by Ted Halstead
In a low voice, Vasilyev said “Zasada” in Russian to Neda.
Ambush.
The “soldiers” all had their rifles leveled at Vasilyev and Neda. There were five that Vasilyev could see, two on his side and three on Neda’s. Poorly groomed they might be, but they all held their rifles like men who had used them before. And not on paper targets.
The tallest Taliban fighter approached Vasilyev slowly with his rifle aimed and his finger on the trigger. He said in Urdu, “Exit your vehicle with your hands raised. Slowly.”
Vasilyev nodded rapidly. “Yes, officer. Please, my wife is very sick. Can you please direct us to another way to the hospital?”
The only response was a quick jerk of the rifle pointing away from the SUV to return a second later to its previous position pointing straight at Vasilyev’s head. The meaning was unmistakable.
Out. Now.
Neda used her left hand to lift her veil, revealing both her face and the makeup she had applied on their way from Taxila. She hadn’t worn makeup at all since leaving Iran since it would have looked ridiculous during her firearms, close-quarter fighting, and other FSB training.
Now, though, it served its purpose perfectly. Attractive even without makeup, with it Neda rivaled many of the actresses popular in Pakistani cinema.
Doing her best to appear both alluring and helpless, Neda asked, “Please, can’t any of you help us? All we ask is directions.”
Neda could see the three men closest to her having the same thought almost simultaneously, and then they glanced at each other to see if the others had been thinking the same thing.
The woman didn’t have to die. At least, not right away.
With that thought, three rifles lowered almost involuntarily, as the men gripping them each thought about how they wanted Neda to spend her final minutes. Each of them also moved closer to Neda’s side of the SUV.
Neda had often wondered during her FSB firearms training whether she would do as well shooting at people as at paper targets. After her lone female firearms instructor pronounced her qualified with the PSS-2 pistol, Neda had finally asked her the question.
The woman had shrugged and said, “Nobody knows for sure until they are in the moment. I think, though, if it is a question of survival for you or another agent, you will not fail.”
Survival would have probably been reason enough. Neda was sure, though, that her steady aim and lack of hesitation were helped by the thoughts she could see in the faces of each of the men approaching her door.
When the tall Taliban fighter confronting Vasilyev heard three clicks in succession, followed by three impacts on the ground on the other side of the SUV, his head turned while he tried to understand the sounds. Was there a sniper? Had his men been shot, or were they seeking cover?
The brief distraction was all Vasilyev needed to retrieve his GSh-18 pistol from its hidden compartment. Vasilyev relieved the man of his confusion, and his life, with a single well-placed shot.
Before the other Taliban fighter on Vasilyev’s side of the SUV had a chance to react, he had been killed by two shots. To Vasilyev’s annoyance, his first shot only hit the man in the shoulder, though he did release his grip on his rifle. This gave Vasilyev the leisure to aim his next shot more carefully.
Vasilyev had no idea why he then had a sudden overwhelming impulse to duck and to pull Neda down low with him. But he obeyed it.
An instant later, both his driver’s side window as well as Neda’s side of the windshield exploded and showered them with glass fragments. Almost immediately afterward Vasilyev heard the distinctive “craaak” of a high-powered sniper rifle.
Neda tried to crouch even lower as the window in her car door disintegrated, followed immediately by most of what remained of the windshield. This time, though, even Neda, with her limited experience, recognized the round as coming from an ordinary semiautomatic rifle.
Of the type held by the men she had shot.
This thought was immediately followed by Neda’s hearing movement outside her door. Indeed, though she had killed two of the three men she had targeted, the third had now regained consciousness. Neda’s bullets were not armor-piercing, and so had failed to penetrate the third man’s vest.
Another round from her side punched through the car door and passed just over Neda’s head. A metal shard from the door sliced across her right cheek, covering her face with blood.
As Neda balled up her scarf and pressed it against her wound, she had just one thought. With shooters firing on both sides of their SUV, how could they survive?
