PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (33 page)

“Mirza, come now,” Syed demanded. “The bomber, it’s coming.” The Hazaran leader pointed out towards the horizon.

The man had eyes like a hawk. Mirza could barely make out the tiny dot in the sky.

“Spread out, my brothers,” the grizzled warrior ordered, dispersing his men across the ridgeline. “Radio the bomber, Mirza.”

The PRIMAL operative took the small emergency radio from his pouch and activated it. His headset filled with white noise as he adjusted the settings.

Without waiting, Syed initiated a blood-curdling scream that echoed off the cliffs. “Aiiiiii!”

The Hazaran warriors charged down the slope and the chatter of fully automatic gunfire filled the air. Below them in the excavation site, Taliban guards rushed to find cover, blasting away at the charging warriors with their own weapons.

Mirza sprinted after the Hazarans, firing his AK-47 from the hip with one hand as he keyed the radio with the other.

“Pain Train, this is Mirza, over.” Nothing.

“Pain Train, this is Mirza, over.” Still nothing.

A burst of fire showered him with splinters of rock. He crouched down behind a boulder, steadying his weapon. The Hazaran assault bogged down as the Taliban mounted heavy resistance. Khan’s warriors had the advantage of better cover, fighting from behind sandbags and piles of excavated rock. The few enslaved workers outside the mineshaft cowered amongst them.

The firefight raged, Hazarans inching down the slope. Mirza could see the Afghan helicopter still on the ground, its rotors turning faster and faster as it prepared to take off. He looked up at the airplane circling high above.

A huge explosion answered his prayer. A few seconds of silence blanketed the battlefield as everyone stopped to look at the SAM site that had disappeared in a cloud of dust. Expecting they would be next, he hunkered down behind the boulder and frantically ripped the radio from his harness, checking the frequencies. Rounds cracked through the air around him.

“Pain Train, this is Mirza, over. Pain Train, this is Mirza, over,” he repeated, thumping the radio with the palm of his hand. The gunfight was still raging. He spotted another group of Taliban appear from a gully, reinforcing Khan’s men.

***

“Mitch! You hear that?” one of the pilots said over the radio.

“Wait, I’ve got it. We’re picking up a signal,” Mitch replied over the headset. His fingers danced at lightning speed across his keyboard. A frequency bandwidth indicator replaced the battle map. “It’s one of our tactical radios: patching through now.”

The signal was weak. Mitch made some quick adjustments. The targeting pod slewed over to a new group of armed men on the ridge overlooking the site. Finally a clear voice came in over the carrier wave.

“Pain Train, this is Mirza, over. Pain Train, this is Mirza, over.”

“Mirza, this is Mitch. Damn, are we glad to hear from you. We thought we’d lost you.” The Englishman could hear intense gunfire in the background.

“I’m still here; Ice is gone. Mitch, you need to cease fire. There are friendlies on the target,” said Mirza.

“Acknowledge your last. We already have a weapons exclusion zone over the site. I repeat, we will not engage.”

“OK, Mitch. We’re assaulting from the north-western side. Have you got visual?”

“Yes, I have you,” Mitch confirmed. He could see the flashes of gunfire on his screen.

“Resistance is heavy. They have us pinned on the slope. Can you engage the Taliban moving into the camp from the south?”

“Roger. We’ll cover the approaches but we need you to push forward and stop the chopper.”

“Negative. The helicopter is airborne. I repeat, the helicopter is airborne and we cannot move.”

Mitch centered the targeting camera back on the excavation site. He could clearly see the Mi-17 had just taken off and was flying away from the target area, heading south.

“Goddamn it!” Mitch said, smashing his fist down on the keyboard. “We missed ‘em. Mirza, wait out, I’m going to engage hostiles.” He scanned further to the south, identifying a large group of armed men running towards the camp. Selecting the drop point, he allocated ordnance and fired. The aircraft shuddered as the last of the bombs were launched. Mitch watched dispassionately as the men on the screen were obliterated in a series of flashes.

“That one’s for you, Ice, old man.” Mitch activated his radio again. “That’s it, Mirza. We’re all out of bang. What’s the situation on the deck?”

