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stretched ahead of them and west on the valley floor. A beautiful flower to some, but to others as deadly as any bomb. To the east the unnamed village with its ramshackle huts. Bull lowered his bino’s and rubbed his eyes.
    His Spetsnaz assault group had been given specific orders: Attack the village, Eliminate all Mujahedeen, Burn the poppy crop. His men, the true elite of the Red Army, were ready. They lay prone on the ridge, waiting. To his left and hidden in a dip, Captain Lesukov’s fire support team had their mortars ready, to Bull’s right Lieutenant Gorodetski, Sergeant Zukauskas and the rest of the Brigada. The plan was simple, brutal and effective. Lesukov’s men would commence shelling of the village, and then Bull’s team would move from house to house picking off anyone and everyone that survived. Intelligence supplied by a local informer had said that the village was a sham, nothing more than a base for Mujahedeen fighters and Arab Islamic mercenaries to grow and distribute the death that came from the poppy in the field. The Red Army could not let this continue in a ‘partner state’. Hence the unequivocal orders. Bull looked at Lesukov. “Start firing your mortars in two minutes.”
    Lesukov nodded. “Good luck.”
    Bull smiled. “Ivan we are Spetsnaz, we make our own luck.”
    Bull’s men moved silently over the ridge and into the valley. Thumph. Thumph. Mortar shells whistled through the sky. There was sudden movement from the village. A robed figure appeared and looked directly at the ridge. He yelled, raised his rifle and fired into the sky. As he did so an explosion tore the very earth from under his feet. More shells landed flattening the Afghan houses and destroying the beauty of the new day. Then, as abruptly as they started, they stopped.
    Bull’s men now swept through the carnage before them. The dead and dying littered the village, many had been asleep, others in the process of grabbing weapons. Several fled to the fields and were chased down by rounds, which not even the fastest could outrun. Bull reached the building which, he knew, housed the village elder. The roof was intact even though part of one wall was now missing. The old man was sitting on a crimson rug in the corner, his henna red beard specked with dust. His eyes angry, he showed no fear. He waited until Lieutenant Gorodetski had entered the room behind Bull before speaking with words of venom.
    “He says it is a trap; that we have all been tricked,” Gorodetski translated. The old man jabbed at them with a bony finger. Gorodetski continued. “We are infidels, not men of our word, not men of honour.”
    “Enough.” Bull stepped forward and crouched. “We are men of honour. We did not break our agreement.” Drawing his revolver, Bull shot the elder in the face.
    Shocked, Gorodetski looked down at his captain. “Why?”
    Pachinko stared at the young officer. “He was Mujahedeen; that is all you need know.”
    An explosion behind, then another. Bull turned as Gorodetski backed out of the house. On the ridge above the fire support team were under attack. Gathering up his Brigada, Bull charged back towards Lesukov’s team. Reaching the ridge, wild rounds whistled past them. Lesukov’s men had been taken by surprise; a group of fighters numbering more than twenty had flanked them from the west. Lesukov fired controlled bursts from his Kalashnikov at the Afghan hoards. Of the team of eight only he and two others were left.
    Zukauskas grabbed a mortar and turned it around to face the oncoming threat, one-handed he dropped a mortar into the tube and fired. Unsighted, the bomb flew over the Mujahedeen and landed harmlessly, save for an explosion. Securing the tube on the ground he sighted it whilst Gorodetski dropped in a new shell. This time the explosion landed just to the left of the advancing fighters. Some stopped, others carried on.
    Bull joined Lesukov. There was a grin on Lesukov’s face. “We make our own