Alhamdulillah! They do have Stingers, noted a relieved Sikander. However, he quickly had to refocus on the two Sukhois. He shouldered his weapon and went through the routine. The aircraft were doing all the right things for him by moving directly away, slowing down for their bombing run, and holding altitude. Seconds later he fired. On the heels of his own missile, another was on its way from somewhere to Sikander’s right.
Sikander’s missile had been launched at the lowest angle possible but made it cleanly out of the tube, ignited its boost-sustain motor, and pursued the aircraft with determination. Intercepting its quarry less than five seconds later, it erupted in a huge fireball. A moment earlier, an airplane had been flying in the sky over the orchards of Arghandab. Now, just burning fragments rained down on the trees below. The second Sukhoi instinctively banked away from the explosion, though the pilot might have improved his odds by doing the opposite, using the fireball to confuse a second missile’s IR sensor. Luckily, he hadn’t, as his aircraft likewise failed to dissuade the missile, which visited the same fate on the hapless jet. The second pilot did, however, manage to eject moments before impact, escaping the bulk of the fireball’s wrath.
Sikander stared at the parachute descending into the mêlée below. He was taken by the oddly beautiful color and the graceful way it floated, which seemed so out of place among the rest of the battle activities. The hypnosis was short-lived.
“Sikander! We have to move from here!” shouted Abdul Majeed. They had no time to cheer on this occasion, and neither had Sikander the time to consider the words of Abdul Latif when he’d made his first kill in Laghar Juy. Abdul Latif had been wrong about the second kill. There hadn’t been time to hesitate. Somehow, the killing just happened. It wasn’t easy or hard. It just was.
There could be no dwelling on this complex thought, however. Eight helicopters emerged from behind the hill heading to a point over the northern tank column, which had slowed down to focus on Chaharqulba. The slowing column did, however, enable Abdul Latif to reengage the tanks as he caught up with them.
But one of the Hinds was not tracking to the same course. It was heading for the Stinger gunners in the telling posture of attack.
Coming from somewhere behind and to his far left Sikander caught a glimpse of a white and orange streak heading straight for the helicopter. The helicopter’s gunner had meanwhile managed to get off one rocket round and was readying for a second rocket when awareness of the oncoming Stinger forced the pilot to try to evade it, futile though that was. The doomed helicopter’s rocket landed and exploded just to Sikander’s right and he felt himself being hurled to his left, landing hard on the ground several meters from where he’d been standing. He was dazed and barely conscious. When he came to his senses, the offending helicopter had been replaced by flames and fragments heading for the valley floor.
Shaken, Sikander remained on the ground but raised himself enough to rest on his elbows and to turn to see the Stinger gunner who had saved his life. Had there not been another missile ready and aiming at that helicopter, Sikander’s own weapon could certainly not have been prepared in time to avoid either rockets or Gatling gunfire killing him. Gasping for breath, he conveyed his appreciation with a grin. The grin broadened.
“Irfan! Usman!” cried Sikander to the young mujahid and his brother trudging up the hill toward him. He tried to get up but saw that he was bleeding from his right ankle. A small rock had struck him. Luckily, he had been near a boulder large enough to remain unmoved that shielded the rest of him from the rocket warhead’s blast.
“Sikander! Alhamdulillah, we do meet again!” cried out Irfan. His expression lost some of its glow when he saw the blood streaming from Sikander’s foot. “Are you all right?”
“I think so!”
Sikander used his launcher to prop himself up and hopped on his good foot for a moment. Looking down he saw a patch of red on his right ankle. A chip of bone had been sheared off along with the skin covering it. He gently let down his right foot to put weight on it. The adrenalin was working.
“Irfan…ha! Only Allah could have known you were needed here today. How are you, brother?” Sikander made his best attempt at a hug for each of them.
“We are both very fine. Very fine!” Irfan grinned, saying his last two words in English, before acknowledging the truth of Sikander’s observation and Allah’s blessings for their collective training. “We’re here from Khost to help with Mullah Naqib’s defense of Chaharqulba.”
