Seals (2005) (19 page)

Joe had been teamed with Connie Concord and Bruno Puglisi on the new 60-millimeter mortar, and the three had spent most of the previous evening running through crew drill as they rotated the jobs of gunner, assistant gunner and ammo bearer. They had plenty of shells, but the Skipper had not allowed any live firing. He was concerned about alerting any unfriendlies who might be lurking within the OA looking for them. The Skipper wanted to conceal this heavy weaponry as a big nasty surprise for any mujahideen who might come looking for trouble.

Joe put the binoculars to his eyes for another look at the top of East Ridge across the valley. It was a comfortably warm morning, with the sun already making the air under the camouflage stuffy. He shook his head to chase the drowsiness away, then stopped. A distant "chop-chop" sound came from the north, and he swung his gaze in that direction. Within moments he could see a helicopter flying straight at the mountain. He picked up the PRC-112 radio. "Charlie Papa, this is Oscar Papa. Over."

Frank Gomez's voice came back immediately. "This is Charlie Papa. Over."

"We got a chopper of some sort coming right at us," Joe reported. "It's flying at an altitude of maybe a hundred or so feet higher than the ridge. I can't determine the type, but the engine sound isn't familiar to me. Over."

"Roger," Frank replied. "Wait." A few moments passed, then he spoke again. "We're going under cover. Stay down. Out."

Within ten minutes an old model Soviet Mi-24 helicopter flew slowly, almost nonchalantly across the ridge top. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan studied it through a small gap in the camouflage across the top of the CP. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins, beside the Skipper, could also see the intruder. The senior chief was confused. "That's an old'un, sir."

"It sure is," Brannigan agreed. "It's a Soviet Mi-24 Hind model, and it's not fully equipped. There's nothing on its weapons wings."

"A machine gun barrel is sticking out the front," Dawkins observed. "That seems to be just about all he's packing."

"As I recall, those Hind choppers have a crew of three," Brannigan said. "The pilot and gunner sit side by side in the upper cockpit while the navigator is in the lower position."

The chopper went out to the south, then turned and came back for a run in the opposite direction. As it swept by, both men could easily discern only two men in the aircraft. One was in the pilot's seat and the other in the front cockpit manning the machine gun.

"They've jury-rigged that baby to work with what's in their arsenal," Brannigan remarked.

"It's prob'ly Afghan Army," the senior chief opined. "I'll bet my next payday that them guys is stuck with surplus equipment left over after the Soviets pulled out."

"That means the stuff they've got is more than twenty years old."

After buzzing the base camp for a few more minutes, the helicopter suddenly turned and headed off onto a northern course, slowly flying off in the distance.

"Okay, Senior Chief," Brannigan said when the sound of the engine had faded completely away. "Secure the men from cover and get them back to work."

"Aye, sir!"

.

AL-SARAYA CASTLE

1015 H0URS LOCAL

THE pilot eased the chopper into a turn, lining up with the helicopter pad near the rear portal of the fortification. A well-trained technician used hand signals to direct him in, monitoring the landing to completion. When the engine was cut, the young guy smiled and proffered a sharp salute. The gunner, a trained mujahideen, opened the Plexiglas cockpit cover and stepped out to drop to the ground. The pilot unbuckled himself and went down to the troop compartment door opened for him by the technician.

"Did you find the infidels, Captain?" he asked eagerly.

The pilot, Captain Mohammed Sheriwal, answered affirmatively. "They were most skilled with their camouflage, but I was able to spot a few positions."

"You must have flown very slow, Captain."

"Yes. In cases like that it is necessary to appear to be looking and looking without finding," Sheriwal said. "In that manner, the enemy thinks you cannot see him, as you seem to aimlessly go hither and thither."

"Very 'clever, Captain!" the technician exclaimed in unabashed admiration.

A young mujahideen officer walked up and saluted. "Captain, the Amir awaits you."

"Then let us go to him immediately," Captain Sheriwal said. "I have important news."

MUHAMMAD Sheriwal had been born Gregori Ivanovich Parkalov in the suburbs of Moscow. His father was a machinist in Manufacturing Plant 21, which specialized in home appliances, while his mother worked as an X-ray technician in a neighborhood clinic. Gregori was an average kid growing up in the Soviet Union. He belonged to the Young Communist League and joined the paramilitary Volunteer Society for Assistance to the Army, Air Force and Navy of the USSR when he was fifteen. This cumbersome title was reduced to the acronym ROCAAct) (DOSAAF). It was in this organization that the Soviet youth were introduced to the various aspects of military service. DOSAFF even tested the young members' aptitude to see where they might best fit into the armed forces when it came time for them to do their bit for Mother Russia. These examinations and interviews determined that Gregori Parkalov was a natural to become a helicopter pilot.

When Gregori was eighteen, he reported to the local draft board for the obligatory two years' service in the Soviet Army. However, because of his DOSAAF file, rather than being assigned to a motorized rifle division, as were most conscripts, he was poSted to the Army's tactical helicopter training center. This was a lot better than having to deal with the brutal bullying and hazing of older soldiers as a recruit in the infantry.

The helicopter training still included plenty of discipline and political indoctrination, but it concentrated on turning the students into excellent military chopper pilots. The downside of the situation was that instead of serving two years, he would be required to put in five. But he and his comrades consoled themselves with the knowledge that when they completed their terms of service, they would be eligible for good-paying jobs as professional helicopter aviators. This meant prestigious positions in Aeroflot, the civil air organization in the People's and Worker's Paradise of the Soviet Union.

