Khost province. Afghanistan. 1986
XX, XX
Following of the week's actions.
1.
After guiding the three Amercians to the Mujahideen base under the command of ------ Rahmaan, A soviet assault was launched on the base. The assault was repelled with minimal casualties.
A group of soviet tanks almost broke through, but the Americans managed to stop them. Something immensely important to note is that the Americans managed to disable a tank by dropping a mortar directly into the commander's hatch.
As a result, one of the soviet tankers left the vehicles in an attempt to kill the american. Failing to do so, the soviet was knocked unconscious as both Americans seemed to recognize this Soviet tanker.
Dragging the now Soviet prisoner to the Mujahideen base, one American interrogated the soviet with a vengeance. Killing the man in the process after he told them that they have a Mole in their central intelligence agency.
2.
We were betrayed after this. Commander Rahmaan had his men knock us out and leave us for dead. In the middle of the desert as he soon left.
In the betrayal, he revealed to us that he was working with the Nicaraguan gunrunner that the Americans were looking to find. The Soviet prisoner also revealed his ties to the gunrunner by stating that the gunrunner was a client of his.- (More information needed.)
We were ultimately rescued by some of what I recognized as Commander Rahmaan's men that were at the scene of our betrayal. After some questioning of our rescuers, we found out that they were sympathetic and rescued us behind his back as both a gesture of pity and disagreement of his sudden betrayal.
They led us back across the border to Pakistan, where we were safe, and eventually the Americans and us went our separate ways.
*The circled men in the included photos are our rescuers- It is important to note that these men can be reasoned with and worked with in the future for more possible cooperation.
This concludes my report.
---Specialist Zhao
HRRK!
She almost choked on her dumpling as her hand trembled holding the old, grainy photo. Dropping the dumpling, she quickly grabbed her cup of water and gulped it down in one swig, her heart beating ever more as she never took her eyes off of the photo.
Finally, after hours, finally in her sleep deprived state did she find something. It was him, the eponymous, the beast of Panjshir. It was him, there was no way in hell it couldn't be. The man in the photo had the same eyes for god's sake! The only thing missing was the full on beard, with a small mustache growing obviously unchecked on his face.
It was him. In the photo with all of the other militants. He was in the very far left corner, with the man in the middle being labeled commander Rahmaan, his face circled with a fading red marker as he looked grumpy. A small scowl on his face as he smoked his cigarette. His dead fish eyes and a well maintained customized AK47 with distinct golden arabic lettering distinguishing him from all of the other militants, with their normal worn and torn AK47's.
Finally, Li Xinlin smiled. Her heart rate unrelenting as she ran a hand through her hair, feeling the individual strands as she relaxed her posture, another picture of the beast of Panjishir on the computer monitor in front of her, with beard and all.
After a moment's pause, She raised the photo from the dossier and held it right next to the screen. Both pictures showed undeniable parallels as the resemblance was striking…heh, striking. What the hell was she thinking? Striking? They were the same people, without a shadow of a doubt!
"Finally, I've got you in my sights!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I stood in front of the door now, gulping as my cheeks flush at the thought of what I'm about to do. It was, for all intents and purposes, super cringey, like who the hell came up with this? A middle school larper?
Sneaking glances all over the street, I sigh as a scowl adorns my face, my eyes already looking away from the door and instead focusing on the area around me. A look of unease and embarrassment as I start knocking with a light cough.
As I swiftly and lightly knocked on the door, my thoughts could only ask a single question. Really? Was the name fireworks avenue really necessary? No, in fact, was this right here necessary? Really? Knocking eight times? I'd love to punch whoever the hell made this a thing right in the fucking face.
"..." Silence, something that made me cringe even harder as I visibly recoiled at what i'm about to do, and what I'm currently doing.
"..." More silence. Come on you bastard open the fucking door you numbskull!
"...Oh! Shit! How do you like your coffee? Sugar or milk?" The voice behind the door began to speak, for some reason surprised that this…thing was happening right now.
"...Sigh, I…sigh, I like it black as the beans." I say, sighing and blanching at the words coming out of my mouth, my eyes still desperately looking at the street around me, too ashamed and embarrassed to look at the door.
"Eh? What, can you repeat that sonny?" The voice behind the door's response made me even more angry as I turned to the door now, speaking once more as I can't help but furrow my eyes in annoyed anger and frustration.
