by Ted Halstead
Grishkov nodded. “Yes, I think that’s our best chance. I see nothing on this side of the TEL that looks promising. If we can get to the other side of it, though, maybe we’ll see something that can still drive.”
Neda shrugged acknowledgment.
Grishkov almost said something about the need to stay alert for danger, both from fire and secondary explosions, as well as any remaining Taliban fighters. One look at Neda’s grim expression and the way she was carrying her pistol, though, convinced him that wasn’t necessary.
Grishkov and Neda edged their way around the remains of the still-burning TEL, finally emerging on the other side of the smoke to see several vehicles. All but one were as heavily damaged as the ones on the other side.
Grishkov guessed, correctly, that this undamaged vehicle had brought many of the Taliban fighters who were still living when he had arrived on the scene with Neda. It was dirty, at least a decade old, and covered with the dents and scratches that marked any vehicle regularly exposed to Pakistani traffic.
Grishkov thought it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.
As he walked towards the vehicle, Grishkov saw movement near one of the heavily damaged Pakistani military vehicles nearby and raised his pistol.
Grishknov lowered it when he saw that the motion had come from a man wearing a Pakistani uniform. But he remembered the roadblock Vasilyev and Neda had encountered manned by Taliban fighters wearing Pakistani uniforms, and so kept the pistol ready.
As Grishkov walked towards the man, he saw him try to play dead. Grishkov thought wryly that the man didn’t have to play too hard, as the pool of blood from his wounds testified. Once Grishkov came next to him, the man abandoned the attempt and lunged for his nearby rifle.
Which Grishkov kicked away, saying cheerfully, “Is that how you say hello to your doctor?” He didn’t think about it at the time, but Grishkov said this in Russian.
Turning to Neda, Grishkov said, “Ask him what happened here. Keep your pistol on him while I look in here for a medical kit.”
The exchange that followed took only a few minutes and was finished by the time Grishkov emerged from the vehicle holding a medical kit. As he opened it, Neda said, “He says it happened just as we thought. An ambush with overwhelming force, and total surprise. They couldn’t radio for help because all the frequencies were jammed.”
Grishkov was already tightening the first of several bandages he’d need to stop the man’s bleeding. “And he is a genuine Pakistani soldier?” he asked Neda.
Neda smiled. “Either that or the world’s greatest actor.”
Grishkov nodded. Good enough. He quickly finished bandaging the man and stood up. As he did, the man spoke rapidly, and Grishkov looked inquiringly at Neda.
“He says thank you, and wants to know who we are,” Neda translated.
Grishkov shrugged. “Tell him if he wants to thank us, he’ll forget we were here. Also, that we’ll notify the authorities to send help as soon as we’re out of jamming range.”
But the man’s eyes had already closed.
Neda leaned down and then stood back up with relief in her expression. “He’s still breathing,” she said.
“Good,” Grishkov said. “These soldiers fought bravely against terrorists, and at least one should survive to tell their story.”
Grishkov then gestured for Neda to come with him to the lone undamaged vehicle. As they drew closer, Grishkov could see it was a sizeable Japanese model SUV. He mentally crossed his fingers as he opened the driver’s side door, which was conveniently unlocked.
Neda had never seen Grishkov smile with such genuine warmth. The source of his pleasure immediately became apparent.
“They left the keys in the ignition!” Grishkov said, and if anything, his smile broadened.
Neda looked puzzled but nodded and said nothing. Now Grishkov laughed.
“I know we’ve both been trained in starting this or any other car without keys. But it’s a good omen that we don’t have to bother,” Grishkov said.
Grishkov pressed a button on the dash that caused the rear door to rise upwards. “Let’s see if the owners left behind any presents,” he said, moving to the SUV’s now open back door.
Just moments later, Grishkov held up an AK-74 in triumph, which he passed to Neda. Then, he pulled out another AK-74 for himself. “These could come in handy if we run into more Taliban,” he said.
