Soldier M: Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan

by Peter Cave

  He looked less like a land-crab now, Andrew thought idly. More like a tree-frog or a gecko.

  Hailsham reached the darker layer of rock strata and pulled himself up until it was at eye level. With the side of his face pressed against the cold rock, he examined it carefully. If anything, it was slightly more promising than he had dared to hope. Granular and slightly pitted in texture like coarse sandpaper, it was obviously softer than the smooth and slab-like volcanic basalt trap-rock which had engulfed it a hundred million years ago. The eroding effects of wind and ice over the ages had done their slow but sure work, eating away at the rougher surface until it was distinctly impressed within the overall outer level of the main face. The tiny lip which it created was probably no more than a centimetre at its deepest parts, but it was enough to get a fingerhold against.

  Easing himself into position, Hailsham began the tricky business of backtracking along the fault line. His cheek still pressed tightly against the rock face, he dared to turn his head slightly, rolling his eyes upwards. Seen from this perspective, the gradient above appeared almost vertical, although he knew it was not. It just looked that way – and felt that way! Hailsham marvelled at the sheer impossibility of his position. It seemed that his entire body-weight was being suspended on his fingernails alone. He was not sure that his boots had any kind of grip at all, and he did not feel disposed to put it to the test. His fingertips shrieked out with pain and cold as he edged, precariously along his zigzag path to the next strata, which slanted away again to his right.

  He was now just over twenty-five feet above the heads of Andrew, Tweedledee and the Thinker, who were following every painful inch of his progress with hypnotic fascination.

  ‘Dammit, boss, if you’re going to slip, then do it now for Chrissake,’ Andrew found himself saying under his breath. It was not a wish for failure, but a last plea for Hailsham’s safety. He could probably survive a fall from this height with no more than a few nasty bruises. In a matter of a few more minutes, the choice would be between broken bones and death. Both probably more or less the same thing, Andrew reflected, given the vulnerability of their position. It would be almost impossible to carry a badly wounded man down out of the mountains again. And if they left him, he would never survive the first night in the cold.

  But Hailsham did not slip, against all the odds. Reaching the second layer of pitted rock, he turned himself again and set out back across the face, now climbing about one vertical foot for every four gained sideways.

  ‘He’s a human fucking limpet,’ the Thinker said, impressed.

  Andrew tore his eyes away from the fly-like figure on the rock face and busied himself tying on another length of rope. He could not bear to watch any more.

  Maybe he should have worn gloves, Hailsham thought. His fingers were completely numb now, despite the fact that several nails had been broken and torn away from the quick, leaving the sensitive flesh bleeding profusely. He shrugged off the thought, knowing that it was academic anyway. Besides, although gloves might have offered some protection from the cold and the roughness of the stone, they would have provided less grip. He might not have made it this far – and warm hands were not much use to a man with a broken spine lying at the bottom of a mountain. At least the numbness held the pain at bay, Hailsham told himself philosophically. He could only hope that his fingertips actually retained more feeling and sensitivity than his brain was registering. For at least ten minutes now, he had had the strangest feeling that he was clinging to the mountainside by sheer willpower.

  Suddenly there was a small but deep vertical fissure in the main rock formation, just above his head to the right. And above that, a definite inward slant to the face, presenting a sloping shelf which culminated in a flat ridge. And that was it. Above that ridge lay an easy scramble over broken and pitted rock to the snow-filled mouth of the gorge. For the first time since starting the ascent, Hailsham actually dared to believe that he might just make it to the top.

  Gratefully he reached up and jammed the heel of his hand into the crack, pulling himself up and feeling a sense of relief as the strain of his body-weight was transferred to his wrist and arm. He brought up his left foot, scraping the side of his sole tentatively against the face, feeling for the tell-tale roughness of the granular strata. Finding it, and probing for the support of the thin lip between the two layers, Hailsham poised himself both mentally and physically for the next, critical move.