“We have to wrap that wound,” Abdul Majeed observed. In short order, he tore a piece of Sikander’s qamees to bandage the injury after washing off the dirt and debris with water from his flask. The water stung but Sikander was otherwise in working order.
“I can still shoot.”
“We’re counting on it,” replied Abdul Majeed.
“Abdul Majeed, this is Irfan and Usman. I trained with them in Scotland.”
Abdul Majeed introduced himself to the brothers with a customary greeting hug.
“Abdul Rahman’s brother!” exclaimed Irfan. The reunion and introductions were interrupted by two Stinger streaks of white smoke drawing trails over the valley floor as they headed to their targets. Again, bright orange flashes were followed by burning debris. From the remaining helicopters a salvo of Gatling gun fire and rockets sped back across the valley. One of the more distant helicopters had now been targeted by another missile coming from farther south across the gap and it too was hit. The Soviet pilots were clearly unprepared for such intensity and diversity of firing locations.
Adrenalin had numbed more than Sikander’s sense of physical pain. “There’s a couple closer to us that we can go for!” He felt as if he was owed something. His injury clamored for its badal. Quickly hobbling toward the boulder where he’d been standing in the first place, he leaned against it and motioned to Abdul Majeed to bring him the grip stock of his weapon and one of the readied missile rounds. Sikander latched it on and nodded over to Irfan and Usman and the other gunner teams directing them to target the rearmost helicopter on the left. He planned to take the one in front of him to the right, which was firing at Stinger gunners lower down the valley.
The left helicopter was hit first while Sikander wound up his missile and quickly fired. His target, however, was gaining altitude and as it did so, Sikander saw the missile wasn’t adapting to the maneuver. He watched it heading out just above the middle of the helicopter formation, where it exploded without hitting anything.
The sensor’s malfunctioned, or maybe the adaptive guidance, he thought. It didn’t matter. Having exploded in the midst of the helicopter formation, the Stinger sufficiently jarred the pilots that they decided it was time to withdraw. Their commander didn’t see the sense in a badal mission anyway.
No more jets came.
With their advance brought to a halt, all but about a hundred of the DRA forces chose to retreat. The tanks did the same, despite thus far having remained committed. But Abdul Latif’s team did manage to immobilize two more near the tail end of the column.
Among the DRA forces, those who did not retreat downed their weapons and raised their hands high, hoping to be accepted as defectors. Most of them were. It had not been a good day for the Afghan army.
With the withdrawing tanks visible from the slopes, Sikander, Abdul Majeed, Irfan, and Usman, together with their fellow gunner teams, cheered loudly “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” After about half an hour, when it became clear that a follow-up attack was unlikely, they started walking—and limping—down the slopes toward Sokhchala.
Lala Malang’s men regrouped that evening to review the day’s performance. Abdul Latif and Ejaz described the situation on the ground and the assistance they had provided Naqib’s men in Chaharqulba. Their own casualties had been light, with the loss of two men and about twelve injured, mostly from flying wood shards from tank shells hitting nearby trees.
“Again, they underestimated our weapons and our advantage in this terrain,” remarked
Lala Malang.
“Yes, they did,” replied Abdul Latif, perplexed at the paucity of intellect demonstrated by the Afghan army. “They apparently felt it was safe to come in with sandbags on their tanks. I guess our RPGs helped them to believe that but now that they know we have Milans, they’ll be adapting their strategy.”
“Certainly I would,” acknowledged Lala Malang as he began discussing possible responses. “The Soviet air cover and motorized rifles weren’t very committed today either, don’t you agree, Abdul Latif?”
Abdul Latif nodded. “They must know that they don’t have a good response to our Stingers, at least for now, and it really isn’t a fight worth losing helicopters and pilots for. Their Sukhois weren’t effective either, though I wouldn’t rule them out just yet.”
Malang agreed. “Tomorrow will give us a better indication. They might recognize that we have a weakness at our rear, toward the dam upriver. They could also bring troops over the hills by dropping them from Mi-8s on the crests of the hills to our north, or they could come in from the southern opening in the valley and fly in low, which I believe is a problem for the Stinger. Is that correct?”
