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«It’s out of habit. In Donbass I always wore a helmet, even slept with it on,» added Tegov with a cheerful twinkle in his eyes. «And here is just like paradise.»
«Okay, okay, go. Be careful out there – let nothing happen,» said the frowning head of the group. «And listen to Sergeyev! That’s an order!»
Chapter 4
Helicopters took off from the base of the Syrian Air Forces just after sunset. Big, roomy cars were packed with small but heavy bales, which, prior to departure, five soldiers wearing light faded uniform had been sweating whilst loading for a long time. The flight lasted for several hours but nothing of interest for the journalists happened. Recording was not allowed. Dark sky with bright stars no longer attracted them, the desert below was in solid darkness, no lights, and on board, too, everyone was so silent, as if it was the most secret operation of the century. Only upon approaching Deir-ez-Zor were «the press’ requested to get ready. Suddenly the side doors opened and five soldiers tore packing bags apart and dropped down thousands and thousands of leaflets. Correspondents were allowed to carry those bags from the far side up to the opened door.
«Agitation and propaganda in action!» exclaimed Tag, panting and wiping sweat from his forehead. Even cool wind that was rushing into the open door of the helicopter, did not help him cool down the work made all of them feel hot.
«So far these are just leaflets. It’s only agitation. I don’t think things will reach the propaganda stage,» the loud response felt like it was directly in his ear. The wind flapped the folds of the slim lieutenant-colonel’s uniform, who was holding onto a handle above his head and apparently preventing him from falling.
«Won’t they? Does it make any difference?» Tegov shouted back.
«Wrong time for lessons now, but in short, agitation means mere suggestion without logic, just emotions; propaganda means persuasion, conviction, an attempt to appeal to reason. Got it?»
«Got it. Then tell me what this is?» there was a small Quran in the side pocket of his backpack, which was presented to him at the market by a good-natured Arab. He wanted the Russian reporter to become a Muslim, and so gave him the tattered book. «Here you go, they can give their Qurans to everyone!» Tegov reached out his hand, took it out of his backpack and turned over in his hands intending to throw down along with leaflets. But the lieutenant-colonel grabbed his arm and stopped.
«The Quran is pure propaganda. Leave it on board. Nobody needs it down there,» the book fell on the bag, and Tag no longer saw it. He did not speak with the strange lieutenant-colonel, who he had to listen to, until the landing. But after landing, all of the soldiers changed dramatically: they were joking, slapping each other on the back and acting as if there was no difference in rank between them. Tegov intuitively felt that they had been threatened in the air, and now the danger disappeared. He also happily grabbed a large bag and began to help the operator to unload the equipment. Morning came unexpectedly quickly and was very bright. Although the shooting was not heard, they were hidden in a small building, where the lieutenant-colonel started talking to the local military men. His subordinates sat down under the window. Soon they decided to have a short rest but the journalists did not wait for their meal and fell asleep right on the floor. It was quiet till noon and then they were awakened by the distant shots of artillery and small arms. Helicopter pilots were sleeping by one wall, two Syrian soldiers with machine guns were sitting near the door, and five Russian soldiers along with the reporters were lying along another wall. There was only the lieutenant-colonel and another man in uniform. But Tegov thought about the other thing. They had to eat and get ready for filming. Two or three hours left before they had to start sending the first footage to Moscow. In order to do that it was enough to at least shoot a few houses and climb onto a roof to show a panoramic view.
If Tegov had known what was happening at that moment in the adjacent building, where the headquarters of the Syrian defense were housed, he would have forgotten about everything and seized immediately on the news but he was quietly having his meal and thinking about his job only.
Chapter 5
A sharp turn following the first aircraft pressed Harry into his chair but it could not be considered an overload. He looked down to where clouds of dust were rising after the numerous bomb explosions and missiles could be seen. The camera was filming a report: cross-hairs coincided with the targets, electronics showed an exact hit. He had to turn around and make a few more bombing runs from the south of the city of Raqqa. It was their first combat mission in the territory of Syria. They usually had flown over Afghanistan and Iraq before. However, the top view was dull and monotonous and did not differ from the previous landscapes even though Afghanistan and Iraq had more mountainous regions. Here, in Syria, everything was like the valleys and rolling hills. Cities crowded along the narrow strip of the Euphrates that was stretching from north to south. Raqqa was located on both banks and Harry recollected how he was swimming with Carol in the Colourado River, and then climbing a long staircase to watch an incredibly beautiful purple sunset in the Grand Canyon.
