PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (2 page)

The Spetsnaz soldiers defended their positions desperately throughout the night. Mortar and rocket fire was unrelenting, the flashing explosions cutting down five of Krijenko’s best men. Stripped of weapons and ammunition, their bodies lay face down to the rear of the fighting positions, blood soaking into the hard earth. Three furious attacks from separate sides had been repulsed and as dawn approached, the platoon was exhausted and low on ammunition.

Krijenko shrugged off the sense of futility as he crouched in a hastily dug weapons pit scraped from the rocky ground by bare hands and bayonets. His two remaining team leaders and the commander of the engineer detachment were huddled next to him. Their tired eyes nervously scanned the perimeter, vigilant for the next enemy assault.

The young engineer faced Krijenko and spoke rapidly. “Comrade, my men have prepared all the explosives and we’re ready to seal the shaft.”

Dostiger, the Ukrainian team leader leant in towards him, his rank breath revolting the engineer. “What the hell is in there?” He gestured towards the shaft, barely visible in the early morning twilight.

“I don’t know - they didn’t tell us,” the engineer stammered. “My…my orders were simple; bury it so it can’t be found.” The young man refused to look at Dostiger’s pock-marked face; the ugly Ukrainian terrified him. “It’s something they don’t want the Mooj to have. I don’t know.”

Dostiger stared at the open shaft and his brow furrowed in thought. “We should look, Captain. It could be worth something.”

Krijenko responded impassively. “My orders are to seal it, Dostiger, and seal it I will.” He looked back at the engineer. “Go. Do it!”

The young man nodded and hurried back to the opening where his two remaining men were laying the final lengths of slow burn fuse. He was eager to finish the job before the sun rose over the horizon and exposed his men to the Mujahideen positioned along the dominant ridgelines. Already the sky was starting to glow faintly with the approaching dawn.

Just as the engineers lit the fuse, the Mujahideen attacked in force. Mortar rounds pounded the landing zone in a fearsome barrage. The lethal bombs killed another four Spetsnaz soldiers, their bodies shredded by the high explosives smashing into their fighting positions.

As the engineers sprinted from the shaft across the open ground of the landing zone, a
Dushka
heavy machine gun opened up from one of the surrounding ridgelines. The 12.7mm high velocity rounds riddled their bodies, hydrostatic shock destroying flesh and shattering bones, ripping the men to pieces. They were dead before they hit the ground.

The Afghan skirmishers advanced, flitting from cover to cover as their fire support positions suppressed the remaining members of the Spetsnaz platoon. Krijenko, manning a dead soldier’s machine gun, worked feverishly to force back the Mujahideen, but one by one his men fell silent as they succumbed to the relentless onslaught. He watched a grenade detonate in Dostiger’s position. The mad Ukrainian was thrown clear, one leg torn and bloodied.

The barrel of the machine gun glowed red as Krijenko pumped the trigger, sending short bursts lancing into the advancing fighters. The last belt of ammunition disappeared in a final burst and the gun fell silent, the bolt slamming forward on an empty chamber. Krijenko reached into his chest harness and drew his pistol, leveling it at the Afghan warrior running at him. His first round entered the man’s head below the cheek and blew out the back of his skull. There was no second bullet.

Krijenko never saw the fighter who shot him in the neck. The projectile ripped through the spine, killing him instantly. The pistol fell from his hand and he collapsed. As the first drops of the Russian officer’s blood soaked into the ground, the earth erupted, throwing his body into the air. The explosives detonated along fault lines causing thousands of tonnes of rock to collapse in on the shaft. A blast wave of dust and rubble blew out from the mountainside, sweeping the forward line of Mujahideen fighters from their feet. The engineers had done their work well.

As the dust settled on the bloodied bodies of the slain Spetsnaz platoon, the Afghan warriors regrouped; their heavy weapons teams filtering down from the high ground to join the assaulting force. They moved out of the shadows and began searching the Russian defensive positions, stripping the corpses of valuables.  A tall figure strode through the scavengers, his white robes unmarked by the dust and smoke of the battlefield. 

