“Father Ramsan has always proved reliable in the past. He was allowed to move into a farm about a mile from the monastery when Basayev took over. He tells me of an old tunnel, long disused, which gives access to the monastery. He will act as your guide.” He put a knapsack on his desk. “There’s a radio in there, and all the instructions you need to contact Ramsan.”
Kurbsky glanced at Bounine. “Sergeant.”
Bounine took the radio. Chelek said, “I’ve had a look at your record, Kurbsky-it’s remarkable for one so young. Decorated twice in Afghanistan.” He smiled. “I envy you your inevitable success.”
“We’ll try not to disappoint you, Comrade.”
They went, pausing only at the entrance as the rain increased heavily. “I’ve often thought about this war and asked myself why any sane person would want this place,” Bounine said.
“It’s a game, my friend,” Kurbsky told him. “People like Chelek move the pieces to suit themselves-it’s their particular vanity.”
“And the pieces are the people like us who do their bidding,” Bounine said. “I told you-it’s biblical.”
“Idiot,” Kurbsky said. “But let’s get on with it. Maybe there could be a medal in it for you.”
“But I’ve got a medal,” Bounine said plaintively, and followed him, as Kurbsky ran out through the rain and back toward the tent and the others.
SO, IN THE darkness at four-thirty, they sat in a line on a bench seat in the Dakota, the anchor cable above them, each man fully kitted out, Bounine, as the most experienced, seated close to the door. Kurbsky, at the other end of the line, had his radio at the ready and the engines were already throbbing.
Bashir said, “Right, Lieutenant, here we go.”
The Dakota started to move, the roaring of the engines filled the plane, and then they were lifting and speeding away at low level to get away from Grozny as quickly as possible.
THE RAIN CONTINUED, hammering the aircraft, the wind howled, but Bashir held her steady, flying at four thousand feet, the mountains shrouded in cloud below. When he finally started his descent, they went into a kind of mist and then burst out of it and there was visibility, a gray predawn light infused with a kind of luminosity that covered the mountains. He was very low now, drifting through a wide canyon at a thousand feet, and spoke to Bounine over the radio.
“Door open, Sergeant.” A red light blinked on and off. Bounine called, “Clip on and stand.” They all did as they were told. The Dakota was at five hundred and there was much more light now in the flat expanse of the Kuba Plateau. Bashir made his pass at three hundred fifty feet, the red light turning to green, and Bounine tapped Kirov, the first in line, on the shoulder and yelled “Go,” which the boy did, followed by the others, tumbling out one after the other, Kurbsky last. Bounine yelled on his radio, “All gone!” clipped onto the anchor cable, and dived out.
Bashir started to climb up to four thousand, leveled out and switched to automatic pilot, got up, went back, and closed the door. He returned, took control again to ten thousand, leveled out, and turned back to Grozny. “Well, I’ll never see any of that lot again,” he murmured. “Madness. Bloody crazy.”
KURBSKY, LOOKING DOWN, could see the rough moorland of the plateau below, outcrops of rock here and there, and it was all over in what seemed a flash, his supply bag thumping into the ground, followed by himself. He seemed to bounce and fell sideways, and a stiff wind billowed his canopy. He started to drag, grabbed at his quick- release buckle, and it opened and the wind in the parachute pulled it off him and blew it across the moor.
He unclipped his jump bag, got it open, and armed himself quickly-the Stechkin stuffed in his shirt, the bag slung from his back. With the AK still folded, he started searching for the others, which was easy enough, for he could see them dotted around, struggling with their canopies in the wind. He dumped his helmet and put on his beret.
Bounine was free and helping those who were having difficulties, working his way from chute to chute. He reached one on the far left and leaned down. He turned and beckoned. Kurbsky hurried toward him, others following, and found him standing over Petrovsky.
“Dead already. Broken neck.” Bounine shook his head. “Ridiculous. He jumped in Afghanistan a number of times with the Storm Guards. Now he has to get it in a shitty place like this.” He looked around the bleak moorland, the rain hammering down.
Kurbsky said, “Put him behind those rocks over there, collect those parachutes, and hide them as best you can behind the outcrop. Fifteen minutes and get your ponchos out.” He looked up at the turbulent sky as thunder rumbled. “It’s really going to storm, my friends.”
He got the radio from his pack, crouched down, and tried to contact Father Ramsan.
“Black Tiger calling, Black Tiger calling. Are you receiving me?”
It was rather dramatic, but that’s what Chelek had given as a code word to the enterprise, and it received an instant response. “Receiving you loud and clear.”
“Ramsan? This is Lieutenant Kurbsky. We’ve arrived in the jump zone safely, one man dead. Harsh weather up here, but we should see you in a couple of hours.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Over and out.” He turned to the men. “Let’s get on with it.”
AND RAIN IT DID, and he really pushed them, leading at the half-trot, the twelve of them in their ponchos with the hoods up over their berets. Five miles and two hours later they came to moorland farm territory, extensive rough granite walls, wild-looking sheep beyond that scattered before them. They reached a stone shepherd’s hut and crouched behind the wall beside it.
Bounine produced a bottle of vodka from his pack, unscrewed it and took a swallow, offered it to Kurbsky, who did the same, then passed it along so that everybody could have a pull. Perhaps a mile or more across the valley was the monastery, half concealed by the gloom and rain. At that distance, it was not possible to see any signs of activity. In any case, what concerned him was the farm below.
It was single-story but reasonably extensive, with what looked like a large barn at one end, and the only sign of life was chickens looking miserable in the rain, pecking their way in and out of the half-open barn door. There was a low wall around the property, a wisp of smoke coming out of the chimney. A track stretched down the valley, and no sign of life there either.
“We split, two groups of six. You go in from the left,” he said to Bounine. “I’ll take the right.”
They moved fast, Kurbsky leading his men crouching behind a granite wall and curving around to an orchard cramped in a small space at the side of the house. There was what looked like a back door. It opened on the turn of the handle and he led the way into an extensive, if primitive, kitchen, with stone floor, very basic wooden furniture, an old iron stove with a wood fire burning inside, a great pot on the stove.
Kirov took the lid off. “Smells good. Some sort of stew, and enough to feed an army. Maybe it’s meant for us?”
“That could well be.” Kurbsky turned to the others, who’d been searching elsewhere. “Anything?”
“A couple of bedrooms, a pantry with a lot of canned food and wine,” one of them said.
He went and opened the front door and saw the other group through the half-open door of the barn. Bounine appeared. “Come and have a look.”
There was an old battered truck with a canvas hood and a stack of military jerry cans. “A hell of a lot of petrol here,” Bounine said. “What about the house?”
The Tigers clustered around, passing cigarettes. “Food cooking, fire in the stove. No sign of Father Ramsan. I’ll try the radio again,” and at that moment there was the sound of an approaching engine.
They waited, weapons cocked, and a bearded priest in his black robes drove in from the track on a motorcycle, crossed the yard, and entered the barn. He showed no surprise at all and wore black trousers, his cassock hitched up as he sat astride the bike. He switched off the engine, dismounted, and pulled it up on its stand.
“So you are the Black Tigers?”
“Yes, Father, I’m Lieutenant Kurbsky in command.”
Kirov was examining the bike with admiration. “Where did you get this? My uncle has one back home on his sheep ranch near Kursk. A Montessa dirt bike.”
“What’s so special about them?” Bounine asked.
