Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

1982 Chapter VIII—High Altitude 

April 1982, Afghanistan 

 

 

Spring, birds chirping, trees blooming, baby rabbits hopping across fresh 

green lawns, prettily sniffing at daffodils. 

Yeah, right. Dan was sneering at the mental image with which he had been 

amusing himself for the last two hours while cleaning his guns for the umpteenth 

time. 

Spring. Bloody spring in this goddamned shithole and the snow was still 

covering most of the mountains. Granted, the plateau was fairly clear from the 

white crap that was pissing him off to heaven and hell after almost six months of 

trudging through this shit, but the nights were still freezing. The cold was ten times 

worse than the heat had been during the last time he had been in that cave. 

Spring. April. Nineteen-bloody-eighty-bloody-two, and it felt like eons ago 

since he had carved a word into bleeding flesh, sealing his fate by setting the path 

that would lead him back to this place, waiting. Day after day, approaching the 

tenth. He’d be waiting until he could hold off his orders no longer, bound by his 

duties as much as the other. 

Day after day. Shooting small animals, skinning, roasting, eating. Shitting 

in a faraway corner, pissing the water back out that came cold and fresh from the 

well that still sported the Russian’s blood in his imagination. There, the 

construction that held the bucket; the beam he had tied the man to. Dan was 

watching, waiting, cleaning his weapons and doing some exercises, but most of all 

observing the mountains. Alone with his thoughts, content with himself. 

Sleeping, dreaming, never of anything other than sweat and heat, touch and 

need. 

Watching. Waiting. Wanting. 

 

* * * 

 

Mild enough to sleep outside, and Vadim didn’t mind anymore, didn’t mind 

the country, or the stress, didn’t mind mountain warfare and the deaths. 

Remembered Platon, good for a dozen fucks, perverse the fact that the kid had 

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been so fucking young and so fucking scared, the contrast of their bodies nearly the 

best about it, bony, slender, a sleek creature with good bones, good features. Had 

been trip number 30, one-and-a-half medals, for courage, in what his side called 

“road war,” fighting for streets and passage, and mobility. 

Rifle shot in the throat, Platon had bled out before any medic could reach 

him. 

The driver had been gloomy during winter, so gloomy that Vadim had 

bitchslapped him, several times, told him to get his fucking act together, but Platon 

had said he’d die. Had been right. Hadn’t shaved before his trips, no hand shaking, 

no photos, and still dead. Black tulips.  

Vadim couldn’t linger, didn’t want to. Platon and him had been ‘friends’, 

the kid sometimes rested at his shoulder when they drank, and it was a father-son 

thing, Vadim doubted anybody knew their physical ease with each other had been 

earned at night. Fuck. Platon had gotten into his mind, a little, maybe because he 

had been so scared the first time, begged him not to hurt him, offered whatever to 

not be hurt. Vadim had been too sober, he actually didn’t do it as intended, thought 

of the fucking Brit and their meeting in Kabul, and thought, fuck. Had taught 

Platon how he liked to be touched, did the whole thing, jerking each other off, 

Platon didn’t get into cocksucking, though, too nervous. Vadim had fucked his 

thighs for weeks and jerked him off before he actually fucked him, and he’d been 

‘careful’, and gotten the other to relax and enjoy it. Never quite like Gavriil, who 

was still stationed somewhere in Kabul, but actually the very first conscript with 

some guts despite his age. Guts enough to treat him just like another soldier, no 

fear of the invincible, indestructible Spetsnaz. Kids and fools know no fear. 

Vadim had written the letter home, what a hero Platon had been, how much 

his comrades respected him, heart and soul of his unit, and had wanted to scream in 

rage, go off into the mountains and kill everything that moved, pile bodies up just 

to feel better. Was oddly, darkly relieved he hadn’t raped the kid, not to his 

knowledge, not like he could have. Leaving him not much of an option, okay, but 

hey, that wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Sent the letter off and kept his own 

council. Platon’s friends thought he was one of them, but he didn’t take any 

bullshit from them about consolation. He wasn’t that young anymore, and never 

been that innocent. He’d been the father-figure of one fucking conscript who had 

been fascinated with the special forces. End of story. 

