Patriots & Tyrants (17 page)

As the sounds of the world around him fell away, Pavel heard the shouts of the army commander behind him. "Get down! Get down!" But it was too late, like a punch in the gut, he felt the impact of the bullets as he fell backwards onto the ground, the cloudless blue sky of the Caucasus the last sight he saw before darkness took him.

Emptying the forty-seven round magazine at the troop carrier, Ruslan Baktayev growled as he tossed the Kalashnikov to the ground, drawing a Beretta 92 from his waist band. The rancher and two soldiers had fallen, their wounds turning the tall grass around their bodies' dark red. The driver of the transport took cover behind the passenger side door and raised his assault rifle to return fire; Baktayev squeezed the trigger of the Beretta, bullets shattering the vehicle's windshield as he retreated backwards. As he reached the center of the barn the weathered boards began to vibrate as automatic gunfire erupted from the transport, splintering pieces of ancient wood. Baktayev dove to the floor, covering his head. Although he could no longer see the vehicle, he was sure he could hear the sound of at least three more machine guns joining the fight. He breathed heavily as he looked around the barn, keeping low. Staying in the barn wasn't an option. Even though it gave him the advantage of firing from cover and would allow him to hold off his attackers for a time, eventually the entire building would be surrounded and they would simply burn it to the ground around him. Escaping through the double doors at the back of the barn was his only option, but he needed a distraction or else the soldiers would follow him, mowing him down as he dodged through the forest. The automatic gunfire stopped and the air outside grew still.

"Go, Go, Go!" he heard someone outside yell as he jumped to his feet. They were coming and even if he managed to take a few of them with his pistol, he was heavily outgunned and would be killed for sure. Spotting the acetylene torch on the floor, he scurried towards it, scrambling to reach the self-ignition switch on the torch as he twisted the opening valve on top of the tank. A hiss followed by a roar filled the air as he pushed the tank upright. The dry straw covering the floor burst into flame as he tossed down the torch and ran for the back doors, lowering his shoulder and busting through as a hail of gunfire unleashed. A loud blast sounded as the rounds from the soldier's assault rifles struck the acetylene tank and the pressurized gas exploded, an unbound explosion rushing from both sets of doors.

Baktayev pulled himself through the thick brush behind the barn as flaming pieces of timber rained down, thorns from the bushes tearing at his skin. Thirty yards from the barn, he stood upright and pushed his way through the trees. Stopping momentarily and taking stock, he turned and headed east. Soon he would find a smuggling trail and work his way across the border of Ingushetia back into Chechnya. Moving as quickly as he could through the forest, he stopped as the sound of another transport arriving near the barn filled the air, the shouted orders of army commanders being issued like the rapid fire of a machine gun. Looking through the trees he saw a twelve-wheeled transport with a canvas covered cargo area nearly as long as the barn he'd just left. Soldier after soldier dispensed from its rear and fanned out across the field. Baktayev hit the forest floor in a prone position. In seconds the soldier's reached the edge of the forest where they peered through the trees in search of movement, their Kalashnikovs aimed and ready to fire at the slightest noise.

Stealthily, Baktayev released the magazine in the Beretta and counted his remaining rounds. Six bullets wasn't nearly enough for the journey ahead of him. The haste of his escape the afternoon before and the time it had taken him to make his way through the streets of rundown homes in Beslan had seen to it that he was ill prepared. The sudden explosion inside of the school's gym where they had gathered the hostages had come as a surprise. Watching from the second floor window as a Russian medical team carried away the bodies of the men and older boys they'd killed to avoid an uprising inside; he had allowed himself to believe the words of the negotiators he'd been in contact with. They had assured him that the team was only there to carry away the dead. Instead, the medical team had been used as a diversion for the security forces to begin an assault in an attempt to free the hostages. What had the commanders outside been thinking? Had they really been foolish enough to believe such a small diversion would be enough to allow them to force their way inside? It didn't make sense. Time and again the Russians had negotiated for the release of hostages and the men holding them had been granted safe passage back to their own land. While the deaths of the hostages and invading soldiers meant nothing to him, the lives of his freedom fighters did. As he fled the scene he'd known that in all likelihood he was the last of his men. The suddenness of the raid had necessitated a crude escape, the furiousness of the gunfight seeing to it that he hadn't been able to carry anything but the clothes on his back. Were it not for the cowardly hoarding and hiding of Omar the Turk, he'd of been unarmed still.