  Everything depended upon the security of that foothold now. It really was shit or bust time. With a silent prayer to a God he did not really believe in, Hailsham pulled his hand out of the fissure and let his weight drop onto his left foot.

  It held. Holding his breath lest the slightest bodily movement could upset the delicate balance of things, Hailsham tensed the muscles of his calves and thighs and pushed himself up until he could jam his elbow into the tiny cleft. Another upward heave, and he was free to throw his left arm onto the shelf and drag himself up to the ridge.

  Hailsham lay there, face down, for several seconds. He still hardly dared to believe that he had made it. Finally he pushed himself up on to his hands and knees and scrambled to the mouth of the gorge, scooping away the deep drifts of snow until he had uncovered a rocky crag around which to secure the rope. Tying it off, he slithered back down to the ledge on his behind and called over the edge to the men waiting below.

  ‘Come on up,’ he yelled. ‘The lift’s working now.’

  It was not much of a joke, but Hailsham found himself dissolving into childish giggles at his own wit.

  The gorge ran deeper into the mountains than anyone had imagined. They had already covered at least a quarter of a mile, and although it had begun to narrow to a width of only a few feet, it showed little sign of ending. Equally, it showed little sign of leading to a negotiable pathway to the plateau above. On either side, the sixty-foot walls of rock were smooth and vertical. Their only hope so far, Hailsham thought, was that the ravine would eventually narrow to the extent that they could climb between its two sides like a chimney. In the meantime, they had no choice but to keep moving. Wading through the deep snow which sometimes came up to their chests, the team continued penetrating into the very heart of the mountains.

  The gorge ended, eventually opening out into a huge, bowl-like canyon. They were now surrounded on all sides by sheer, unscalable faces of rock which all apparently ended abruptly in a flat rim no more than fifty feet above their heads.

  Hailsham brought the party to a halt, swivelling his head around to take in the full panorama with a sinking heart. There was nothing to offer them even the remotest chance of a climb to the top. They had reached a dead-end, and they were trapped. They might as well be at the bottom of a well, Hailsham thought, heavily. He cursed silently, thinking of the plateau just those few tantalizing feet above. So bloody near – yet so bloody far!

  Tweedledee put it even more succinctly. ‘Now we’re really fucked,’ he groaned. No one argued.

  God, but he hated to be beaten, Hailsham thought angrily. He continued to scan the sides of the canyon, convincing himself that there had to be something he had missed, some feasible route up he had overlooked.

  He had missed nothing – nor did he miss the brief flash of movement at the rim of the canyon on his right.

  It was crazy, impossible. Altitude sickness, Hailsham’s brain told him, trying to find some rational explanation for the unexplainable. He was hallucinating. Or maybe it was a bird, a trick of the light, something plucked off the canyon rim by a freak gust of wind.

  But a coil of nylon rope was a rare, and particularly bizarre, hallucination. And far too heavy to be carried on the wind. And birds did not drop from the sky like stones, unravelling themselves as they fell.

  Andrew had also seen the coiled rope tossed out from the plateau above. With unbelieving eyes, he watched it fall to the canyon floor before looking across at Hailsham and exchanging a glance of total bemusement.

  ‘Cyclops?’ he breathed. I
t was the only possible explanation he could think of.

  ‘Well it sure as hell wasn’t God,’ Tweedledee put in, as the rope crashed into the snow less than ten feet away from him.

  Hailsham’s eyes were fixed on the spot where the now dangling rope looped over the edge of the canyon. There was no further sign of movement. He continued staring for nearly a minute, finally realizing that their unknown benefactor was not going to show himself.

  ‘Well, boss, what do we do now?’ Andrew asked. ‘Somebody up there obviously likes us.’

  Hailsham could only shrug helplessly. The entire situation was just too bizarre for words. He trudged over to the dangling rope, seizing it and tugging at it heavily. It was clearly well secured at the top. With another helpless shrug at Andrew, he wedged one foot against the sheer cliff face and began to climb. For some reason, he had the curious feeling that he might disappear in a puff of blue smoke when he reached the end of the rope.