Just hands themselves performed all the operations, his eyes followed the instruments on the panel, and his thoughts at that time made a pleasant journey through the past. Yes, there were not sunsets like in the Grand Canyon. The sun disappeared in those areas as quickly as if sinking into a deep hole.
The long turn finished and some small hills showed up on the right. By sight, they did not exceed 5,000 feet. Altimeter showed straight distance of 10,500 feet, which was in line with Colonel Henry’s order. So after performing the second task, Harry started making a turn, following his leader to set a new course. Now they were to fly to Turkey. Short mountains appeared at the bottom and he could not see them but he did not try to find any admirable beauty among those dirty-brown and dark-yellow hills. His eyes were riveted on the panel checking all the usual indicators. The route was laid out beforehand and controlled automatically by GPS. At that moment, a white bird flew ahead. From the corner of his eye Harry noticed a long white trail following it. It took his brain a split second to explode with that terrible word: «Missile!»
It has flown a hundred feet from the leader’s wing and Harry shouted words of caution without thinking:
«Eagle, a missile’s to the right! You’re under attack! Eagle the attack was on the right! It seems to be MANPADS!»
«I hear you, Blackhawk, no need to shout,» surprisingly calmly replied the commander. «Climb up! All crews: climb up! Were going up to 17,000. All up to 17,000!» then he began to communicate with the base and Harry pulled on the wheel disabling the semi-automatic control. Just out of curiosity, he leaned against the cabin glass and looked down.
«Holy Mother of Jesus!» he exclaimed, when another «white bird» took off and a wisp of smoke headed in their direction. «Eagle, the second’s flying!!!» he yelled an inhuman voice but there was no answer. At the last moment, the thought flickered into his head that he needs to let the wheel go and throw the plane to the side but his hands stubbornly continued to pull on it.
Easy push in the back was more like a pat, but it meant something quite different and terrible. He saw that the rear ailerons did not respond. Leader’s jet up ahead began to fly away, but Harry’s started tilting slowly with its nose to the ground. He was wearing the gloves, but he felt them instantly becoming wet.
«Blackhawk, what’s wrong?» he heard in his headphones. «Eagle, I’ve been hit!» he muttered perplexedly.
«Blackhawk, I can’t hear you. Say it again!»
«I’ve been hit! Damn, what should I do, Eagle? We’re in enemy territory and I can see a city ahead. There’s no chance to land there.»
«Can you make a turn? Do it and try to reach Deir-ez-Zor. There are Syrians over there. If you can’t, just bail out! Don’t lose the tracker!»
It was the last message from his commander. Harry’s plane started shivering as if it was alive and then suddenly was jetting up and down and twisting around. Miraculously, he fought its urge to roll into a tailspin. The silver line of the river was to the left, he succeeded in turning around and was heading southwards. Unfortunately, he had no clue how long he’d be able to last. The jet could fall down at any time. When the altitude was 3,000 feet, he removed the cap from the firing trigger, pressed back against the backrest, and pushed it into the handle. The cockpit’s canopy flew back and he was ejected like the training exercises he’d performed many times before. He barely felt the blow. Only a strong wind was blowing in his face and didn’t let him open his eyes, but soon Harry was able to handle it and he saw the hated dirty-brown, bumpy ground, landing at which did not promise him anything good. He did not hear the explosion, only saw a black cloud of smoke not far from ahead. This was all that remained of his aircraft. When his feet touched the ground, a parachute slowly descended from above, and he had to get out from under it, dreading that terrorists might come here and shoot him at any moment. Light fabric remained lying on the ground. Harry sat on an earthen mound and looked around. So far, it was quiet. His head worked well: first, he needed to remove the anti G-suit, get rid of all the excess, climb a hill and look around. They’ll be looking for him, for sure. The tracker in his flying suit won’t let him get lost. He has to be calm and don’t panic!
