“Impossible,” he stated, horrified by what he saw.
A piece of rotor blade from one of the Mi-24s was lodged in his jet. It missed smashing into his cockpit by less than a meter. The right side of the plane was damaged, a gap slashed in the wing.
This was impossible he told himself over and over again. Impossible! What, who, could send such a piece of metal so high, so accurate? Impossible, he thought again. He couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t understand the brutal truth that was so plainly obvious.
Something had thrown it.
The pilot pushed the throttle as far as it would go, engines moaning but still pushing. He sputtered across the sky, the large valley below, his comrades in pieces.
He had seen them, watched them damage metal, tear flesh, with their bare hands.
He had watched them feast.
The pilot flew toward base, silent in his misery.
30
Back in Siberia, at Vector Laboratory, the mood had changed. Silenced. The KGB wondered what it would be like to report such bad news.
The scientists wondered if they’d see the light of day again.
Mikhail sat motionless, as if the transmissions were but a nightmare.
After much time, much silence, someone finally spoke.
A KGB officer, his voice grumbling, offensive, said, “Mikhail, you need to come with us. You others, stay put.”
Mikhail bowed his head. He knew what was next.
The firefight was intense. At least four killed by friendly fire. A this moment, as the enemy flooded the room, it was every man for himself.
“Retreat!” Kirov screamed, firing. “Run for the helicopters.”
They did without hesitation. Problem was, the humans — the creatures — came from everywhere. They rushed from behind, some running on two legs, some on all fours. Others scurried across the walls. Even more jumped from the shadows, leapt from the hanging lights.
The Spetsnaz ran, sprinting with all their might. They’d stop, fire, reload and run. Over and over, they killed as many as they could. But the numbers weren’t what they expected. It wasn’t a dozen or two, but hundreds. Hundreds of angry Mujahideen who moved in impossible ways.
Around corners, through rooms. With every turn came the scream of another Spetsnaz, the slaughter of these valiant soldiers.
On and on, the killing continued. Sure, they got a few, but the creatures were too many, the cave too dark, the way too far.
The remainder of Kirov’s men died honorably, though, turning to spray the last rounds from their magazines, getting at least a few before they met their demise.
All in all, they had good deaths.
Kirov alone managed to make it to the main tunnel. He raced up, his left arm ripped open, his stomach dripping blood from a puncture. He turned, fired ten rounds, and kept running.
Halfway there.
His heart raced, his breathing rapid.
He could see the light, he could see the daytime and safety and it beckoned him. It pushed him to ignore the pain, ignore the loss of blood.
Finally, Colonel Kirov reached the tunnel’s entrance. He dropped to the ground, exhausted, the blood loss too much. He pulled a radio from his pocket, clicking it twice and muttering the words, “Alpha Firebird Red, this is Colonel Kirov…” he coughed, blood splashing out. “Get out of here! That’s an order. We’re all dead. Save yourselves,” he gurgled.
Then, he dropped the radio, too weak to hold it. Kirov took another step, his eyes up, looking at the clear skies, the warm sun.
His grandfather had given him this advice once. That when the moment comes, take a look to the sky just before you die. It’s the last time you will.
And he did.
And Ahmed walked up behind him. His mouth was agape, flooded with blood and foam. Fire raged in his eyes, his breathing low.
Kirov heard him, looked down, saw his AK-47 was empty.
He sighed, taking in a fresh breath before Ahmed dragged him back into the cave.
“Grak-ta,” Ahmed grunted, pulling the Colonel back into hell, already feasting on the man.
In the meantime, his Mujahideen warriors, his mutating and raging men flowed from the cavern. They scurried down the hill by the dozens, managing the rocks with ease, on the ground in no time.
And despite the efforts of Captain Drago and his men, they were no match. The creatures came and the Soviets died, killing as many as they could before moving on to the next life.
Captain Ivan Drago remembered to save one last bullet for himself.
KHOST
2010
United States/Afghanistan Conflict
Khost Province
31
General Wesley Kline was sixty-one years old and came from a long line of Army officers. He was proud of his position, proud of his command. He had worked hard to get to where he was, and if he played his cards right, he’d receive another star to his already three soon enough.
That is, if things weren’t such a mess at the moment.
This incident — the missing Delta Force Unit — was a thorn in his side. He despised most Special Forces, despised their ways, despised their attitudes and unconventional way of doing things. Who did these guys think they were? General Kline was a man who followed the rules, who believed in strict order, and he didn’t think Delta should receive special treatment. Not in the United States Army. No way! Kline preferred the structure of the rules and regulations, and felt that nobody had call to break them. He hated the way they did what they wanted — the loud music, long hair, not having to shave. Delta drove nice cars, had the best weapons. Detachment Delta fired more rounds in a single day of practice than the LA SWAT team did in a year.
Practice was fine, but Kline hated catering to them.
And even worse, Kline hated that these men weren’t under his direct command.
These past few weeks were a disaster. Ever since the Delta team went missing, Kline’s base had been in absolute chaos. He’d never seen so many bureaucrats, so many intelligence officers, so many men and women making demands, questioning his ways. The phone calls from the Joint Chiefs, the phones calls from Langley — they all annoyed him. This incident made him look bad, and the past three weeks gave him a headache. To make matters worse, the top brass weren’t happy, and this made Kline look incompetent, and he didn’t like that.
Not one bit.
If there was ever such thing as an Army elitist, General Kline was a super Army elitist. Superior at heart, he was most proud of his three stars. He felt he had earned them, though he’d never seen a day of combat in his life. Coming from a privileged military family, and with the right political connections, his career had been a good one. And despite the fact he’d never actually been in combat, he sure acted as if he had, often over-riding those who had seen combat, often putting them into place, giving orders he shouldn’t have been giving, giving advice he had no right giving.
But Kline, being a general and base commander, felt he had every right, felt he knew it all, and as long as his bosses were happy, he was happy. Since entering this hellhole known as Khost, the general had succeeded where others had failed. Though it wasn’t all his doing, he sure took credit for such matters. And even though the war effort didn’t always go according to plan, Kline’s numbers looked good on paper, and that’s all that mattered to him.
But Delta, he thought, fucking Delta.
Oh, how they pissed him off. They irritated him constantly, their knowledge, their expertise, their wild ways. They made him look bad to his own men, they made him feel inadequate, they made him feel as if he didn’t deserve the praise he often received.