PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (34 page)

It had taken only an hour and forty minutes for Dostiger’s helicopter to travel the four hundred kilometers from the extraction site. Yanuk ended up spending most of the time sitting in the cockpit, chatting with the two veteran Soviet pilots about their time in the Russian military. As the old airfield appeared in the distance, the senior pilot pointed it out. “You ever been here before, Yanuk?” he asked.

“Nyet, comrade, Afghanistan was just before my time.”

The pilot laughed loudly over the headset. “Good for you. This place is a shithole.”

Yanuk scanned the airfield as the helicopter did a lazy loop. It certainly looked like a dump; rusting abandoned aircraft sat alongside derelict fuel tankers and the runway was covered in growth. The ramshackle town wasn’t much better, reminding Yanuk of a ghost town from a western movie.

The pilot noticed his intense gaze. “No need to worry, my friend,” he said, taking one hand off the stick to point out a vehicle moving along the edge of the runway. “Turkeman Army: nearly a whole brigade down there. Missiles, tanks, all looking after you and your precious cargo. No one can touch you here, comrade.”

The helicopter banked and Yanuk could see the armored vehicles and men positioned at the edges of the airfield. The surface-to-air missile systems and the anti-aircraft guns made him feel a little more secure.

“Do you fly here often?” he asked.

“Once or twice a month. We fly in with drugs, meet with the plane, and return with guns.”

Yanuk whistled. “Useful arrangement.”

“Pays for the vodka and whores,” the pilot laughed. “Hold on, we’re coming in to land.”

The helicopter flared and started to descend. Yanuk moved back into the cargo hold and strapped himself into the webbing seat. He peered through the side window, checking that everything was in order. The AN-12 was on the runway with its four engines idling and ramp lowered. A group of heavily armed men were carrying plastic trunks out of the aircraft, stacking them on the tarmac. He finally started to relax.

The helicopter rotated slowly, and when the rear doors faced the ramp of the transport plane, it touched down with a gentle thud
.
The pilots shut down the engines and the high-pitched whine faded as the spinning blades came to a halt. Even Khan looked happy as they disembarked, followed by his men carrying the two canisters.

One of Dostiger’s men greeted them in English. “Welcome to Kalai Moir, my friends.” The Ukrainian looked like he was straight from the pages of
Soldier of Fortune
magazine, complete with modified AK-47, low-riding thigh holster and baseball cap.

Khan gave the man a withering look. “Here is the chemical,” he said, as his men placed the two canisters on the ground. “Do you have my payment?”

Dostiger’s representative was a little taken aback by the Warlord’s directness. “Yes, comrade, the weapons and cash will be transferred now.” He gestured to the line of armed men carrying black plastic cases off the ramp of the transport plane.

Khan nodded to the Afghans accompanying him and they moved to help Dostiger’s men load the cases through the clam-shell doors at the back of the Mi-17.

The man continued. “Dostiger wanted me to tell you there is more whenever you need it.”

“Good, very good. Then we are done.” The Afghan warlord turned to Yanuk, offering the shorter man his hand. The mercenary’s eyes widened as Khan addressed him in fluent Russian. “Good work, Yanuk. I will tell Dostiger how hard you worked to make sure he got his precious chemical. Although I am sure you will be duly rewarded.” He had forced Yanuk to speak English throughout the whole excavation. The tall Afghan turned back towards the helicopter, his white robes dancing in the wind.

Dostiger’s representative interrupted Yanuk’s thoughts. “Comrade, once the cargo is loaded, we’ll leave. I am under strict instructions to have this aircraft airborne within ten minutes of your arrival.”

“No argument from me. I’m ready to go,” Yanuk replied.

He inspected the stainless steel containers to ensure the men had lashed them securely to the floor of the aircraft’s hold, then took a seat beside the rest of Dostiger’s Ukrainian security force.

Yanuk smiled again as he strapped himself into the cargo netting seat that hung from the fuselage. He was another step closer to his millions. He daydreamed about retiring to a tropical island, then chuckled to himself, looking out the window at the desert that surrounded the airfield. No, too much fucking sand, he thought.