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He’d pulled strings to be able to get to the cave, check out dushman 

movements, alone, because hiding one man was easier. He’d been especially 

careful, kept to himself, thought things through, Platon, and the strangely gloomy, 

hopeless thing they’d had, Platon who’d said he felt safe with him, Vadim who had 

joked he could kill him in a heartbeat. Or rather, not joked. 

Vadim moved, guided by the latest intelligence, went with a convoy, then 

began the long march, slept when he could, always defenceless the moment his 

mind slipped away. Tired. 

Once, in the middle of the night, there was a blinding pain in his head, then 

a deeper kind of darkness. 

The next time he woke up, it was to kicks and punches, his hands twisted, 

and curses in Dari, or Pashto, or any other language. Still could only order tea. He 

had a rag over his head, nose and eyes felt swollen, the bag was wet, and he knew 

they tried to scare him, scare him by restricting his oxygen, and he breathed, calm, 

forced his mind to acknowledge he’d been taken in his sleep, in the middle of 

nowhere. Not fucking again. 

They hit him, hit him a lot, rifle butts, he thought, mostly against his back 

and shoulders, his chest. He did as expected, cringed like a worm that was being 

stomped upon—no guise, he did mean it. 

They didn’t speak Russian, or English, but they must have worked out he 

was an officer, or the pain in the night would have been a bullet. They’d take him 

somewhere where they could cut the knowledge out of him. He had no idea how 

many they were, he heard definitely more than two voices. Didn’t give a fuck, 

plotted, worked on his escape when they tired of hitting him. Calculated his 

chances, didn’t look bad, did what they forced him to do, and that was march. 

Vadim roughly calculated the direction in which they took him as north, 

judging from the way they bowed to Mecca five times a day, and he could peek 

through the rag when he worked a little, pulling the cloth with his lips to a place 

that was thinned out, saw shadows, and that was just enough. North. Closer to 

Kabul again, not south, toward Pakistan. Probably meant to bring him to the Panjir. 

Which was amazingly bad news. He didn’t want to get face to face with the 

warlords there. 

He prepared to make a run for it, but the bitches were careful and thorough, 

and his hopes sank. They kept him short on water and food, probably didn’t have 

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much themselves, and underestimated the amount of water that a body like his 

needed, they seemed to be creatures of leather, these mountain people. 

Eventually, they rested during midday, and Vadim collapsed onto his knees, 

breathing hard, dizzy, throat parched. There, “salaams,” greetings. Another voice. 

They seemed at ease. Had met up with another group? Probably yes. 

Vadim focused on breathing, listening, thought he might recognize place 

names, names of people if he listened carefully. But then. The voice. Pashto. 

A deceptively soft voice, with a melody he recognized. Dan? What the fuck? 

His head snapped up, he tried again to work on the rope around his wrists, they let 

him drink like an animal, that rope came never off. 

The voice continued, talking slower than the locals, but fluently. Then  

silence, shuffling, the rustle of papers, and several voices together, debating. It had 

to be his captors, then, who spoke with determination. “No.” In Pashto. 

 

* * * 

 

Smooth-talking, the rifle slung carelessly across Dan’s back, cajoling, 

trying to bribe with words and explain, showing the letter that gave him authority, 

and arguing the prisoner should be his. He should take the Russian soldier to the 

warlord, but they refused. No. 

Theirs. Not his. Wrong warlord, wrong place, wrong religion and wrong 

race. Dan remained silent, shielding his eyes with hair and dark brows while 

glancing at the barely conscious figure on its knees. The Russkie. His Russkie. His 

cunt. 

Vadim could have been hewn from stone, didn’t move a muscle as he heard 

the voice, knew for a fact it was him. The voices sounded agitated, those weren’t 

Dan’s insurgents, Afghanistan and its fucking factions, one warlord hating the 

other, one race the other, ethnic groups as incompatible as predators and prey. 

