by Ted Halstead
A few minutes later, Grishkov had pulled over as well and came striding up with the Comet slung awkwardly over his shoulder. He looked at Vasilyev and shook his head.
“They’ve probably put their best man on this hill. And unlike the sniper I took out, this one probably has a spotter to watch his back,” Grishkov said in a low voice.
Vasilyev nodded. He’d had the same thought. Just as quietly, he replied, “I wish there were another way, but I don’t see one. I’ll have to work my way up the hill as silently as possible, and hope I see them before they spot me.”
Grishkov shrugged. “Agreed,” he said. His eyes narrowed, and he looked thoughtfully at Neda.
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.
“Fine,” Neda replied, in a level voice that implied there was no need to ask.
“Good,” Grishkov said with a smile. He handed Neda the case containing the Comet’s single thermobaric round, plus their grenades. Then he draped a strap over her shoulders attached to the Comet’s launch tripod.
“Believe it or not, this tripod is made out special metals, and the legs are partially hollow to reduce weight. It’s intended for only one use. Still, I know it’s not exactly light. But to lug this launch tube close to the TELs, I’m going to need both hands free.” Grishkov then pointed at a barely visible trail headed downhill. “Another set of eyes will come in handy as well.”
Neda’s response was to nod and put a fresh clip into her PSS-2 pistol.
In less than a minute, Grishkov and Neda were both far enough down the wooded trail that Vasilyev could neither see nor hear them. He hoped they were as hard for the Taliban to spot.
Vasilyev saw no trail leading conveniently uphill. So, the challenge was to locate the sniper and—probably—his spotter before they saw him.
Or Grishkov and Neda.
The road was clearly out of the question. That left the trees and brush on both sides of the road. It appeared a bit less dense to the left.
Vasilyev made his decision. Speed was paramount, so left it was.
Common sense said the sniper was at or near the top of the hill, an assumption confirmed by the evidence of Vasilyev’s ears. The fact that so far he had heard only a single shot supported his guess that this was an experienced sniper.
Only fire when you are sure of your target. Remember that every shot helps the enemy fix your position. Staying in a single spot is the best way to help your widow collect an early pension.
Everything Vasilyev had learned in sniper school ran through his head as he laboriously made his way up the hill.
One other fact about the sniper’s position was undeniable. It had to be on the side of the hill overlooking the enemy. And now he was moving straight as an arrow to the other side.
On the one hand, this would make his shot more difficult. On the other, a spotter would tend to focus on the most direct route up the hill.
Finally, Vasilyev judged that he had moved far enough up the hill to have a chance of spotting the sniper through his scope. No sooner had the thought formed than another “craack” warned him that time was short.
A reduction in the volume of fire below suggested that the transports’ defenders probably wouldn’t be able to resist much longer.
Vasilyev now faced the classic sniper’s dilemma. He wanted a clear field of view. But he also needed concealment from the spotter he could feel in his bones was out there.
As he decided and took up his position, Vasilyev knew that this choice and mere seconds would separate success from failure.
Vasilyev found the spotter almost immediately because he had the good luck to have started searching just after the sniper had made his last shot. The spotter was on the move, and almost certainly, the sniper was too.
But Vasilyev couldn’t see any trace of the sniper.
Patience, Vasilyev told himself. Once the spotter takes up position…
There! Vasilyev still couldn’t see the sniper, but he could barely make out the end of his rifle barrel. And from that could work his way backwards to…
The spotter’s gaze, augmented by binoculars, had begun sweeping across the hill as soon as they took up their new position. Now that gaze settled on…him. He’d been found!
There was no time for thought. Vasilyev pulled the trigger, and the spotter went down.
But the sniper had vanished.
Vasilyev knew he couldn’t have gone far. He also knew that unless he abandoned his rifle, the sniper couldn’t move fast. Would one of the Taliban’s best snipers leave his gun, probably one he’d used for years?
No.
Holding his rifle, the sniper certainly wouldn’t move down the hill towards the fighting. He probably wouldn’t run towards the man who had just shot his spotter.
Human nature suggested moving in the opposite direction from an unknown threat, down the other side of the hill. If the sniper had done that, he was probably already out of Vasilyev’s reach.
But what if the spotter had been a friend? Someone the sniper liked and trusted?
Then he might move down the hill directly away from the fighting, and try to flank Vasilyev.
All of these thoughts went through Vasilyev’s mind in an instant. He then took what he knew was a wild guess about the sniper’s position and fired.
If Vasilyev had hit him, there was no sign.
Now what?
With regret, Vasilyev carefully placed his rifle between a distinctive tree and a bush, which had overhanging branches making the rifle impossible to spot from a distance. Then he pulled out his GSh-18 pistol and made his way up the hill towards where he guessed the sniper was headed.
It was a straightforward race. If the sniper found a new perch quickly offering at least some concealment and a clear field of view, he could probably pick off Vasilyev before he was able to reach pistol range.
But if Vasilyev could find the sniper before then, at close range, his pistol would be far more effective than a sniper rifle.
Darting from one tree to another, Vasilyev tried to make as little noise as possible, while still keeping up a brisk pace. Though he managed this task reasonably well, Vasilyev thought with near despair that a marching band would have been quieter.