Chapter 58

Kalai Moir

Eight kilometers to the east of the airstrip, the Pain Train began another sweeping turn. The pilots were maintaining what is referred to as a racetrack; keeping the aircraft away from the target to avoid detection, cutting laps to maintain observation. In this case Mitch was using the jet’s targeting camera to watch the transfer of the cargo from the helicopter to the cargo plane.

“Bunker, this is Pain Train. I confirm that transfer of the cargo has occurred and the aircraft is moving for take-off,” Mitch reported. Now the Pain Train was out of munitions, they could only observe.

“Roger, Pain Train. Can you give us the tail number?”

“Negative, we’re too far out. We could move closer, but it would risk compromise.”

“Acknowledged, Pain Train. Vance has asked if you can push the boundaries. We really need that tail number.”

“OK, I’ll see what we can do. I’ll get back to you.” Mitch switched to the internal channel with the pilots. “Hey, chaps, we need to bring it in a little closer on the next run. Let’s set the back side of the next loop tighter in, but no closer than three and a half miles.” Mitch hoped no one on the ground was paying close attention to the horizon. Although the Turkmenistan Air Force was unlikely to be a threat with their two working fighters, he was wary of the Army’s short-range surface-to-air weapons.

The Pain Train banked over to one side, commencing the turn that would bring it nearer to the target. Mitch began recording the feed. As the image became clearer, he captured a number of stills, emailing them to the Bunker.

“They’ve transferred the nerve agent?” asked Mirza, as he dropped into the spare seat next to Mitch.

“Hey, champ. Yes, they’ve made the transfer. Couple more minutes and they’ll be chocks away.”

On screen the antiquated transporter executed a tight turn onto the main runway. As Mitch panned out, they could see the helicopter was already airborne, hovering above the runway. It turned back towards the Afghan border, dipped its nose slightly, and started moving away from the airfield.

“So that’s it, then. They get away?”

“Sorry, lad. Not much we can do about it, eh?”

Mirza didn’t say anything; he just stared at the screen.

“I’m sorry, Mirza. I want to make the bastards pay just as much as you.”

The Indian rose out the chair. ”There might be a way. Just let me check on something.”

“You’ll have to make it fast. I’ve got a feeling Vance is going to cut us away soon. That engine’s playing up again.”

Mirza left the cockpit and Mitch turned his attention back to his screens. Now that the tarmac was clear, the AN-12 started rolling forward. Mitch could see the heat streaming out of the four turboprops as it lumbered down the runway. With a lurch, it was airborne and heading west.

The video-conference symbol popped up on the bottom of Mitch’s screen. He closed the feed from the pod, retracting the device back into its recess under the nose of the aircraft, then hit accept on the video-conference. Chua’s face appeared on the screen.

“Hey, Mitch, good job on the image capture. We’ve tracked the aircraft. Tail number JAM480 is registered to a company based in Kiev, no doubt linked to Dostiger.”

“No surprises there.”

“The aircraft is logged to fly from Mary Airport in Turkmenistan to Odessa International in the Ukraine,” Chua explained.

“I figured it would have to be registered. There’s no way you can fly through that part of town without being noticed.”

“Yes, that’s part of the reason we’re sending you back to Abu Dhabi. We can track the aircraft from this end using the civil and military radar nets. The ELINT team has already hacked most of them. Bishop is on the job at the other end,” Chua explained.

“Righto. For your info, we just lost the number three engine again.” Pushing the repaired turbofan hard coming out of Kandahar had come at a cost. Fortunately, with only three engines and a much lighter payload, the Pain Train had been able to tail the slower helicopter. If they hadn’t dropped that last load of bombs, it might have been a different story.

Chua nodded. “Yeah, we’ve been monitoring it at this end. Vance is pretty keen to get her fixed up and ready for the next mission.”

Mitch tipped his head in agreement. “The old girl’s certainly in no state to tangle with a MiG any time soon.” The Ukrainians had a formidable fleet of advanced fighter aircraft. “Look, I think Mirza wants a crack at that helo. He’s got some crazy idea that he’s working on—”

“Where is he?”

“He’s back in the hold, sorting through the kit Ice brought on board.”

“Any idea what he’s cooked up?”

“I’ve got an inkling.”

