Breaux judged they had been sent along on this mission to ride shotgun on an especially important cargo. Maybe the brass back at Kharkov had gotten nervous and wanted to add a little insurance coverage to the package. Whatever the reason, the Hinds had tagged along.
Suddenly Breaux saw the signs of struggle out of the corner of his eye. It was at a nearby rock ledge occupied by a group of Peshmerga. To his horror Breaux saw two men wrestling each other, heard their quarrelsome oaths echoing across the canyon, saw and heard other Peshmerga rushing to the scene.
Again he looked up toward the Hinds, relieved to see that they continued on along a straight path, for the moment oblivious to the commotion below.
Breaux turned his attention back toward the struggle. Now one of the Kurds knocked the other down and rose to his knees, and the dark silhouette of a blunt-ended tubular object described a tangent in the night as it pointed at the sky.
Damn — he was going to fire a Stinger missile at one of the Hinds.
Breaux moved quickly, sprinting across broken ground, his combat knife already unscabbarded, knowing what would have to be done, and done quickly to avoid blowing the entire mission. As he advanced, Breaux saw the prone man rise, knock the other down before he could fire. The black tubular weapon fell into darkness once more. Breaux would not give it a second chance to sweep upward again.
In moments he had reached the scene of the continuing struggle. The first man had again shoved the other one down. Breaux reached the Kurd with the Stinger shoulder-fire weapon as he raised it again.
Breaux sprang and grabbed the hill man by the hair, pulling his head back and twisting his neck with a savage wrench. The neck broke in a second with a dull, wishbone-snapping sound and the man went limp. Breaux cradled the dying man's head in the crook of his arm, slowly lowering him to the broken earth and silencing any noises he might have made as life left him.
He lay prone and watchful beside the corpse, searching for the Hinds. To his chagrin he saw that the gun ships had slowed their forward progress. They were now hovering in a search pattern, as though they had seen something on the floor of the ravine.
Breaux's hand moved to the missile launcher that had fallen near the dead man. If they attacked, he would have to use it anyway. There would be no other choice. The entire operation would be compromised and Eagle Patcher commandos would probably be killed in the fire-fight that would follow.
In the air, the immense steel dragonflies darted and hovered, moved to and fro, circling through the canyons. Amplified by reflection off the sheer rock walls of the defile, the chugging of the Hinds' main rotors took on a deafening cadence, crept into the skull like rats into a hole, chewed its way into the brain.
It quickly became a contest of nerve, a battle against the fear-fed urge to strike first before the Hinds shot up the valley with cannon fire or air-to-ground missiles and the voice of prudent caution that counseled, "Stay put, wait it out, see what happens."
The Hinds continued to dart and hover, circle and dance, rise and fall. More tense moments ticked away. And then suddenly the two helos climbed for altitude and sped westward along the track of the departed Antonov.
Moments later they were gone.
Breaux was rolling the corpse of the Peshmerga guerilla who had been panicked into nearly firing at the Hinds into a convenient chimney in the rocks. The other Kurd, the one who'd tried to stop him, was jabbering away in Dari, the Kurdish dialect of Farsi, while bowing and trying to kiss Breaux's mud-spattered boots. Rempt translated, something about how Allah might bless him for saving them all with his quick thinking.
Breaux's response was to kick the sniveling Kurd in the face, shattering his nose, and walking away as the injured hillman howled in pain.
All Breaux knew was this: these shits had fucked up. They could not be trusted. They were a liability and Detachment Omega did not need liabilities — there were far too many on this mission already.
Sometime later, the Antonov set down on a desert runway marked by luminous green chemlights. The Spetsnaz commander ordered his crew to start offloading the cargo onboard the Vafl'a — which meant "Flying Dick," a Russian nickname for any cargo aircraft — to the small convoy of waiting GAZ 3937 Vodnik four-bys that loitered near the airstrip.
While this was taking place, there was one other detail to which he had been instructed to attend.
"You are Karlovich?" asked Major Ogarkov, as he compared the color photograph he had produced from his field jacket pocket with the face of the man standing before him in the night.
"Yes, tovarisch," answered the physicist. "You are my driver, then?"
"That is correct, tovarisch," replied the Spetsnaz, finishing another Sobranie and flicking it into the night. "Your bag, please."
The commander accepted the scientist's grip and stowed it in the rear of the staff car, then pulled open the door.
"Please have a seat."
"The ride will not be long?" asked Karlovich.
"No," replied Ogarkov, "it is very short. You will be able to rest and wash up in no time."
"I meant…"
"Ah yes, I see," Ogarkov cut in. "That is not a problem. The entire desert is yours."
Karlovich muttered something and walked off into the night. The Spetsnaz leaned against the side of the staff car as he watched him disappear around a large rock formation and lit another smoke. He took a long, deep drag and then shrugged, thinking that now was as good a time as any.
Pushing himself erect off the side of the vehicle, Ogarkov followed Karlovich's footprints in the loose sand covering the desert crust. As he reached the outcropping, the major drew his 9-millimeter Makarov PM (Pistolet Makarov) semiautomatic service pistol and casually threaded an eccentric-chamber LARAND-type suppressor tuned to the specific sound dynamics of the weapon onto its muzzle.
None of his men heard the volley of rapid clicks that signaled the entry of bullets into the back of the traitor's skull. Major Ogarkov's roughened hand unthreaded the now hot silencer, dropped it into the pocket of his field jacket and re-holstered the semiautomatic pistol.
Some blood spatter had gotten on his palm — he had held it upraised as a splash guard — and he wiped it clean on the sand. It was a lucky break that the traitor had a weak bladder; saved him a trip into the night to do the job. But burying him — ni khuya — that was work for one of his men. The major would have no part of that.
"Ryabov! Kushkin!" he shouted toward the trucks as he two-fingered another smoke from the crushed pack in his pocket. "Get the fuck over here on the double. I have a job for you two lazy svoloki…"
Chapter Eight
Breaux walked through the mostazafin encampment, feeling the hostile eyes of the Peshmerga upon him. He was on his way to Rempt's yurt to be briefed on new developments concerning Force Omega mission in the Elburz. Just ahead of Breaux, a group of pancake-hatted and turbaned men carrying Kalashnikovs had congregated, and it was clear by their glances and gestures that Breaux was the topic of conversation.
It was also clear they weren't paying him any compliments. No matter that the trigger-happy rag head would probably have signed all their death warrants by shooting at the Hinds. All that the clannish hill tribesmen knew was that Haneen had left behind a bereaved widow and five hungry children.