The Soviet Comeback by Jamie Smith (best ereader for academics TXT) 📕

“Lieutenant-Colonel, remember where you are,” said Petrenko sharply.

“I am not a politician,” the KGB trainer said in his reedy voice, “I am state security, and this man has made our state insecure, sir.”

“You also report to me, or have you forgotten the discipline that you preach to your recruits?”

Denisov immediately holstered his weapon, and saluted Petrenko. “No, sir.” He whistled to the two guards who picked up Yerin by the armpits and dragged him from the room. Denisov again saluted and walked from the office, drawing the doors closed behind him.

The general secretary of the Soviet Union sat down heavily, and poured himself another glass of vodka. He walked over to a cabinet and opened a small freezer, from which he withdrew some ice cubes, and added them to the glass.

He raised his glass. “To the last of my trusted comrades,” he said to himself, and took a sip of the cool alcohol.

Picking up the phone on his desk, he pressed number one. “Anna, get Colonel Klitchkov here as soon as possible.”

***

VILLAGE OF SURKHAB, EASTERN AFGHANISTAN.

Colonel Klitchkov climbed down from the helicopter and stepped delicately over the bullet-ridden body of a young Afghan mujahideen soldier lying in the middle of the street, and gazed around him.

The small village was made up of low, square rammed earth wall and mud brick buildings built up into the low hill behind him, with the larger number pooled around him on the main dusty track leading through it. Bodies lay scattered throughout the village, with many buildings destroyed. Most of the corpses were dressed for combat, but women and children could also be seen among the dead.

Ahead in the distance he could see the looming white peaks of the Spīn Ghar mountains, stretching in a spine that separated the Eastern spur of Afghanistan from the north west of Pakistan. They sparkled in the midday sun, a mass of peaks, rocks, canyons and caves.

A trail of people were making their way away from the village towards the mountains. Some were already there and could be seen beginning their ascent.

Colonel Klitchkov squinted in the sun. “What level of opposition have we faced today, Captain?” he asked the strong-jawed soldier standing behind him.

“They have fought strongly despite their inferior numbers, sir. There is a covered approach to the Spīn Ghar range using the Tobagi Plain which many have used. It has made our superior force inconsequential. We are doing our best to flank them. Losses have been great on both sides. Once they get to Tora Bora, we will not be able to reach them. The men are not used to mountain combat; the Afghans will win any battle up there.”

Colonel Klitchkov looked round sharply at the captain’s words. Tora Bora was a network of limestone caves naturally hollowed out over millennia, and the home of the great mujahideen warlords who had been fighting relentlessly for almost nine years to repel the Soviet invaders.

“So it is the famous Tora Bora caves they seek refuge in? This may well be perfect for what I plan, Captain.”

“Sir?”

“It is not your concern, Captain. Your concern is to finish the job here.”

“I do not take orders from the KGB,” the muscled officer said with a slight sneer. The reputation of Klitchkov was fearsome, but he could crush this old man in his hands if he wanted, he thought to himself.

Colonel Klitchkov looked curiously at the soldier before him. “During the Battle of Stalingrad, we would crucify soldiers who did not show respect to their superiors, and leave them there as a reminder to anybody else who was thinking of doing the same thing. It is a practice I wholeheartedly support. I even carried it out a few times myself,” he said clinically, showing no emotion.

“What are your orders, sir?” The captain asked quickly, instantly realising his misjudgement of the man.

“Kill them.”

“The mujahideen?” the young captain asked, his tanned skin glowing in the intense sunlight.

“All of them,” Klitchkov said with chilling detachment. “Destroy the village and then tell your men to enjoy the women if they wish to contaminate themselves with these Muslim peasants.”

At that moment there was a woman’s scream from one of the nearby huts and the crack of a gunshot. A Soviet soldier strolled out of the crumbling hut, buckling his trousers and laughing. The sound of a baby crying could be heard from the building.

Klitchkov looked at the captain. “I see my instructions were unnecessary.”

The soldier froze as he saw Colonel Klitchkov and his face dropped in horror. He stood to attention and saluted the colonel, leaving his trousers to fall to his ankles. His grey underwear was stained with blood.

“Prostite, Colonel! Prostite!” he said, apologising to the point of grovelling.

The colonel smiled. “You are enjoying the spoils of war, comrade?”

The soldier, whose pale face was flat and quite wide, with spots around his chin and a tattoo of a curvy woman on his arm, relaxed slightly. “Da, sir!” he replied, leering. “I think these bitches actually like it.”

Colonel Klitchkov laughed merrily and walked towards the soldier. In a smooth motion he withdrew his revolver and shot the soldier in between the legs.

The man screamed and dropped to the ground, holding the hole at his crotch and trying to stem the bleeding. What remained of his manhood could be seen on the floor next to him. He looked up in horror.

“Now, soldier, spoils of war are for the victors. Not for a job half done,” Klitchkov said and emptied the remainder of his bullets into the man on the floor.

Klitchkov turned and walked casually back towards the captain, whose face had gone white with fear, matching the grey of the colonel’s hair.

“Now, Captain, I expect you to better discipline your men… and yourself,” he said. “Otherwise,