The man’s dark eyes stared intently at the wall of rock that denied him his goal. A look of frustration momentarily passed over his hard features and he turned away, distracted by the moans of a bloodied and broken body that lay at his feet. One of the Afghan fighters drew a wicked looking blade and lifted it back in a sweeping arc, ready to dispatch the wounded man.

“Wait,” the white robed leader demanded. He knelt down next to the wounded man, his Russian halting but clear. “What was hidden here?”

Dostiger smiled, and chuckled. “You and I, we will never know.” The Ukrainian was delirious from loss of blood and the morphine injection he’d stabbed into his thigh.

The Afghan grunted stiffly and leant closer. “You will die here, Russian.”

Dostiger’s grin widened and blood dribbled from his lips, staining his fatigues. He laughed manically. “We all die, comrade. How many of your fighters will I join in hell?”

The Mujahideen commander stared deeply into Dostiger’s face before he rose and turned to the fighter next to him. “Find a stretcher – the fearless one comes with us.”

Chapter 3

Western Highlands, Sierra Leone, 2000

A white UN Land Rover and a battered Bedford truck slowly wound their way along a narrow dirt road in the Western Highlands of Sierra Leone. The vehicles pushed on through the overgrown vines and saplings, the jungle’s attempts to reclaim the track. The earthy smell of rotting leaves filled the air and sprawling trees blocked the sunlight, spawning growths of moss and fungi.

An Australian officer, Lieutenant Aden Bishop, rode in the front of the Land Rover next to the driver, a young Sierra Leone soldier. Behind him, a senior UN officer, an Indian Colonel reclined in the back seat. Although he was in command of the mission, he was content to let Bishop take charge. As a staff officer, Colonel Kapur had only volunteered for the short-notice tasking to impress the UN Military Commander. Usually he preferred to remain in Sierra Leone’s capital, Freetown, relaxing in the air-conditioning of the UN Headquarters.

Trailing the four-wheel drive, the Bedford truck carried ten Indian UN soldiers perched on its hard wooden benches. Well-armed and enthusiastic, the infantry’s excellent discipline made up for their limited training. Clad in their heavy khaki uniforms and light blue berets, the Peacekeepers silently endured the stifling heat of the canvas-topped truck, the ancient suspension amplifying every bump.

The diesel engines of the convoy bellowed as the drivers pushed them hard, climbing the slippery track through the highlands. Native birds were startled from the trees and larger animals crashed through the heavy undergrowth to escape the noisy intruders. Every few kilometers the two vehicles passed small villages unmarked on the map.

Bishop squinted as the morning sun streamed through gaps in the thick canopy, raising the humidity to oppressive levels. He removed his UN beret to wipe his brow and checked the map. The young Australian officer struggled to navigate in the dense jungle; the huge trees that punched up through the shadowy undergrowth filled the sky with a wall of greenery, blocking out the view and making it impossible to identify any useful landmarks.

As they drove past yet another isolated village, Bishop’s driver pointed out a cluster of ramshackle huts. “Sir, my grandfather was born there.” Chickens scratched in the mud around one of the rusted corrugated iron walls. Looking across at the Lieutenant the driver smiled. “I know this area well, Sir. I won’t get you lost.”

“I’m not worried about that, Erasto,” Bishop said as he looked up from the map. “I’ve no doubt you know your way around. I’m more worried about how far the militias are from the camp.” His brow furrowed as his thoughts turned to another refugee camp at Songo. A rogue RUF militia had attacked it only two weeks earlier and a UN patrol had watched helplessly as they hacked their way through the refugees. The Peacekeepers’ orders forbade them to fire except in self-defence.

After the incident Bishop had been sent to the camp to provide a detailed report. Over a hundred refugees had been maimed or slaughtered; the smell of the rotting corpses was still fresh in his mind.

The young driver continued. “Well, usually many RUF in this area but now most have gone.”

“Most?”

“Yes, Sir. Some are still here but not many. Most have gone back to their villages. Only some criminals remain, but they will be afraid of us.”

Bishop was skeptical. He knew most of the drug-fuelled militias wouldn’t be deterred by a truckload of infantry.
To make matters worse the team was babysitting a ranking UN officer, a tempting target for kidnapping.