“Mitch, the Pain Train is your command. Vance is cutting you away from the mission to head back to Abu Dhabi. If you get a little sidetracked, he’s not going to ask any questions.”

“Heard you loud and clear, Red Leader.”

“Good hunting. Bunker out.”

***

The Mi-17 was cruising at 250 kilometers an hour in a direct line for Herat when the giant Ilyushin transporter swept over it. The big jet flew so close it nearly clipped the tail rotor on its way past. The helicopter bucked wildly as the back blast of the jet’s turbofans hit its spinning rotor blades. The pilot fought with the yoke, his feet dancing on the pedals, managing to keep control of the shuddering airframe.

“Fucking arsehole, how did he not see us?”  the pilot exclaimed.

“That prick has radar. He should have picked us up from miles out,” the co-pilot commented.

Behind them, Khan ripped open the cockpit door. “What was that!”

“Ah, a plane almost crashed into us,” the pilot replied, pointing towards the transport aircraft pulling away from the helicopter, “but don’t worry, we are clear now.”

Khan positioned himself between the two pilots, staring intently through the canopy at the outline of the heavy transporter. A spark of recognition flared in his eyes. “Dive! Dive!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. The big aircraft loomed in front of them.

The warning came too late.

The Pain Train swept over the helicopter, Mirza lying on the lowered cargo ramp behind an
XM500
sniper rifle. The loadmaster had lashed him to the ramp and the straps were tight, cutting into his body, but they held as the gusts of the aircraft’s slipstream tore at his clothing.

Mirza peered through his scope. The helicopter bounced in and out of view. “We’re too far away. Can you slow us down?” he screamed into his throat mike.

The pilot responded in Mirza’s headphones. “Any slower and we’re going to drop out of the sky like a rock!”

“I need to get closer; they’re dropping back.”

“Fuck it, I’m going to flare out. Wait, wait, wait—NOW.”

The aircraft shuddered, slowed to stalling speed. It felt to Mirza like his guts were trying to force their way up and out of his throat. The helicopter filled the scope and he didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger. The rifle slammed into his shoulder as it spat its deadly projectile at the target.

The bullet smashed through the Lexan canopy of the Mi-17 at almost 3000 feet per second. The high-explosive projectile detonated inside the co-pilot’s chest cavity, the tungsten slug continuing through his back, the seat, the cockpit wall, and out the floor of the helicopter. To his credit, the pilot reacted instinctively, wiping the blood from his face as he banked the helicopter hard, throwing it sideways. Khan was thrown backwards into the hold of the aircraft and fell against the cases that held his cash and weapons.

Mirza struggled to re-acquire the helicopter. He glanced over the top of the scope and saw the tiny shape in the distance, lower than before. Aiming downwards, he looked through the scope again, lining up a second shot. The helicopter had dropped and was peeling away. Mirza had only a second before it would evade him.

The big rifle bucked once more as the heavy fifty caliber bullet left the barrel. At the same time, the Pain Train dropped forward.

The helicopter shuddered as the second round slammed into the starboard turboshaft. It detonated, sending the spinning titanium engine blades slicing though the engine cowling and into the other powerplant.

With both engines destroyed, the pilot disengaged the drive, trying desperately to bring some form of control to the spinning rotor blades. The additional strain on the damaged rotor head caused it to shear and the spinning disc ripped off, blades and all. Without lift, the fuselage of the aircraft went into a free fall, gathering speed as it dropped towards the earth.

Khan struggled to his feet. He felt the aircraft drop and caught a glimpse of the transport jet through shattered windscreen. He swore at it in defiance as his helicopter slammed into the side of a ravine and detonated in a huge fireball. Khan, his crates of weapons, ammunition, and two million dollars cash were no more.

“Diving now, diving now,” the pilot screamed. He forced the nose of the immense aircraft down, trying to build speed before it fell from the sky. For a moment the aircraft hung in the air, trying to decide whether to fly or plummet to the earth. With a shudder, it tipped forward, winning it’s battle with gravity. The three working engines screamed and it started to build speed. The loadmaster hit the ramp switch, the wind subsided and the hydraulic pistons slammed it shut.

“Nice shooting, buddy,” the loadmaster said, releasing the straps holding the sniper.

Mirza shrugged off the compliment.