by Ted Halstead
Amooz didn’t like that at all. “Those Dushkas aren’t going away, no matter how many people look at them. We need to take another way to your meeting, and you need to tell them you’ll be late.”
Grishkov looked at him calmly. “I won’t be long,” he said, holding out his right hand for the binoculars.
Muttering and shaking his head, Amooz finally did just that.
Grishkov climbed up the same hill he’d seen Amooz on just minutes before and made his way the last meters to the top at a crawl. First, he poked his head over the hill’s crest to get his bearings and had no trouble spotting the border post. Even without the binoculars, he could see one of the Dushkas.
As he focused on the second Dushka with the Komz binoculars, Grishkov gave thanks to both German optical engineering and Russian craftsmanship. The other Dushka was now as plain as day, and happily not far from the other one.
Grishkov pressed the radio transmitter button and then aimed the laser target designator midway between the two Dushkas.
As he waited prone on the crest of the hill, Grishkov reflected that what happened next would answer many questions. Had Bronstein betrayed them? If not, was he willing to destroy an Afghan border post? Had Moscow made it clear this mission had the highest priority?
Grishkov pressed himself even more firmly in the ground as a roar that seemed to pass directly over his head answered all of his questions. It took every bit of his concentration to keep the target illuminated. Then Grishkov pressed his head into the earth as a brilliant flash, and an earth-shaking explosion announced the KH-38MLE’s arrival at its goal.
Grishkov slowly lifted his head and shook it, trying to get his eyes focused after being dazzled by the flash of the explosion. After a few moments, he was able to bring the binoculars to his eyes so he could confirm the destruction of both Dushkas, as he fully expected from a strike by a two hundred fifty kilogram warhead.
His expectations were exceeded. At first, Grishkov thought he was looking in the wrong place, or that his eyes were still playing tricks on him. He shortly realized that his first impression was correct. The border post was gone.
Grishkov had seen both artillery and airstrikes in Chechnya and thought he knew what to expect here. After a moment, he realized that he had never seen an impact from a missile traveling at over twice the speed of sound. Also, since they were right at the border, the weapon would have only burned a small percentage of its fuel. That left the rest to contribute to the explosion.
That was all to the good. Not good was that the explosion had to have been heard by the troops at the Tajik border post. Those troops wouldn’t cross the Afghan border, but they would come to investigate at least as far as Grishkov and Amooz were right now.
They needed to get moving.
As soon as Grishkov turned around and looked down the hill towards their truck, he saw a scene that at first made no sense to him. A battered white pickup truck was parked just behind their truck, and what looked like two bodies were on the ground beside it.
Grishkov hurried down the hill as fast as he could, pistol in hand. As he approached the truck, he heard a dry chuckle from Amooz.
“You can put that away,” Amooz said. “I’ve already dealt with our uninvited guests.” He was sitting as before in the truck’s driver’s seat, and the engine was already running.
As soon as Grishkov climbed into the passenger seat, Amooz put the truck into gear, and they began moving towards the flaming debris that had once been the Afghan border post.
In response to Grishkov’s questioning look, Amooz said, “Just as you reached the top of the hill, they showed up and started asking questions. I guess you were so focused on the border post you didn’t hear them. I was just wondering how I was going to take out both of them when you were good enough to provide me with a distraction.”
Amooz then nodded towards what little remained of the border post, which they were now passing on the left, and asked what had destroyed it. Grishkov thought to himself absently that it was lucky the missile’s strike had left the road intact and next that they should still be able to make it to the rendezvous on time.
Then Grishkov realized with a start that Amooz had been right. The arrival of the pickup truck and Amooz’s dispatch of its two occupants had happened without his notice. Yes, he’d been focused on guiding the missile to its target. Yes, the subsequent explosion would have distracted even the most alert person.
But now Grishkov couldn’t deny that lack of sleep was affecting his performance.
Bronstein had been right too. He did need Amooz.
With that, he focused on the question Amooz had just asked about what had destroyed the border post.
