Combat Alley (2007) (17 page)

I shall look forward to it, Andy said. He watched the man head back to his cubicle, then set his backpack on the bunk and sat down beside it. He knew what was coming and he was ready.

He didn't have long to wait.

A man a couple of beds down got up and stared at him. The guy was big with a lanky muscularity. He wore an undershirt, revealing a myriad of tattoos on his arms and shoulders. He walked down to Andy, then bent over and picked up his backpack.

Put that down, Andy said.

The man ignored the command and began undoing the straps. Andy stood up slowly, then exploded into a single straight punch as he drove the heel of his hand in an upward motion to the guy's chin. The tormentor's head snapped back and he collapsed to the floor, hitting heavily, completely unconscious and unmoving. Andy retrieved his backpack, then dragged the guy down to his bed and left him.

Suddenly another barracks dweller jumped up and charged straight at Andy, leaping over a couple of bunks. It appeared the SEAL was going to meet the charge, but he suddenly stepped to one side at the last moment, reached out, and grabbed his assailant's right wrist while spinning around. Now the guy was moving in the opposite direction, and a kick in the ass propelled him into a sliding fall across the floor. Andy rushed up and placed his foot on the back of his neck, pressing down hard.

Mmm, the SEAL mused. Do I step down quickly and kill you straight off or just keep applying pressure until a loud crack announces your broken neck?

The others were now grinning at their buddy on the floor, who mumbled, You are not very sociable. Do you not prefer to get along with your new friends?

Andy knew he had passed the test, and he lifted his foot. Sure. I think you all are a bunch of very nice fellows. But I do not appreciate it when my belongings or I am personally trifled with. He glanced around. None of you had better do that again.

Now Tchaikurov was back, chuckling. Tell everybody your name.

I am Mikhail Andreovich Molotosky, Andy announced.

Very well, Mikhail Andreovich, Tchaikurov said. Come with me and let us see to your blankets and weapons. We can do that now since you are still alive. You may leave your backpack on the bunk. Then he added in a threatening tone as he looked at the others. Nobody will touch your possessions.

At that point Andy was no longer worried.

AS the day passed, Andy alias Molotosky settled in and began to make friends with the others. He learned that for a payment of seventy somonis a month he could have meals prepared for him by a young Pashtun man who lived in one corner of the barracks. The others informed him that the guy was a homosexual who had been found wandering alone and shunned on the Pranistay Steppes. His people could have killed him for his sexual orientation, but the tribe had not expected him to live long out in the wilderness anyway. His name was Gulyar and he had several boyfriends among the ex-convicts. Normally this would have been violently condemned, but after so many years of incarceration, the veteran prisoners tolerated the relationships.

As Andy settled in, he acquired a few bottles of vodka from a crippled peddler who was called Torgovyets the Russian word for merchant by the others. Torgovyets lived in a small hutch near the entrance to the settlement and hitched rides into Khorugh, where he bought items he could resell for a profit to the other inhabitants. His lameness was the result of slashing his Achilles tendons to get out of hard labor during his prison days. He made himself useful to Yarkov's organization by standing double stretches of guard duty at night.

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2030 HOURS

RUSSIANS like vodka. Andy Malachenko alias Mikhail Molotosky was no exception. His father kept his vodka on the windowsill of their Brighton Beach apartment during the frigid months of winter. In the summertime it went into the freezer of their refrigerator. Vodka had been a very important part of the Malachenko family's social life with their expatriate neighbors.

Now Andy was in the company a group of ex-convicts knocking back deep gulps from tumblers as they sat around inside the barracks. Andy's treatment of his tormentors had been a cause for celebration as he was accepted as a full member of their group. Even the two men he had humiliated Yakob Putnovsky and Timofei Dagorov joined in the celebration with no hard feelings. Although pretty drunk, Andy was still under control and gave everyone his cover story in toto, telling of the extortion of kiosk owners, service in the Army, working at the stables for the nobodniks, and buying a passport in order to flee south to get away from the Moscow police. Everyone thought it was great, and they peppered him with questions about the modern Russia that they had never seen. He knew enough to be up-to-date from what his parents had told him of their former lives, along with information gleaned from letters sent by relatives. But instead of hearing about their motherland making the men homesick, it convinced them they could never go back to such an unorganized, wheeling-and-dealing society. And, of course, those under a death sentence would face extremely fatal consequences if they wandered back across the border.

As the drinking increased and the conversation became more animated and interesting, someone suggested they load into a couple of the cars and go down to the whorehouse in Dolirod.

The group, leaving behind a trio of hardcore drinkers who preferred inebriation to sex, staggered out of the barracks into the cold. A driver and a couple of the quicker men got into the cab of an ancient Soviet GAZ transport truck while Andy and the others clambered into the back. It took a bit of doing to turn the motor over, but within ten minutes the vehicle and its shit-faced passengers were bouncing down the mountain road toward the town. The wind in the back was frigid enough that everyone ducked down to avoid the blast. Andy stood up for an instant to look ahead, noting that only one headlight seemed to be working. He sat back down, hoping like hell they would make it safely to the lowlands without skidding off the road to plunge into a deep mountain ravine.

The arrival in the town came to a halt in front of the bordello. Only it, the bar, and the restaurant displayed any evidence of electric lighting. The other buildings showed flickering lanterns in the windows. Andy followed the others as they left the truck and lurched toward the whorehouse.

His last intimacy with a female had been aboard the USS Dan Daly when he had a brief affair with a young lady petty officer who worked in the ship's navigation team as a quar-termaster's mate, so he was primed for a sexual encounter. The bordello was not as large a building as Andy expected, since the women entertained their clients in rooms where they lived. The available prostitutes waited in a communal parlor for customers since there was no madam or pimps.