With nowhere to run, Baktayev returned the magazine into the grip of the Beretta as silently as possible, staring straight ahead at the infantryman ten yards in front of him. The soldier's rifle hung by a shoulder strap and rested at waist level, his aim lazy and unprepared. Just like a soft-bellied Slav. No dedication, no fortitude, just a do it or else motivation that would determine his doom. Slowly the soldier swept the rifle from right to left gazing at eye level into the green brush, clearly seeing nothing of interest. Pushing himself forward with his legs, Baktayev slithered across the ground, his movements covered by the thick underbrush. Even though his adversary was ill prepared for his attack, he would only get one try and it would have to be perfect. The soldier had the advantage of being upright in open ground which meant he could move away from an advancing foe much faster than could Baktayev in his prone position. When he'd closed his distance to within a few yards, he stopped and waited. The soldier turned lazily from side to side looking down the tree line at his comrades who were spaced evenly apart. To his right, Baktayev could make out the top of the barn, flames having fully engulfed the structure, a plume of black smoke reaching into the sky. Releasing the Beretta from his grip, he drew the commando knife from its sheath, its blade still dark red with the blood of the cowardly Turk whose body was burning to ash inside what was left of the barn.

"What do you see?" a voice called from a distance towards the soldier in front of Baktayev.

The soldier moved a few feet to his right and strained his eyes to see into the dark forest. Only circular beams of sunlight pierced the natural canvas of the trees above.

"Nothing, there is nothing here," the man finally answered. "Whoever it was is dead inside that barn. We are wasting our time standing here."

Like the Lebetine vipers that called the forest floors of the Caucasus home, Baktayev waited patiently for the perfect moment to strike his prey. He didn't have to wait long, the soldier's attention turned one hundred and eighty degrees as the sound of another troop transport rumbling over the once untouched field sounded over the treetops. In moments, two Volvos like the first one that had arrived came to a stop thirty yards from the burning barn. As the soldiers in the rear of the transport began to disembark, Baktayev took one look at the new arrivals and knew by the markings on their uniforms and the style of rifles they were carrying that the stakes had just been raised. No longer was he in the midst of army regulars, these men were Spetsnaz, specialists who'd undoubtedly led the assault against the school and who had spent the night hunting down the remainders of his team. Now it was his turn to be hunted, in the presence of the Spetsnaz, the army regulars would begin a more aggressive search.

"Move out," the Spetsnaz commander ordered to his men. Without hesitation they began fanning towards the regulars. Though there were only a dozen of them they would take up positions among the regulars, ordering them forward into the brush. The lazy aims and unprepared stances would cease and the entire platoon would be on high alert, unwilling to suffer the consequences of disappointing the Spetsnaz commanders.

The lazy soldier in front of him slowly began to turn clockwise back towards the forest, his rifle tightening in his grip and raising to the proper position. Taking his shot, Baktayev rose quickly from the brush. Without a sound, he rushed forward, bearing left to stay out of the soldier's line of sight, and grabbed the man around the neck, driving the knife upwards into the small of his spine as he pulled him down to the forest floor in hopes of remaining undetected. Tearing the knife from the soldier's back, Baktayev brought it around to the man's throat where the soldier, in a last ditch effort to save his own life, grabbed it by the blade, holding it as far away from his body as possible. Blood oozed from the man's hand as Baktayev pushed the blade closer. He had to win this fight now. If the other soldiers had seen their comrade fall they would arrive at his position in seconds and Baktayev would have nowhere to run. Pulling the soldiers head hard with one arm and pushing the blade towards his throat with the other, Baktayev reached up with his mouth and bit into the man's ear. The man screamed in pain, the sound muffled by the arm over his mouth that was pulling his head back, exposing his throat. As a piece of his ear began to tear loose from the side of the soldier's head, Baktayev ripped the knife upwards out of his grip and drove it quickly down again into the man's throat, twisting and pulling, his strength increased by the flow of amphetamines in his blood. Fighting the urge to growl in triumph and to continue cutting until the man's head was severed, Baktayev pushed the dead man away, his body falling limp into the underbrush.