“I understand.” Dan finally answered. In Pashto again, nodding and 

seeming acquiescent. “The Soviet officer is yours. Take him to your warlord. He is 

your responsibility. I will be on my way.” A shuffle of boots on the bare rocks and 

Dan turned to leave. “Dasvidaniya.” 

Goodbye? It hit Vadim like a grenade, everything he’d gathered, thoughts, 

willpower, strength, suddenly burst into splinters. He fought, got up, got two 

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strides in, then heard them shout and again the fucking rifles butts, until he 

couldn’t move but squirm on the ground, choking on his tears. Hoped to fuck the 

SAS guy would move up higher into the mountains, take aim and shoot him from 

there. Had no voice, no breath, no strength to shout that after him, instead focused 

on curling up against the vicious blows. They did what he would have done to a 

prisoner. All’s fair in war. He had been taken. That was his lot. Nothing he could 

do about it. Platon had had a quicker death. Maybe there was an opportunity later. 

Vadim waited, waited for the one blow to the head that would be a big calibre slug 

going right through it. Fuck Afghanistan. 

 

* * * 

 

Dan walked away, barely able to control the tension. Fuck. Fucking 

Russkie, but fuck those goat-herders even more. Trust the Russian cunt to act like a 

brainless idiot, attacking the Mudjas with a hood on his head. The plan had been 

forming in his mind while checking location, opponents and chances during their 

conversation. He’d tried with words, but in the end, fire and steel would do it again. 

He couldn’t have shot them, not then nor there. Not three at the same time. 

Besides, his ammo and rifle were rare in the mountains. Too dangerous to be 

tracked and found out, Dan, the foreigner, the Westerner and infidel, the man who 

came to help and who turned out to be a traitor? No fucking way. All he could have 

done—was what he did. To have his presence acknowledged by uttering the 

Russian greeting, and to listen and watch the beating. 

Hours passed, Dan remained carefully hidden close by, behind an outcrop 

of rocks where he had stashed his bergan long before the three insurgents had 

arrived, taking their captured prize to the water. He’d noticed them from miles 

away, those damned natives would never learn to be stealth fighters. Now watching, 

waiting again, still for the same man, but this time the stakes had been upped and a 

whole new deck of cards had been handed to the very few players. Hearts or spades; 

he’d take the cocks instead. 

Dusk fell, and Dan was ready to go, watching the group around the fire. 

The prisoner—still with his head covered—slumped and seemed more dead than 

alive. It would get fucking cold soon, was well below freezing, but he counted on 

the Russian and his physical strength. He’d make it, had done it before. 

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Finally, one of the Mudjas stood up, left the fire, rolled up in his coat and a 

blanket, close to the Russian. Towards the edge of the cave, seemed they avoided 

the darkness at the back. 

Damn. Dan frowned. None of the other two started to move, the bastards 

continued to sit and talk. He noticed the Russkie’s head fall forwards and his body 

slump, and Dan knew he could not wait any longer. Bad sign. He was betting on 

dehydration and weakness, maybe shock due to extensive bruising. A few more 

hours and the Russian would be useless for what he needed him to do. 

Dan climbed out of his hiding place between the rocks, started to make his 

way in, torturously slow belly-crawling towards the cave, took the long way round 

from the back, until he finally, after what seemed an eternity, came close enough to 

touch the Russkie. He was hidden in the shadows, shielded by the other’s body and 

the cold, moonless night. Darkness. His friend. “Silence.” In Russian. Whispered 

into Vadim’s ear the moment his hand clasped over the hood, judging where the 

mouth should be. 

 

* * * 

 

Vadim jerked awake again, had started to dream something, couldn’t bear 

waiting anymore, had been sweating and nervous about the fucking bullet that 

never came, now felt something touch his face, restrict breath. Could feel himself 

shudder, slowly shifted his weight, moved his hands, yes, reached out with his 

fingers, almost numb as they were, tried to touch, tried to understand whether it 

was Dan and whether he’d come to kill or free him. He nodded.  