Andy staggered and lurched into the place among the others and wasn't sure how he ended up with the woman who led him back to her quarters. She was a slim Tajik-Rus-sian who looked attractive to him in the vodka haze that danced through his brain. Being a young man he was able to satisfactorily conclude the transaction in spite of being shitfaced. Afterward he offered her a drink from the bottle of liquor he had with him. She refused, speaking in broken Russian. I not drink. It a sin.

Does that make much of a difference now? Andy asked.

Yes. Allah knows my life is hard. It is written in the Qu'ran that he is benevolent and munificent. So he understands and forgives for what I must do to feed myself and my children.

Andy considered what she said. She was using religious rationalization to convince herself that everything would be fine in the by-and-by. The SEAL looked up into her face, searching for some sign of emotion in the unfortunate woman. She smiled sadly at him, then stood up and took his hand to return to the waiting room.

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LOGOVISHCHYEH

WHEN the partying group got back to the barracks, they stormed inside. Igor Tchaikurov, the kapo, stepped from his cubicle and called out to Andy. Hey, Mikhail Andreovich. First thing tomorrow go to the stables. We will fit you up with a horse.

Sure, Andy said. What is the rush?

You are going with a group to do a reconnaissance patrol down on the Pranistay Steppes, Tchaikurov answered. It will be a good experience for you.

Chapter 13

THE PRANISTAY STEPPES

4 NOVEMBER

1330 HOURS

AFTER the excellent training in military equitation under the Pakistani Lieutenant Barakaat Sidiqui, Andy Malachenko found his new Russian companions a bit on the sloppy side when it came to riding horses. Although they were all ex-soldiers, they had never served in a cavalry unit and knew nothing about mounted formations or maneuvering on horseback. The leader of the group was Valentine Surov, who had surprised Andy with his fluency in Pashto. No doubt the ex-officer was one of those rare individuals who had a flair for the acquisition of foreign tongues.

Now, in the early afternoon chill, Andy was among a disorganized crowd of a half dozen Russians cantering across the steppes toward the Bhittani's main village for a confab. When he learned of the destination, the SEAL felt it would be a good idea to wear shades just in case some Pashtun might recognize him.

Andy felt a slight hangover from the unaccustomed amount of vodka consumed the evening before, although his cohorts didn't seem the worse for wear. The SEAL had gotten a bit out of shape in handling the aftereffects of the strong liquor since he hadn't been home for a while.

When they reached the outskirts of the village, the group slowed down to a walk, wending their way through the huts to the square. The malik, Ghatool, had already been apprised of their approach by lookouts and was waiting with a couple of the spinzhires and a tribal warrior at his side. After the Russians dismounted, some boys rushed forward to take the reins of their horses and lead the animals out of the way. The malik and Surov greeted each other, then sat down. The other visitors remained standing in a semicircle around the ex-officer and the Pashtun elders. Surov and Ghatool immediately fell into an intense conversation, with the warrior joining in from time to time to add his own comments. After twenty minutes, Surov stood up and addressed the Russians.

Ghatool has just told me there was an encounter with American soldiers, Surov explained. This man was present at the scene. He pointed to the warrior. His name is Mirzal, and he says there was an exchange of gunfire.

Andy's jaw tightened imperceptibly, knowing that the American soldiers would be nobody else but Brannigan's Brigands. Were there any casualties? he asked, putting his mouth into gear before his brain. It was a stupid thing to do, but his lack of experience as a spy had betrayed him once again.

Surov was confused as to why Andy would care, but he replied, Nobody on either side was shot.

How many Americans were they? Igor Tchaikurov inquired.

Mirzal says there were ten and that a Pashtun by the name of Chinar was also with the group. He is from the Janoon tribe and is acting as the Americans' translator.

Another Russian, Yakob Putnovsky spat. Shit! This means big problems for the opium harvest. That is one sure thing the amerikanski are more concerned about than anything else. Those bastards will be out chopping down the first plants that appear in the spring.

Andy knew that wasn't the case; at least not at the present.

This is going to make things a hell of a lot more difficult, Tchaikurov said.

It is bad news alright, Surov agreed. I am going to cut this patrol mission short and get back to Logovishchyeh as quickly as possible. Yarkov must learn about this new development immediately. Some serious preparations are going to have to be made if we are to deal with it effectively.

He gave a loud whistle, and the Pashtun boys brought the horses back for the visitors. In less than a half minute they were mounted up and galloping across the steppes in the direction they came from.

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SEALs BIVOUAC

1520 HOURS

DIRK Wallenger watched with extreme satisfaction as the USAF Pave Low chopper lowered toward the landing spot designated by Frank Gomez, who was the detachment's acting LSPO. This was a resupply flight that meant that Wallenger could also send out his tape cassettes for shipment back to the Global News Broadcasting studios in Washington. He and Eddie Krafton had done some interviewing with Janoon tribesmen while using Chinar as an interpreter, and the effort resulted in some excellent human interest features. The journalist was sure the tape would give the GNB ratings an extremely big boost. He could already see the Emmy within his grasp. If not that, the Stensland Communications Award was a sure thing.

As soon as the helicopter touched down, Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had the working party hurry aboard to wrestle the incoming cargo out of the fuselage. The shipment included hay and oats, MREs, the long-awaited arctic sleeping bags, beer, snacks, small gifts to be given to the Pashtuns, reading material, and most important the mail. After more than a year overseas, mail call was an allimportant event in the lives of Brannigan's Brigands. Another of Gomez's acting jobs was that of postal clerk. He even had a small briefcase in which he kept stamps and various forms to transfer mail deliveries and send in changes of address for detachment members who had been shipped out or sent TDy to other duty stations. While the unloading was going on, he went inside the aircraft for the mailbag, taking it over to his hootch to sort it out for distribution to the detachment.