The Avatari (40 page)

Suleiman acted as interpreter. There was much ceremony, the kind associated with a royal court, rather than with the mud slopes of a wind-swept valley in northern Afghanistan.

‘You are our brothers and honoured guests,’ Suleiman offered by way of interpretation, giving the visitors a mere gist of the old chief’s long monologue, which had been followed by much nodding from the other assembled men.

‘Please tell him that it is we who are honoured,’ Ashton murmured.

Suleiman said something to the chief and there were murmurs of surprise from the assembled men. The visitors could make out from their response that Suleiman had broached the subject of the Rakhel-e-Shaitan. An old man with a flowing beard began shaking his stick and shouting at Ashton and his group.

‘The mullah here does not like you much,’ Suleiman confided to Peter in an undertone. ‘He wants to know what business you could possibly have in such an evil place.’

‘Tell him that we are scholars and have come to study it.’

After much talk and gesticulation, a cheer went up, with the men raising their Kalashnikovs in the air.

‘Allah hu Akbar!’ they exclaimed. ‘
Pir
Ahmed Shah!’

Suleiman turned to his visitors with a smile. ‘The chief says one of the men here knows about the place you talk of. His father had taken him there as a boy.’

He paused to listen as one of the assembled men said something and nodded back at him. Then he turned to his visitors again.

‘It is an evil place,’ he warned them, ‘but the promise made to you will be honoured; we will set off for that destination after we have driven the Soviets out from the
pir
.’

It took some time for the significance of Suleiman’s words to sink in. Peter and Ashton looked at each other, dismayed. The chief had already issued an order and boys were bringing in huge platters and placing them on the ground. The men of the village gathered in small groups and sat in circles around each of the platters. The three male foreign guests were smilingly invited to join a group. Huge quantities of rice and meat were piled on the platters and all the men in the different groups began eating, helping themselves from the common platter in their midst.

‘Brothers, eat together,’ Suleiman exhorted them through a mouthful of rice, a sliver of meat hanging limply from the corner of his mouth as he chewed his food with gusto.

When Ashton and his group had finished their meal, Susan, who had eaten with the women, joined them and they started out for their hut. Peter, however, chose to stay back, promising to join them later. A boy carrying a bag of rice and dried meat accompanied the others; a self-catering arrangement had apparently been made for them. From the way the boy kept grinning at Susan, who had now removed the shawl that had covered her head and was shaking out her long blonde hair, it was evident to them that he wasn’t quite as young as he looked.

Dusk had fallen by the time Peter returned to the hut. He had lingered in the village to acquaint himself with the Afghans’ intentions.

‘They plan to attack the Soviets day after tomorrow,’ he announced to the others quietly, as they sat on two makeshift benches which Duggy had fashioned out of wooden planks from the roof of the collapsed room. ‘In daylight,’ he added.

‘What!’ Ashton exclaimed, aghast.

‘That’s how they like to fight in these parts,’ Peter explained, ‘so that they can witness each other’s individual acts of courage.’

‘They won’t make it,’ Duggy declared with finality, shaking his head in regret.

‘It’s not simply a question of them not making it,’ Peter corrected him. ‘They’ll be slaughtered. With no cover to protect them as they approach their target, the MiGs and Hinds will pick them off at leisure. Since these Afghans have no artillery either, apart from some tubes of rockets, they won’t be able to soften up the
pir
and the platoon positioned there will cut them down even as they climb.’ Peter dropped his head in his hands, his expression one of despair. ‘Sure, the Stingers are bound to get a couple of Hinds,’ he murmured, almost as an afterthought, ‘but when that happens, the helicopter pilots will wise up and retreat to stand-off distances, flying in from time to time to pick out the missile operators, guns and rockets. Finally, the Soviets have the option of dropping their Spetsnaz or sending in the regular battalions mounted on BMPs to mop up the stray Afghan who might have survived the onslaught.’

‘Didn’t you explain the scenario to them?’ Duggy enquired.

‘I did – not that it did much good. They’re all fired up to redeem their honour and are clamouring to become
shaheed
– martyrs in the jihad.’