Colonel Kapur lent forward to tap Bishop on the shoulder. “You can tell the young Private not to worry; a section of infantry is more than enough to deal with a handful of criminals.”

Bishop clenched his jaw, kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and ignored him. The sheer arrogance of the Colonel disgusted him; the man wouldn’t directly address the Private who was their full-time driver. Below his status to talk to an enlisted soldier, and a native one at that.

Kapur continued, “This is your first real mission, is it not Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Sir, that’s correct,” Bishop responded curtly.

“Well, I’ve served with the UN a number of times. I have also led missions against the rebels in Kashmir. Considering your inexperience you are very lucky that I chose to come on this mission.”

“Very lucky, Sir.“

The Colonel took it as a compliment, sat back in his seat and began studying his own map.

What a cock, thought Bishop. This man clearly has more experience drinking coffee than commanding soldiers.

The overweight officer even had the audacity to wear his dress uniform in the field. The buttons on the sweat-stained shirt strained against the man’s protruding belly. With all his ribbons and braid he looked more like a bandmaster than a soldier.

Despite the presence of the pompous Colonel, Bishop was enjoying his first deployment. He appreciated the multinational aspects of working with the UN and as a junior officer he was gaining valuable experience working in a high-threat environment.

The dangers that lurked in the surrounding terrain weren’t obvious as the two vehicles made their way through the thick green vegetation of Kilimi National Park. As they passed through villages, young men and women spilled out of their huts, happily waving at the passing soldiers. It was only their handless limbs and scarred bodies that hinted at the inhumane crimes that had occurred here and the threat still posed by the roaming militias.

The UN has failed these people, reflected Bishop.

A young boy grinned at him, waving vigorously as the Land Rover crawled past. Leaning against a crude crutch, the boy’s right leg was missing from the knee down. The soldier in Bishop wanted to hunt down and tear out the throats of the animals who had done this, but the UN rules of engagement forbade him. In the back of his mind he doubted his ability to follow this directive. What kind of man could stand by and watch these RUF bastards hack the limbs from children, he rationalized.

Bishop checked his map again. The convoy had almost reached its destination. They had encountered no sign of recent militia activity. Was it possible the RUF fighters were actually abiding by the guidelines laid down in the ceasefire? Bishop remained wary. Many of the RUF were no more than criminals and a refugee camp was easy pickings for heavily armed thugs.

The road narrowed even further. They inched forward over a simple log bridge and continued up into the highlands. Thick red clay caked the tires and the drivers struggled to keep the vehicles from sliding off the crude path and down the steep embankment into the green abyss below.

Bishop looked up as the Land Rover slowed. Spotting something ahead, the driver dropped down a gear. In the distance two armed men were standing in front of a battered white pickup parked across the track. A third man was manning a heavy machinegun mounted on the truck.

“Looks like trouble, Sir.” The young driver sounded worried.  

“It’s OK, Erasto. It’s probably just some of the local militia,” Bishop reassured the nervous youth. “Pull over and we’ll sort this out.” The UN officer was only a few years older than his driver, but his confidence and training gave him a leadership presence that belied his years.

They slowed to a halt. Bishop immediately opened the Land Rover’s battered door and stepped down. His boots sank into the mud. A cloud of mosquitoes swarmed up from septic pools of water. He swatted them casually, the mud and insects barely registering. His mind focused on the potential threat posed by the armed men.

The sound of squelching boots behind him drew his attention and he turned to face the Indian section commander.

Corporal Mirza Mansoor addressed Bishop. “Doesn’t look good Sir.”

“Hmm, I’m not real happy about this, Mirza,” Bishop replied quietly, his hand instinctively moving to the holster on his hip.

“A very dangerous position, Sir,” Mirza said matter of fact. The Indian was calm, his hard Asiatic features displaying no emotion.

“Yeah, we’re wedged in pretty tight. If they arc up with that machinegun, we’re cactus,” Bishop muttered. Beads of perspiration ran down his face.

“Do you think they are RUF?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Could be locals.”

“Well, Sir, whoever they are, they don’t look friendly.”

“They’re certainly not a reception party, that’s for sure,” Bishop agreed.

“What do you want us to do?”