Kara Kush

  ‘Primitives, bandits, that’s what they are,’ Slavsky told Major Vasilev, his second-in-command. He issued the mortar bombs and ordered a secret watch, day and night, to be put on all approaches to the truck. The terrorists might be planning to come back, perhaps with someone who had a knowledge of munitions, or with their own transport. Intercepted on the way to the cache, there could be some good hunting, and no butcher’s bill.

  2 The Whirlwind to see Colonel Slavsky

  Below the Castle

  Paghman

  JUNE 19

  In the event, nobody came. It was two weeks before the advance picquets reported that the Paghman force, wearing the green caps of The Eagle’s unit, Girdbad, the Whirlwind, were approaching the Tapa Castle in some strength. It was just after first light, on a perfect June day.

  When the Russians had first entered the valley, the resistance fighters had stopped them, shooting down five helicopters and destroying several tanks and APCs in what was known to the Muhjahidin as the First Battle of Paghman, in July 1981, and the Soviet troops had withdrawn. Now the bandits were actually coming straight at the fortification.

  They could not hope to take it, of course, Slavsky thought; though, in addition to rifles they were seen to be carrying what might be Russian dashkas, heavy machine-guns which had been captured or handed over by Afghan deserters from the Red regime. These were the weapons which were, at last, bringing down the helicopters, sometimes with only a short burst of fire. They were the great prize, when they could be removed from immobilized armoured fighting vehicles and carried off.

  Slavsky ordered the aircraft to stay on the ground. ‘We’ll not need air support for this one,’ he told Strike Liaison, briefly. ‘We’ll show the scum what ordinary guns can do.’ Here was a chance for a little hunting, in armchair comfort. He missed the regular slaying, of bears and boars, that he and his fellow officers used to enjoy in the Russian forests at this time of the year. A little blood out here might make up for his deprivation.

  One of his Central Asian officers was on forward observation. A Mongolian with a sense of the dramatic, he was delighted that the guerrillas were coming out at last. He should come through, over the air, at any moment now.

  The radio in Slavsky’s room crackled. ‘Forward observation to Commander: Khun-Khur, Blood-Drinker here.’

  That barbarian would insist on using, as his code-name, some dreadful native word. All messages had to be in standard and authorized terminology; but, unfortunately, for security reasons, local call-signals could be left to private enterprise. ‘Commandant to Blood-Drinker: come in, then.’

  ‘Blood-Drinker reporting, two hundred to two hundred and fifty terrorists advancing towards killing ground. Lightly armed, parties of ten to twelve, no good targets yet. Now approaching at 1,750 metres.’

  ‘Heard and understood, Blood-Drinker, Commandant off.’

  Slavsky turned to his radio operator. ‘I’m going to the Command Post now.’ The man followed him up the steps to the turret of the castle, stuffing a piece of mould-proof black bread into his pocket. He had developed a taste for Afghan-style bread during Nanpaz’s time, but alas it was now back to Army tack …

  There was an armchair in the turret, and Colonel Slavsky settled himself in it. What a view! You could see almost the whole valley. The chair idea was copied from a film he had seen – shown for briefing purposes only, of course – an American production. It had shown a tough Yankee commander in Vietnam, directing operations from just such a perch as this. And he had been attended by his faithful radio operator as well, just like Slavsky.

  The radio squawked: Blood-Drinker was coming in again. Slavsky guessed, by the interference, that other units, hearing that something was happening in his sector, were breaking into the artillery communications network to eavesdrop. Well, he’d show them how things were done. Let them listen.

  Yes, it was the forward observation post. ‘Blood-Drinker to Commander. Attention, badmashes, villains, closing, advancing under natural cover, range a thousand metres and moving.’

  The radio operator was gesturing to him that someone else was trying to get through. Slavsky acknowledged Blood-Drinker and looked enquiringly at him.

  ‘General Zeitsev asking to come in on our frequency, sir.’

  Zeitsev! That comedian! The old drunk would not keep out of anything, would he? Promoted far beyond his competence, just because people were saying that air support was the coming thing.

  ‘Put the general on, Signaller.’