Shaking his head vigorously and willing himself awake, Grishkov finally said, “A drone. The Americans are no longer the only ones who have them.”
This statement earned Grishkov the first smile he had seen on Amooz’s face. It looked like the first that had been there for a long time.
“So, will our guardian in the sky be with us for this meeting?” Amooz asked.
Grishkov nodded. “Yes, but it only has one missile left.”
Amooz shrugged. “Just as well. If more than one is needed, I would rate our survival chances as low anyway. We’ll want to keep as much distance from our attackers as we can.”
Grishkov was pleased to see Amooz had realized this on his own and nodded.
“I’m driving a bit faster than I’d like on this road to make up some of the time we lost back there. I still think we can make the rendezvous on time, but it’s going to be close. Help me keep an eye out for potholes or debris in the road. We don’t have time to change a tire,” Amooz said.
Grishkov grunted agreement and leaned forward in his seat. Then he swore as the truck hit a pothole, and only his seatbelt kept his head from hitting the dashboard.
Amooz made a gesture that Grishkov correctly interpreted as meaning, “What can you do?” Then he added, “Sometimes this road has so many potholes, you have to choose between them and pray.”
Fortunately, they didn’t have far to go. As they rounded yet another curve on the winding road, Grishkov spotted a Lada Niva 4x4 SUV waiting for them, painted in Army green. Well, he thought to himself, if any Russian vehicle were going to survive this long after we left, the Lada Niva would be it. At least it wasn’t big enough to hold an overwhelming force.
Grishkov’s military experience told him this was a lousy spot for a rendezvous. The low hills to their right didn’t precisely overlook the road, but they were within comfortable automatic weapons range for competent troops. Rocks and brush on the hilltops provided plenty of cover for anyone lying in ambush.
Grishkov scanned the hilltops for any sign of movement but saw nothing.
As they drew closer, the two front doors of the Lada Niva opened, and two men in Afghan dress emerged. One was carrying a folded piece of paper, and the other had an AK-74, which he slung over his shoulder.
Grishkov’s utility coveralls had plenty of pockets. He now checked to be sure that the dead man’s switch was in one of them, and then put his right thumb firmly on the trigger. That done, he pressed the smaller switch on the handle that armed and disarmed the device.
It felt a bit ridiculous to be using a switch connected by radio to a large explosive charge in the truck to guarantee the security of the exchange, now that he knew there were only two people in the SUV. Grishkov then chided himself. More shooters could still be hiding in the back of the vehicle. Plus, who knew how many shooters were hiding in those hills, and whose side they might be on.
And, of course, orders were orders.
Amooz had been paying close attention, as Grishkov had expected. Jerking his head towards the approaching Afghan men, Grishkov said, “Cover me.”
Amooz nodded and exited the truck with his AK-74 in hand, taking up position so that the body of the truck gave him some protection. As Grishkov left the vehicle, holding up the switch in his hand, he could hear Am
ooz say in a low voice, “Don’t trip.”
The two Afghans had spotted the dead man’s switch because their pace slowed noticeably. However, they still moved forward. In just over a minute, both men were standing near Grishkov a few meters in front of the truck.
The man holding the map matched the description Grishkov had been given—tall, and despite his grey hair and beard, still alert. He said, “I am Baddar. You speak English, yes?”
Grishkov nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Good,” Baddar said. “Here is a map showing the location for the planned attack on the nuclear weapons transports. You will see right below it is written when the ambush will happen. You don’t have much time.”
Grishkov asked, “Were you able to find out where the weapons will be targeted if the attack is successful?”
Baddar nodded. “Just before I left to come here. Bagram Airfield, and the Green Zone in Kabul.”
Grishkov looked at the map, and then folded it and put it in his pocket. Baddar was right. They didn’t have much time to stop the attack.
Jerking his head towards the truck, Grishkov said, “The keys are in the truck. If your Lada is empty, I think we’ll wait for our ride there.”