“Facing light resistance. The Taliban have started to withdraw.” The Hazaran assault reached the first line of camouflage nets. The hardened warriors pushed forward methodically, executing any wounded Taliban as they converged on the gaping shaft in the mountain wall. “The site will be secure within a few minutes,” Mirza confirmed.

“Roger,” Mitch replied. “Your job is done now, champ. We have to pull you out.”

“Can you wait five?”

“Negative, Mirza, we’re finished at the site. The chemical’s on that chopper and we have to follow it. If we can’t get you out in the next five minutes, you’ll have to wait for a pickup from the Yanks.”

“Understood. I am ready to go now,” Mirza said.

“OK, I’ll drop the package. Be prepared to extract.” Mitch selected the landing point for the Fulton extraction package and the pilot banked the plane, bringing it on course.

“Acknowledged.”

“Good luck. I’ll see you on board in a few minutes. Mitch out.”

Chapter 56

Khan’s Mi-17, Heading West

Yanuk, Khan and a handful of the warlord’s fighters sat in the cargo netting seats that lined the hold of the Mi-17 helicopter. The Russian combat engineer sat in silence staring at the two stainless steel canisters strapped to the floor. They looked benign, about the size of a small fire extinguisher.

When they had uncovered the canisters, he had instantly recognized the Soviet symbol for Chemical Weapons etched into their metal skin. Fear had gripped his soul with an icy hand; he had only ever seen this symbol once before and the images of corpses, their heads tilted back in an eternal scream, still haunted his dreams. He shook the thoughts from his mind.

Yanuk looked out the window at the rugged scenery flashing past, thinking instead of the money, the women. He had no idea what Dostiger wanted the canisters for. He didn’t care; this was simply business. All he wanted to know was that he was being paid more money than he could ever spend to deliver the two canisters intact. As far as he was concerned, the job was as good as done. All he needed to do was babysit the package for a little longer.

The Russian glanced across at Khan. For a man who had lost thirty of his best men and very nearly failed his mission, he looked completely at ease. Yanuk’s thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his satellite phone. He pulled it from his chest rig and answered it in Russian.

“Hello.”

“Yanuk, it’s Yuri. I want to confirm you have the items,” Dostiger’s head of security asked.

“Yes, I have two canisters.”

“Excellent, the helicopter will transport you as far as our staging base in Turkmenistan. My men will meet you there with transport. You will escort the canisters all the way through to Odessa.”

“What about the Americans? I don’t think you realize how close they came to stopping us,” Yanuk said.

“Turkmenistan is heavily guarded; the local military commander has an arrangement with us,” Yuri reassured him.

“I don’t think we should underestimate the Americans.”

“My friend, you worry too much. Everything has been taken care of. I will see you at the airport in Odessa.”

“I look forward to it, comrade,” Yanuk concluded. He was anything but reassured by the Ukrainian’s confidence. From what he had seen, the men trying to stop Dostiger’s operation were resourceful and tenacious. He just hoped Yuri was right and they were leaving the trouble behind in Afghanistan.

***

The Taliban’s attempt to reinforce the defenses of the extraction site had been decimated by the Pain Train. The few remaining Taliban had only put up a short fight before being overwhelmed by Mirza and the Hazaran’s.

“Mirza of the mountain,” Syed called out from where his men were crowded around a group of the enslaved workers, now freed and reunited with their kin.

“Yes, Syed,” Mirza answered wearily.

The veteran commander strode over to where the PRIMAL operative was sitting propped up against a rock.

“My people are safe, thanks to you, Mirza.” Syed crouched next to him. “I know it will not go far in easing your pain, but you saved many lives today, my friend.”

“You saved my life, Syed. Without you, the Taliban would have killed me.”

“This is true, Mirza, but Allah wanted you to live, otherwise he wouldn’t have sent me to the mountain.”

“Allah’s will, Syed,” murmured the Indian.

Syed gestured to the tunnel. “When I was a young man the Russians brought many of my people to this mountain. Only one ever returned and he told stories of the poison that killed everything it touched. I pray to Allah that this evil has not been released upon the world. If it has, our only hope is that there are more men like you and your friend to stop it.”

“There are many more men braver than me that stand ready to face that evil, Syed. Just promise me that you and your men will guard this site until the Americans come to bury it.”

“This I promise you, Mirza.”

