Air Battle Force

might have been unconscious for three or four hours. He brushed more sand out of his ears as he hunted for a foothold on the edge of the trench.

As he did, he heard Orazov say, “Excellent. Looks like our attack worked perfectly.”

Turabi let go and immediately dropped back down into the trench. What in hell did he mean, “our” attack?

“Negative, sir,” he heard another soldier say — another Turkmen turncoat, like Orazov. “There’s no sign of any living thing here. One hundred percent casualties. Everything that was aboveground was incinerated. The fuel- air explosive worked exactly as planned.”

It wasn’t a Russian attack? It was Orazov? Their own men had attacked them? Impossible…!

No, not impossible. For Orazov it was very possible. It clearly meant that Wakil Zarazi was dead also. Orazov had obviously betrayed Zarazi and then undertook his first mission: to kill Turabi and the rest of his patrol. He probably intended to win favor back from his former Turkmen officers or the Russian army, once they’d completed their reoccupation.

Jalaluddin Turabi knew that his mission had now changed. Instead of capturing booty for his tribe back in Afghanistan, Turabi’s new mission was simple: avenge Wakil Zarazi’s death. He was sworn to do it. Orazov had to die, and by Turabi’s own hand. Nothing else in life mattered. Zarazi might have been misguided, blinded by some invisible, mystical calling — but he was still the leader, and Turabi’s new duty was to avenge him. Then he could lead the loyal survivors back home, tell the elders what had happened, and prepare to take command of the tribe — or face the wrath of the elders.

But he couldn’t confront Orazov now. That would be suicidal. He had no choice but to play dead and hope they would go away.

Turabi slinked back into the sand, slowly, carefully nudging it aside, intent on burrowing back down and burying himself. Standard procedures would be to search the trenches for survivors or bodies — he hoped Orazov was lazy or stupid enough to merely look around, decide there were no survivors, and go back to Mary. Maybe, maybe, if he did so, Turabi could escape, make his way back to their stronghold in Charjew, then assemble a fighting force, sneak back to Mary, and carry out his new mission — kill Orazov.

Turabi was about three-quarters of the way back under the sand when he heard the first dog bark. Shit, he thought, maybe that Turkmen pigfucker Orazov wasn’t so stupid after all — he’d remembered to bring guard dogs with him. Turabi fairly dove into the sand, but it was too late. Seconds later two scrawny whelps jumped into the trench. One clamped his jaws onto Turabi’s left hand, and the other took a bite on the back of his neck and right ear before grabbing his right sleeve. Soon men were leaping into the partially sand-filled trench, and Turabi was dragged over to Orazov’s vehicle and thrown onto the blackened desert floor.

“Well, well, the colonel is still alive,” Orazov said, jumping down from his armored vehicle. “What a pleasant surprise. We should search all the trenches for survivors.”

Turabi was held suspended by his arms between two Turkmen soldiers. Several surviving Taliban soldiers from his detail saw Turabi and rushed over to him but were pushed aside by more Turkmen soldiers. “Brilliant idea, Orazov,” Turabi muttered.

“Is that any way to talk to your rescuer?” Orazov asked.

At a nod from him, one of the Turkmen soldiers punched Turabi in the side of his head. The Taliban soldiers surrounding them shouted a warning and tried to rush to Turabi’s aid but were again roughly shoved back. Orazov didn’t seem to notice — he was too intent on seeing Turabi suffer some more.

He stepped closer to Turabi and pulled his head up by his hair. “You’ll wish you had died in that fuel-air blast, Turabi, I guarantee it.”

Turabi tried to spit in his face, but he no longer had any moisture in his mouth at all. “What has happened to Zarazi?” he asked.

“The same that will happen to you, Turabi: I’ll put a bullet through your stupid head, watch your brains splatter on the wall behind you, and then I’ll wrap you up in a carpet and have you buried in the desert,” Orazov said.

“You’ll die for that,” Turabi croaked through dry, cracked lips. “I’ll slice out your heart myself.”