But Gregori Parkalov did not complete his five years. After being sent to Afghanistan in 1980, he flew dangerous missions delivering detachments of Spetsnaz Special Forces far into the hinterlands of the mujahideen rebels, to attack them where they lived and hid. After many close calls from numerous Stinger barrages fired at his aircraft, the young Russian was eventually shot down by one of the American-furnished weapons. It was all he could do to control his aircraft as it spun crazily downward to crash. He managed to bring it to the ground in one piece, but he and his crew were captured.

This was when he met the Warlord Hassan Khamami, who had been fighting the Soviets and their Afghanistan puppets for several years. Khamami had scored significant victories, and mujahideen flocked to his unit to share in the glory and spoils of successful ambushes and raids. The warlord had amassed a great amount of war booty while being paid plenty of American dollars by CIA personnel who supported him and his growing personal army.

Most prisoners were executed outright when they fell into the mujahideen's hands. But helicopter pilots were something else. Khamami had given standing orders that they were to be brought directly to him. This was how Gregori Parkalov and the Afghanistan warlord met.

When the Soviets finally withdrew from their futile war, they left behind a plethora of weaponry and other material. Among these were helicopters. Khamami needed all this if he was to fulfill his personal plan of ruling at least half of Afghanistan within a decade. His army commanders were handpicked, combat-proven leaders who had been well trained by the CIA. As infantry officers they were excellent, and as guerrilla leaders they were superlative. What Khamami needed now was an air force. He had three pilots from the Afghanistan Army, but it was obvious they had received little technical training in the maintenance and repair of the Hind model helicopters. However, the Soviet prisoner of war had already demonstrated a great deal of expertise in the mechanical side of that phase of aerial warfare.

Khamami gave Gregori Ivanovich Parkalov a choice. Stay behind and serve him as his airforce commander or be executed by beheading. Gregori chose to keep his head on his shoulders, and was made an auxiliary member of the warlord's army. He was never fully trusted, however, and during those times he actually piloted a helicopter, an armed mujahideen accompanied him with orders to kill the Russian if he tried any tricks such as flying toward the border of any of the Soviet socialist republics.

After six months of the arrangement, it dawned on Gregori Parkalov that he had an excellent chance to become wealthy. Aside from the war patrols, there was also plenty of flying in opium smuggling. In spite of the suspicion he worked under, the Russian was given a full share of the spoils. With his sights set on making even more money, Gregori went to Hassan Khamami and swore allegiance if the warlord would make him a full member of his army rather than a hostage. To prove himself, the Russian agreed to convert to Islam. Such a gesture was definite proof of his sincerity; not so much because of the religious aspects, but because it required circumcision without the benefit of anesthesia. Khamami happily accepted the offer, even throwing in a direct commission in the rank of captain for the ex-Soviet pilot.

Thus, Gregori Ivanovich Parkalov became Mohammed Sheriwal, who now had personal quarters in the castle, where he kept his three wives and one Dharya concubine. Also, through the aid of Zaid Aburrani, Sheriwal had been able to send 750,000 euros to a secret Swiss bank account. Now all he had to do was figure a way to get out of Khamami's fiefdom to get the money. Then he could return to Russia for a life of luxury.

WARLORD Hassan Khamami eagerly awaited Mohammad Sheriwal's arrival in the throne room. He had heard the helicopter land and needed the pilot's report before he could seriously begin a campaign against the infidels who had driven Durtami from his fiefdom.

Sheriwal was admitted into the warlord's presence, and reported to Khamami with a proper Soviet salute. This was a habit he had never been able to break. "Amir," he said in fluent but accented Pashto. "I have returned from the reconnaissance patrol over the suspected enemy area."

"And what did you find, Captain Sheriwal?" Khamami asked with undisguised impatience.

"The ridge is occupied by an armed force," the experienced combat pilot reported. "I am not sure of the exact size. They are definitely under battalion strength. I think at the most they might be a reinforced detachment or company."

"At the most?" Khamami asked. "Are you saying there is a chance they might be less than company size?"

"Yes, Amir. In truth, I would say they number somewhere between a dozen to perhaps two dozen that are cleverly camouflaged and dug in on that mountaintop."

Khamami broke out in loud laughter. "So! Those are the thousands of infidels who routed Durtami and his miserable band of hill bandits, eh?" He began laughing again, barely able to control his amusement. After a couple of minutes he calmed down enough to speak. "I can tell you one thing, Captain. The easy life the invaders have enjoyed up to now is about to come to an abrupt end."

"My men and helicopters are at your service," Sheriwal said.

"And so are my eight hundred mujahideen infantrymen," Khamami pointed out.

Chapter 13

WEST RIDGE BASE CAMP

25 AUGUST

0530 HOURS LOCAL

CHARLIE Team had the responsibilities of the morning watch, but they didn't have to sound the alarm to wake the platoon when the loud "chop-chop" of helicopter engines broke the early morning silence.

Everyone stayed under cover as per SOP, looking to the east in the direction of the disturbance. The noise grew steadily louder, but the sun's low position on the horizon made it difficult to see the exact positions of the aircraft or what nationality they might be. Then suddenly three dark shapes could be discerned approaching the ridge in trail.

The lead Mi-24 turned to the north and the others followed, maintaining exact distances between themselves in the formation. This was skillful, precise piloting, and in less than a minute -they made a leisurely turn toward the south, perfectly aligned with the ridge line. Then the noses dropped and the speed increased as they sped toward the base camp.

The rapid staccato of heavy machine gun fire from the first chopper broke out as slugs kicked up the dust on the ridge top. The gunner, sitting in the front cockpit, swung the barrel back and forth as he hosed the ground below. Immediately the second chopper followed suit, sending steady fusillades to splatter heavily along the top of the mountain's apex. The third did the same, then the small group swung out to turn for another run.