Chapter Nine
29 Kilometers Outside Taxila, Pakistan
Anatoly Grishkov had finally received orders to proceed directly to the ambush site just before turning onto a highway that would have sent him in the wrong direction, which made him feel better about his decision to stop and assemble the sniper rifle.
Grishkov turned around a bend and spotted the roadblock up ahead. He could barely make out that a black SUV had been stopped there, and guessed the vehicle might contain Mikhail Vasilyev and Neda Rhahbar.
Grishkov considered accelerating forward as quickly as possible and instantly discarded the idea. He could never reach the roadblock in time.
Instead, Grishkov immediately pulled off the road at a sharp angle, pulled out the Chukavin sniper rifle, and flipped open its bipod. Then, he placed the gun on the hood of his SUV.
This was not a particularly busy road, but it did have some traffic. Only seconds after Grishkov had the rifle placed, another vehicle approached behind him.
The vehicle immediately slammed on its brakes, as soon as its driver saw what he was doing. Next, he reversed and executed an impressive J-turn that kept his car moving away from Grishkov.
Grishkov’s briefing papers had included a reference to a Swiss study ranking Pakistan as the world’s fourth-highest country in per capita civilian firearms ownership, with an estimated forty-four million guns in private hands. So, he wasn’t surprised that most Pakistani drivers could be counted on to make the right decision when coming upon a man with a sniper rifle.
Grishkov also thought it was likely that the man could be relied on to warn other oncoming drivers, and to alert the authorities. The red light on Grishkov’s satellite phone told him he wouldn’t be able to, even if he hadn’t been busy with other matters.
While he had these thoughts, Grishkov had been focusing his scope on the roadblock. He saw five armed men approach the SUV. The professional soldier in Grishkov made him shake his head at their poor tactical awareness.
Then Grishkov realized these were not soldiers at all. They must be Taliban, he thought to himself.
No sooner had Grishkov had this thought than all five Taliban fighters were down. Grishkov’s relief changed to horror in an instant as a sniper round blasted through the driver’s side door, and more bullets hit the SUV from the passenger side.
So far, Grishkov hadn’t been able to spot the sniper. But the Taliban fighter who had picked himself up on the passenger side was another matter. A round from Grishkov’s rifle put him back down, this time permanently.
Why hadn’t the sniper fired again? With a target the size of the unmoving SUV, he could hardly miss.
Because he’s an experienced sniper, Grishkov realized, probably one of the best the Taliban have. No sniper would live long enough in Afghanistan to become experienced if he stayed in the same spot while he fired multiple rounds. Moving after shooting would be an ingrained routine.
And, Grishkov thought to himself with a grim smile, his presence here proved that the practice had a purpose. You never knew who else might be out there.
So, if I were a sniper on the move, I would be heading…there.
No sooner had Grishkov completed the thought than the view in his scope included a bearded man lining up a shot on the SUV.
A shot Grishkov never gave him the chance to take.
Grishkov swept his scope around the roadblock but saw nothing else moving.
Including inside the SUV, he thought with a frown. He could see it had taken damage, though not whether it was still drivable.
Well, nothing for it but to check for survivors. With that, Grishkov quickly put the rifle back in the SUV and gunned it towards its counterpart at the roadblock ahead.
Grishkov stopped well behind the other SUV and called out, “Vasilyev! It is Grishkov. Are you and Neda OK?”
The damaged SUV’s driver’s side door opened, and several glass fragments spilled out as Vasilyev emerged pistol in hand, his head swiveling side to side. Seeing no more Taliban fighters, he gestured for Grishkov to bring the other SUV closer.
Once the SUVs were side by side, Vasilyev jerked his head towards the cargo compartment of Grishkov’s SUV. “Bring your medical kit,” he said to Grishkov.
“Just curious,” Neda said. “Don’t we have one in this SUV?” As she asked this, she continued to press her scarf against her cheek, which had slowed but not stopped the flow of blood from her shrapnel wound.
Vasilyev nodded. “We do. But only Grishkov’s kit contains the medication you need at this point.”
Before Neda had a chance to ask more questions, Grishkov was at her side. Removing the scarf from her hand, Grishkov first did his best to clean and disinfect the wound. Then he quickly used an alcohol swab on her arm and injected her with a syringe.
