I join in hell?”
The Mujahideen commander stared deeply into Dostiger’s face before he rose and turned to the fighter next to him. “Find a stretcher – the fearless one comes with us.”
Chapter 3
Western Highlands, Sierra Leone, 2000
A white UN Land Rover and a battered Bedford truck slowly wound their way along a narrow dirt road in the Western Highlands of Sierra Leone. The vehicles pushed on through the overgrown vines and saplings, the jungle’s attempts to reclaim the track. The earthy smell of rotting leaves filled the air and sprawling trees blocked the sunlight, spawning growths of moss and fungi.
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