to share in the glory and spoils of successful ambushes and raids. The warlord had amassed a great amount of war booty while being paid plenty of American dollars by CIA personnel who supported him and his growing personal army.
Most prisoners were executed outright when they fell into the mujahideen's hands. But helicopter pilots were something else. Khamami had given standing orders that they were to be brought directly to him. This was how Gregori Parkalov and the Afghanistan warlord met.
When the Soviets finally withdrew from their futile war, they left behind a plethora of weaponry and other material. Among these were helicopters. Khamami needed all this if he was to fulfill his personal plan of ruling at least half of Afghanistan within a decade. His army commanders were handpicked, combat-proven leaders who had been well trained by the CIA. As infantry officers they were excellent, and as guerrilla leaders they were superlative. What Khamami needed now was an air force. He had three pilots from the Afghanistan Army, but it was obvious they had received little technical training in the maintenance and repair of the Hind model helicopters. However, the Soviet prisoner of war had already demonstrated a great deal of expertise in the mechanical side of that phase of aerial warfare.
Khamami gave Gregori Ivanovich Parkalov a choice. Stay behind and serve him as his airforce commander or be executed by beheading. Gregori chose to keep his head on his shoulders, and was made an auxiliary member of the warlord's army. He was never fully trusted, however, and during those times he actually piloted a helicopter, an armed mujahideen accompanied him with orders to kill the Russian if he tried any tricks such as flying toward the border of any of the Soviet socialist republics.
After six months of the arrangement, it dawned on Gregori Parkalov that he had an excellent chance to become wealthy. Aside from the war patrols, there was also plenty of flying in opium smuggling. In spite of the suspicion he worked under, the Russian was given a full share of the spoils. With his sights set on making even more money, Gregori went to Hassan Khamami and swore allegiance if the warlord would make him a full member of his army rather than a hostage. To prove himself, the Russian agreed to convert to Islam. Such a gesture was definite proof of his sincerity; not so much because of the religious aspects, but because it required circumcision without the benefit of anesthesia. Khamami happily accepted the offer, even throwing in a direct commission in the rank of captain for the ex-Soviet pilot.
Thus, Gregori Ivanovich Parkalov became Mohammed Sheriwal, who now had personal quarters in the castle, where he kept his three wives and one Dharya concubine. Also, through the aid of Zaid Aburrani, Sheriwal had been able to send 750,000 euros to a secret Swiss bank account. Now all he had to do was figure a way to get out of Khamami's fiefdom to get the money. Then he could return to Russia for a life of luxury.
WARLORD Hassan Khamami eagerly awaited Mohammad Sheriwal's arrival in the throne room. He had heard the helicopter land and needed the pilot's report before he could seriously begin a campaign against the infidels who had driven Durtami from his fiefdom.
Sheriwal was admitted into the warlord's presence, and reported to Khamami with a proper Soviet salute. This was a habit he had never been able to break. 'Amir,' he said in fluent but accented Pashto. 'I have returned from the reconnaissance patrol over the suspected enemy area.'
'And what did you find, Captain Sheriwal?' Khamami asked with undisguised impatience.
'The ridge is occupied by an armed force,' the experienced combat pilot reported. 'I am not sure of the exact size. They are definitely under battalion strength. I think at the most they might be a reinforced detachment or company.'
'At the most?' Khamami asked. 'Are you saying there is a chance they might be less than company size?'
'Yes, Amir. In truth, I would say they number somewhere between a dozen to perhaps two dozen that are cleverly camouflaged and dug in on that mountaintop.'
Khamami broke out in loud laughter. 'So! Those are the thousands of infidels who routed Durtami and his miserable band of hill bandits, eh?' He began laughing again, barely able to control his amusement. After a couple of minutes he calmed down enough to speak. 'I can tell you one thing, Captain. The easy life the invaders have enjoyed up to now is about to come to an abrupt end.'
