Black Tulip

"Shit, one man in three in the Afghan army is with the dukhi" Vladimir said. "Everybody knows that, too. So what makes this news such hot stuff? Like as not, the ghosts are yanking our dicks to see how we move, so they'll have a better shot when they do decide to hit us."

Krikor's broad shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. "I don't know anything about that. All I know is, Lieutenant Uspenski thinks the information's good. And we'll have a couple of surprises waiting for the "Bastards." He looked around to make sure no Afghans were in earshot. You could never could tell who understood more Russian than he let on.

Sergei and Vladimir both leaned toward him. "Well?" Vladimir demanded.

"For one thing, we've got some bumblebees ready to buzz by," the sergeant said. Sergei nodded. So did Vladimir. Helicopter gunships were always nice to have around.

"You said a couple of things," Vladimir said. "What else?"

Krikor spoke in an excited whisper: "Trucks on the way up from Bamian. They ought to get here right around sunset—plenty of time to set up, but not enough for the ragheads here to sneak off and warn the ragheads there."

"Reinforcements?" Sergei knew he sounded excited, too. If they actually had enough men to do the fighting for a change . . .

But Krikor shook his head. "Better than reinforcements."

"What could be better than reinforcements?" Sergei asked. The Armenian's black eyes glowed. He gave back one word: "Katyushas."

"Ahhh." Sergei and Vladimir said it together. Krikor was right, and they both knew it. Ever since the Nazis found out about them during the Great Patriotic War, no foe had ever wanted to stand up under a rain of Katyushas. The rockets weren't much as far as sophistication went, but they could lay a broad area waste faster than anything this side of nukes. And they screamed as they came in, so they scared you to death before they set about ripping you to pieces.

But then Vladimir said, "That'll be great, if they show up on time. Some of the bastards who think they're so important don't give a shit whether things get here at six o'clock tonight or Tuesday a week."

"We have to hope, that's all," Krikor answered. "Lieutenant Uspenski did say the trucks were already on the way from Bamian, so they can't be that late." He checked himself. "I don't think they can, anyhow."

After what Sergei had seen of the Red Army's promises and how it kept them, he wouldn't have bet anything much above a kopek that the Katyushas would get to Bulola on time. But, for a wonder, they did. Better still, the big, snorting six-wheeled Ural trucks—machines that could stand up to Afghan roads, which was saying a great deal—arrived in the village with canvas covers over the rocket launchers, so they looked like ordinary trucks carrying soldiers.

"Outstanding," Sergei said as the crews emplaced the vehicles. "The ghosts won't have spotted them from the road. They won't know what they're walking into."

"Outfuckingstanding is right." Vladimir's smile was altogether predatory. "They'll fucking find out."

Above the mountains, stars glittered in the black, black sky like coals and jewels carelessly tossed on velvet. The moon wouldn't rise till just before sunup. That made the going slower for the mujahideen, but it would also make them harder to see when they swooped down on Bulola.

A rock came loose under Satar's foot. He had to flail his arms to keep from falling. "Careful," the mujahid behind him said.

He didn't answer. His ears burned as he trudged on. To most of Sayid Jaglan's fighters, the mountains were as much home as the villages down in the valley. He couldn't match their endurance or their skill. If he roamed these rocky wastes for the next ten years, he wouldn't be able to. He knew it. The knowledge humiliated him.

A few minutes later, another man up ahead did the same thing Satar had done. If anything, the other fellow made more noise than he had. The man drew several hissed warnings. All he did was laugh. What had been shame for Satar was no more than one of those things for him. He wasn't conscious of his own ineptitude, as Satar was.

The man in front of Satar listened to the mujahid in front of him, then turned and said, "The godless Russians brought a couple of truck-loads of new men into Bulola this afternoon. Sayid Jaglan says our plan will not change."

"I understand. God willing, we'll beat them anyhow," Satar said before passing the news to the man at his heels.

"Surely there is no God but God. With His help, all things may be accomplished," the mujahid in front of Satar said. "And surely God will not allow the struggle of a million brave Afghan forebears to be reduced to nothing."

"No. He will not. He cannot," Satar agreed. "The lives of our ancestors must not be made meaningless. God made man, unlike a sheep, to fight back, not to submit."

"That is well said," the man in front of him declared.

"That is very well said," the man behind him agreed.