  He was wrong. Hauling himself up to eye level with the rim of the canyon, Hailsham was immediately struck by several things. One was that the plateau was much vaster than he had imagined, stretching out in an unbroken white plain all the way to the foothills of the Sailyukem Mountains.

  Unbroken, that was, but for the two black shapes of the two Hind-A assault helicopters in the immediate foreground. Nearer still, and more immediately menacing was the line of a dozen soldiers, clad in heavy grey uniforms and greatcoats pensioned off from the Red Army and each cradling a Kalashnikov in his hands.

  Hailsham’s heart fell through his boots. He was caught like a fly on flypaper and there was nothing he could do about it. Cursing himself for his impetuosity, he finished hauling himself up to the safety of the plateau and stood stiffly, waiting for the next move.

  A young man – no more than thirty-five, Hailsham estimated – stepped forward briskly. He wore the insignia of a captain, and was smiling.

  ‘Major Hailsham? We’ve been expecting you,’ he said, in a friendly tone, and in near-flawless English. ‘What took you so long?’

  Hailsham just could not take it all in. He gazed over towards the helicopters again, where another, smaller group of soldiers had set up tents, an ammunition and equipment dump, and a petrol-fired cooking stove. Cyclops was sitting next to it, basking in its warmth. He was grinning stupidly, and sipping hot soup from a tin mug.

  Chapter 21

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Hailsham demanded. Under the circumstances, he thought he was being rather restrained.

  The young officer extended his hand in formal greeting. ‘I am Captain Dmitri Yascovar, of the Kazakh Republican Army,’ he said quietly. ‘Please relax, Major. My men intend you no harm.’

  To back up his words, Yascovar raised one hand in the air and clicked his fingers. The armed soldiers stood down at once, dropping their rifles butt down on the ground.

  His question remained unanswered. Hailsham repeated it, this time a little more politely. ‘Do you mind telling me exactly what is going on, Captain?’

  Yascovar smiled warmly. ‘All in good time, Major Hailsham. First, I suspect that you and your men could do with some hot food and a drink. If you would care to bring them up, we have a meal waiting for you.’

  He stared into Hailsham’s eyes, identifying the distrust there.

  ‘But, of course, I am forgetting. You will need some sort of proof of our good intentions. Please forgive me.’ Yascovar reached into the inside pocket of his greatcoat, drew out a thin, folded sheet of paper, and handed it across. It was a fax, Hailsham noticed as he unfolded the sheet. His sense of unreality increased. After their days of isolation in some of the wildest country on the face of the earth, it seemed totally incongruous to be receiving a faxed message on the top of a bloody mountain, he thought. Nevertheless, he began to read the single sheet.

  It bore the unmistakable seal of the British Foreign Office, albeit slightly smudged by the old-style heat-sensitive paper which the East Europeans were obviously still using in their fax machines. Hailsham initially suspected a forgery, but the coded reference at the top left-hand corner of the sheet was letter-perfect, leaving little doubt that it was the genuine article.

  The message was short and to the point:

  ‘Major Hailsham. Until you receive further specific orders by direct radio link, you are expected to cooperate fully with officers of the official Kazakh Republican Army.’

  The letter was signed by the Foreign Secretary, and countersigned by Lieutenant-Colonel Barney Davies.

  Still no closer to understanding the strange new turn of events, Hailsham handed the letter back like a man in a dream. Only then did he accept Yascovar’s proffered handshake, returning it curtly and without warmth. He moved back to the rim of the canyon and shouted over the side.

  ‘Sergeant Winston. Bring the rest of the men up – and don’t do anything hasty when you notice the reception committee up here.’

  He turned back to Captain Yascovar. ‘The letter mentioned a direct radio link to my superior officer. How soon can that be arranged?’

  ‘As soon as you wish, Major,’ Yascovar answered politely. ‘Our base at Alma-Ata has been in virtually permanent contact for the last five hours. I can patch you through from one of the helicopters as soon as you are ready.’

