They flew high where they could not be taken by automatic rifle and machine gun fire.
Sometimes they hit the homes, more often the big bombs whistled down with a cat's screech short of the village into the fields and the orchards.
In the cave's mouth the blast of the explosions stung in Barney's ears. He had never before been under aerial bombardment. Simulated stuff, of course he had been through that. But never this…
And he was safe, away from the village. He was safe while the women and children of Atinam cowered in caves that were nearer their homes, and they could see their homes and their food stores burning, and they could hear the screams of their animals under the orchard trees. Mia would be closer to the bombs, she would be with the people that she could help. He thought that Gul Bahdur was pounding his back but he could hear nothing.
He saw an explosion amongst the trees. He saw goats scatter away, those that had not been caught by the winging shrapnel. He wondered where Gul Bahdur had tethered Maggie. And he heard through the bomb blasts the voice of Mia Fiori beside the river pool; he saw the skin of her neck; he heard the light tread of her feet; he saw the gentleness of her fingers.
'You are a coward, if you won't fire…a coward…you should have stayed with your own people.'
Gul Bahdur's hysterical screaming spilled onto Barney.
'Not against the planes, Gul Bahdur.'
'You are frightened of the planes.'
'I can't kill them, not like the helicopters.'
'Shut your silly little face, kiddie,' Schumack said. 'It will be different when the helicopters come, I promise you.'
'You are a coward, you are frightened…' Gul Bahdur sneered.
'Shut up, kiddie.' Cold anger from Schumack.
Barney turned away from the valley and faced the boy.
'Do you see those flares? They would divert the Redeye system. They are too fast for us. If we fire the Redeye and we hit, that is a victory. If we fire and we miss, that is a defeat. We want only to win, Gul Bahdur. Wait till the helicopters come.'
'Watch your bastard mouth till then, kiddie,' Schumack said. With his claw he scratched at Barney's shoulder. 'I don't know what you said to Ahmad Khan, I've never known the hairies hold their fire like this. They've given you a chance. For them not to fire on attacking aircraft is like telling a man in the desert not to drink. It's the hardest thing in their lives. They've given you a chance. You'd better take that chance.'
'You think the helicopters will come?'
'Bet your ass,' Schumack said.
The Colonel of Intelligence dropped the blown-up photograph onto Medev's desk, slapped down on top of it a heavy magnifying glass. Rostov craned over Medev's shoulder.
Medev found a woman walking, a trembling image under the wavering glass. Something white held above her head. He gazed at it. His eyes squinted, his brow furrowed at his inability to see the significance of the image. Rostov leaned further forward, his breath on Medev's neck.
A grin broke over Rostov. 'It's a bra. We have discovered there is a woman who wears a white bra in area Delta. Excellent.'
'Past her on the path.' The Colonel of Intelligence flicked his fingers irritably. 'Further down the path.'
Medev found three figures walking on the clear line of a track beside a river bed.
His hand was trembling, the image jumped before his eyes. The one who walked ahead of the other two caught his attention. There was an outlined smear on the man's shoulder. Instinct told him it was a man with a missile launcher. He traversed to the other two figures behind, they could be carrying replacement tubes or mortar tubes or RPG-7 tubes. But the man who walked in front carried a missile launcher. He knew it, he would have sworn to it.
'Your man,' the Colonel of Intelligence said with satisfaction.
Rostov could not see the image on which Medev focused. 'What woman would wear a bra in that valley?'
Medev did not look at him. 'Try a European woman, try a nurse.'
He spoke from the side of his mouth as if unwilling to break away even for an instant from the figure who walked with the missile launcher balanced on his shoulder. His man, his enemy. The man who had downed two helicopters, filled four bodybags.
'Where is this path?'
'The village of Atinam, north end of the valley, this morning. The Antonov's camera.'
'Would we be permitted to fly the whole squadron against the village, only against the village?'
'It is not my decision. For myself, with the launcher identified, I would recommend that the village is destroyed.'
Medev pushed the photograph and the magnifying glass away across his desk. He seemed to shake himself, then bit briefly at his lower lip as if the pain could somehow sharpen him.
'All the crews on "Ready", I want an immediate briefing.'
Rostov hurried from the office.
'And there was no firing at the aircraft when they attacked Atinam?'
'None,' the sombre reply from the Colonel of Intelligence.
'Why should they not fire on the aircraft, however futile that would be?'
'Because they play a game with you, and the game has continued too long. It is time that the game was finished.'
Medev walked to the window. He stared out at the line of Mi-24 gunship helicopters.
'Each time he thinks in terms of a trap, a trap to draw me in,' Medev mused. But he could not stay away from the valley, not when photo reconnaissance showed him a man walking with a missile launcher on his shoulder. His pilots must fly. Trap or no trap.
The pilot, Sergei, was twenty-two years old.
A little past one o'clock in the afternoon he lifted off the tarmac at Jalalabad, took the Mi-24 sluggishly up in company with his pair, the helicopter of Alexei.
He was consumed at that time with a sense of anger. He had asked at the briefing when all the pilots had been present, in front of them all, why they had not been issued with the anti-missile flares that could be fired from the helicopter. He had been told that the flares had been requested from Kabul, that they had not yet arrived. He had asked whether the fixed wings flying earlier over the valley had been equipped with decoy flares. He had been told that flares were standard for the SU-24 aircraft and not for the Mi-24 helicopter. Medev had barked at him that what could be done was being done, that if he thought he was better able to breathe some fire up Kabul's arse then he could try himself to get the flares from Central Equipment Depot.
Such was the anger of the pilot, Sergei, that he had given no consideration to the possibility of his own death on that September afternoon.
They flew in pairs, as always, and at staggered heights into area Delta.
Above the valley was the Antonov spotter that would circle high over the village of Atinam and maintain a constant radio relay link between the helicopter pilots when they dived low for their attack and Jalalabad Operations.
At twenty-two years of age, the pilot Sergei was already highly qualified in the technique of helicopter flying, was regarded as of outstanding officer material. In his tour of duty he had twice been commended for the quality of his flying at low level in support of ambushed military convoys.
Over area Delta, over the entrance to the valley, his temper had abated to a sharp irritability as he ordered his gunner to test fire the nose canopy machine guns. He could not hear the blast from the depressed barrels but through the tinted glass he could see the bright flashes and feel the rocking on the momentum of the helicopter.
From all the pilots who flew fast and on full power along the valley from south to north, he had been selected, marked down.
Four kilometres short of the village of Atinam they had seen the smoke that lingered from the bombers' attack. The smoke filled the valley, compressed and held there under the valley's walls.