"I said-" I began to speak, only to stop when the door opened, cutting me off as I stood face to face with an elderly old man, dressed in a tank top with tattoos that adorns his revealed arms.
"Eh i'm just fucking with ya, you're with the Americans right? Come on in, and make it quick." He nudged towards the inside of his shop, leading me in as I quickly followed suit.
"...Seriously though, two people in a fucking row? Just my luck…" The old man began to mutter now, leading me through the front of the shop and into the back rooms of his store.
"..Pardon?" I say hesitantly, wanting to both make small talk and gather at least some modicum of information here. As far as I was concerned, I still knew next to practically nothing after all.
"Huh? You don't know about the maid? The whole damn city was in a tizzy and now we got some terrorist form the middle east raising hell as well…" He says offhandedly as he leads me into a room.
"Making me close my shop in broad daylight lest I want to risk it having blown to hell and back as well…damned terrorist." He mutters in disdain as he stops. The room I'm now in chock full of guns lining and adorning the walls.
"But, I believe you are here to put a stop to that aren't ya?" He asks, leaning against a table, pointing at me as he looks at me now, a curious and studious glare at my eyes as he is eager to know what expression I will make.
"Well, you're just in luck. I intend to put a stop to all of this nonsense." I reply, already looking at the walls, knowing what I want, and how I want it.
"Is that so? Then help yourself to my meager pickings, GI~"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The room was tensely silent, but for one out of the two men currently presiding inside the room, only this statement was true.
Boris said nothing as he sat upright and proper in his chair, it felt as if at any moment now, a grenade would drop, and as an ultimate result, kill everyone in the room.
Yes, it felt as if a grenade could be dropped at any time indeed. He looked at the man sitting before him now, a neutral demaner plastered on his face as he looked at the smiling, casual leader of the protectors of the Islamic front.
The thinning haired older man kept that casual smile as a cigarette hung loosely from his mouth, the tobacco smoke rising and merely trailing off into nothingness as he rested his chin against his hands, arms propped up against the table.
A glance to the clock, a pregnant pause, and a raised brow from the man in front of him finally caused him to speak.
"I should be leaving, the Kapitan called me back an hour ago." He said flatly, the expression of the man in front of him never changing as he continued to silently observe and study Boris.
"And yet you haven't, how strange," The man replied, his jovial tone remaining the same as it had been before in the meeting. Never changing, even till now, well into the twilight hours of their meeting.
"I need to know." Borris continued, his fists clenching without him seemingly knowing.
"I believe that I've already told you mister lieutenant, The beast of Panjshir of vital to the protectors of the Islamic front-"
"No, you know what I'm talking about. The beast never knew you, all of this propaganda that you are espousing, the fact that the Islamic world shall benefit with his return, all of it is shallow, and you know it just as well as I." Boris cut him off, looking the man straight in the eyes, tired of the games and just wanting a conclusion to it all.
"..." The man before him said nothing now, his eyes seemingly lighting up as he took a small drag.
"...Tell me, how long have you been fighting exactly? How long has it been since you killed your first man? How long have you been wielding a rifle?"
Boris said nothing, the creeping unease seemingly multiplying by tenfold in the back of his mind as he looked at the men before him, completely joyous and seemingly ignorant of the severity of the situation as he talked.
"...."
"There it is, silence! Ah, but you needn't have bothered answering, for you see, I already know. A quarter of a decade right?" The man asked, his pleasant smile still never leaving his face.
"..." Boris raised an eyebrow at this, seemingly ready to protest before being cut off by him.
"You were probably going to ask a mixture of two things. How I know this, and why do I know this. Well, keep silent, and I'll tell you."
".." A look from Boris and the man continued, chuckling ever so softly as he rested his legs on the table, putting both hands behind his head as the cheap tobacco smoke still continued to burn.
"You see, I am a revolutionary. I've always been one, ever since my student days you see? The late sixties….now that I think about it, it HAS been quite some time…thirty or so…."