Baddar shrugged. “There is no one in the Lada, and the keys are in it too. I think you can put that switch away now.”
No sooner had Baddar finished his statement than the sound of automatic weapons fire made all of them dive for the ground. It only took a few seconds for Grishkov to realize that it was coming from the hills he’d spotted earlier.
“Everyone, back to the truck,” Grishkov said.
Baddar reached over to the man who had accompanied him, and who was now motionless on the ground. He had said nothing, and now never would.
Taking the man’s AK-74, Baddar quickly moved with Grishkov to the other side of the truck, gouts of earth rising around both of them as the shooters on the hilltops tried but failed to kill them as well.
Amooz had once again saved Grishkov from likely death, by forcing the shooters to attack under fire. Grishkov saw with approval that Amooz had set his AK-74 to single shot, and was taking careful aim at each target. He saw at least two unmoving dots on the nearby hilltops that testified to Amooz’s skill with the weapon.
Now Baddar took up a position about two meters away from Amooz and began adding his fire as well. Grishkov bent down and carefully turned the dead man’s switch to “safe” and put it into one of his pockets.
“Just keep them busy,” Grishkov said, as he reached into another pocket and pulled out the small device that would call in the drone strike.
In response to Baddar’s questioning look, Grishkov said, “I’m calling for help.”
Baddar shrugged and continued to fire back at their attackers.
Remembering how quickly the first missile arrived, Grishkov pulled out the laser target designator and illuminated a point on the hilltop that appeared to be the midpoint between the shooters.
Grishkov heard a soft grunt behind him but had to stay focused on illuminating the target.
It wasn’t long before the second missile’s arrival, with an impact no less spectacular than the first. Grishkov was dimly aware of Baddar dropping down beside him as they both instinctively sought shelter from the blast. His eyes were again dazzled by the explosion, but as soon as they regained focus, he looked for Amooz.
He hadn’t gone far.
Amooz was just a couple of meters away, slumped against the right rear tire. Blood was seeping through a wound in his chest, and his breathing was labored. Grishkov pulled out the medical kit from the truck and hurried to Amooz’s side.
As Grishkov opened the kit, Amooz shook his head. “No. This is my time.” Weakly gesturing towards Baddar, who was still groggy and shaking his head, Amooz said, “Ask him to see that I am properly buried here in my homeland.”
Grishkov nodded. He hesitated and then thought to himself that sometimes humanity was more important than orders.
“That man just gave me information on the planned theft of Pakistani nuclear weapons by the Taliban. They intend to use them here in Afghanistan. Thanks to your sacrifice, we still have a chance to stop them,” Grishkov said.
Amooz nodded and whispered, “Good,” and closed his eyes.
He didn’t open them again.
To his side, Grishkov heard Baddar saying something rhythmic in a language he didn’t understand, and correctly guessed it was a prayer for Amooz.
Grishkov stood up and looked at the hilltop where the shooters had staged their attack. Its top was noticeably shorter than before, and smoke was still rising from burning shrubs and grass. He couldn’t see anything recognizable as a body, but there was no gunfire greeting his appearance, and he was willing to take that as proof the missile strike had been successful.
Grishkov pressed the button on the device that would hopefully summon a Mil-8 helicopter. Bronstein had said that the Mil-8 could fly under American radar coverage for a short distance. He had also warned it would not linger.
Then Grishkov turned to Baddar.
Gesturing towards Amooz’s remains, he asked, “Can you take Amooz with you for burial?”
Baddar nodded. “It will be my honor. He fought with courage. Please help me move both Amooz and Mohammed into the truck.”
Grishkov saw that Baddar was gesturing towards the body of the man who had accompanied him to the meeting. Well, now he knew his name, at least. They worked together, and it didn’t take long until they had secured both remains in the truck bed for their last trip.
“I’m sorry about your friend Mohammed,” Grishkov said sincerely.
Baddar nodded. “And I for your friend Amooz. Good luck with making the men responsible pay for their crimes.”
