whined, and the chain-link gates swung inward.
The two Hind-Fs flew off toward the ambush site.
Kurzin ordered his men into the complex. Then the guards closed the gate. The men dressed in Spetsnaz uniforms began to fan out to cover sectors of the perimeter — getting closer to the guard towers and the missile control bunker entrances.
A radio in the guard shack crackled. The lieutenant rushed in to answer it.
Nyurba heard his end of the short conversation. “What?
The lieutenant turned to Kurzin. “You—”
Kurzin shot him in the face. The report of the AN-94 was loud. The pair of high-velocity bullets made the lieutenant’s head explode.
Kurzin opening fire was the signal for contingency plan Khah to roll into action. Men far enough into the complex for their rockets to cover the minimum arming distance in flight spun around, knelt, and fired RPG-27s at the guard shack and the machine gun nest. Nyurba and the headquarters company with him threw themselves flat. Each warhead had a pair of shaped charges, one behind the other, designed to get through the heaviest tanks equipped with external reactive armor — which blasted outward to break up the Mach-thirty jet of molten metal and superheated gases created by an antitank shaped charge. The first warhead charge sacrificed itself setting off such reactive armor; the second charge then penetrated the main armor underneath.
Shaped charge detonations created explosive force in all directions. The guard shack was blown into tiny pieces. The machine gun nest burst from within — burning fragments of sandbags flew everywhere. Nyurba, still lying flat, for a moment stunned and disembodied, felt himself being pelted with hot sand.
Assault rifles and machine guns fired in every direction with rising intensity.
BTR-70 armor was plain steel less than one inch thick. An RPG-27 rocket warhead roared at the one by the gate, hitting the vehicle’s front dead-on. The double armor-piercing jets burned their way completely through and out the back. Gas tanks ignited instantly. The armored car shuddered as ammo inside cooked off. The triangular side doors blew open. Flames shot out, not troops. Pools of fiery gasoline spread under and around the vehicle. It sagged and threw off gouts of impenetrable black smoke as all eight tires began to burn.
The ringing in Nyurba’s ears cleared. He was dimly aware of Kurzin’s voice on his radio headset, shouting something.
Nyurba looked around and saw killed and wounded, from both sides in the battle, lying everywhere, whole or in pieces.
He was pelted again, by chips of asphalt and concrete. The machine guns in the guard towers, and the heavier gun on the surviving BTR-70, were spraying the area, taking a toll on their friends and Kurzin’s attackers alike.
Nyurba heard Kurzin’s voice again, more clearly. He was using the burning BTR as a smokescreen, leading a platoon to get in RPG-27 range of the other armored car. But that BTR was almost a kilometer away, five times the effective range of the RPG rockets. His men fired smoke grenades to enhance their concealment as they ran across the wide-open asphalt. Each produced a cloud of white smoke, contrasting with the black from the BTR.
The snipers and other commandos were dueling with the machine guns in the four guard towers. Those machine guns fired repetitive short bursts. The squadron, all contained inside the fence line except for the snipers, was caught in enfilade — deadly fire from several directions at once. Suppressive fire from the men’s AN-94s was having little effect. The guard towers held the high ground and their walls were made of solid concrete.
Then one guard tower, overlooking the gate area, shifted its fire, dueling with a sniper. He began to pick off the machine gun crew one by one. Fire from that tower stopped. Men with grenade launchers under their rifles were trying to land grenades inside the other tower near the gate, but their grenades kept hitting the roof or the outside of the tower, or missed and landed on the ground. Each grenade went off with a bright flash, making a dull concussion that Nyurba could feel in his gut. Grenade fumes created a gray haze around the guard tower, but not enough to make its fire ineffective. Two RPG rockets streaked by the tower, one aimed too high and the other too low; both went off in the dead grass and started small fires.
“Antiaircraft missileers,” Kurzin yelled in Nyurba’s headphones. “Watch for the Mi-24s to come back. Expect them to approach from any bearing.”