“You didn’t believe in the old man’s holy mission any more than I did, Turabi. You’re just too blinded by that idiotic clan-loyalty nonsense to realize it,” Orazov said. “Forget about your ridiculous blood oaths and feudal allegiances, Turabi. Spend your last moments on earth thinking about this entire useless mission of yours in Turkmenistan and how badly you wasted the last few weeks of your life, waging a war with an idiot like Zarazi who thought he was fighting for the greater glory of God. Spend the next moments looking at the faces of your loyal men — because they’ll join you in hell in a few minutes, too.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of a giant trench dug in the desert, where men and vehicles were dumping the remains of dozens of horribly burned and mangled men. “Good-bye, Colonel. Give my regards to General Zarazi — in hell.”

Unable to stand and only half conscious, Turabi was dragged off toward the mass grave. He heard shouting and then gunshots behind him, followed by laughter, some shouted words in Turkmen, some screams, more gunshots, and more laughter. His men were being slaughtered trying to save him. He especially heard Orazov’s screeching, high-pitched laugh, more like a young girl’s than a man’s. “You will have plenty of company in hell, Colonel,” Orazov shouted with glee. “Your men seem more than willing to sacrifice themselves trying to save you!”

Turabi shut his eyes to try to erase Orazov’s bizarre little shrieking laugh out of his head, but it was impossible. If anything, the sound started to grow louder and louder, until Turabi thought his head would explode from the pressure.

And then, suddenly, the entire world around him did explode.

Orazov’s armored vehicle disappeared in a burst of fire and smoke not twenty meters away. Turabi and his captors were tossed off their feet by the blast. An earthmover on the other side of the mass grave exploded seconds later, followed by a light tank parked about a hundred meters away.

It was then that Turabi recognized that screeching sound, what he’d thought was Orazov’s laughter — it was the same sound he remembered hearing what seemed like eons ago, when their little band of Taliban fighters was attacked by American unmanned drones. But it couldn’t be. The Americans were not involved in this. Could it be the Russians…?

Turabi’s captors ran off to find cover, leaving him by himself. Still dazed and hurt, he needed all his strength to drag himself by his elbows and knees toward the mound of sand surrounding the grave. It was the only cover he could—

“No!” he heard a voice shout behind him. “You will not get away so easily!” And suddenly Aman Orazov was sitting on Turabi’s back, his hands under his chin, pulling backward and trying to break his neck, or his back, or both. “I promised I would finish you off, and I will!”

“Bastard!” Turabi shouted. Using the last of his strength, he bucked Orazov off his back. Struggling to his hands and knees, with pieces of burned metal and hot debris digging into his skin, Turabi withdrew his knife from its sheath.

But Orazov was on top of him again in an instant, and he quickly and easily took the knife away from Turabi. Exhausted, Turabi was powerless to stop Orazov from rolling him over on his back.

“This is the better way to die, I think — hand-to-hand, face-to-face, by your own blade.” Orazov raised the knife….

But it did not come down. Turabi looked up — and saw a figure in a dark gray outfit, a bug-eyed helmet, and what appeared to be small tubes running along his arms, legs, and torso. He held Orazov’s upraised arm in his hand, and no matter how hard Orazov struggled, the stranger held his arm with ease.

With a shock Turabi realized he recognized the stranger. It was the same one he had encountered south of Kiyzl-arvat when he went out to investigate the drone crash.

“Prasteetye,” the stranger said in Russian in an eerie, electronically synthesized voice. “Ya eeshchyoo Jalaluddin Turabi.”

“Shto eta znachyeet?” Orazov shouted. “Who in hell are you?”

With Orazov distracted, Turabi was able to respond, “I am Turabi. Good to see you again, sir.”

The stranger nodded, then flipped his wrist. Orazov screamed and flew back as if hit by a bull charging at full force, his right arm twisted unnaturally. Turabi unsteadily crawled across the scorched sand, picked up a rock, and