Khamami took a deep sip of tea. The situation in Durtami's former fiefdom was precarious and worrisome. It was time to go to war.
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WEST RIDGE CP
24 AUGUST
0930 HOURS LOCAL
A rocky outcrop of bare ground extended from the ridge, which offered an excellent view down into the valley. The area below could be seen from the north all the way around to the southeast of the base camp. This position had been ignored before, since it would have been too difficult to maintain a firing position there. But with the receipt of camouflage covers and sandbags, the SEALs were able to establish an excellent OP where the eastern valley and East Ridge could be kept under surveillance.
It was the forenoon watch and Charlie Fire Team was on duty as the other platoon members continued to expand and improve the positions put in the day before. Joe Miskoski was doing the honors at the new OP, staying undercover as he used binoculars to scan the eastern side of West Ridge. The number of buzzards feeding and scolding one another among the dead mujahideen had diminished noticeably, and many had despaired of the dwindling food supply, soaring away in search of more abundant carrion.
Joe had been teamed with Connie Concord and Bruno Puglisi on the new 60-millimeter mortar, and the three had spent most of the previous evening running through crew drill as they rotated the jobs of gunner, assistant gunner and ammo bearer. They had plenty of shells, but the Skipper had not allowed any live firing. He was concerned about alerting any unfriendlies who might be lurking within the OA looking for them. The Skipper wanted to conceal this heavy weaponry as a big nasty surprise for any mujahideen who might come looking for trouble.
Joe put the binoculars to his eyes for another look at the top of East Ridge across the valley. It was a comfortably warm morning, with the sun already making the air under the camouflage stuffy. He shook his head to chase the drowsiness away, then stopped. A distant 'chop-chop' sound came from the north, and he swung his gaze in that direction. Within moments he could see a helicopter flying straight at the mountain. He picked up the PRC- 112 radio. 'Charlie Papa, this is Oscar Papa. Over.'
Frank Gomez's voice came back immediately. 'This is Charlie Papa. Over.'
'We got a chopper of some sort coming right at us,' Joe reported. 'It's flying at an altitude of maybe a hundred or so feet higher than the ridge. I can't determine the type, but the engine sound isn't familiar to me. Over.'
'Roger,' Frank replied. 'Wait.' A few moments passed, then he spoke again. 'We're going under cover. Stay down. Out.'
Within ten minutes an old model Soviet Mi-24 helicopter flew slowly, almost nonchalantly across the ridge top. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan studied it through a small gap in the camouflage across the top of the CP. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins, beside the Skipper, could also see the intruder. The senior chief was confused. 'That's an old'un, sir.'
'It sure is,' Brannigan agreed. 'It's a Soviet Mi-24 Hind model, and it's not fully equipped. There's nothing on its weapons wings.'
'A machine gun barrel is sticking out the front,' Dawkins observed. 'That seems to be just about all he's packing.'
'As I recall, those Hind choppers have a crew of three,' Brannigan said. 'The pilot and gunner sit side by side in the upper cockpit while the navigator is in the lower position.'
The chopper went out to the south, then turned and came back for a run in the opposite direction. As it swept by, both men could easily discern only two men in the aircraft. One was in the pilot's seat and the other in the front cockpit manning the machine gun.
'They've jury-rigged that baby to work with what's in their arsenal,' Brannigan remarked.
'It's prob'ly Afghan Army,' the senior chief opined. 'I'll bet my next payday that them guys is stuck with surplus equipment left over after the Soviets pulled out.'
'That means the stuff they've got is more than twenty years old.'
After buzzing the base camp for a few more minutes, the helicopter suddenly turned and headed off onto a northern course, slowly flying off in the distance.
'Okay, Senior Chief,' Brannigan said when the sound of the engine had faded completely away. 'Secure the men from cover and get them back to work.'
'Aye, sir!'
.
AL-SARAYA CASTLE
1015 H0URS LOCAL
THE pilot eased the chopper into a turn, lining up with the helicopter pad near the rear portal of the fortification. A well-trained technician used hand signals to direct him in, monitoring the landing to completion. When the engine was cut, the young guy smiled and proffered a sharp salute. The gunner, a trained mujahideen, opened the Plexiglas cockpit cover and stepped out to drop to the ground. The pilot unbuckled himself and went down to the troop compartment door opened for him by the technician.
'Did you find the infidels, Captain?' he asked eagerly.
The pilot, Captain Mohammed Sheriwal, answered affirmatively. 'They were most skilled with their camouflage, but I was able to spot a few positions.'
'You must have flown very slow, Captain.'
'Yes. In cases like that it is necessary to appear to be looking and looking without finding,' Sheriwal said. 'In that manner, the enemy thinks you cannot see him, as you seem to aimlessly go hither and thither.'
'Very 'clever, Captain!' the technician exclaimed in unabashed admiration.
A young mujahideen officer walked up and saluted. 'Captain, the Amir awaits you.'
'Then let us go to him immediately,' Captain Sheriwal said. 'I have important news.'
MUHAMMAD Sheriwal had been born Gregori Ivanovich Parkalov in the suburbs of Moscow. His father was a machinist in Manufacturing Plant 21, which specialized in home appliances, while his mother worked as an X-ray technician in a neighborhood clinic. Gregori was an average kid growing up in the Soviet Union. He belonged to the Young Communist League and joined the paramilitary Volunteer Society for Assistance to the Army, Air Force and Navy of the USSR when he was fifteen. This cumbersome title was reduced to the acronym ROCAAct) (DOSAAF). It was in this organization that the Soviet youth were introduced to the various aspects of military service. DOSAFF even tested the young members' aptitude to see where they might best fit into the armed forces when it came time for them to do their bit for Mother Russia. These examinations and interviews determined that Gregori Parkalov was a natural to become a helicopter pilot.
When Gregori was eighteen, he reported to the local draft board for the obligatory two years' service in the Soviet Army. However, because of his DOSAAF file, rather than being assigned to a motorized rifle division, as were most conscripts, he was poSted to the Army's tactical helicopter training center. This was a lot better than having to deal with the brutal bullying and hazing of older soldiers as a recruit in the infantry.
The helicopter training still included plenty of discipline and political indoctrination, but it concentrated on turning the students into excellent military chopper pilots. The downside of the situation was that instead of serving two years, he would be required to put in five. But he and his comrades consoled themselves with the knowledge that when they completed their terms of service, they would be eligible for good-paying jobs as professional helicopter aviators. This meant prestigious positions in Aeroflot, the civil air organization in the People's and Worker's Paradise of the Soviet Union.
But Gregori Parkalov did not complete his five years. After being sent to Afghanistan in 1980, he flew dangerous missions delivering detachments of Spetsnaz Special Forces far into the hinterlands of the mujahideen rebels, to attack them where they lived and hid. After many close calls from numerous Stinger barrages fired at his aircraft, the young Russian was eventually shot down by one of the American-furnished weapons. It was all he could do to control his aircraft as it spun crazily downward to crash. He managed to bring it to the ground in one piece, but he and his crew were captured.
This was when he met the Warlord Hassan Khamami, who had been fighting the Soviets and their Afghanistan puppets for several years. Khamami had scored significant victories, and mujahideen flocked to his unit