“Sikander has more knowledge among us about that.” Abdul Latif called out for Sikander, who dutifully hobbled over, leaning on Irfan’s shoulder.
“The Stinger can be fired at a slight downward angle successfully from the valley slopes. We did it today and took out those two jets. That was with the aircraft just below our horizon,” Sikander explained.
“Good! At least we know we can handle that, so you gunners are to remain on the valley slopes but much lower down than before. I want to keep you concentrated in the same areas as today but also to post lookouts up and down the valley and toward the Baba-e-Wali gap,” said Lala Malang.
When the time came to break the fast, a large collective iftar was spread out for them in the local masjid. As they sat for the meal, Sikander was proud to introduce Irfan and Usman to Abdul Latif and Ejaz, who in turn warmly embraced the two young men for having saved Sikander’s life.
Although the following day they were ready for a repeat attack, only minor skirmishes took place, mostly with APCs advancing with poorly trained DRA troops. The effect was to swell the number of defectors who would be taken to Pakistan for interrogation and possible reorientation to return as mujahideen. That day, Irfan and Usman returned to Chaharqulba.
From some defectors Mullah Malang learned that another DRA offensive much closer to Naqib’s stronghold was being made ready. Abdul Latif suggested to Malang that it would be appropriate to assist Naqib. Chaharqulba was closer to the important Baba-e-Wali gap than Sokhchala, and it was from that gap that most of the enemy resources were being launched. Reluctantly, Malang agreed, and three days after the first skirmish Abdul Latif’s troop set off toward Chaharqulba.
Arriving with more Milans and Stingers, and adding to those in Naqib’s possession, they were warmly received by Naqib.
“Those crazy DRA commanders! Their boys have no skills and still they’re being sent to attack us!” remarked Naqib. “We just had an APC captured yesterday. We told the infantry commander to go back and tell his own commanders that they should stop before more of our Afghan sons get killed! All we got was his sorry story about the threat to his wife and children in Kabul, if he withdrew. Haraamzadas!” he uttered, shaking his head in disgust.
“Where would you suggest we place our Stingers and Milans?” asked Abdul Latif.
“Over there for the Stingers.” Naqib pointed to a cluster of ruined village homes on a gently sloping part of the west side of the valley. “From those positions you can take cover and you should be able to attack helicopters coming from most directions. They usually come in flights of four or eight, so it’ll be a good idea to get eight gunner teams up there. We have the Stingers—and Sikander is it?—I’ve heard good things about your skills from Irfan. Why not take charge tomorrow? Let’s see how you fare.”
Sikander nodded in acknowledgment, and stiffened with pride as he exchanged glances with a grinning Irfan.
Naqib continued. “For their tanks, I’d suggest the irrigation ditches on the western edge of the green zone. From there you have adequate cover and can hit tanks coming in from Zhare Dashteh.”
“That’s pretty much what we did a few days ago,” noted Ejaz.
“We’ll make sure that happens,” said a voice from the doorway of the bunker.
“Akhtarjhan! Come in, come in.” Naqib beckoned, waving his hand. “Akhtarjhan, this is Abdul Latif and his men from Nangarhar. They’re here to assist. His best gunner is a friend of our Stinger brothers!”
“Welcome! Jazaakumullah for your support,” thanked Akhtarjhan with appropriate deference for Abdul Latif’s age, even though he outranked him.
Abdul Latif returned the thanks and the two men discussed the defense plan in more detail. Abdul Latif had heard of Akhtarjhan from other people and was familiar with the tragic story of his becoming a mujahid at the age of twelve when his older brothers were killed in Babur Village. Now in his early twenties, he was no older than Abdul Rahman but had become a legend for his daring and bravery in a number of attacks and ambushes against the DRA and Soviet troops.