"Yes, I AM a revolutionary. And I find that in my line of work, if you aren't one step ahead, if you don't know jack squat about your foes, then you'll be facing the muzzle of your enemies soon enough….But I digress, I have a point to make you see? And time is precious, so I'll spare you the long elaborate stories that i've half a mind to share with you…"
"You've fought for roughly twelve years give or take, I've fought thirty. And the beast? Well I don't know how long he has fought, but I certainly know this, That man gets results. And he gets them fast. And for people in my line of work, those skills are quite valuable. A godsend even, even though I don't really believe in god himself, even I must admit that the beast of Panjshir makes the impossible possible."
"...You've surely heard the stories right? About how he shot down a Russian hind with nothing but a jezail musket, about how he, and only he, held the line, charging straight at the enemy forces under a hail of bullets and artillery and mortar shells while everyone else was running away, fearing for their lives?"
"...War is a game, chess, if you will. And in a game with one to many a pawn, once you find a piece that can deal so much damage, so much carnage, well? You can't exactly let that piece go now can you?"
"You..war…is just a game to you?" Boris asked, his brows furrowing now as unpleasant memories of former commanders all like the man before him flashed through his mind.
"Of course, what else could it be? You make a move, only to be countered, so you counter the move that countered you, and so on and so on. The game never truly ends you see? War is nothing but a chess game, in which over time the pieces regenerate, joining the fray once more, only to die once more, it repeats you see? This sick twisted game? It shall never be over."
"..."
"You know, and I know it. The only thing that we can DO, is to play it. And I fully intend on playing it, oh yes, I do."
"..."
"...Now you know, Mr lieutenant. This entire…situation. It is nothing but a game. The beast of Panjshir is surrounded by pawns, and it is up to me to get him out just in time. It's me, against the entirety of the city."
"...You will fail Takenaka. You have nothing but pawns if we are going by your….unfound comparison."
A smirk. The older, balding man smirked now, for just a moment, all vestiges of a fake joviality now replaced by one of sadistic and cruel intent.
"...Indeed I do, Lieutenant. But even pawns can win you a game. All you have to do is to be intelligent about it."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My disappointment is immeasurable, and my day is now ruined. Why you may ask? Well, maybe it was because of the fact that despite being in a shop filled to the brim with guns, I literally cannot have my pick of them!
"...Are you really telling me, that YOU. Have an entire workshop filled to the brim with guns, and you can only hand me over five revolvers and an M16?"
"Look kid, I already told you, I'm a GUNSMITH. GUNSMITH! I'm not the rip off church, I fix guns as my main occupation, not sell them."
"How about all the other guns in here?"
Eda? Does he mean Maeve?
"They belong to my other customers, besides I'm still fixing them up, what? Didn't Eda tell you?"
"No, not really. She just told me to come here and do that really stupid and frankly embarrassing greeting or whatever it is you call it."
I replied nonchalantly, Stuffing the revolvers into my pants as I looked at the m16. Keeping up my facade, not letting him suspect me of anything.
"....Well it is Eda, And I never thought that the day would come when I agreed to her deal…guess i'm just paying the price huh?"
"..." Hm, the rifle is in pristine condition…not like it was going to help lessen the fact that I'm going to be fighting in some damn close quarters, but at least the gun was cleaned.
"Listen up old man, are you sure that you don't have, like, a sub machine gun lying around or anything? Five revolvers and a m16 isn't really ideal for room to room combat now is it?"
"Look, I already told you! This is everything that I can give you, now either take it or leave it!"
"Alright! Sheesh, fine! I'll take it! Please don't tell me that you only have one magazine for the m16 though." I say, suppressing my urge to growl as I now have to deal with this unneeded and quite frankly, unwanted situation.
"Ah! You're just in luck! I actually have two magazines!" The man replied with a slight chuckle as he pulled out the magazines from a drawer, killing me even more on the inside as I stifled a sigh.
I'm silent, but I'm always silent. So this isn't new, not at all....But still...
…Something tells me…no, screams at me that I will fail…but the only thing that I could do, can do, is to move forward with this hasty stupid ass plan. I can't stop now. Because this is it. My chance, my shot. It's a one in a hundred shot in the void dark, but IF i make it, if I pull this off, then I MIGHT just live, I MIGHT just make it home. I MIGHT leave…this…this pain suffocating and forever perpetuating, all behind me. Haunting me, taunting me as it never ends..