Neda shrugged tiredly and sat down heavily in the front passenger seat, holding her AK-74 at the ready.
Grishkov placed his AK-74 carefully within arm’s reach in the back seat, making sure the safety was engaged.
As Grishkov started the SUV, Neda asked, “Wouldn’t all the Taliban have been here, at the site of the ambush?”
Grishkov shook his head as he carefully maneuvered the SUV around the other disabled and burning vehicles, finally emerging onto unobstructed roadway.
“Remember the roadblock you ran into before. There may be another in the other direction. Also, the radio jamming vehicle is around here somewhere and is sure to be guarded. I’m hoping that the Taliban found somewhere off this road to hide it, and we can drive out of its range without either of us seeing the other,” Grishkov said.
Neda looked visibly unhappy but nodded.
Grishkov shook his head and laughed. “Truly, it’s any Taliban ahead who should be worried. Just think of the odds we’ve overcome so far!”
Neda gave Grishkov a thoughtful look and finally smiled. “You’re right,” she said.
“Besides, it’s time to give you some good news. Once we’re out of jamming range, I’m going to call for a helicopter to get us out of here. By the time it arrives, I’m hoping that Vasilyev will have caught up to us,” Grishkov said.
Neda knew better than to ask why she hadn’t been told this previously. As the most junior team member, she was only told what she needed to know for security. Security…
“Why did you take the time to save that Pakistani soldier? Didn’t it increase the chance that we’ll be intercepted before we can get to the helicopter? Isn’t it likely he’ll describe us to the authorities?” Neda asked.
Grishkov glanced at the satellite phone display before he answered. Still no bars.
“Everything you have said is true. I’m expecting to hear it again, in more detail, from Vasilyev. I do regret putting you at risk, as well. But there is no way I could have let a fellow soldier bleed out when I could help,” Grishkov said and then paused, clearly gathering his thoughts.
“Besides, you saw the bodies. If he and the other soldiers hadn’t stood their ground and fought hard against nearly two to one odds, we would have had no chance of success against the Taliban fighters who remained. Put simply, we owed him,” Grishkov concluded.
Neda shrugged. “When you put it that way, I have to agree.”
Grishkov smiled. “Good. And it looks like we may get out of here after all. I have a bar,” he said, pointing at the satellite phone display.
Lifting the phone from its cradle, he punched the single button programmed to call for extraction. “Yes, we are ready,” Grishkov said and ended the call.
Neda lifted one eyebrow but said nothing.
Grishkov smiled. “It’s not so complicated. The pilot will home in on the satellite phone’s location, as fixed by GLONASS. So, we can keep driving away from the ambush site, and the helicopter will still have no trouble finding us…”
Grishkov’s voice trailed off as he looked at the obstacles and signs blocking the road ahead. At least, he thought they were signs from their size and shape, but whatever they said was only printed on one side. The side facing away from them.
A paved road similar to the one they were on turned off to their right. With a bit of maneuvering, Grishkov was able to move the SUV off the road. Then, he took it around the obstacles that had been set up to stop traffic to the ambush site from this direction.
Grishkov was puzzled. From what he knew of people, there were a
lways ones who ignored signs, including detours.
“Neda, please translate the signs,” Grishkov asked.
Neda replied. “Detour. Road Construction. Explosives In Use.”
Grishkov grunted. “Whoever set up this ambush was no fool. Those are signs that would not only turn away almost anyone but would help explain any sounds from the fighting that might carry this far.”
Grishkov then turned right. It wouldn’t hurt to change direction away from the ambush site.
“Does the FSB have helicopters on call in every country?” Neda asked, her tone making it clear she knew the answer.
Grishkov laughed. “I asked Vasilyev the same question. I will shorten his answer. Basically, in countries like this, where Russia has a significant interest, front companies are set up—doing things like renting helicopters. These companies carry on regular operations most of the time, and only a few people at the top know who finances and controls the company. They are called on for help only when truly necessary.”