At the top of the nearest slope, Harry caught his breath and was finally able to look around. There was no road in sight. He could see clay hills ahead, which turned into rocky cliffs. His jet fell over there. The way to the south lay behind it and it was the way towards a small city of the Syrian regular army, where he could feel safe. If guys arrive quickly, then it’s no use carrying plenty of appliances and fixtures in the pockets. If they don’t, he will have to climb over the cliffs and hills and go farther to the south. So the extra weight was dangerous. Deir-ez-Zor was supposedly about one hundred kilometers walk away from these hills. In either case it was necessary to rely solely on the speed of movement. To do this he had to throw off all the weight.
Harry picked only multi-charge gun FNX, Camillus knife, GPS-navigator, some water, rations and light gloves. Tearing a balaclava, he hooked it over his head and walked briskly toward the clouds of dust and smoke hanging over the cliffs. He wanted to believe that he would manage to overcome the hill before the terrorists show up here.
The black column of smoke got thinner but it still was rising above the spot where the jet crashed. Just to avoid climbing on the rocks he was forced to pass very close by the fire making a small detour. Here the rise was less steep. When he heard stones rustling underfoot, it became easier to go. Soon large boulders and destroyed tops of the rocks showed up, and further lay down the road to salvation. Pausing, Harry caught his breath and took a GPS reading. Here he could go down and then move a little to the left, to the southeast. He was about to take the first step, when he noticed some movement at the bottom. His heart trembled and stopped – there were figures of people at the end of the long slope. They were about fifty. The distance was not more than a kilometer. He spotted five pickups behind them. The bright rays of the sun made the white, yellow and black bodies of the cars with heavy machine guns in the back well visible. Next to them swarmed several people. Judging by the overcrowding and slow movements they were dragging something. There was a black flag flying over one car – there were no doubts these were militants.
«What?.. How?» he muttered. It was beyond his imagination how they could appear here so quickly. It was impossible!
The eyes caught a strange movement of terrorists on the slope – they were in no hurry to rise, standing still in one place, then they all moved in the same direction as if they have someone in command. It soon became clear that the man who showed the others a way to go was in the middle. Harry automatically counted all the arrived: fifty-three and six near the cars. Fifty nine in total. When the figures made a curve and suddenly turned toward him, it dawned on Harry that they must have had a device tracking his tracker! Logic dictated that he should be out of sight, so that they could yet not detect him. His feet carried him the right, away from the plane and his pursuers. After fifty paces, he suddenly realized that they would detect him at any point as soon as they rose up. Plus, they might have more than one device. Why not? Then it’s no use hiding. He looked out and saw the people below frozen in indecision. After a few seconds, they all turned as one to his side and began to climb. The questions frantically flashed in his head:
1. Why were the militants on the other side of the hill?
2. Why were they going up so slowly?
3. Why were their cars in one place?
4. What did they unload?
Responses were just hypothetical, but his main question was already answered: he had to get rid of the tracker at once!
Harry has probably never run so fast. When the heat of the burning fuel on the ground touched his face, he dropped to his knees and could not breathe for a few seconds feeling nausea and a nagging stomachache. His hands, however, found the knife and cut off the top part of his flying suit, where the tracker was sewed in. GPS-navigator followed it and flew in the fire. So now he had nothing but water, rations, a knife and a pistol. Harry rose to his feet but his leg muscles were heavy, they did not obey, and his shoes were desperately clinging to the rustling stones of the slope. There seemed to be a swamp under the feet rather than small stones.
Harry climbed up at the same place where he was only twenty minutes ago, and he peered over the edge of a cliff. The terrorists continued rising slowly in the direction, where they spotted his tracker last time. It should only take them ten minutes, so he had to figure out where to hide. Burrowing into the clay was impossible – he just did not have enough time. He desperately looked around. There were the towering grey-black boulders and peaks on the top of the hill. Hiding among them under a stone was stupid. They would find him there anyway. Just then, two tiny points appeared in the sky. Harry could have sworn he saw a double tail of an F-15. He wanted to jump up, but restrained himself in time. The pilots must spot him! They must, for sure! But how? How could he help them? A rock might help – he could lie on the top to help them! Luckily, nearby were the highest peaks of the hill. Harry had to make an effort to climb up on one of them but up there he looked around and realized that it would be best to climb up to the next one. It took him a lot of skill to do it again. Once lying on the top and breathing heavily, Harry knew that this was now the best place to hide. The top split long ago and formed a small dip in the middle. No one could see him from below. Bending his knees he pressed his hands, part of his back and neck in hard stone. Something inside told him that this was not enough, that it was necessary to penetrate between the cracks and ledges in order to merge with them, make his body fill in all space and entirely dissolve in the piece of the rock. Panic was grabbing his mind. The heart started beating non-stop. He had to take a few deep breaths and then hold his breath. He could see two long white strips with dark dots on the end moving high in the sky. Watching their slow movement Harry was able to divert his attention from the fear and relaxed a bit. But when he heard unfamiliar voices near the rock, the muscles involuntarily toughened and he could hardly restrain himself not to open the trigger lock. Thoughts were jumping from the US to Syria whispering in the mind: «The guys already know. Everybody knows. The Admiral told the Pentagon. They’ll arrive, be sure to arrive. It takes three hours to come down to the bases in Turkey. And a couple more to get here. Gotta hold out until sunset.»