‘Oh my god!’ Susan exclaimed in anger and despair. ‘The fools!’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say they’re alone in thinking that way,’ Ashton said quietly. ‘The British and the Germans routinely charged each other’s wire during the First World War. But yes, we certainly have to do something about it before they let themselves be massacred.’

‘Any ideas?’ Peter asked, sounding sceptical.

‘One just struck me, even as you were speaking,’ Ashton said. ‘It’s inspired by what you just said. We might actually be able to redeem their honour without getting all of them killed. Let’s go down and meet Suleiman.’

The young man was cheerfully supervising the dismantling of a heavy Oerlikon anti-aircraft gun so that its components could be manually carried to the scene of the attack.

‘You will see some fight, eh, Colonel?’ he remarked, as he saw Ashton approach.

‘Yes, indeed,’ the Englishman replied. ‘But if your goal is to redeem the honour of your tribe, why not fight the enemy from here, instead of carrying the battle out to the open ground there?’

‘They will never attack us,’ Suleiman replied emphatically, turning away to issue orders to his men. ‘They haven’t from the time we moved in. Their MiGs do bombing runs every now and then, but that’s just to keep us quiet.’

‘Do their patrols still ply on the road?’ Ashton asked him.

‘Yes, they do. Every day, without fail, three BMPs move up and down from Eshkesham to Mazar-e Raq.’

‘Good.’ Ashton moved closer to Suleiman and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘I wish to meet your father,’ he said.

That very evening, Ashton and Peter were led to the chief’s residence. They noticed that apart from some woollen carpets on the floor, the place was very similar to the hut in which they had been put up. Ashton quickly explained their plan in English, leaving it to Suleiman to translate his words for his father’s benefit. This the young man did, albeit with much gesticulation. The old chief listened to him patiently, pulling deeply and contemplatively on the gurgling hookah at his feet. When Ashton had had his say and Suleiman had finished conveying his ideas to his father, the old man lapsed into a long silence. Then staring at the ground, he asked a question in Pushtu, which Suleiman hastened to translate into English.

‘He is asking,’ the young man said to Ashton, ‘how you know your plan will work. If we do not beat them, they will be at our doorstep and the women and children will be at their mercy.’

The crowd of Afghans gathered around them now stared at Ashton, their faces hard, their eyes shrewdly questioning, as they sat illuminated by the glow of a wick lamp improvised from a vodka bottle.

‘My plan will work,’ Ashton replied with a confidence he was far from feeling.

His words were followed by an angry buzz of conversation which the chief brought to an end by raising his hand. He said something to Suleiman and got to his feet. Ashton realized the interview was over. Suleiman herded them out without uttering a word.

Just before they began climbing the slope to return to their hut, Suleiman explained what his father had said.

‘He says we will try out your plan for a week. If it does not work, we will go back to our old plan.’

CHAPTER 23

Baharak Base, Afghanistan

S
EPTEMBER 1986

Charge of the garrison at Baharak was not what General Alexei Dudylev had in mind when he had approached his friends in the Kremlin for a tour of duty to Afghanistan. He had hoped he would be posted around Kabul, where a continuous stream of visitors from Moscow, including both general staff and members of the Party, was assured and his considerable talents as a tactician and commander would be utilized and, more importantly, noticed by the people who mattered.

He had, therefore, been dismayed when he reported for duty and was briefed by the divisional commander to keep a low profile.

‘We are finished here, Alexei,’ his superior officer had told him. ‘So let’s not try to overstretch ourselves.’

He was a tired old man, with a disconcerting tic around his left eye, and he perpetually rubbed his hands, as if he needed to keep them warm.

‘We do our job and keep the highway open, of course,’ the divisional commander had hastened to add, reminding himself that the man he was addressing was rumoured to have connections, ‘but then, you’re lucky. Not much happens in your stretch.’