Neda frowned. “But isn’t that expensive?”
Grishkov shrugged. “Not according to Vasilyev. He says that many of these front companies, including this one, actually turn a profit. It seems having a sponsor with deep pockets to back you is a real advantage in business.”
Neda pointed at the satellite phone’s display, and asked, “Are you sure the GLONASS system you’re using instead of GPS can be counted on outside of Russia? I thought I read that after the Soviet Union’s collapse, it had become unreliable.”
Grishkov scowled. “Yes, the 1990s was a dark time for us in many ways. However, in the following decade, much money was spent to bring GLONASS back to worldwide coverage.”
Grishkov paused. “Both as a soldier and police officer, I used it frequently, so I’ve been interested in GLONASS for a long time. It now accounts for a third of Russia’s space budget. Maybe the best testimonial is that so-called GPS devices in the West also draw on GLONASS satellites to improve accuracy and reliability.”
Next, Grishkov touched a button on the satellite phone, and the display showed three dots.
Tapping the display, Grishkov said, “The center dot is us. The fast-moving dot at the edge of the screen is the helicopter. The closer and slower dot is Vasilyev. Now that I know he made it out, we will find a good spot to pull off this road and wait for both him and the helicopter.”
Neda smiled. “I was going to ask you how Vasilyev would know to make the turn onto this road. He has one of these phones too.”
Grishkov nodded absently; his attention focused on the road ahead. Just minutes later, he saw a dirt road turnoff that looked promising. As he had hoped, less than a kilometer down the road, the trees and brush that lined the paved road gave way to a clearing with dirt, small rocks, and occasional tufts of grass.
And Grishkov was confident it would be large enough for the helicopter to make a safe landing.
Grishkov looked again at the display, and said with satisfaction, “Vasilyev made the turn. He should join us about the same time as the helicopter.”
No sooner had he said this than both of them could hear sirens approaching the turnoff they had used moments before. The sirens didn’t hesitate and continued.
Straight to Vasilyev.
Neda looked at Grishkov and asked, “What should we do?”
Grishkov grimaced and replied, “I follow the Russian Orthodox faith, and I understand you are Muslim, yes?”
Neda whispered, “Yes.”
Grishkov shrugged, and said thoughtfully, “I suggest we both pray.”
The dot on the screen representing Vasilyev stopped. Long minutes passed, and the dot stayed right where it was.
And then finally began to move towards them again.
Neda pointed at the dot and exclaimed happily, “He’s OK!”
Grishkov shook his head. “Possibly. But they could have taken him into custody, and sent his vehicle back with one of their officers to be searched at their station.”
Grishkov paused. “Or they might have found Vasilyev’s satellite phone and be using its display right now to track us.”
Now Neda looked angry. “You know the stereotype of Russians is that you’re always gloomy. I think you enjoy proving them right.”
Grishkov first looked startled, and then laughed. “Well, from childhood, we’re taught to expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised if we’re wrong. Long winters, decades of Stalin and his gulags, followed by decades of threatened nuclear war—maybe it’s no surprise our outlook is not so cheerful.”
Neda cocked her head. “I think I hear the helicopter,” she said.
Grishkov listened intently, and said, “I don’t…” just as they could both see the helicopter appear in the distance. A few seconds later, Grishkov could hear it as well.
“Well done,” Grishkov said. “A talent that will serve you well in this business.”
Neda frowned. “What if Vasilyev is in that car, and doesn’t get here in time? Isn’t the pilot likely to insist that we leave right away?”
Grishkov shrugged. “I’m not concerned. I’m sure we can get him to listen to reason.”
Neda looked at him, and her eyes narrowed, but Grishkov said nothing further.
“I was expecting you to do something dramatic, like pulling out your gun,” Neda said as she looked intently at the dot on the screen showing the position of Vasilyev’s vehicle. It would arrive after the helicopter.