So, it was with astonishment that Vasilyev spotted the sniper prone on the ground, just bringing his rifle up to begin searching for him.
Vasilyev did not let him complete the motion. Three rounds from Vasilyev’s pistol were enough for the sniper to drop his rifle and lay still.
When Vasilyev reached the body, he was grateful that his pistol had been loaded with armor-piercing rounds, since the sniper had been wearing a ballistic vest. He also saw a bloody gash on the sniper’s leg that he knew hadn’t come from his pistol rounds.
It explained how Vasilyev had won the race. His guess about the sniper’s location had been sufficient to graze the Taliban fighter with the last round he fired from his rifle, and slow him down just enough.
Vasilyev picked up the sniper’s rifle. He wasn’t surprised to see it was a Dragunov rifle with a standard PSO-1 telescopic sight. Though inferior to the Chukavin sniper rifle he had been forced to abandon, it was still a capable weapon.
Vasilyev ran towards the front of the hilltop overlooking the battle below, thinking to himself that if Grishkov and Neda were still alive, they might be within Comet range by now.
He was sure they would appreciate some help.
Chapter Eleven
37 Kilometers Outside Taxila, Pakistan
Anatoly Grishkov was impressed. He’d known plenty of men who would have had trouble keeping up with the pace he was setting through some fairly dense woods, particularly with the load Neda Rhahbar was carrying.
Even after a wound that had led to significant blood loss, Neda was matching him step for step, and was also taking care to make as little noise as possible. Based on his experience with his wife, Grishkov had often said to anyone who would listen that women were just as tough and capable as men if allowe
d to prove it. A pity, Grishkov thought, that few Russian men agreed.
As they drew closer to the scene of the ambush, Grishkov noticed that the combatants’ rate of fire had started to slow. It could mean that one or both sides were beginning to run low on ammunition. Or men.
Grishkov mused that the Taliban had felt confident enough to leave a half-dozen fighters behind at their roadblock. So, more likely that the Pakistani defenders were about to be overwhelmed.
There! Grishkov had just spotted the paved road that had to mark the ambush site through a gap in the trees.
Grishkov lifted his hand and stopped, and was pleased to see that Neda followed suit immediately and silently. He gestured towards the case Neda was carrying, and she responded by putting her hand on one of the clasps that secured it and looking at him inquiringly. Grishkov nodded.
Neda carefully opened the case, revealing the single Comet round, as well as four grenades. Grishkov pointed at the grenades and gave Neda an enquiring look. She nodded vigorously.
Good. Grishkov was pleased to see Neda appeared confident. He had doubted whether the Taliban would give him the leisure to throw all of the grenades on his own.
Grishkov gestured for Neda to close the case, and they resumed their quiet and steady pace towards the ambush site. Finally, they were close enough to the road that Grishkov could see several vehicles. All were damaged, and one was burning.
And bodies. At least a dozen were lying on the road that Grishkov could see. Most were wearing Pakistani military uniforms, but some were Taliban.
Grishkov carefully laid down the Comet, and through gestures, communicated that Neda was to remain with the weapon while he scouted ahead. Neda nodded her understanding.
At first darting from tree to tree, Grishkov covered the last few meters crawling on his belly. He drew in his breath as the scale of the battle in front of him became clear. Grishkov had thought from the outset that an ambush would have been possible only if the Pakistanis had carelessly provided their nuclear weapons with a small escort.
Looking at the number of bodies he could now see strewn on and near the road, Grishkov had to admit he’d been wrong. If he’d been planning the transport operation himself, he wouldn’t have assigned more men.
As he counted the number of Taliban bodies, Grishkov shook his head. How had they been able to assemble a force this size inside Pakistan? How did they know exactly when and where to strike?
A final flurry of gunfire about two hundred meters up the road brought Grishkov back to his present dilemma. The silence that followed it told Grishkov the battle was over. The handful of men he could see still moving…weren’t wearing Pakistani uniforms.
Grishkov lay stock still as other Taliban fighters emerged from several different spots- including the forest on either side of him. All of them went to where the fighting had just ended.
The focus of the fighting had been a transporter erector launcher (TEL). Due to a bend in the road and an overturned vehicle obstructing Grishkov’s view, it was only now that he could see even part of the massive vehicle.
So, unless the remaining Taliban were obliging enough to catch the two grenades Grishkov planned to throw their way, he was unlikely to remove enough of them on his own to let him set up the Comet for a clear shot at the TEL.
Even worse, he could see only one TEL. Unless the other one was so far ahead he couldn’t spot it, the Taliban had already been able to hijack one of the TELs carrying nuclear weapons.
Grishkov made his decision. He could think of only one slim chance.
A few minutes later, Grishkov was back with Neda. His lips almost touching her right ear, Grishkov whispered his plan to Neda. Her eyes widened as she realized how unlikely it was to work, and then Neda shrugged acknowledgment.
Grishkov and Neda moved through the forest at the edge of the road towards the TEL. The challenge was balancing the need for speed against the disastrous consequences of detection. Fortunately, this close to the road, there were few trees, and mostly brush that was reasonably easy to pass through, while still providing excellent concealment. Also, luckily, the attention of the surviving Taliban was focused on the TEL.