“What’s…” Neda started to ask. Grishkov shook his head. “Stitches first,” he said firmly, taking the equipment he needed from the medical kit.
Neda grit her teeth as Grishkov began stitching her wound but was surprised that there was little pain. After he finished, Neda smiled and said, “Thank you. You’re good at this.”
Vasilyev did his best to suppress a smile, but not well enough to escape Neda’s notice. “So, why is that funny?” she asked.
“It’s not that Grishkov isn’t an excellent medic. He learned the basics of combat medicine by necessity while serving in Chechnya, and certainly did a better job of stitching your wound than I could have. But that’s not why you didn’t feel much pain. There, you have the injection to thank,” Vasilyev said.
Neda shrugged. “So, a painkiller of some type.”
Now Grishkov intervened. “Yes, a strong one, coupled with a stimulant that is just as potent. You’ve lost some blood, and would soon feel faint and weak otherwise.”
Neda started to frown, and then made herself stop as the pain from her stitches forced its way through the medication. Who knew frowning included cheek muscles? “But how long will these effects last?”
Grishkov rocked his hand back and forth. “I’m not sure, but probably about an hour or two. When I prepared the syringes, I had to guess dosage reduction due to your low weight.”
Grishkov held up the empty syringe so that both Vasilyev and Neda could see it. The letter “N” had been written with a black marker on its side.
“There is one more syringe marked for you in case it’s needed later in this mission. But you will get no more doses today. There is a price to pay, of course. After that hour or two, your body will shut down, and you will sleep for many hours,” Grishkov explained.
Vasilyev gestured at the road behind them, and asked Grishkov, “Did you see anything suspicious on your way here?”
Grishkov shook his head. “No, so whatever weapons the Taliban managed to obtain must have taken another route. It’s also possible the Pakistani military is still trying to hold them off since this roadblock was still in place.”
Vasilyev turned to Neda. “Do you think you can continue? I must be honest and say our chances are not good. If the Taliban could leave this many men to guard their rear, they are likely to have many more up ahead.”
Neda gave a small smile, even though she knew it would hurt. “Nuclear weapons in the hands of men like this?” she asked rhetorically, nodding towards the bodies of the Taliban fighters who had been leering at her a few minutes earlier.
“It will take more than a few stitches to stop me.”
Vasilyev nodded soberly. Turning to Grishkov, he said, “Help me assemble the weapon I’m carrying. It should help even the odds at least a little.”
The storage compartment in Vasilyev’s SUV worked the same way as Grishkov’s, and seconds later, its contents were revealed.
Vasilyev had never seen a smile so broad on Grishkov’s face.
“They sent another one! After the rear echelon incompetence we had to put up with in Chechnya, I got used to expecting little and getting less. I’m starting to think we may have a chance.” While he was saying this, Grishkov was removing pieces of the weapon from the compartment with Vasilyev’s help.
“What makes this so special?” Neda asked.
Grishkov was still grinning. “This is the M133 Kornet anti-tank weapon. Since the launch tube is a little over a meter long, it had to be cut in half to fit in this compartment. This metal bracket fits the two halves together,” Grishkov said, tapping the bracket.
Vasilyev added, “As you have probably guessed, our friend has used this before. Do you think it can stop something the size of the TELs that are being used to move the nuclear weapons?”
As he lifted the now assembled launch tube and examined it, Grishkov replied, “That depends. What kind of warhead came with this?”
Vasilyev smiled. “Thermobaric,” he said.
“Then yes,” Grishkov replied immediately.
Just as quickly, Neda asked, “Do I understand correctly that ‘thermobaric’ means this warhead will explode with substantial force once it strikes the TEL?”
Grishkov nodded. “Yes. ‘Kornet’ means ‘Comet’ and when you see a round impact you’ll know why. Could I end up detonating one of the nuclear weapons it carries?”