  ‘Zeitsev to Slavsky: are you there, Comrade Colonel?’

  ‘Listening, Comrade General.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that you have a little game going on over there, in your castle, eh?’

  ‘That’s right. And, Comrade General, I am in the middle of dealing with some bandits, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘That’s just what I want to talk about. They seem to have got very close to you, and you perhaps need ground attack by aviation: Shturmovyye deystviya aviatsii, SDA, which I control. You know about it, of course.’

  Of course Slavsky knew about it. He even knew the relevant passage from the textbook by heart: ‘SDA = attack by air from minimum distance against visible targets, using various destruction methods and means.’

  ‘Comrade General! I know all about it, and I have already declined air support. I can easily deal with this rabble, and we are under orders not to waste supplies, as you perhaps know.’

  ‘Comrade Colonel, I understand completely. It was just that I hoped nothing had slipped your memory.’

  Insolent fool. Still: ‘Thank you, Comrade General. I am returning to my attack situation. Slavsky out.’

  Time to speak to the people who would actually engage the enemy, the Mortar Unit.

  ‘Commander to Pervyy Eshelon, First Echelon. Hear now. Object of imminent engagement is neutralization of enemy. Situation estimate already made. Prepare for operational orders.’

  This was going to be a copybook exercise, just like those which he had studied again and again during his three years at the Frunze Military Academy.

  Mortar Control was coming through clearly, terminology very correct.

  ‘Mortar Control reporting: Mortar Control to Commander. First Echelon mortars deployed in maximum density, and listening.’ Good.

  The Colonel had worked out a plan for just such a situation as this: dealing with a terrorist attempted assault on a DFS, a permanent fortified structure. The mortar sub-unit of his motorized rifle regiment was already drilled, in impeccable military phraseology, for such a situation, taken direct from the book, Organization of Fire.

  Time for the next step. ‘Commander to Mortar Control. Confirm readiness for automatic or barrage fire.’

  Slavsky had set up the system himself: the latest in electronic linked and synchronized fire, so that the whole augmented battery of forty weapons could fire simultaneously. From the book, of course.

  ‘Mortar Control to Commander. Confirming mortar battery ready for concentrated fire, barrage or automatic.’

  Now the spotter, Blood-Drinker, was coming in again through the artillery network. ‘Commander from Blood-Drinker. The enemy is now at 750 metres and closing. Shall I fall back to prepared defensive position, query? Hear and respond. That was Blood-Drinker to Commander.’

  All was at combat readiness. There was no need for the forward observer now. Slavsky answered: ‘Commander to Blood-Drinker. Affirmative. Fall back, fall back. Do not engage the enemy. I am taking command initiative.’

  ‘Blood-Drinker to Commander, heard and understood. Transmission ends.’

  Slavsky turned to the radio operator. ‘Combat alert!’ The message went out.

  The klaxons sounded, and the non-combatant troops clustered around the forty mortars. That was a good sign, showed that the men were keen, Slavsky thought, as the loudspeakers echoed through every corner of the castle.

  ‘Combat alert! Combat alert!’ Then: ‘Ataka, Ataka, Ataka! Attack coming. This is a combat a
lert.’

  The advancing men on the plain below him were clearly visible through Slavsky’s field glasses now. ‘Artillery Watch, attention! This is the Commander. Take over spotting of approaching bandits and confirm.’

  ‘Artillery Watch to Commander. Message heard and understood. Enemy in our glasses. Estimate numbers: two hundred and fifty men. Lightly armed, parties of ten men each, closing in, now at five hundred metres.’

  ‘Commander to Artillery Watch. Understood. Continue observation.’

  Slavsky was going to let the Muhjahidin get as near as possible, to minimum mortar-range. Then he was going to butcher them. Every mortar linked, each firing at once, at precisely the same moment. If the Afghans didn’t break up their groups and go into individual attack formation very soon now, they would all be annihilated.

  Now to get the range, to the last millimetre. ‘Commander to Artillery Watch. Take range and bearing from Plan Position Indicator and supply to mortars.’

  ‘Artillery Watch to Commander. Taking range and bearing for supply to mortars from Indikator Krugovogo Obzora.’