Voices came close to rock bottom and he heard suspicious noises. All thoughts of rescue and assistance of fearsome marines immediately vanished. In addition, the tracker was burned in the fire. Tension had reached its limit. In order not to make a fatal mistake, he had to relax and keep his hand away from the gun, or at least stop thinking about it because his thumb was constantly being drawn to the trigger lock. Harry decided to mentally turn to Carol. It was a short letter-prayer. He realized that he was thinking about stupid things but he did not have anything else. Love, promise to marry, an engagement ring, a luxury wedding he clenched his eyelids tightly and promised her everything begging her to wait for him because this request hid his hope of salvation.
A loud shot stunned him, interrupting the letter in mid-sentence. «Mortar, gun, grenade?» flashed in his head. After a few seconds, a vague white line appeared in the sky. They shot from down here! And they shot at the jets. But the missiles did not reach the goal – the airplanes were flying too high. The noise of voices from below escalated into shouting. The men were obviously arguing. Soon the noise shifted to the black smoke that was still rising from the wreckage of his plane. It went quiet below. Harry dared to turn his head slightly and moved up to the edge. He could see only a small portion of the slope through the slit. A few figures were moving down it. After a little time, he grew bolder and raised his head.
People with guns were walking among the fragments and two were standing near the place where he threw his tracker into the fire. One had the device in his hands, and the other was trying to pull something out of the fiercely burning fire and smoke with a stick. It was impossible because of heat. They found the tracker’s position and were looking for his corpse. But there was still a parachute not far from there! He had no time to bury it. He had nothing to do but wait for militants’ further steps.
There was a sound of footsteps under his rock. Harry sat back and stood still. He had to hold out until sunset. And he desperately wanted to release his bladder. This problem became dangerous too. He remembered his father was put in a large diaper every morning in his nursing home and taken a walk. At this moment Harry would have given his right arm to have the same one here.
Chapter 6
«We aren’t sure that Hawking died,» the Colonel tilted his head towards his shoulder and carefully answered the Admiral’s silent question. I did the last briefing with him. He was in great shape. A really good mood. According to two reconnaissance aircrafts, his jet crashed here in the area to the south of Raqqa,» he pointed the crash site on the map. «His group reported that he had ejected. Reconnaissance aircrafts also confirmed that they saw a parachute on the ground. They were shot at with a single shot from a MANPAD too.»
«So the militants have received MANPADS from China eventually. Their Arabian sheikhs paid for them…» the Admiral shook his head.
«Yes, Sir!»
«How did they shoot him down? You said the flight range of MANPAD’s missiles was 9,800 feet, no further!
«Yes, Sir!» the Colonel nodded. This data arrived from the Pentagon. However, their trajectory shows that they can fly up to 13,000 feet.
«Hawking’s jet altitude was almost 16,000, right?»
«Yes, Sir! However, the shot was taken from the top of this hill here. They climbed up to the top and cut the distance for a shot. That is just 3,200 feet. Therefore, the missile was right on the edge of its range. The first shot went past the wing of the leader and the second one touched Hawking’s.»
«God damn it!» the Admiral could not take a decision on the rescue of the pilot and this indecision irritated him more than Colonel’s formal report. «Did you find his tracker?»
«Yes, Sir! It is located right in the area of the crash. It’s in the fire. There are about fifty terrorists round there, which is why, we may surmise that Hawking did it on purpose.»
«Hmm… It’s a strange decision. He would have been forced to do that, if he saw they had a device detecting our trackers. But this is impossible. It’s the latest version.»