The following day, at about nine in the morning, the Stinger teams walked the six hundred meters to the area that Naqib had indicated. Several bombed out and abandoned dwellings awaited them, so they had their pick of ruined walls to use as cover when firing. The location was also ideal for intercepting attacks on Sokhchala, where Lala Malang had prepared his ground defenses. Once they were together, Sikander spread out his gunners to place each two-man team about fifty meters from any neighboring team. At that distance they would be well separated but could still make intelligible hand signals.
Following a now established pattern, at around eleven, aerial bombardments normally began, after which enemy ground forces would advance supported by remote shelling from tank columns that remained in open ground on the southwest and northeast of the strongholds all along the plain, west of the river.
Almost on cue, the first flight of Hinds rolled in, flying a hundred meters above the orchards. The Stinger teams were ready and only had to initiate the BCU gas release to arm their weapons, which they held off doing until the helicopters were within two kilometers. They would continue to hold their fire if the helicopters were far from the stronghold of Naqib’s bunkers, as the pilots would be wasting their bombs and there’d be no need to give away the Stinger positions prematurely.
But the DRA and Soviet pilots had no confusion about the bunkers’ locations and were on their way to soften them up. There wouldn’t be any bomb wasting.
Abruptly, the flight clustered into two groups of four. In response, Sikander reorganized the Stinger teams to have all eight ready to fire but ordered that only four would fire the initial salvo. If the helicopter force were to turn on the gunners’ location, the second four would fire, while the first readied fresh rounds. He assigned a young mujahid, Zahir Mirza, to form and lead the second group, asking him to split off to take a position about a hundred and fifty meters from the first and to lay low until it was time to fire.
“Sikander. Now,” urged Abdul Majeed.
“Agreed.” Sikander signaled in the direction of Irfan to his left and the two other gunner teams to his right and rear. In a few moments, four white, smoky snakes, each with a missile for a head, wound their way to their designated targets. One failed to go off and three made direct hits, but only two achieved immediate destruction. The damaged helicopter withdrew, flying erratically. The pilot struggled to maneuver but eventually lost control. With its tail wagging, he flew it into the ground, where it exploded on impact. Other helicopters dropped their 100-kilogram bombs over the bunkers and fired rockets into the irrigation ditches wherever they saw RPGs being fired at them.
As this was happening, two helicopters approached the source of their fellow crews’ demise. They had held back, hoping to discover Stinger launch positions from any
initial salvo. As they approached, Sikander waited for missiles to be fired by his second group.
Nothing.
His head swiveled, as he peered into the distance at Zahir and saw him fumbling with his launcher.
Why aren’t they firing!?
Surprise turned into dread. Unable to reload and wind up in time to hit the rapidly advancing helicopters, Sikander and his fellow gunners were sitting ducks. It was time to stop sitting.
“Run!” Sikander yelled, as Gatling gunfire bullets began zinging within what seemed like only centimeters from his ears, chewing up anything in their path.
The teams immediately sprinted away from the helicopters. Sikander was the laggard, thanks to his ankle injury. He cursed it and whatever devil had intervened to paralyze Zahir.
Zahir hadn’t screwed on the BCU correctly, leaving his impulse switch inoperative. Instead of asking his three fellow teams from the second group to fire, he panicked, fixating on the obstinate BCU.
Finally, two of Zahir’s fellow gunners, who had been distracted by their leader’s difficulties, set upon the advancing helicopters. Two streaks lunged at the Hinds, which were each less than a kilometer away by now in hot pursuit of the four Stinger teams from the first group. Both gunships were instantly arrested and their flaming remnants came crashing into the barren ground north of the green zone.
At last, Zahir managed to get the BCU connected and shouldered his weapon as the one remaining team member who hadn’t fired joined him in the attack. They scored direct hits against two of the remaining four helicopters that were harassing Naqib’s bunkers. The two surviving helicopters withdrew in haste. None of the eight-man air-defense team had latched a second missile round and held off from doing so as they saw the enemy withdrawing.
Keenly aware of just how close to death he had been, Abdul Majeed grinned. “That…was close!” he gasped, gazing at the panting Sikander.
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