  ‘Commander to Mortar Firing Central.’

  ‘Mortar Firing Central listening.’

  ‘Take range and bearing of target.’

  ‘Mortar Firing Central understood.’

  ‘Commander to Mortar Firing continues message …’

  ‘Mortar Firing Central listening.’

  ‘Commander to Mortar Firing.’ Slavsky almost rubbed his hands together. This was the life. ‘Precise Firing Procedure will be followed.’

  ‘Mortar Firing Central acknowledges. Fire Procedure will be followed.’

  Colonel Slavsky took up his glasses again to have a look at his opponents. He could see them very clearly now. So these were the famous Whirlwind warriors. They picked fancy names like that, he thought, because they were such a hopeless rabble. Like children playing at Indian chiefs, like beggars imagining that they were kings.

  The Eagle looked around to see that his men were correctly deployed, and beckoned to his second-in-command, Qassab the butcher. A useful man. Of course, he was used to blood, but he had also passed the guerrilla battle course in thirty days instead of two months. He had shown distinct command ability, too.

  ‘Qassab. They haven’t fired a shot. They’re either calling in air support, halikuptars, or they’re holding their fire until we get closer. Which do you think it is?’

  ‘Holding fire. Maybe they’re afraid of the dashkas we’ve got set up. Helicopters don’t like heavy machine-guns. Anyway, why should they fire until we get really close, so long as we are still advancing?’

  ‘Right. I think so, too. So far, so good.’

  ‘What do you mean, Eagle? We’ll never kill anyone in the castle from the ground with rifles: they’re safe in there, and we are very exposed out here. I’d have liked some information, or orders more specific than “Follow my flag signals.”’

  ‘Security, Qassab. Perhaps you talk in your sleep. Ever thought of that?’ The butcher was the butt of all the Whirlwind men, since he had formed the habit of falling asleep when he was a reserve during fire-fights; though he would wake up, completely alert, in a split second, if called upon. Firing never bothered him: it was the strangest thing, thought his commander. The butcher said nothing.

  In the castle, the robotic procedures were grinding on. ‘Mortar Control, this is the Commander. Acknowledge my signal …Good. Stand by to fire when sighting completed. Firing to start when the enemy reaches one hundred metres and not before. I repeat, one hundred metres. Ignore any enemy fire. Keep behind parapets. Confirm if understood.’

  ‘Mortar Control to Commander. Understood.’

  ‘Commander to Mortar Control. Once mortars are sighted at minimum range, aim at bandit groups when they reach one hundred metres. Each double mortar position to take one bandit group. Starting from left. Left most bandit group will be for mortars one and two. Complete this ranging and report.’

  After a few moments Mortar Control confirmed the arrangement.

  ‘Commander confirming that mortars shall not fire at random and that all fire is electronically synchronized. Mortar Control to confirm.’

  ‘Mortar Control confirms for Commander.’

  ‘Commander confirms instructions. One hundred metres …’ The check-list litany droned on. Finally, ‘Fire will be continuous at twenty-five rounds per minute until countermanded.’

  The Mortar Control operator confirmed.

  ‘Commander to Mortar Firing. Stand by to fire. Keep radio channel crystal stable 444 open.’

  ‘Standing by. Channel open.’

  Crouching behind his boulder, The Eagle spoke to the butcher. ‘We’re nearly at their mortars’ minimum effective distance, Qassab. This is more than the “killing ground”: it’s like the “total liquidation ground”.’

  ‘Nichevo, no matter, Eagle.’

  ‘Right. We’re at a hundred and fifty metres now. Signal orange flag to our whole Battle Group, for “Increase pace of advance”.’

  ‘They’ve seen it, Eagle. Battle Group advancing.’

  The Eagle felt the sweat running down the back of his neck, like a man would in a steam-bath. ‘A good commander does not expose himself unnecessarily,’ it had said in the field manual which he had been studying. But this was going to be a gift. He had to test himself, to have been there, right in front. Certainly the men expected it: Afghans had never shown an inclination to be led from the rear.