As Grishkov and Neda moved closer, they could hear the Taliban yelling to each other, and though Grishkov couldn’t understand a word, it was apparent they were frustrated. Seeing his puzzlement, Neda tapped Grishkov’s shoulder and gestured for him to stop and move closer.
Then Neda whispered in his ear, “They can’t get it to start.”
Grishkov grunted. That might give them a few more minutes.
It also tracked with what he saw several Taliban doing—looking through the pockets of dead Pakistani soldiers near the TEL.
Grishkov held up his right hand, and they both stopped. Peering through a gap in the brush Neda could see why. Not far ahead, the Taliban had expanded their search to the edge of the road.
Where they were now would have to be close enough.
Grishkov gestured for Neda to open the case. First removing the Comet round, he then handed two grenades to Neda and kept two for himself.
Next, Grishkov pointed to the Taliban on the roadside, the closest to their position. His finger then flicked to her.
Neda just smiled.
One of the Taliban on the side of the road triumphantly held up a bunch of keys he’d found. No doubt, Grishkov thought, thrown there as a last desperate gesture by a Pakistani soldier knowing they were about to be overrun.
The two other Taliban who had been searching the road’s edge converged on the man holding the keys, laughing and pounding him on his back.
Grishkov lifted three fingers. Neda knew from her training what this meant. Throw on three.
Grishkov’s expectations of Neda’s grenade throwing skills were low. After all, she had only received abbreviated training and had no combat experience.
So, when Neda quickly threw the first grenade and then the other almost precisely in the center of the three nearby Taliban, he was pleasantly surprised.
The same could not be said for the three Taliban. Nor for the four Taliban near the TEL who had been the targets of Grishkov’s two grenades.
Seconds later, Grishkov looked up. As far he could see, all of the Taliban who had been visible were down. Dead or wounded was impossible to tell at this distance, but he just needed them to stay down for another minute.
Grishkov then set up the Comet’s tripod, attached the launch tube, and loaded the thermobaric round. His previous setup record in Chechnya had been forty-five seconds, and though he didn’t bother to time his performance today, he beat it by two seconds.
Grishkov aimed the Comet at where his briefing had indicated the TEL’s fuel tank should be located. As his hand reached for the trigger mechanism, he heard behind him, “click, click, click.”
Grishkov wheeled around to see Neda in a two-handed firing stance, as well as two prone and unmoving Taliban fighters. Her concentration was absolute, Grishkov saw with approval, as her gaze and pistol swept the forest behind them.
Like anyone who had lived with firearms his entire life, Grishkov had believed there was no such thing as a genuinely silent pistol. It seems, he mused, the FSB has proved me wrong.
Though his first impulse was to say something encouraging to Neda—her performance so far had been outstanding—Grishkov’s stronger instinct was to hurry up and fire the Comet. So he turned back around, to do just that.
Where the first thing that greeted his view was a tall, heavily bearded Taliban fighter lifting an AR-74 to eye level. Apparently, one of his grenades’ victims had only been wounded. At his range, there was no way the Taliban fighter could miss.
As Grishkov’s right hand moved towards a pistol he knew he would never reach in time, all he could think was how much he wished he could wipe that man’s arrogant smile from his face.
“Craack,” Grishkov heard an instant after a distant rifle shot threw the Taliban fighter backward onto the road.
“Well, appar
ently Vasilyev is still with us,” Grishkov thought to himself, at the same moment that he pulled the Comet’s trigger.
In a move he’d already planned, Grishkov turned around and tackled Neda, sending both of them to the ground. Once he had turned, Grishkov was propelled towards Neda by what felt like a giant hand on his back. Both of them were pressed together against the grass a bit harder than he’d intended.
Shrapnel whistled over their heads, and a wave of intense heat and pressure made Grishkov worry they might not be far enough from the explosion to survive.
Grishkov’s concern only lasted a moment, though, and he was once again able to breathe. He rolled off of Neda and stood up, and was pleased to see her stirring.
“It appears the warheads did not detonate,” Grishkov said, looking Neda over carefully as she slowly sat up.
Neda brushed her hair back from her face with her hands, wincing as she accidentally touched one of her stitches. Grishkov could see that the shot he had given her was beginning to wear off.
Neda shook her head tiredly. “We’re not out of danger yet. It’s true that if the safeguards were going to fail, it would have probably happened during that explosion. But one or more of the warheads may be intact and cooking as we speak,” she said, gesturing towards the flaming debris that had been the TEL.
Grishkov grunted acknowledgment. He knew from experience that warheads and fires did not go well together. But he saw no way to do anything about it.
“How are we going to get out of here?” Neda asked.
Grishkov nodded. A good question. “I think Vasilyev is still alive, and given time, I think would retrieve our less damaged SUV and pick us up. But as you’ve noted, I think we should leave sooner if we can.”
Neda shakily rose to her feet. “I suppose we should check to see if any of these vehicles are drivable.” Looking around at the closest ones, she saw they were overturned, on fire, or riddled with bullet holes.