No sooner had he said that than the two helicopters appeared above the trees. The BTR crew, confused about who was fighting whom, aimed its turret at the helicopters and began to spit tracer rounds.
“Missileers hold fire!” Kurzin ordered.
The Mi-24 crews, equally confused, launched antitank rockets at the BTR. The Mi-24s were armored, very tough targets, hard to shoot down. Green heavy machine gun tracer rounds and bright yellow antitank rocket motors darted in opposite directions, leaving trails of criss-crossing smoke. The BTR, its rounds moving much faster, scored a kill. Pieces flew off an Mi-24’s fuselage. A big chunk of a main rotor came off. The helicopter spun wildly and landed on its side in the defoliated strip, and its fuel exploded. A split second later a salvo of Mi-24 antitank rockets detonated all around and on the BTR. Flames came out of holes in its armor, through its shattered windshield, and from past the edges of the shut passenger doors.
Rockets and missiles on the downed Hind-F began to cook off from the heat of the fuel fire, exploding in place or launching themselves erratically. Some ran along the ground, setting more dead weeds on fire. Some took off skyward and disappeared in the distance.
The other Hind-F crew, enraged, began to pulverize all the men it could see on the ground.
“Missiles free!” Kurzin shouted. “Knock the goddamned thing down!”
Commandos knelt and fired their SA-16s at the helicopter. Each missile went faster than Mach 2, and used a combined infrared and ultraviolet target homing seeker to ignore heat flares the Hind began to launch in self- defense.
Missiles hit the helicopter, their warheads detonating. But the warhead charges weighed only four pounds, not enough to get through its armor. The helicopter zigged and zagged but kept flying; its chin-mounted tank-killer cannon kept firing.
Soldiers and snipers, on the ground or in guard towers, continued shooting at each other too. Nyurba looked up from where he and the headquarters platoon were still pinned down in the open. The pit of his stomach felt empty. The commando assault had lost its momentum. Russians still controlled the high ground in the remaining guard towers, they had the advantage of air power with that Hind-F, and time had always been on their side. The mission had reached dire straits, and was in imminent danger of failing at the start.
Nyurba saw a figure in the distance stand, with an SA-16 on his shoulder and another in his left hand. It was unmistakably Kurzin.
“Get down, sir!” Nyurba yelled into his lip mike.
Kurzin ignored him. He launched one missile at the helicopter, which did it no damage. He placed the other missile launcher on his shoulder, and just stayed there brazenly amid the drifting smoke and flying debris.
Kurzin achieved his goal. The Mi-24 turned to face him, to present its narrowest target profile, even as the Gatling cannon swiveled to bring him into its sights.
The gunner walked his fire toward the latest threat. Asphalt chunks and concrete dust churned, amid bright flashes and zinging bits of white-hot, razor-sharp fragments from the cannon shells. Kurzin staggered, as if he’d been hit by some of the shrapnel. But he never flinched. Nor did he fire. Cannon shells drew closer.
Missileers near Nyurba seized their chance. The whole right flank of the Mi-24 was exposed to them, and the helicopter’s weapons were all pointing the wrong way — a perfect setup.
Nyurba saw Kurzin disintegrate. His missile never launched.
The SA-16s near Nyurba launched. Three of them struck the Mi-24 at once, around the machine’s transmission at the base of its rotor shaft. It couldn’t take such concentrated punishment. The shaft snapped. The rotors continued to spin in midair. The body of the Mi-24 dropped like a stone, inside the complex.
Other men, furious that their commander had had to sacrifice himself, fired RPG-27s at the downed Mi-24. They intentionally aimed at the pilot and gunner compartments. Nyurba could see both men frantically trying to get out of their stricken aircraft. The RPG warheads struck, hitting below the cockpit windows. When the flashes and smoke of their detonations cleared, Nyurba watched both crewmen burn alive.
The commando group was still spread out in disorder, pinned down — and now leaderless. Nyurba was
