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

to Simon Conlan’s ranch. It sat easier with his government salary than the Very Old Fitzgerald.

Pouring the bourbon into a scratched tumbler, he picked it up and gazed into the golden spirit, getting lost in the deep colour of it and the warped view of the room through it. He threw the glass down in one and filled it once more, sitting back and allowing his dark thoughts to envelop him.

***

Across the world in Afghanistan the air was thick with blood. Blood, dust and death. It sat heavily on the plains and mountains of Spīn Ghar, along with the corpses of hundreds of Afghan men, women and children. And no small number of Soviet soldiers.

The young Soviet captain looked out across the Tobagi plain where many of the civilians had hoped to find safe passage, and his jaw bunched as his teeth grated. Suddenly he couldn’t fight the bile at the back of his throat and vomited onto the dry ground in front of him. He was not the first to have a weak stomach that day, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Gazing back across the plain to the village, he was cast in shadow by the mountain behind him. The echoes of gunfire and screams from the caves rang around him.

The mujahideen had fought ferociously, employing guerrilla tactics. They nestled among the crags and bushes of the Spīn Ghar mountains, firing mortars at the slopes as the Soviet forces climbed towards the Tora Bora caves. The young captain’s thoughts were disturbed by the sound of raised voices behind him. He turned and walked into the cave which was angled so as to be invisible until you were right upon it.

As he entered, he saw two Afghan mujahideen on their knees in front of Sergeant Pogrevniak and one of his privates, both of them aiming their AK47s directly at the prisoners.

Both of the prisoners held their backs straight, full of dignity, their otherwise pristine white robes becoming dirty on the mossy cave floor.

The captain walked to them and the two Afghan soldiers raised their eyes to him from under the heavy cloth wrapped around their heads. One was older, roughly late fifties with a thick grey beard and clean shaven over the lip, his face carrying a dignified wisdom. The other could be no older than twenty-five, with a round face and sharp nose.

Sergeant Pogrevniak pushed the barrel of his weapon against the forehead of the elder prisoner. “Can I decorate the walls with the blood of this scum now, Captain?” He laughed, his lips pulled back tightly over crooked teeth.

The captain pushed the gun down. “We treat our prisoners with respect, Sergeant.”

“These aren’t prisoners, they are raghead scum.”

The captain struck the sergeant around the face with the back of his hand. “Speak that way about me or our prisoners again and I will have you court-martialled, Sergeant.”

Fury filled the face of Pogrevniak, who in turn struck the young private standing next to him who had let out an involuntary chuckle at the reprimanding of his commanding officer. The smile quickly left his face. Both retreated to the far side of the cave, watching with a mixture of curiosity and anger.

“Do you speak Russian or English?” The captain asked them falteringly, in the one phrase he had memorised.

“We speak both Russian and English, but our English is better,” replied the older mujahideen in a cultured accent.

“Why do your people continue to fight?”

“It is a Jihad. We will fight to the death against the enemies of Islam,” the young Afghan soldier said angrily.

“This is why religion is poison,” said the soldier. “You would allow your women and children to die in the name of God.”

“Religion may be poison,” acknowledged the elder soldier passively, “but God is real. Faith is real. With a faith in a higher power, we can accept death gladly, knowing that paradise awaits.”

“That is a good way to avoid ever living,” the soldier said, rolling his shoulders to try and relieve them of the tension.

“To the contrary, my friend, it means that we all have the opportunity to find peace with our mistakes, remedy our wrongs and live with no regret. Can you say that you will live with no regrets over the massacre of an entire village of innocent people? Why do white men feel the need to invade, demean and wield power over those who are different?”

“I am following orders; this is not personal,” the captain said stiffly to the gentle old man.

The old man looked benignly up at him and lowered his hands from his head. The captain said nothing. “Put aside the violence, Captain, and look for love,” he said gently.

The captain laughed — a loud, humourless bark. “There is no love to be found in these caves, only death.”

“It does not matter where you are, God can find you,” the old man replied before adding in Russian, “S milym rai i v shalashe budet.”

“If you love somebody, you will have heaven even in a tent,” repeated the captain. “You know Russian proverbs.”

“The beauty of that one always stayed with me, Captain. Now, it is time to do what you must. Go with God, for Allah is merciful,” he said and kissed his comrade on the cheek. They both closed their eyes.

“Allahu akbar,” they both whispered. The gunshots echoed throughout the mountain, but it was their words that rang longer in the mind of the young captain, who would be forever changed.

***

“You have done well, Captain,” said Chairman Klitchkov waspishly. “You are certain no civilians escaped? It is vital for national security that the events of the Spīn Ghar Mountains remain unknown.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the captain into the radio receiver, fighting to keep the tremble from his voice, as the racking regret began to course through his veins. “We are still clearing