“Only you won’t be going in the dark-there will be some light, just a little,” Kirov said.

“And when does this happen?” Kurbsky asked.

“Well, according to my orders, about four-thirty in the morning. You’ll certainly be there by five-thirty.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Bounine asked.

“Those are my orders. Now, I suggest we rig one of the men in all his gear, equipment bag, the lot, and have a demonstration.” He turned to Kurbsky. “Is that okay, Lieutenant?”

Everybody had heard. Bounine turned to Kurbsky and said, “To those of you who have never jumped before, I would say this: In the last war, all fliers in the air force carried a parachute in case their plane was shot down, but they didn’t practice beforehand, they were just thankful it was there.”

“Why doesn’t that comfort me in the slightest?” Kurbsky asked.

BUT THEY WENT through everything several times to make sure everyone got the idea. Each grab bag contained a Stechkin pistol, an AK-47 with folding stock, fragmentation grenades, plastic explosive and pencil timers, and a field service medical kit including morphine ampules. They rested nervously in one of the tents and it rained and the tent leaked, but outside the war went on, planes of various types landing and taking off, and way in the distance there was the thump of artillery and fires in the city.

“It’s biblical.” Bounine had brought a bottle of vodka from the hotel in his knapsack and sat drinking from the bottle occasionally, gazing out through the darkness to the flames of the city. “Death on a Pale Horse, destruction everywhere.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Kurbsky demanded.

“Oh, humankind,” Bounine said glumly. “Thousands of years of civilization and we only succeed in butchering each other.”

“Yes, well, that’s the way it is, nothing changes, so I’m going to go and get my orders from Chelek and you’d better come with me, so put the bottle back in your knapsack.”

They found him in one of the prefabricated buildings that housed the command post, which seemed full of radio equipment and staff. A request to see him produced a suggestion that they take a seat. They were still there an hour later. Kurbsky approached the desk again. The young aide looked up inquiringly, but at that moment General Chelek emerged from his office and dropped a file on the desk.

“So there you are,” he said to Kurbsky. “I’ve been waiting. I want to get this show on the road.”

“I’ve brought my sergeant, Comrade General.”

“I’ve no objection.” They went in, and he sat behind his desk. “You’ve sorted the parachuting out?”

“Yes, Comrade.”

“Excellent. This is a very simple operation, and that’s the way I like things. The monastery at Kuba has been taken over by Basayev, the monks all kicked out. He’s there now with twenty men. I want you to wipe them out.”

“You’re absolutely sure they are there?” Kurbsky asked.

“Father Ramsan has always proved reliable in the past. He was allowed to move into a farm about a mile from the monastery when Basayev took over. He tells me of an old tunnel, long disused, which gives access to the monastery. He will act as your guide.” He put a knapsack on his desk. “There’s a radio in there, and all the instructions you need to contact Ramsan.”

Kurbsky glanced at Bounine. “Sergeant.”

Bounine took the radio. Chelek said, “I’ve had a look at your record, Kurbsky-it’s remarkable for one so young. Decorated twice in Afghanistan.” He smiled. “I envy you your inevitable success.”

“We’ll try not to disappoint you, Comrade.”

They went, pausing only at the entrance as the rain increased heavily. “I’ve often thought about this war and asked myself why any sane person would want this place,” Bounine said.

“It’s a game, my friend,” Kurbsky told him. “People like Chelek move the pieces to suit themselves-it’s their particular vanity.”

“And the pieces are the people like us who do their bidding,” Bounine said. “I told you-it’s biblical.”

“Idiot,” Kurbsky said. “But let’s get on with it. Maybe there could be a medal in it for you.”

“But I’ve got a medal,” Bounine said plaintively, and followed him, as Kurbsky ran out through the rain and back toward the tent and the others.

SO, IN THE darkness at four-thirty, they sat in a line on a bench seat in the Dakota, the anchor cable above them, each man fully kitted out, Bounine, as the most experienced, seated close to the door. Kurbsky, at the other end of the line, had his radio at the ready and the engines were already throbbing.

Bashir said, “Right, Lieutenant, here we go.”

The Dakota started to move, the roaring of the engines filled the plane, and then they were lifting and speeding away at low level to get away from Grozny as quickly as possible.

THE RAIN CONTINUED, hammering the aircraft, the wind howled, but Bashir held her steady, flying at four thousand feet, the mountains shrouded in cloud below. When he finally started his descent, they went into a kind of mist and then burst out of it and there was visibility, a gray predawn light infused with a kind of luminosity that covered the mountains. He was very low now, drifting through a wide canyon at a thousand feet, and spoke to Bounine over the radio.

“Door open, Sergeant.” A red light blinked on and off. Bounine called, “Clip on and stand.” They all did as they were told. The Dakota was at five hundred and there was much more light now in the flat expanse of the Kuba Plateau. Bashir made his pass at three hundred fifty feet, the red light turning to green, and Bounine tapped Kirov, the first in line, on the shoulder and yelled “Go,” which the boy did, followed by the others, tumbling out one after the other, Kurbsky last. Bounine yelled on his radio, “All gone!” clipped onto the anchor cable, and dived out.

Bashir started to climb up to four thousand, leveled out and switched to automatic pilot, got up, went back, and closed the door. He returned, took control again to ten thousand, leveled out, and turned back to Grozny. “Well, I’ll never see any of that lot again,” he murmured. “Madness. Bloody crazy.”

KURBSKY, LOOKING DOWN, could see the rough moorland of the plateau below, outcrops of rock here and there, and it was all over in what seemed a flash, his supply bag thumping into the ground, followed by himself. He seemed to bounce and fell sideways, and a stiff wind billowed his canopy. He started to drag, grabbed at his quick-release buckle, and it opened and the wind in the parachute pulled it off him and blew it across the moor.

He unclipped his jump bag, got it open, and armed himself quickly-the Stechkin stuffed in his shirt, the bag slung from his back. With the AK still folded, he started searching for the others, which was easy enough, for he could see them dotted around, struggling with their canopies in the wind. He dumped his helmet and put on his beret.

Bounine was free and helping those who were having difficulties, working his way from chute to chute. He reached one on the far left and leaned down. He turned and beckoned. Kurbsky hurried toward him, others following, and found him standing over Petrovsky.

“Dead already. Broken neck.” Bounine shook his head. “Ridiculous. He jumped in Afghanistan a number of times with the Storm Guards. Now he has to get it in a shitty place like this.” He looked around the bleak moorland, the rain hammering down.

Kurbsky said, “Put him behind those rocks over there, collect those parachutes, and hide them as best you can behind the outcrop. Fifteen minutes and get your ponchos out.” He looked up at the turbulent sky as thunder rumbled. “It’s really going to storm, my friends.”

He got the radio from his pack, crouched down, and tried to contact Father Ramsan.