"Gusev, Gusev!" a voice shouted.

Baktayev raised his head to see the soldier who'd spoken with his victim only moments before rushing towards the now empty position in their ranks. Quickly he pulled the dead soldier's sidearm from his belt and picked up the AK-47 that had fallen away in their struggle. Standing upright, he rushed away into the jungle-like overgrowth as a shout erupted behind him alerting the other members of the unit that one of their own had been felled.

Within seconds the sound of machine gun fire filled the air and bullets whizzed through the trees. Staying low as he ran, Baktayev stole several glances backwards to see that he was not being pursued. The soldiers were firing recklessly into the forest in hopes of hitting someone, anyone. As quickly as it had begun the gunfire stopped. The leaves and branches of the trees grew still as the last bullets impacted and the tang of lead mixed with the smell of freshly hewn greenery filled the air.

Having rushed the length of a football stadium, Baktayev broke through the tree line into the undeveloped fields on the other side of the forest. A one lane dirt track stretched north along another thin tree line until making a sharp right and continuing east into the distance. Behind him he could hear the sounds of soldiers crashing through the brush, driven at the rear by their Spetsnaz masters.

As in the barn, again his choices were few. Ahead of him was at least a mile of open land with little in the way of cover from the soldier's that would open fire on him at sight. Even finding cover in a ditch and using it as a trench in which to keep his pursuers at bay was not an option, he simply didn't have enough ammunition to take such a stand. He had only two choices; run to the only buildings he could see in the distance, or find a way to double back.

At the behest of his commander, Konstantin Rhyzkov spread a large map across the hood of one of the transports they'd arrived in. Flattening the worn out paper with his hands and holding it in place from the light breeze with a pair of rocks, he stood aside for Igor Dratshev.

"Show me where we are at," Dratshev ordered his youngest soldier, a boy by the name of Alexei who was native to the area having grown up in Vladikavkaz, only a few miles south of their present location.

"Here, Comrade," Alexei answered, placing his finger on a patch of green from the satellite generated map.

"This patch of trees here, you're sure?"

Alexei nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Than this group of buildings up here is?"

"The airport. Comrade, Vladikavkaz airport."

"Then there is nowhere for them to go. Commander Rhyzkov, you'll radio the units at the airport and notify them that there may be hostiles heading their way and then radio the units in town and tell them to dispatch a squadron to the airport to reinforce the men already there. I want our forces to push their way through that forest searching every tree for these bastards until they are found."

Rhyzkov nodded curtly and said, "Yes, Comrade," before turning away and heading for the cab of the transport where the radios were located.

"Come with me," Dratshev ordered the young shoulder standing with him. "I want to talk to the people whose farm this is."

Alexei followed as Dratshev turned away from the transport and walked purposefully in the direction of the small stone farmhouse at the base of the field. Knocking loudly on the wooden door as they arrived, Alexei announced his superior's name and rank, first in Russian and then again in the Iranian based language common to the area. A woman's voice called for them to enter in Russian and slowly, Alexei opened the door, his rifle aimed and sweeping into the small cottage before standing aside for Dratshev.

Dratshev entered the tiny farmhouse and looked to see a woman in a navy blue flowered dress with a white scarf over her hair standing in a small kitchen with a child beside her. Realizing that the farmer lying in the field in front of their transports was likely her husband, he addressed her quietly.