'My men and helicopters are at your service,' Sheriwal said.
'And so are my eight hundred mujahideen infantrymen,' Khamami pointed out.
Chapter 13
WEST RIDGE BASE CAMP
25 AUGUST
0530 HOURS LOCAL
CHARLIE Team had the responsibilities of the morning watch, but they didn't have to sound the alarm to wake the platoon when the loud 'chop-chop' of helicopter engines broke the early morning silence.
Everyone stayed under cover as per SOP, looking to the east in the direction of the disturbance. The noise grew steadily louder, but the sun's low position on the horizon made it difficult to see the exact positions of the aircraft or what nationality they might be. Then suddenly three dark shapes could be discerned approaching the ridge in trail.
The lead Mi-24 turned to the north and the others followed, maintaining exact distances between themselves in the formation. This was skillful, precise piloting, and in less than a minute -they made a leisurely turn toward the south, perfectly aligned with the ridge line. Then the noses dropped and the speed increased as they sped toward the base camp.
The rapid staccato of heavy machine gun fire from the first chopper broke out as slugs kicked up the dust on the ridge top. The gunner, sitting in the front cockpit, swung the barrel back and forth as he hosed the ground below. Immediately the second chopper followed suit, sending steady fusillades to splatter heavily along the top of the mountain's apex. The third did the same, then the small group swung out to turn for another run.
'Keep you heads down!' Brannigan bellowed so loud that even Kevin Albee on the OP could hear him.
The Hinds came back three more times, skillfully covering areas that had been missed. Cartridge cases rained down, some bouncing off the camouflage netting and colliding with one another as they made little pinging sounds. A couple bounced into Bruno Puglisi's fighting hole and he grabbed them, being careful not to burn his fingers.
'Soviet,' he said to himself. 'Twelve point seven millimeter. Big bad shit!'
The helicopters flew away as quickly as they'd arrived, leaving an eerie silence over the Afghanistan countryside. The next sound was Chief Matt Gunnarson's voice. 'Corpsman! Clifford's hit!'
James Bradley grabbed his medical kit and leaped from his fighting hole. He ran past Bruno to where the chief stood by Adam Clifford's position. James pulled the netting off the emplacement, and could see Adam slumped over with his back against the earthen wall. A quick check for a pulse found nothing, and when James pulled the bloody BDU jacket open, he could see there was no chance for survival. The entry wounds were large and the exit wounds even more ghastly. Bits of flesh and lung were plastered against the side of the position behind the corpse.
James looked up at the chief, who waited for the word. 'He's dead.'
'Shit,' Gunnarson said. He went into the hole and checked for himself. Violent death puts a certain expression on a man's face at times. It's neither shock nor anger, just a sort of dazed, slack-jawed appearance. The chief got Adam's poncho and poncho liner and tossed them out. James laid them out properly as the other SEALs gathered around. He helped the Chief bring the corpse out, and they laid it on the covers.
Lieutenant Jim Cruiser walked over and knelt down. 'Our first one.' He'd seen it before, but in a new outfit it was almost as shocking as the first time he had gazed down at a dead SEAL who had been under his command.
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan joined the crowd. 'He'll have to be buried ASAP,' he said, hoping he wasn't sounding too sanguine about this first casualty. 'No telling how long we'll be up here?'
'I'll have him interred and we can note the exact location of the grave with a GPS,' Cruiser said.
'Have your squad take care of it,' Brannigan ordered. 'I need a word with you and the chiefs.'
Frank Gomez came up with an apologetic expression on his face. 'Sir. The Shadowfire radio was hit. It's nothing but a piece of crap now. Sony.'
'It wasn't your fault,' Brannigan said. 'You couldn't have done any more to protect the commo gear other than keep it under cover.' He turned and walked toward the CP. 'Let's go, team leaders.'
They stayed on their feet outside the CP's confines as they gazed back at the Second Squad beginning the
