Combat Alley (2007) (23 page)

I was wondering if there would be any more excitement forthcoming, the journalist said. I hate to bother you, but I'm here to get stories. But I understand it's the tactical situation that drives things here in the combat area.

Yeah, Brannigan said, glad to turn his mind from his failed marriage. We either wait for orders or for a situation to develop that we must react to. Things have been quiet lately.

Sure, Wallenger said. He sank into silence, recalling that on the first morning in Afghanistan, Cruiser had made a remark about Doc Bradley helping a boy down in South America. The journalist cleared his throat. Ahem. There's something I've been meaning to ask you about. I bumped into a story during an assignment while I was in South America several months back. A group of Brazilian settlers was wiped out down in Bolivia. Much like what happened to the poor people in the Swati village. In fact, it was that incident that reminded me of the earlier one.

Yeah?

Yeah. American Green Berets were accused of the crime, but nothing came of it, Wallenger said. Do you happen to know anything about it? I thought you might, since you're in the 'business,' if you know what I mean.

I'm afraid I don't.

I interviewed a survivor, Wallenger continued. At least he said he was a survivor. He claimed he was a Brazilian and spoke Portuguese. He had photos of the crime scene he said had been taken by an itinerant priest.

It sounds like an unusual situation, Brannigan commented dryly.

It was, Wallenger agreed. The guy was found dead later after a battle with unknown forces in that same area. He was wearing the uniform of a Fascist revolutionary army. Further investigation showed he was from Portugal and had deserted from the Spanish Foreign Legion.

The memory banks of Brannigan's mind kicked up remembrances of the Gran Chaco area of Bolivia and a mission the Brigands had gone on there. It was their second sortie into combat as a group. The enemy in that instance had been Falangist Fascists who were making a mad bid to begin a revolution that would encompass all of South America. And the Brigands had been horrified by the slaughter of the illegal immigrant Brazilian farmers. It all came to an end in a final showdown at the site of the Fascist base camp. Two of the key men, both renegade Chilean paratroopers, were captured, but they later escaped in what was considered an inside job. Now both were thought to be somewhere in Europe, being hidden by neo-Nazis while waiting to try again.

Brannigan looked at Wallenger. I don't know a thing about it. Have a nice evening. He turned and walked back to his hootch.

.

LOGOVISHCHYEH

14 NOVEMBER

0200 HOURS

THE night was cold and raw as Andy Malachenko, Luka Yarkov, and Igor Tchaikurov rode from the stables out to the road that led down to Dolirod and Highway Panj. All three were fully armed with concealed pistols and AKS-74 assault rifles in their saddle scabbards.

The three men huddled down into their heavy coats, the earflaps of their fur caps pulled down and tied under their chins. Heavy mufflers covered their faces against the buffeting of the freezing wind. Andy was in the lead with his companions behind him as they left the Russian settlement and reached the bucolic route leading to their destination.

Z'dyehs stop, Andy said, raising his hand after they had gone a hundred or so meters.

Yarkov was ready to reach for his Tokarev pistol. What's the matter?

You are heading for a trap, Andy said. Marvesky and Surov want you both killed.

Tchaikurov looked first at Yarkov, then back to Andy. He didn't know whether to trust the Muscovite or not. The ex-Spetsnaz decided to sound him out. And how do you know of that? He was also ready to shoot the SEAL out of the saddle.

They want to get rid of you two so Surov can take over the gang, Andy explained. I am supposed to shoot you before we reach the highway, then join them in the car to drive up here. That was when they were going to announce Surov as the new leader.

Now Yarkov and Tchaikurov were looking at each other. Yarkov rode up close to Andy. And what has made you change your mind and decide not to kill us?

I want to get you both out of here and down into Afghanistan, Andy explained. I will take you to the Coalition Forces where you can give them information on the gang and the crime syndicate in Tajikistan.

Maybe we should shoot you, Tchaikurov growled. Then knock off the two bastards in the car, and take it for ourselves.

Andy shook his head. Why do that? You'll end up with no place to escape to. If you go with me you will be rewarded. He now noted both had pistols in their hands, and he grew nervous. Listen! You will have a chance to go to America.

Ha! Yarkov laughed. How are you going to get us to America, Mikhail Andreovich?

I am an American, Andy announced.

I speak English, Tchaikurov announced. I studied the language for three years in KGB school. He switched to the language, saying, Tell me about yourself.

I know a safe way out of the Kangal Mountains down to the Pranistay Steppes, Andy explained in English. From there I will take you to the Coalition Forces. I was born in Russia but grew up in Brighton Beach, New York. He paused. Hell! If I wanted to shoot you two guys, I could have done it before now.

Tchaikurov stared at him openmouthed, then turned to Yarkov. He is telling the truth. The fellow is an American alright!

Yarkov stuck his pistol back in its holster. So just what the hell are you doing out here? You must be CIA!

We do not have time for a lot of chitchat right now, Andy said. I will explain all later. Right now, we should make a run for it.

Yarkov chuckled. In that case, lead on, Amerikanets.

Andy pulled on the reins of his horse, heading for the route he had discovered during his covert reconnaissance some weeks earlier.

Chapter 17

THE PRANISTAY STEPPES

14 NOVEMBER

0500 HOURS

THE wind was freezing and vicious as it buffeted the trio of riders going down the icy slope toward the lowlands. Andy Malachenko was in the lead with Luka Yarkov and Igor Tchaikurov following. The group allowed their horses to pick the best route across the rocks. As they neared the steppes, particles of stinging dust were picked up by the swirling airstream to add to the discomfort.