«Yes, Sir!» the Colonel paused and added: «But the Chinese MANPADS appeared unexpectedly as well.»
«Damn you!» the Admiral could not resist. «We can’t land our people there. If we lose a single one, it will cause uproar in the Senate and heads will roll… not just ours!»
«Yes, I know, Sir. The elections are coming and Republicans will not miss the opportunity…»
«I knew you understood me!»
«Excuse me, Sir, I have one more thing.»
«Which one?» the Admiral felt that his subordinate had some idea.
«We could send a few storm troopers. They would drop empty boxes by parachute a little further than where Hawking landed. If terrorists approach them, our planes fire». This will distract them and enable Hawking to reveal his location… in any way… Yes, he’ll find a way. He will think of something. He has the technical means.»
«And if the terrorists do not approach? Or only half of them do? Or there is a second option: Hawking has gone in another direction? Or the third one: Hawking died. What then?»
«Then you have a clear conscience, Sir,» said the Colonel, quietly. «We can’t do more than that.»
«Hmm… How long do you need to prepare a new group?» asked the Admiral in quite a different voice. His previous doubt and uncertainty had left him.
«Two hours, Sir!» answered the Colonel, cheerfully, barely holding back a joyful smile.
«Do it!» sounded a short order and soon three crews began to prepare for an emergency flight.
Chapter 7
It was two o’clock in the afternoon in Latakia. There was a heat wave in the streets and people were hiding in the shadows to escape the merciless sun. The Russian Commander’s room was full of nervous tension. Several people in Russian and Syrian uniform got together to discuss joint plans for conducting an unusual operation. Syrian military men were communicating with their units surrounding Deir-ez-Zor. Simultaneously, General Zakharov was discussing the same things with lieutenant-colonel Sergeyev who was in the city too. Sergeyev was sitting in a small room five hundred miles away and glumly listening to instructions.
«Most importantly, remember the codes as agreed,» said General Zakharov at the end.»
«Yes, Comrade General,» confirmed Sergeyev by radio, leaning his forehead against his hand, and handed the headset to a Syrian officer. «I’m passing you to local men…» he finished tiredly and looked at the captain who was standing by his side. On the other side he heard Arabic speech. The local colonel spoke again with his commanders in Latakia. He often repeated «Naam» – «yes» – and nodded his head. Captain Nechyporenko stood still nearby with a question on his face.
«We should get guns,» Sergeyev said briefly and sternly. «Our mission has changed dramatically. Now they will agree and tell us how to interact in more detail,» he nodded toward the Syrian soldiers, who were sitting at the old antediluvian devices resembling encryption machines.
At the same time on the other side of Syria, on the shore of the Mediterranean, the Commander and General Zakharov again pondered all embodiments of the mission entrusted to them by the General Staff after a short message from «the chief». He asked for «help by any means» in order to rescue the downed American pilot. Both generals understood that the successful implementation of this mission would help him solve certain political goals. Just two days ago the Americans refused to organize a joint rescue group and yet, here it is! What a coincidence! Their pilot was shot down and there seemed to be no one to rescue him.
However, sending Russian jets and helicopters, in particular, was very dangerous and illegal. After receiving information about shots from houses in Raqqa that morning, Russian storm troopers brought a recording with two shots of missiles on the aircrafts. The missiles missed them by about half a kilometer. In the afternoon Syrian intelligence agents confirmed that the terrorists got «FS-6» models of Chinese MANPADS. Now all the helicopters, especially those two in the Deir-ez-Zor, were in danger, but there was still a hope that they would have time to quickly reach the crash site of the US aircraft and rescue the pilot. The hope was that the terrorists will be waiting for the Americans from Northern Turkey, rather than from the south, where the Syrian brigade was surrounded in Deir-ez-Zor. But telling lieutenant-colonel Sergeyev about it plaintext on the radio meant reducing all efforts to zero. Encryption was not useful either. It could be picked up. However, there was no alternative. The only thing left to hope for was that the terrorists would not have time to decrypt the message quickly and Sergeyev’s group would have time to come back safe and sound.
When an hour later he was given a small piece of paper with Arabic script, Sergeyev leaned back in his chair and began to read carefully. He could hear gunfire, single shots and rare, booming explosions of shells in the north. There was a routine check of the enemy’s perimeter «who is where?» When he finished reading, he tore the paper into small pieces and threw them on the floor.