Dan felt the nod, those fingers moved, sensed the tension in a body he was 

getting to know as well as his own. “Wait. Don’t move.” Breathed into the other’s 

ear. 

Vadim touched Dan’s thigh, needed to calm himself, needed that touch, full 

stop. Wait. What if, whatever Dan planned, went wrong? What if he started to hope 

he’d be free and then it wouldn’t happen. Fuck. 

Dan’s hand slid slowly off the hood, froze at a shuffle and a sound right 

beside him where one of the Mudjas was asleep. Remained absolutely still until he 

was sure the man had settled back to sleep. Heard the other two were talking over 

there at the fire. Good, no movement nor recognition from them. His hand crept to 

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his back and touched the sheath that housed his most trusted knife. He’d only have 

one go at it, and it had to be silent. 

Moving again, barely visible increments in the darkness, until the shape of 

the sleeping man became clearer. There. Head, neck, shoulders. Throat. It was 

quick. Swift movement, flash of the blade and the razor-sharp assault knife cut 

through tendons, trachea and part of the spinal chord, almost severing the vertebrae. 

Death. Silent, except for a faint gurgle, and swift. No agony, just death. Nameless. 

Shapeless. Meaningless. 

The two others were still talking. Dan waited. Watched, back to the old 

game of patience, cleaned the blade on the Mudja’s coat before silently sliding 

back, once more to the Russian. Cutting through the knot that tied the hood to the 

other’s head. “Do you function?” Toneless whisper directly into the ear. 

Vadim nodded, could smell the blood over his own smell of fear and pain. 

“Positive,” he breathed, raised his hands a little to present the rope, wrists pushed 

apart. His ribs were alright, he was only hurting, not seriously wounded. He hoped. 

No, he’d have noticed that.  

The hood slid over Vadim’s face, was silently discarded, the knife severed 

the rope between his wrists, while Vadim’s eyes got used to the star- and 

moonlight again, the reflection of fire. The darkness was gone, he could see. His 

left eye twitched, it was pretty badly swollen, but his sight was decent.  

A steadying hand appeared between the Russian’s shoulder blades, 

applying a firm pressure. “See the Mudjas?” 

Vadim nodded, rubbing his wrists, spread his fingers, checked whether all 

tendons were good, stretched his legs, too, slowly shifted into a crouch. Fuck, he 

was hurting, but his body geared up for the kill. 

Dan moved, everything agonisingly slow, silent, got the second knife out, 

pushing it into the other’s hand. “Blade’s shorter.” Figured it was all the Russkie 

needed to know. Special Forces. “I take the right. You the left. No guns, no bullets, 

no detection.” 

Vadim nodded, assumed the dushmans would be blinded by the fire, would 

much prefer his pistol, his rifle, or a garrotte, take one prisoner and torture the 

fucking life out of him. His lips moved into a feral snarl, the hatred pushed pain 

and exhaustion to the side, grew and surged. He shifted his weight, began to move 

in a circle, to flank and strike and kill. 

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Dan moved into the opposite direction—silent progress; silent attack. His 

second kill was as swift as the first. Painless except for the moment of terror in his 

victim, when the blade entered the body, sliced and severed, taking the man from 

life to death. He was pushing the lifeless body to the ground, when a sudden frenzy 

of motion and sound caught his attention. 

Vadim appeared right out of the darkness, up to the last heartbeat didn’t 

know whether he’d only wound or kill, but he was in a shit state, mentally most of 

all, and there was nothing he did want to know, so just made the bastard grin and 

gurgle, and hacked the knife into the body, down through the shoulder, again, and 

again, kicking him, hitting him, the knife went in and in, blood splattering into his 

face, on his chest, the rage just tore free, and he wanted to reduce that body to 

nothing, to fucking nothing. Minced meat, and he screamed with rage and anger 

and pain, all the fear came out, the pressure, Platon. Kept the knife but went to his 

knees again, exhausted, pain throbbing in his face and chest and shoulders. 