That was not good news at all for General Dudylev. The nature of his brief seemed aimed at killing all chances of action, of medals and endorsements on his file. And those were precisely what he needed if he were to remain on the fast track. Afghanistan was the key. There were already far too many upstarts strutting around and feeding off the glory of campaign medals and gallantry awards which they had managed to lay their hands on by using this shitty war to their advantage and he, Alexei Dudylev, needed to wrest some for himself before they pulled out.

The occupation of the
pir
had been driven by this very urge on his part to get a move on. His divisional commander had initially been critical of his decision, but had changed tack after Dudylev firmly quelled the Afghan response with a series of air strikes. A few people in Kabul and even one person from Moscow had subsequently called to congratulate him. But much to his chagrin, everything had become quiet again. General Dudylev was wondering what to do about it when the latest incident occurred.

The Afghans had used rocket launchers to ambush their routine patrol of three BMPs at a défilé on the highway as it was returning to base late in the afternoon. It wasn’t just a stand-off attack; they had closed in for the kill. The last BMP had been hit first and by the time the other two had turned to counter the attack, the mujahideen had closed in from both sides of the road with accurately aimed fire which prevented the Russians from reaching the stricken BMP. By the time the attack helicopters scrambled from the base and reached the site, the mujahideen had vanished, taking three prisoners with them.

The divisional commander had not been amused.

‘This shit has started only after you decided to occupy the outpost at Zhawar,’ he said bluntly to Dudylev over the telephone.

‘It was only a matter of time, Comrade General,’ Dudylev parried, defending his position. ‘There is no reason to believe they wouldn’t have started it once our convoys began plying. They know very well that while we hold the post, we have them outmanoeuvred.’

‘I have received communications from them, asking you to vacate the post in exchange for the safety of the convoy.’

‘So have I, Comrade General,’ Dudylev told him. After a pause, he spoke again, his words laced with polite sarcasm. ‘Does the divisional commander advise me to vacate a tactical position to mollify the enemy?’

He waited for a response and smiled as he heard the divisional commander bang down the phone receiver without uttering a word.

In the early hours of the following morning, the outpost at Zhawar radioed in that one of the three men taken prisoner by the Afghans had escaped and returned to the post. Dudylev immediately issued strict instructions to keep this information from the divisional headquarters.

‘What news of our man who escaped from the Afghans?’ he asked his staff officer who brought in the first consignment of correspondence, bundled in a red folder, every morning. The general looked as if he hadn’t slept and had been nursing the night with vodka which, in fact, he had.

‘He is being picked up at ten this morning, Comrade General.’

‘And what is so special about that time, eh?’

‘It is the normal run, when we send rations, Comrade General. Our man will be brought back on the return sortie.’

General Dudylev knew that was the right thing to do. They were accustomed to sending a strong flight package of armed Mi-8s, escorted by the Hinds, to the outpost at Zhawar every day. The man had reached the outpost just before dawn and would be quite safe there; there was no need for any hurry in fetching him. Also, any air movement that wasn’t strictly routine would alert divisional headquarters. There was no need, however, to let his staff officer have the pleasure of knowing he had taken the right decision.

‘That’s the problem with you,’ Dudylev said testily. ‘Always confusing combat situations with your administrative requirements.’

The major, who had spent three years in Afghanistan and most of them around the battlegrounds of Khost and Kandahar, chose not to contradict the general.

‘I want him here the moment he arrives,’ Dudylev added peremptorily.

‘But Comrade General,’ the major protested, his voice low and hesitant, ‘the regulations say that if we recover our men who were taken prisoner, it is the intelligence staff who must debrief them first before they are allowed to communicate with anyone else.’

‘Don’t teach me regulations,’ the general said coldly. ‘Just do as you’ re told. And I hope you haven’t been blabbing to Feyzabad about the matter?’

Feyzabad, fifty kilometres further north on the highway, was where the divisional headquarters was located.

‘No, Comrade General,’ the younger man replied, ‘I have had no communication with Feyzabad.’

And with that, he excused himself from the room.

So things are finally happening
, Alexei Dudylev thought to himself.

He heard the heavy drone of the escort Hinds landing at the helipad. Soon enough, the man who had escaped from the Afghans was brought in to him. He had several days’ growth of stubble and looked scruffy.