«No shredder. So we’re destroying it the old way!» he smiled sadly noticing captain Nechyporenko’s puzzled look. «The mission’s as follows: we take our guys and fly in the direction of Raqqa. There was an American jet shot down near the mountains. We need to find the pilot. We will have twenty men and weapons,» taking note of the doubt on the face of the captain he added: «We have to depart now to get there before night,» he said almost everything that he had read except the warning about Chinese MANPADS. He was confident that the terrorists would be waiting for the Americans instead of them.
«And how did they shoot it down?» asked the captain.
«Uh… well, „our younger brothers“ from a far yellow country helped a bit. They managed to successfully copy „FS-6“ MANPADS and sold them to the terrorists,» he nodded toward the window referring to the enemy.
«Really?» Nechyporenko was surprised but then he sighed and added: «Ivanych, so, if you’re joking, it’s not that bad then?» he asked hopefully.
«Who knows! I don’t want to evoke evil but my heart is restless,» Sergeyev said sincerely and this recognition made the captain grimace.
«Well, that’s not inspiring,» he said with a sigh. «And what about those „TV-jokers“? They’ll stay alone. They might be bombed or shot occasionally during firing. It’s not Latakia over here,» this question concerned the reporters.
«Gotta leave them to the local guys. They’ve got a few people who graduated from our academies. They speak Russian. So they’ll look after them, I hope. Lets’ go!» the lieutenant-colonel nodded when he saw that the Syrian leader had ended the conversation. «We have to see what weapons they have here. I would prefer «Kalashnikovs» and «Makarovs», he muttered to himself.
«Kalashnikovs» were available but pistols, alas, were not. There were Italian «Berettas» and a lot of ammunition available for them. They could take as much as they could carry. Helicopters were empty, so the «heavy» people were safe to fly.
«Not so many. What else can we take?» the captain Nechyporenko asked Sergeyev, filling the second bag with magazines. «Our guys can’t shoot. They are all drivers and typesetters for publishing, technology support staff, you know,» he said, with a vexed and disappointed voice and Sergeyev immediately made a decision.
«We’ll take only „Kalashnikovs“ then! And maximum cartridges. Let them sit and load magazines until they drop. We’ve got time. Also we’ll need water. That’s all, nothing else.»
«You’re that serious, I thought you’d order a cannon,» the captain tried to smile.
«Are you kidding? I would take a cannon, but there’s not a good one to take. They do not have a damn thing here. No grenades and grenade launchers. Okay, let’s be serious. Time to talk to our guys. What nicknames do they have?»
«What?» Nechyporenko’s eyes widened and several cartridges slipped out of his hands rolling on the floor. «Nicknames? Who?»
«Yes, their nicknames. Start with them first,» the lieutenant-colonel nodded at the soldiers.
«Hey, private Mustafin!» Nechyporenko called one of the soldiers. The young private looked up from the magazine. «The lieutenant-colonel wonders what nicknames you have. Tell him!»
«My nick is Mustafa,» replied the soldier, calmly.
«Well. It’s okay,» said Sergeyev. «All together, repeat his new name out loud ten times: Mustafa!» after the surprised soldiers complied with the order jangling discords, followed from others:
«Tolik Safonov’s is «Safon.»
«It doesn’t work. He’ll be Safar. Got it»? All recite ten times: Safar! Call him only this name from now on!»
«Pyriev Sergey’s is „Pyrchik“».
«It doesn’t work either. He’ll be Abgar. Is that clear? Say it again ten times: Abgar!»
«Edik Tsyba is called „Donut“. He’s a bit stout».
«Hmm… He’ll be Abubakr. Say it again aloud: Abubakr!»
«Isa Alarzoyev ’s name is Isa. What else could it be?» private Ravvil Mustafin shrugged.
«He’ll be Rayis,» concluded the lieutenant-colonel. «Altogether say it: Rayis!» when it was over, he asked: «What’s the captain’s nickname?»
«Me? Why me?» said surprised Nechyporenko.
«Wait! Mustafa, how do you choose a nickname for you commander?» interrupted Sergeyev.
«Sayid…» replied the private quietly and lowered his head to hide a smile.