Yarkov kicked his horse in the flanks and trotted up beside the SEAL. How far do we have to go?

I do not know, Andy replied. Do either one of you have a map?

Yarkov shook his head. They would do us no good. Map reading is not part of Russian military training unless one is a commissioned officer.

In that case, we shall continue riding due east, Andy said. Eventually I will spot a landmark I recognize. But we have to avoid the Pashtun villages. I do not know which tribes to trust, so it is best to stay away from all of them.

I agree, Yarkov said. At any rate, there are a few who would love my and Tchaikurov's heads.

Eventually the three instinctively formed into a wedge formation with Andy in the advanced center position. As the ride continued, the trio settled into the discomfort with soldierly stoicism, doing their best to ignore the stinging cold dealt them by the elements.

.

0800 HOURS

YARKOV left his spot and once again joined Andy. The Russian leaned close so he wouldn't have to shout over the loud whistling of the wind. We must rest our mounts. There is no forage for them, so we cannot ride them too hard.

Good idea, Andy said, not having enough experience with horses to consider their welfare.

They rode into a dip in the ground that offered some protection from the wind, and dismounted. The saddles were taken off the horses, and after securing the animals the humans turned to their own comforts. Andy reached into his saddlebags and pulled out some packages. I knew we would be going for a long ride, so I brought along some extra rations. I have chocolate, instant coffee, some cheese and sardines.

The Russians laughed hard, and Yarkov said, We bought food too. As we told you earlier, we knew there was something suspicious about going down to the highway, so we were prepared to knock you off along with whoever was in the car. Then we were going for a long drive.

We have extra money too, Tchaikurov added.

Andy grinned. Well, let's eat then. Did you bring any bread?

Yes, Yarkov said. And strawberry jam.

We will have a pir, Tchaikurov said. A feast, eh?

They broke out their goodies and made some comparisons about who had what and how much, then divvied everything up. Within a few minutes, the one camp stove that Andy had bought was lit up to boil water in the pot that Tchaikurov contributed. Yarkov took a bite of a Nestle chocolate bar and glanced over at the SEAL. Where are we headed, Mikhail Andreovich? And what is going to happen to us there?

I should tell you something now, Andy said. I serve in the American Navy SEALs. My real name is Andrei Malachenko. You will first visit my commanding officer at our bivouac for a brief introduction. From there you will be flown from Afghanistan to an American base. That is where you will be given a thorough debriefing.

What about that reward you talked about? Tchaikurov asked.

Andy wasn't certain about any rewards or special treatment, but he knew enough to put a positive spin on his remarks. That will be taken care of when you get to America. That's far above my station. You will eventually meet the people who will bring you through that phase. The U. S. government has a special protection program that provides new identities, jobs, and money.

The two Russians grinned at each other and turned their attention to the snacks. Andy settled back, satisfied that he was bringing two valuable assets into the system.

.

1000 HOURS

THE three evaders were back into the humdrum riding through the cold that dominated the monotonous terrain of the steppes. Andy Malachenko referred to his compass now and then to make sure they stayed on an easterly course. The sun, high and distant, did little to raise the temperature; even its illumination was weak and wintry.

The crack of a bullet broke the air around them and was quickly followed by the sound of a gunshot. The riders twisted in their saddles and looked to the rear. A dozen or so riders galloped toward them, firing erratically and inaccurately in their direction. A quick look around showed the only cover available was some distant boulders near the northern foothills. No orders were necessary as they galloped toward the protection with Tchaikurov in the lead.

After going a hundred meters, Yarkov's horse went down and the Russian hit the dirt hard, rolling violently over the unyielding terrain. The ever loyal Tchaikurov wheeled around and galloped back to his chief. Andy reined in and pulled his AKS-74 from the scabbard, providing covering fire while Yarkov jumped up behind Tchaikurov. Then they renewed their race for the rocky area.

It took ten minutes to reach the site, and all three jumped from their horses and took up firing positions. Yarkov had only his pistol since his rifle was back with his horse, and he held his fire to wait for their pursuers to draw closer before taking any shots at them. Andy and Tchaikurov squeezed off a couple of rounds each to discourage the attackers, but they continued closing the distance.

Then the bad guys quickly dismounted too, turning their mounts over to a couple of horse handlers. With that done, they scampered from boulder to boulder to close in. A few more shots were exchanged with no casualties on either side. Within a couple of minutes they were within the range of Yarkov's pistol. He took careful aim, then stopped as he suddenly yelled out, Hey! Mo budem Rusho!

The firing ceased as Tchaikurov took a close look. Those bastards are Tajiks.

Correct, Yarkov said. And one of them is that idiot Akali. He yelled out again, this time in Russian. Akali! I am Luka Yarkov!

Now all the Tajik bandits stood up and looked at each other in confusion. Akali, with no knowledge of the language, recognized the Russian. He waved and began walking toward the three men in the cover of the larger boulders. Andy relaxed now as the bandits approached. He counted ten of them, with the two in the distance holding the horses. Both Russians stood up and the bandits grinned at them as they drew closer.

Now! Yarkov said in a low whisper.

He and Tchaikurov opened fire on the Tajiks, the latter's selector on full automatic. The victims had only a couple of brief seconds of surprise before the bullets ripped into their bodies. One man, lagging behind the others, tried to run, but he too was toppled by quick bursts of 5.45-millimeter slugs.