Description
Paktia Province, Afghan SSR
August, 1986
The Mi-24s had done their job. Their rockets had torn through the Mujahideen supply point with ease, fire and fragmentation gutting tents, vehicles, and men alike. The last Hind had banked west nearly an hour ago, leaving behind only silence and the stink of scorched flesh.
Now it was Vympel-D’s turn.
Captain Viktor “Specter” Petrov crouched behind a rock outcrop, scanning the blackened remains of the camp through his PSO-1 scope. Heat still radiated from the ground where fuel drums had burst. A few corpses—charred beyond recognition—lay sprawled in the dirt. Others had been torn apart by shrapnel.
No movement. No sign of life.
He keyed his R-392 radio. “Tuman, this is Specter. No activity. Proceeding.”
A click in his earpiece confirmed.
With a gesture, he signaled the advance.
They moved in staggered formation, weapons up, eyes sweeping the ruins. Their loadouts were standard—AKS-74s with PBS-1 suppressors, RPK-74s for suppression, and a GP-25 for anything unexpected.
Sergeant Gennady “Fox” Orlov took point, his rifle low and ready. The others fanned out, stepping over craters and bodies, their footfalls light in the dust. The fine grains clung to the suede of their sneakers, marking their steps in the ash.
"Fucking mess," Fox muttered.
Petrov said nothing. It was always a fucking mess.
They passed a wrecked GAZ-66, its front cab peeled open like a tin can. Something buzzed in the air—flies or something worse.
Fox knelt by a corpse, rolling it over with his foot. Beneath the soot and blood, the dead man couldn’t have been older than sixteen. His hands were still curled around an ancient Lee-Enfield.
"Kids," Fox exhaled.
Petrov moved on. There was no point in thinking about it.
They cleared the remains of a command tent, its khaki fabric sagging under a frame warped by heat. Inside, a map had been nailed to a wooden crate. The edges were singed, but the markings were clear—supply routes, drop points, militia strongholds.
Lieutenant Sergei “Bear” Rykov tugged the map free and rolled it up. “Command will want this.”
Fox kicked over a supply crate. Ammunition—some still usable. In another, stacks of American dollars, wrapped in twine.
"Fucking spooks are arming them well," Bear grunted.
Petrov glanced at the bodies again. Not well enough.
A sound—soft, muffled.
They turned in unison, rifles raised.
Behind the wreckage of a collapsed mud wall, something shifted. Fox moved first, stepping around the rubble.
A survivor.
A Mujahideen fighter, half-buried in the dirt, his right leg a ruined mess of bone and tendon. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. His breathing was shallow, his eyes wide with something between pain and defiance.
Petrov knelt beside him. The young man’s hands clutched his stomach, slick with blood. A pistol lay inches from his grasp.
Slowly, Petrov reached out and nudged the weapon away. The man didn’t resist.
"Leave him," Bear said.
Petrov hesitated, watching the boy’s chest rise and fall. Slow. Shallow. Soon, it would stop altogether.
A single suppressed shot. Fox exhaled and stepped back, lowering his rifle.
They moved on.
Further in, they found a woman. Veiled, bloodied, crouched in the remains of a tent. She clutched a bundle in her arms. A child, barely three.
She did not cry. She did not plead.
She just stared.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Petrov turned. “We’re done here.”
Bear hesitated. “Command—”
“I said we’re done.”
That was the end of it.
By the time the sun began to sink, Vympel-D had gathered at the valley’s edge. Smoke curled from the wreckage behind them, twisting into the sky like something trying to escape.
Fox lit a cigarette, took a drag, and held it out.
Petrov waved it away.
"They’ll send more," Fox said.
Petrov nodded. They always did.
And they always would.
The war wasn’t about winning.
It was about leaving nothing behind.
And today, they had left nothing behind.
Only cold ashes.