Neda shrugged. “Probably not. The Pakistanis would have put safeguards in place against accidental detonation, including against something as simple as a highway accident. However, as Goldsboro showed, safeguards aren’t perfect. You should aim for the TEL’s rear compartment, as far from the warheads as possible.”
Grishkov nodded. “I’d already planned to aim for the fuel tank, which is at the extreme rear of the vehicle.”
Seeing Neda’s horrified reaction, Grishkov smiled. “Unless you think that would be a bad idea.”
Neda looked thoughtful and finally shrugged. “You might be able to disable the TEL just by shooting out one of its tires, but who knows? They might have a way to replace a tire. Or they might be able to remove the warheads from the missiles.”
Then, she shook her head decisively. “No. We can’t take a chance. Aim for the fuel tank. In the unlikely event a warhead does detonate, better it happen in this wilderness than in a city full of innocents.”
Grishkov nodded and said, “If we live through this, you’ll have to tell me what happened at Goldsboro.”
Turning to Vasilyev, Grishkov said, “I know from your file that you’re at least as good a shot as I am with a sniper rifle. Take Neda, the rifle and my SUV and get as far forward as you can without being spotted. I will follow with the Comet, which leaves no room for other passengers. I will use the Comet on a TEL as soon as I see an opportunity.”
Next, Grishkov looked appraisingly at Neda, who returned his look with a defiant stare and raised chin. Nodding, Grishkov said, “Your file says you demonstrated an outstanding throwing arm on the grenade course. Were any of the grenades live?”
Neda mutely shook her head.
Grishkov shrugged. “Well, your training was abbreviated. Ready to join me up ahead and complete it?” he asked with a grin.
In spite of herself, Neda laughed. “Yes. And I know the stakes. Our lives, and the lives of thousands who could be killed if the Taliban is able to steal these weapons.”
Grishkov nodded soberly and said, “Good luck to us all,” as he carefully placed the Comet’s launch tube diagonally so that one end rested in the front passenger seat and the other stuck out of the SUV’s lowered rear window.
Vasilyev and Neda hurried to Gri
shkov’s SUV and set off on the road ahead. Vasilyev looked back and saw Grishkov had been able to get their SUV moving behind them in spite of the bullets that had removed most of its windows.
“Goldsboro?” Vasilyev asked, his gaze sweeping from side to side but so far seeing nothing.
Neda replied, “An incident in America in the 1960s. One of their planes that carried two thermonuclear bombs crashed near a town called Goldsboro. One bomb was destroyed in the crash. The other deployed its parachute and survived. It had four safeguards against accidental detonation.”
Vasilyev sighed. “Let me guess. Three failed.”
A look from Neda was all the confirmation he needed.
“Understood,” Vasilyev said, glancing at the sniper rifle lying in the seat behind them. “Avoid shooting the warheads.”
Chapter Ten
34 Kilometers Outside Taxila, Pakistan
Neda Rhahbar heard the distant crackle of gunfire first. She was about to tell Mikhail Vasilyev when he nodded. He heard it too.
“It appears the security force assigned to the weapons continues to resist,” Vasilyev said. “Our chances of success have just gone up considerably.”
As he said this, Vasilyev spotted a turnoff to a dirt road on the left. He couldn’t be sure, but it appeared to lead to some hills overlooking the battle ahead.
Of course, if that were true, the Taliban would hardly have failed to notice it as well. He had only an instant to decide.
Vasilyev wrenched the steering wheel to the left and glanced behind him. Grishkov had made the turn as well.
It was a poor road, and as they bounced up and down its many potholes, Vasilyev was grateful for both the SUV’s reinforced suspension and its four-wheel drive. Vasilyev guessed, correctly, that the road had been created only to remove logs from the area. Regrowth had proceeded far enough to obscure the road ahead, which twisted and turned its way up the route of least resistance.
A loud “craaak” up ahead told Vasilyev that the Taliban had indeed recognized the value of this location in their ambush, and immediately slowed. It wasn’t easy, but Vasilyev was then able to find a gap in the trees off the road to his right large enough to wedge the SUV. He just had to hope that no Taliban were following, since the SUV was still clearly visible from the dirt road.