  There were only a hundred metres to go now. If they went any nearer to the castle, the mortars or machine-guns would certainly fire, since at closer range their mortars would be less accurate.

  ‘Qassab: we are now one hundred metres from the target. This is the minimum effective distance for Russian M-37 mortars. Raise the green flag.’

  ‘Green flag up, to signal “Prepare for Battle”. The Muhjahidin combat group signallers have acknowledged.’

  The snouts of the 82-millimetre mortars, their barrels almost vertical, were clearly visible to the guerrillas. They could imagine the Russian mortar-men, bent over their sights, the 3.3 kilogramme rounds ready to drop in.

  Each one of the two hundred and fifty raiders had stopped. All were unwinding their sashes.

  *

  In the castle’s command post the radio was screeching. ‘Artillery Watch to Commander. Bandits have stopped at one hundred metres.’

  Slavsky was glad. He had been on the verge of ordering ‘Fire!’ at the moving men, before their impetus brought them too close. ‘Commander responds: you can sign off now, Artillery Watch.’

  What was that they were doing? ‘Comrade Colonel!’ The radio operator was excited, ‘they’re making turbans of their white shrouds, wrapping them around their green caps. This is a suicide attack.’

  ‘Damned barbarians, that’s what they are, Ivanov! Their religion, you know. What an ideology! They think they’ll go to Paradise, just for being killed by us.’ Still, the cold menace of the thing made him feel uneasy. Surely there could not really be people with no fear of death?

  The guerrillas must be kept still at all costs now, The Eagle thought. ‘Blue flag up, Qassab.’

  ‘Blue flag up, Eagle, for “Battle Group stand firm”.’

  Seeing the flag, the baker said to himself, ‘I hope my hands are shaking only because of the desire to kill. But I don’t know: I’m only a beginner at this sort of thing. I’ll have to remember to ask Komondon Eagle when we get back to the Caves.’

  In the Command post, all was in order. Slavsky intoned, ‘Commander to Mortar Control. Stand by for firing.’

  ‘Mortar Control to Commander: standing by.’

  This was going to be as easy as any exercise, probably easier. Those guerrillas were crazy, waiting to be killed. They’d be done before lunchtime. Colonel Slavsky was sure that he’d enjoy his meal. Some of those excellent kalbasa, pink Moscow sausages, had arrived, and he liked them very much. He reached for the microphone. Here goes.

  ‘Com
mander to Mortar Control: I shall now count down to firing signal. Fire synchronizing buttons at the count of ONE.

  ‘Now countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, ONE!’ There was always a thrill in giving the actual firing order to the artillery oneself.

  The forty mortars, all sighted on their targets, unmissable, static targets – two mortars with their high-explosive shells due to hit each guerrilla combat group – fired.

  With a combined roar and a surge of flame from two score weapons, with rock and steel flying in all directions, the bombs, doctored by The Eagle’s skill to fire prematurely, exploded in the mortar tubes, blowing the guns, their crews and the spectators crowded around them indiscriminately, to smithereens. For at least a hundred men it suddenly seemed, and almost instantly was, the end of the world.

  From the turret high above the mortars, Komendant Colonel Slavsky saw the carnage among his men, and stared in disbelief at the whooping Muhjahidin below, less than a hundred yards from the castle walls. He struggled to his feet from the cushioned armchair, only to fall back into it, neatly picked off by an expert guerrilla sniper, Maher Tirandaz, as the men of the Whirlwind withdrew under covering fire.

  To the side of the castle, a second explosion and a column of smoke showed The Eagle’s observers that the mine placed at the weakest point of the wall had done its work. For the men in the castle, shocked and confused, trying to organize first aid, this sound, and even the smoke, made little impact.

  As the wall was breached, the second attack unit of the Whirlwind hurled themselves into the fortress, through the dust, fumes, falling rocks, spraying the few defenders at pointblank range with Kalashnikov rapid fire, killing most of them and driving the rest into headlong flight.

  In the deep underground ice-chambers, the prisoners, suspects and captives intended for deportation as hostages to Russia, were found crouching in the far corners of their huge communal cells, as they had been warned to do by The Eagle’s message the night before. None was injured.