Private Rogue

Chapter 54

Nikita Kolokov was furious. He’d spent days tracking the American pilot across Nuristan. Despite the mistakes of others, he’d executed the mission to near perfection. The first error had been the trigger-happy operator who was supposed to disable the Osprey once it was on the ground and the American troops had deployed. Instead, he had opened fire on the aircraft as it had been coming in to land. Thankfully, Floyd had not been one of those to die on impact, but the rocket had made their job much harder. The Americans had been ready for a fight, rather than running into the ambush Kolokov had planned. He had lost five men to the Americans, but they had been in a strategically inferior situation and their defeat had been inevitable. Kolokov could have engaged them far more effectively if he hadn’t been under strict orders to capture Floyd alive. So five comrades died — six if he included the trigger-happy operator, who was quietly executed for his failure.

Now, after everything he’d done to successfully entrap Floyd, another trigger-happy maniac had blown up their target, along with half a mountain.

The loss of their target wasn’t Kolokov’s only problem. He now had eleven wounded soldiers and had lost another three to the explosion. He had no idea of the identity of the man killed with Floyd, or where the Bell GlobalRanger helicopter had gone, but he was certain he would find out. Some intelligence analyst would compile a comprehensive report. Kolokov would do his best to ensure the bony finger of blame stayed away from him.

He was walking through the smoldering forest amid the embers of the fire. Trees had been incinerated, leaving only blackened stumps here and there. The mountainside was a shattered mess of boulders and rocks, and the earth itself had been scorched by the powerful explosion. The scent of rocket fuel lingered in the air, mingling with the stench of ash, burned flesh and metal. The three men he’d lost were simply gone. There were no bodies to bring home. Kolokov shook his head at the scene of devastation.

“Come on,” he commanded. “Gather the wounded. We’re moving out.”

Nestor, his second-in-command, started barking orders. His men abandoned the search for survivors and started moving toward the two flying tanks, helping the wounded as they went.

Kolokov kicked aside a smoldering chunk of charcoal. Part of a tree? Or a person? He couldn’t tell and didn’t care. He wanted to get as far away from the scene of failure as possible. He hurried toward the Mil Mi-24 helicopters and tried to avoid making eye contact with the pilot of the aircraft on the left. If he spent too long looking at the sheepish man who’d fired the missiles that had killed their target he might feel impelled to execute him instantly, and that would not be wise considering the pilot was needed to get them out of this godforsaken place.

Kolokov chose to ride in the other aircraft and consoled himself with the knowledge that the man would be properly dealt with when they returned to Moscow.