Dan stood, motionless, watching the entire show. He didn’t have a fucking 

clue what was going on in that madman’s mind. Cleaning the knife, he pushed it 

back into its sheath. “He’s dead. You can stop now.” Shook his head, looked at the 

mutilated, still twitching copse in disbelief. “Talk about overkill. You Russians are 

fucking weirdoes.” 

Vadim stared at the ground, thought he’d break down, but he just breathed 

through the parched, raw throat. Wanted to scream more, wanted to cut the bastard 

open and see his guts gather dust on the ground. Breathed. Slowly extended a hand 

towards sanity, pulled himself out of this state that wasn’t healthy, wasn’t sane, 

looked up to the other, not quite comprehending, moved a couple yards to get to 

his pack, his gear that the dushmans had brought. 

Found his canteen and poured the water down his throat, swallowed, felt he 

could never drink enough to not be thirsty, gave his stomach a few moments to 

deal with the water. “Fucking hate bitches...” 

“I can tell.” Dan replied coolly, wiped his hands, hardly any blood on them. 

He’d been professional, cold, felt somewhat disturbed at the other’s  reaction. 

Watched him drink, his own breath curling in front of his face before he bent down, 

rifling through one of the corpses’ clothes and bags. “We need to get rid of them. 

Enemy warlord, all that crap. Make it believable.” He kept some of the weapons he 

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found, but most of the stuff was useless tat. Prayer beads, Arabic writing, Koran. 

He didn’t want any of that. “And get washed up. Fucking madman.” 

Vadim looked up. No way he’d tell the bastard that they had kicked and 

treated him like a fucking dog for the last days. “Can help you carry. Ravine? Or 

bury them.” Hard work to bury here, with just stones. But yes, didn’t exactly want 

to attract buzzards. He drank more, poured water into his hand to wash his face, 

noticed the cuts burned, the bruises that hurt when he touched them. 

Not a pretty sight. Stood, swaying on his feet, wiped the knife and tugged it 

into the empty sheath in the small of his back. 

“That was my knife.” Dan raised his brows while rifling through the last of 

the corpses. Kept everything useful, threw anything discriminating into the fire. 

Vadim grinned. “Past tense.” Always good for a grammatical joke. 

Dan shrugged, he had more than two knives. “Ravine. There’s one close 

by.” 

Shaking his head at the other’s unsteadiness. “Forget it.” The fire gave 

enough light for a few steps, he’d get the bodies out of sight, to be disposed of in 

the morning. “You look like shit even in the darkness. Get the gore off you, I do 

the rest. It’s fucking cold and I could do with some body heat.” 

Vadim nodded, staggered over to the water hole, pulled water up, then 

undressed to wash. He was getting sick of his own stench, uniform, everything 

dirty, grimy, bloody, just being fucking alive meant to crawl through dirt and get 

dirtier by the minute. He hated the stubble in his face, his hair was too long, too, 

wanted to get shaved and clean and began to wash, blood, sweat, shit, everything, 

kept washing, would have loved a bath, sauna, or an extended swim because 

nothing else made him feel so clean. 

Dan shifted the first body onto his back, across his shoulders, trotting off to 

drop it behind a rock formation with smaller boulders nearby. It would have to do. 

Just had to wash the blood off the plateau before the sun brought out the stench. 

After washing his uniform, Vadim spread it out over rocks, hoping to catch 

some warmth the next day, then wrapped himself in one of the blankets, wool, 

smelly and scratchy, watched Dan carrying the corpses while he sat near the fire, 

soaking up warmth and trying to wind down. 

Dan was throwing buckets of water across the rock until he was satisfied it 

was clean enough until dawn when he could take a proper look. Stripped out of 

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parka, tunic and shirt, started to wash himself. Blood on his clothes, mainly from