Private Rogue

Chapter 46

Kamdesh was a small town located high in the Hindu Kush mountains. I’d flown these ranges before, but still found their majesty breath-taking. We approached from the south, flying up the valley, and I looked out of the chopper in wonder as huge peaks loomed to our north, their snowcaps dazzling in the morning sun. The lower flanks were a kaleidoscope of purples, grays and blues in the bright light, and further down there were deep greens of cedar and fir. I couldn’t help but feel insignificant in the presence of something so vast, and these were only a handful of the mountains stretching to the north and west as far as the eye could see.

My body ached and the bones in my feet felt as though they’d shrunk away from my soles. My eyes were heavy with jetlag and I could feel the ominous signs of a headache forming, but all these nagging discomforts melted away as I took in the awesome landscape.

We flew into Kamdesh a little after five. The town was a feat of engineering, built into the mountainside in terraces so that one home was constructed almost on top of another. Steep roads and alleyways carved through the clusters of buildings.

I joined Feo in the cockpit as he circled, searching for a place to land. Beneath us, people emerged from their homes and looked up at the aircraft. Some of the men carried rifles, others were armed with machine guns. A few were shouting instructions and pointing up at us.

“They don’t look friendly,” I observed.

“A thousand friends are few, one enemy is too many,” Feo replied. “It’s a Russian proverb that teaches people to be cautious. Like them, I hope.”

I hoped they were just being cautious too.

“Down there,” I suggested, spotting a shoulder of land that protruded to the north of the village near a track that led out of town.

Feo nodded and said something in Russian. I looked back to see Dinara smiling.

“He said he hates backseat pilots,” she revealed.

“She’s lying,” Feo objected with a broad grin. “I would never say such a thing about my boss.”

I buckled myself in as he swung us round and began his descent. A crosswind coming up the valley buffeted the chopper, but Feo compensated expertly and we were soon on a snow-covered patch of ground.

Outside, a group of armed men were coming along the track.

The yelling started the moment Dinara opened the cabin door. She swung it back and was greeted by a barrage of anger delivered in Kamviri. I unclipped myself and hurried back to join her. She jumped down and replied in Pashto. It wasn’t the local dialect, but most of the men there understood her.

They moved forward, close now, their guns pointed at us, their voices still loud and angry.

Dinara spoke again and Feo climbed out of the chopper. He held an SR-2 Veresk submachine gun and had an MP-443 Grach pistol in a holster slung under his arm. The size of the man, coupled with the hardware he was toting, only served to fuel the crowd’s hostility.

Dinara carried on talking. Slowly the angry shouts morphed into low grumbles.

“Their village was attacked three nights ago,” she revealed. “A unit of Russian mercenaries. They killed three people and wounded another twelve. They think we’re part of the same unit.”

She turned and spoke some more. A young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty yelled at the others and, a few moments later, they dispersed and headed back toward town.

“I told them we’re friends of the pilot, the man the Russians were looking for,” Dinara explained.

The young Nuristani man stepped forward and slung his AK-47 over his shoulder.

“Hello,” he said. “You speak English?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“My name is Vosuruk,” the young man said. “After my grandfather. He was an important man here.”

“Nice to meet you, Vosuruk. You can call me Jack.”

“Welcome, Jack. Come with me, please. There is someone who can help you.”