  The young Kazakh officer seemed perfectly sincere, even anxious to please. Despite his initial mistrust, and continued confusion, Hailsham found himself warming to the man. He wondered if Yascovar knew about the helicopter which Andrew had shot down. It seemed improbable that he should not, and yet that made his apparently genuine friendliness even more baffling.

  This question, at least, was soon answered as Andrew, Tweedledee and the Thinker finally appeared over the rim of the plateau and assembled into a bemused and dispirited group. After a few meaningful gestures from the armed soldiers and a confirming nod from Hailsham, they dropped their weapons and equipment into an untidy heap in the snow. Yascovar’s eyes flashed over the weaponry, betraying the faintest flicker of surprise. ‘I was given to understand you were carrying an anti-aircraft missile system, Major. It would appear that I was misinformed.’

  Hailsham flashed a quick glance at Andrew, warning him not to show any reaction. Under the circumstances, it seemed safest to give away as little as possible, Hailsham thought. Obviously Yascovar was aware that the helicopter had been shot down, but not totally sure who the culprits were. For the time being at least, that doubt might be best left unresolved.

  Their own situation, however, definitely needed clarification.

  ‘Are we to consider ourselves prisoners?’ Hailsham asked, returning his attention to Captain Yascovar.

  The man shook his head firmly. ‘By no means, Major. More like allies. Perhaps unlikely ones, I admit – but allies nevertheless.’ He seemed to take pity on Hailsham’s continued confusion, and smiled sympathetically.

  ‘I was not briefed to give you any great details, Major, but perhaps I can stretch my orders to at least give you an idea of the broader picture.’

  Again Hailsham was struck by the man’s sincerity. It seemed like a genuine offer – almost an attempt to establish mutual respect and understanding between two military officers. ‘That would be nice,’ he muttered.

  ‘In simple terms, it would appear that you have rattled a large stick in a nest of rats,’ Yascovar went on. He paused, looking somewhat apologetic. ‘But no doubt you have a more descriptive phrase in the English language.’

  Hailsham shook his head, smiling despite himself. ‘No, I think that covers it quite adequately.’

  ‘Ah, good.’ Yascovar looked pleased. ‘Anyway, your involvement, and that of the Chinese, has stirred up things which had been buried and forgotten for a long time. This may have been the intention of the Chinese all along, of course – it is often difficult to know how their devious minds work. But now that certain matters are out in the open, it has become clear that they can only be tackled at a diplomatic level. So our two governments are now working
together, Major. You and I are mere servants of those governments.’

  Hailsham was no nearer to understanding exactly what was going on, but he was beginning to get the general picture. ‘Duty calls and no questions asked – is that it?’ he asked.

  Yascovar smiled. ‘We are soldiers, Major Hailsham. Politicians make the wars – we only fight them.’

  It was a simplistic view, Hailsham thought. Either that, or it suggested that matters had escalated to a much higher international level than Yascovar was prepared to admit. It was even possible that the Kazakh captain was just as confused as he was. Perhaps he was taking refuge in the position of simply following orders. Or perhaps it was no longer clear where, or from whom, those orders were coming.

  ‘I take it that individual heads are rolling?’ he said, probing the man.

  Yascovar’s smile turned to an open grin. ‘The sharks are in a feeding frenzy, Major,’ he replied. ‘But I really cannot tell you any more. I think I may have already exceeded my authority.’

  Hailsham thought that he understood a little better now, but he would know a whole lot more when he spoke to Barney Davies. ‘Your frankness is appreciated, Captain,’ he said politely. ‘But I think I would like to make that call now.’

  ‘Of course,’ Yascovar said, nodding. ‘But perhaps you and your men would care to join your comrade while I set up the necessary link. I think you will find he is quite complimentary about our hospitality. He certainly seemed to appreciate the food.’ He then turned away and began to lead the way across to the camp.