Grishkov shook his head. “You’ve been watching too many American movies. Violence only makes sense in response to violence. After all, if policemen like me shot every suspect, what would be left for lawyers and judges to do?”
Neda’s tart reply was drowned out by the sound of the helicopter as it landed in the clearing less than a hundred meters away.
Grishkov said calmly, “Go to the helicopter and tell the pilot I’ll be just a minute because I have to gather our belongings. And his bonus.”
Neda was about to ask a question. Then, she looked at Grishkov’s smile and instead gave an exasperated sigh and bent over to walk towards the helicopter.
At least Grishkov hadn’t insulted her intelligence by telling her not to hurry.
Grishkov looked at the satphone display as though he could force Vasilyev’s vehicle to move faster.
It didn’t work.
Grishkov opened the door and walked to the back of the battered SUV. Lifting its rear hatch, he pulled random items from the trunk to look like he was “gathering their belongings.”
Then he kicked himself. Hard. He called himself a policeman!
It had never even crossed his mind to do a thorough search of the vehicle, rather than just a quick look for weapons. A car that had been used by Taliban terrorists.
Of course, over the past forty-eight hours, Grishkov had only slept on the two-hour flight from Tajikistan. That thought never even crossed his mind, consumed as it was with self-criticism.
A map. Covered with notes. And Grishkov had come this close to leaving it behind.
Grishkov hurriedly emptied the rest of the trunk but found nothing else remotely useful.
There was nothing in the backseat. The glove compartment was empty.
Grishkov’s breathing slowed. OK, he thought to himself acidly, at least I almost missed just one incredibly vital clue.
Vasilyev’s SUV pulled into the clearing, and Grishkov was relieved to see that Vasilyev was the driver and the vehicle’s only occupant.
Grishkov was about to blame himself again for letting himself be distracted by the search for clues when he shook his head. Pointless, and if the car had been full of Pakistani soldiers, all he had to stop them with was one rifle anyway.
Vasilyev and Grishkov ducked low and ran together to the helicopter.
Chapter Twelve
Pakistan Secretariat, Islamabad, Pakistan
Hamza Shadid still looked like what he had been for most of his working life. A handsome actor with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, who had
played many roles in dramas and action movies for over two decades.
Making the transition to politics had been done before in many countries. In Pakistan, where a cricketer had already made it to the Prime Minister’s office, it had not been so difficult.
The stern and forbidding expression that had looked out from a million movie posters was now trained on the General standing at attention before him.
Hamza had not offered General Ehsan Monir a seat. Nor, given the news he brought, was he going to do so.
“So, General, let me see if I understand your report correctly so far. The Taliban have destroyed four of our Babur nuclear cruise missiles. Four of our Nasr tactical nuclear missiles have been stolen, and we have no idea where they are. Every soldier in the missile’s security detail but one was killed, and he was severely wounded. Does that sum up the situation?”
Ehsan hesitated, and said slowly and carefully, “Yes, four Babur missiles were destroyed, but maybe not by the Taliban. We think the Taliban did steal the four Nasr missiles. I was going to explain this next.”
Hamza scowled and gestured for him to continue.
“We found evidence that someone attacked the Taliban force besides our security detail. A roadblock the Taliban set up well apart from the fighting had all of its members killed, but none of our soldiers’ bodies were anywhere near. A Taliban sniper and his spotter were both killed. Again, far from where our soldiers were fighting to defend the missiles. But the most telling evidence is a Russian missile launcher we found hidden not far from the destroyed Babur missiles and their launch vehicle,” Ehsan said.
“What is so special about this missile launcher? Surely the Taliban have many Russian weapons. So does our military,” Hamza observed.
“Yes, sir,” Ehsan acknowledged. “However, this one had been specially modified. Our experts believe only a small number exist and are only available to Russian special forces.”
Hamza’s scowl deepened. “So, you believe Russian soldiers destroyed four of our most capable nuclear weapons? In cooperation with the Taliban?”