By late afternoon the trees had dwindled further in both number and size, to be replaced by rock and brush. Fortunately, the brush was high enough to provide good cover.
Finally, night fell just as they reached the area Grishkov had picked to rest at before they made their pre-dawn crossing. So far, they had not seen or heard any hint that there were any other people nearby, let alone border guards. Yes, Grishkov thought to himself, we just might make it after all.
No sooner had Grishkov had the thought than a dull “pop” was followed by the brilliant illumination of an area about a kilometer away. The light lasted less than a minute, and then suddenly went out. Before it did, a machine gun chattered briefly, and was then silent.
“What was that?” Neda whispered fiercely.
“An 82 mm illumination mortar round, or something very much like it. The color of its light looks exactly like what we used in Chechnya, so I’d bet it’s one of ours that we sold to the Iranian Army,” Grishkov responded.
At the same time he chastised himself for his earlier optimistic thought. He might as well have issued the illumination round an engraved invitation, he thought morosely.
“So, what now?” came in another angry whisper from Neda.
No, not really angry, thought Grishkov. Frightened. He didn’t blame her, since he was a bit worried himself.
Grishkov answered in a low voice. “We wait and rest, just as we planned.
They’re at least a kilometer away. We’ve still got a good chance, as long as we keep our heads.”
Finally, Neda nodded and sat down on the ground with her back against a large rock. She found that while the air had quickly cooled, the rock’s surface still retained some of the day’s warmth. Well, she thought to herself, at least God is showing me some mercy. She pressed her back harder against the smooth rock, and tried not to think about the border guards.
The night seemed to stretch on forever, but finally Grishkov made a hand gesture with an unmistakable meaning. Forward.
Hunched over as Grishkov had instructed, they crossed single file over rocky ground leading to a grass-covered hill. Grishkov’s reading of his map told him that the base of the hill was the border with Iraq. They had been promised a helicopter pickup on the other side of the hill, where they would be safe from observation by troops on the Iranian side of the border.
Grishkov was elated as rock gave way to grass, and had just thought “We made it!” when he heard a “pop” that was much closer and louder than the last one. It was quickly followed by brilliant light, and an impact in his back that felt as though a giant was pushing him face-first into the grass. Only then did he hear the chatter of the machine gun.
It took several seconds before Grishkov could turn his head far enough to see that Vasilyev and Neda were also flat on their stomachs, but he couldn’t tell whether they had also been hit or were just seeking cover. A quick look around confirmed his first impression. Aside from hugging the ground, there was no cover. In the dying light of the illumination round suspended from its parachute, Grishkov could see the Iranian border guards moving forward.
The only question left was whether they had been ordered to shoot them on the spot, or bring them back for questioning.
A sudden roar of multiple engines from the other side of the hill, followed by the brilliant glare of spotlights, announced the arrival of the Iraqi Army.
Grishkov had to squint to see through the sudden glare, but counted at least five Humvees mounting M-2 .50 caliber machine guns and spotlights, as well as two Bradley Fighting Vehicles. Iraqi flags were flying from all of them.
Grishkov had seen many cannons larger than the 25mm variety mounted on the Bradley. He thought to himself that it had to be perspective. They looked so much larger pointed in his direction.
The man with the loudspeaker mounted to one of the Bradleys quickly made it clear he was not their target.
“Iranian forces at our border. Retreat immediately. The intruders in our territory will be arrested and tried under Iraqi law. Any attempt to interfere will be met by force.” This message was given first in English, and then what Grishkov correctly believed was Farsi.
Neda would tell him later, very bad Farsi with a heavy Kurdish accent.
A voice shouted back something in Farsi. The answer was a burst from one of the M-2s that kicked up rock and dust close enough to the Iranian troops to send a clear message, but without killing or injuring them. The professional in Grishkov admired the placement of the rounds, while another more human part calculated their survival chances if the Iranians responded.
Low. Very low.
With much shouting and yelling, the Iranians moved back as two of the Humvees moved forward. Without waiting for an invitation, Grishkov, Vasilyev and Neda climbed aboard the two vehicles, which quickly reversed and sped to the other side of the hill. Minutes later, they could hear what Grishkov recognized as a Kazan Ansat-2RC light helicopter. It was even better to recognize the familiar white, blue and red Russian insignia on its side. They were all quickly aboard, and Vasilyev was yelling in his ear to be heard over the noise of the engine, “How badly were you hit?”
Grishkov shook his head and answered, “The armor took the worst of it.
What about you and Neda?”
Vasilyev grinned and said, “We are better at ducking!”
Grishkov smiled back, not because he was amused but to give Vasilyev some reassurance that the round’s impact really hadn’t been so bad.
The pilot yelled back, “Make sure you stay strapped in. We’ll be doing evasive maneuvers as soon as we reach the Syrian border that will continue all the way to base. Anything that flies in a straight line in Syria doesn’t fly long.”
They had to stop at the Syrian military base south of Al-Hasakah to refuel.
Grishkov started to admire how neatly and professionally the facility had been laid out by the Syrians, and then stopped himself as he remembered one of his briefings. The Americans had pulled out of this base, built to fight ISIS, just the previous year.
Chapter Twelve
Grishkov had been impressed as they approached Russia’s primary air base in Syria at its size and scope, which exceeded that of many of the bases he had used in Chechnya. Originally built to support one thousand airmen, it now had nearly double that. Russian bombers, fighters, and transports of all sizes came and went with dizzying regularity. Grishkov had identified Su-24, Su-25, Su-34, Su-35, IL-76, AN-124, and Tu-214 model aircraft, and he hadn’t really been trying.
All three of them were immediately taken to the base hospital, where Grishkov found himself stripped and flipped onto his stomach with a speed that had doubtless saved many lives in the past. It did remind him, though, of a comedian he’d watched on TV who said “Russian” and “gentle” went together like “German” and “easygoing”.
Grishkov had laughed, because he wasn’t wrong.
The doctor told him to turn around, and shook his head as he stripped off his plastic gloves. “You should write a letter to the manufacturer of your body armor. Aside from a deep bruise, I see no sign you have suffered any other injury. Even the bruise is not as bad as I expected.”
He paused. “I can offer you nothing for the bruise but painkillers.”
Grishkov grunted. “I’ll take a bottle of aspirin.”
The doctor nodded. “Good choice. An effective anti-inflammatory and it avoids turning you into yet another addict. I’ve seen opioids kill more good soldiers than the terrorists we’re here to fight.”
Grishkov nodded back. He’d seen drugs do the same in Chechnya.