Grishkov could hear the rapidly approaching flutter of the Mil-8’s rotors, and so just nodded in response as he checked to make sure the map Baddar had given him was still secure. Then he shook Baddar’s hand and, bent low, rushed to meet the Mil-8 as it touched down a dozen meters from the truck.
As soon as he passed through the helicopter’s open doorway, Grishkov felt an arm press him against the seat, and heard a voice yell, “Go, go, go!” As Grishkov fumbled with the flight harness, he could feel the Mil-8 lurch skywards.
Chapter Seven
201st Military Base, Tajikistan
Less than half an hour after he had boarded the Mil-8, Anatoly Grishkov was back in Captain Igor Bronstein’s office. Though only hours had passed since he left for the meeting with Baddar, it felt like days.
“Was your mission successful?” Bronstein asked.
Grishkov nodded, pulling out the map Baddar had given him, showing the place and time of the planned attack and handing it to Bronstein.
“Excellent,” Bronstein said. He pressed a button on his desk, and a lieutenant rushed in. Bronstein handed the map to the lieutenant and ordered him to have it scanned and transmitted to headquarters. The lieutenant saluted and hurried out even faster than he’d arrived.
“That information will be in the hands of the decision-makers in Moscow very shortly. Now, did Baddar know which targets the Taliban hopes to strike with these stolen weapons?”
Grishkov nodded tiredly. “The Green Zone in Kabul, and Bagram Airfield.”
Bronstein grunted. “If it had been up to me, we’d have paid Baddar nothing extra for that information. Both targets are obvious for the Taliban. But still, I suppose it helps to be sure. We, as well as the Americans, have been surprised by the Afghans before.”
This time, Grishkov just nodded.
“I’m sure you’re past exhausted. The good news is that soon you’ll be able to get some sleep. That Mil-8 is refueling and will take you on a short flight to Dushanbe. There you will take a charter flight to Islamabad. You will be on board as a Tajik government courier to their Embassy in Islamabad.”
Bronstein handed Grishkov a Tajik diplomatic passport, which Grishkov saw had a Tajik name next to his picture. Grishkov recogniz
ed the photo from his induction to the FSB the previous year. He’d looked a lot younger, he thought wryly.
“We kept your actual date of birth, so all you have to remember is the name in the passport. There shouldn’t be any other questions, because of your status as a diplomatic courier. All of the luggage we are sending with you is protected from search, for the same reason,” Bronstein explained.
“The ‘luggage’ contains weapons?” Grishkov asked.
“Yes,” Bronstein confirmed. “The best part is that even if the Pakistanis violated diplomatic procedure and searched the cases, they’d have no reason to object. All diplomatic missions in Islamabad are expected to arm their security personnel. Even though you aren’t Tajik, the diplomatic passport is, and that’s all that matters. The Tajik Embassy will confirm your identity and that your ‘luggage’ is genuine and authorized if asked.”
Grishkov nodded. “Very accommodating of our Tajik friends. Is this something we often do?”
“Often, no. But it’s not unprecedented. Over half of Tajikistan’s national income comes from remittances sent by Tajik citizens working in Russia, so when we ask for a favor, the answer is usually yes,” Bronstein replied.
“How long will it take to get me to Islamabad?” Grishkov asked.
“Not long. I think your real question is whether you’ll be able to get to the attack site in time to join the other agents assigned to preventing it. The answer is, maybe. The main unknown is driving time from Islamabad to the attack site, which is fortunately not very far away,” Bronstein replied.
Then Bronstein hesitated. “You should also be aware that neither you nor the other agents may be involved at all. The information you obtained may be handed over to the Pakistani authorities. We’re sending you to Islamabad as a contingency, not because it’s sure you will go on to attempt to prevent the attack.”
Grishkov shrugged. “It always seemed to be more sensible to leave this up to the Pakistanis. After all, they have far more resources, and with a prior warning should make short work of any force the Taliban can assemble.”