A Very Private Plot by William F. Buckley

week.”
    Were there any questions?
    There were. But it was only the question asked by Lieutenant Andrei Belinkov that rattled the colonel. “Will there be Stingers?” Andrei asked.
    â€œHow in Hades would I know, Lieutenant Belinkov, if there will be any Stingers? In the engagement last Thursday there were no Stingers and our fighters managed to do plenty of damage to the enemy, would you not agree, Lieutenant Belinkov?”
    Belinkov said yes, he certainly agreed that there had been plenty of damage done to the enemy on Thursday. He had no problem recalling the events of the day. Soviet fighter planes had ripped into a column of mujahedin, killing and wounding over sixty rebels. The survivors of the Afghan unit, surrounded, had dropped their rifles. You could hear the clatter of steel barrels landing on the rocky soil. The cold mountain air, working on the warm exhalations, gave the impression that the rebels were all smoking cigarettes. They were led, their hands behind their necks, to the edge of the neighboring forest. At a signal from Major Lapin, a Soviet machine gunner stationed just inside the forest that gave him camouflage began firing. He mowed them all down, investing at least five bullets in each of the resisters. The major had then walked nonchalantly along the row of scattered bodies, firing his pistol into the heads of the half-dozen soldiers that showed any sign of life.
    â€œThe Stingers are the responsibility of the air force,” the colonel explained, “with which of course our own operation is completely coordinated.”
    There being no other questions, the company commanders were told to give the appropriate instructions for the next day’s operation to their platoon leaders.
    Inside the combat zone, ten days later, Andrei Belinkov, along with Nikolai, faced the problem of the evening meal. It was necessary to eat early—in the daylight hours cooking fires didn’t attract sniper fire. Andrei took his ration of beans and rice and that evening’s fishy gruel, wrapped himself in his great coat, and sat, his back against the side of a tank, alongside Nikolai, who had not fully mastered the technique of handling his army fork while wearing the heavy gloves without which his hands would freeze in the bitter cold at 7,500 feet.
    â€œGreat sport, eh, Nikolai?” Andrei began. “It will not be so easy tomorrow, you will see. Well, but then tomorrow will not be so difficult, because our artillery is very heavy, and there will not be much counter fire. We will drive them up to shelters in the mountain, yes, and probably, yes, Muhammad Ezi will seek the greater refuge of the range, perhaps even the shelter of Pakistan. But the success of the operation will depend entirely on the air offensive, the fighters especially. We will not be able to use our artillery effectively into the ravine—”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWhy not? My dear Nikolai … because the same artillery we will be using to assault Mountain ‘A’ will require four, five hours, maybe more, to transport around the mountain to get within firing range of the ravine. We rifle soldiers will be able to ascend and take our positions and begin firing into the ravine quickly, in less than an hour. So the heavy barrage will need to be from the airplanes. Without American-made interference—You have seen the American Stingers?… Of course not. We have been in the field only ten days, and on Thursday there were no Stingers, I do not know why.” The pitch of Andrei’s voice was interrogatory: “It is very surprising.
    â€œOh my God what I would do for some vodka, it is two days since I ran out. Do you know, Nikolai, I have absolutely no idea what you think of this madness we are engaged in. You are the most reserved man I have ever associated with! As a matter of fact, Nikolai, I do not really know why I continue to seek your company. We have slept in the same two-man