The roar of a low-flying aircraft interrupted them. They looked up as the Pain Train screamed over a few hundred feet above them. A small bundle tumbled out of the aircraft. It jettisoned a parachute and the object continued its descent until it landed with a thump on the abandoned helicopter pad.

“I think that is my ticket home,” Mirza commented. Syed watched him unzip the duffle bag and pull the contents out onto the ground. It contained a fully body harness, a length of high tensile cable and a gas bottle connected to a large red sack. The
Skyhook extraction system
had been pioneered by the CIA during the Cold War. Although largely abandoned, it was perfect for this situation. Mirza was glad Ice had the foresight to show him how to use it.

“What is it?” the Hazaran chief asked.

“It’s a balloon.”

The old man looked at Mirza in disbelief as he slipped into the full body harness. “You are going to float away under a balloon?”

Mirza smiled as he tightened the harness straps. “In a way, yes.” He hooked the braided wire cable to the front of the harness and turned the tap on the gas bottle. With a hiss, the red sack inflated into a miniature airship complete with fins. It sailed into the air, dragging the cable with it.

The older man looked on in amazement. “I think your balloon is a little small, my friend,” he laughed, as the balloon reached the end of its tether and Mirza remained firmly planted on the ground.

“Thank you for saving my life, Syed.” Mirza pulled on a pair of goggles and placed both hands across his chest. “I will never forget that.”

“You are a brave warrior, Mirza,” Syed yelled over the roar of the aircraft as it flew directly over them.

Before Mirza could respond, the Pain Train snatched the balloon from the sky and he was ripped off the ground. The rush of wind filled his ears and his stomach lurched as he accelerated to 300 kilometers an hour in under five seconds. All Mirza could do was focus on keeping his arms and legs pressed tightly to his body. His world consisted of the roar of the wind and the biting pain of the harness. All of a sudden he felt hands grab him and he was hauled into the hold of the Pain Train. The ramp closed with a thump and Mirza climbed unsteadily to his feet.

“Welcome back on board, Mirza.” Mitch grabbed him in a huge bear hug, almost crushing the smaller man. “I’m so bloody glad you made it.”

“I’m sorry about Ice. It was my fault, I tripped a flare,” Mirza lamented, removing his goggles.

Mitch released his grip and looked the Indian in the eye. “You can’t dwell on it now, Mirza,” he said sincerely. “We need to focus on finishing the job. That’s what Ice would want.”

Mirza nodded. “I don’t understand, Mitch. We had that helicopter on the ground cold. One bomb would have ended it.”

“It wasn’t that simple. This nerve agent they’ve got their mitts on is bloody deadly. If we’d shwacked that chopper, every towelhead from here to Helmand would be with Allah.”

“Is that why there was an exclusion zone?”

“Yeah. Vance made it pretty clear that spreading a nerve agent over half the sandpit wasn’t an option,” Mitch explained, as he helped Mirza out of the harness. “Right now we’re tracking the chopper. You need to get some rest.”

Mirza was a mess: clothing torn and tattered, eyes bloodshot. “Good idea,” he said. “Wake me when we catch that helicopter. I’m not letting those evil bastards get away. I owe Ice that much.” He staggered down the aircraft and collapsed onto a roll-out mattress.

Mitch helped the loadmaster refurbish the extraction kit before returning to his terminal. He brought up the radar feed and confirmed the pilot was on course to intercept the helicopter. It was heading northwest towards the border with Turkmenistan, due to cross at least ten minutes before they caught it. Borders, though, meant nothing to the Pain Train.

Chapter 57

Kalai Moir Airfield, Turkmenistan

The airfield at the isolated township of Kalai Moir, fifty kilometers west of the Afghan-Turkmenistan border, had once been a staging base for Russian fighter-bombers. During the war jets had screamed across the border to bomb Mujahideen targets deep within Afghanistan. Over two decades since the withdrawal of Soviet forces, the 2000 meter airstrip was abandoned and had fallen into a state of disrepair.

The local authorities turned a blind eye to Dostiger’s use of the runway. His aircraft, an ancient and battered
AN-12
, landed on an irregular basis. Every few months or so, the old prop-driven transport plane would bring in a shipment of weapons, transfer the cargo with one of his helicopters, and return to Odessa with a load of drugs. It was a small, yet highly profitable venture in Dostiger’s business portfolio.