Yes, I just MIGHT pull this off.. Just like all of those times in Afghanistan… And for some reason…no, for every reason, it was enough. Throughout all of the hopeless firefights, throughout it all, the simple notion that I MIGHT just make it home kept me going. Because if there's one thing that I have learned, the battlefield is a cruel place. And if I say that I WILL live, and that I WILL go home, then ill just end up dead, like the other guy who so desperately proclaimed it.
There is no hope on the battlefield. I paid to find that out in blood, in guilt and exhaustion…. It was quite a heavy tuition…for such a meager lesson.
My eyes are heavy, my heart beats fast. And I'm tired, so damn tired. But this was it, this was my chance. I'm on the run, they won't ever expect me to strike at the heart of their operations. They NEVER expect it. Whether it be the Soviets or the Mujaheddin, they never see it coming.
Closing my eyes briefly, I grab the rifle, and with the same sinking feeling that this assault would end up in my death, like virtually every other assault that I have made, and sling it across my shoulder. The image of Komachi lingering in the background as I tiredly and slowly open my eyes, taking the two meager magazines from the old man.
Great, just fucking great.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sofiya said nothing as she brazenly marched into the golden swing nightclub, the fanciest building in the entire city, and the one building that every single criminal boss of their respected gangs had agreed to set up as their meeting place.
She said nothing as she marched into the building, ignoring the guards pleas for her to drop off her weapons. She said nothing as she stormed into the VIP room, and she said nothing as she sat down, droning out the complaining guards as she sat there, her arms crossed as she kicked her legs on the table.
She said nothing as she sat there for minutes, finally making them relent as they gave up and went back to their posts, scratching their heads as they gave the other bosses a call on their phones, not entirely sure of what to do.
She maintained her silence as she crossed her arms together, her beret slightly angling off of her head as she sat there in full soviet uniform.
She was deathly silent as she closed her eyes, remembering Afghanistan. Remembering the staggering amount of men that died because of him…. She scowled at the thought. As much as the pain tormented her, it was important.
Yes, she had supposed that the pain had numbed over time. It never fades away you see? This…phantom pain. Always haunting her, gnawing away at her as day by day she slowly kills herself to be someone else, someone better than the pathetic, gullible sad little girl known as Sofiya Pavlovna.
She was Balalaika now. And she intended on keeping it that way.
She never forgot the pain, she never forgot anything. She lost so much to that man, and that…that bastard, didn't lose a damn thing.
She didn't know why she had hesitated back then at the docks. He was the enemy, and he was there on his knees. He didn't suffer, he tormented, he didn't fight, he ran. He was nothing but a coward, nothing more, nothing less.
…And yet, the pain, the old never fading pain flared up. This time, in her heart. She hadn't thought that it was possible to feel anything as significant as…this once more. But she still felt it. That suffering, suffocating pain in her heart.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream….and worst of all…the most damning of all, in just the smallest, most remote regions of her heart, she wanted the impossible…she wanted to understand him.
She wanted to cross a bridge that had already burned long ago. There was no going back. The war? The country? It had sent her…no, it wasn't just her, it was her men as well, it had sent all of them away. The war was over, and the country had little and or no use of war vets who knew nothing but to fight.
The moment she was discharged was the moment that Sofiya Pavlovna died. THE Sofiya Pavlovna that tried to make connections with other people. THE Sofiya pavlovna that had thought the world still had some good in it. That was a lie however, the world never had anything good in it after all
And it took for the murder, the…disappearance of this girl, this suffocatingly, infuriatingly naive, little girl, For Balalaika to finally realize the shit smeared, bloody covered truth.
That there was no good in this world. That there was only power. And power was the only damn thing that mattered, even if it killed her so painfully. so…slowly.
No, all of this…guilt, this pain, she could endure, it was her heart that threatened her, making her feel that at any moment, it could give out, completely breaking and destroying her new found persona.
She furrowed her brows in fury at this.
She hated it. Loathed, despised it.
That the most painful thing that she couldn't seem to bear, was in fact, her heart, the smallest, most fragile pieces of her former self still residing inside of her heart, without her knowledge. Surfacing at such an important time. Threatening to undo everything, just like that.
She sighed.
"..."
Softly murmuring, flashes of the image of the man known as Yuri Sokolov raced through her mind as she scowled, speaking Russian as she opened her eyes, the look of vengeance, mixed in with just a bit of heartbreak as she spoke softly and gently, perhaps, wistfully even.
"Come you coward, I'm waiting for you."