A Very Private Plot by William F. Buckley Page A

shelter now for ten days. You listen to me, and sometimes you laugh, and you answer my questions. But I do not know what is on your mind, and surely you are the only officer in the army who does not complain of Moscow’s policy in this accursed war.”
    Andrei put down his aluminum plate. He spoke now gruffly. “Say something , for the love of God, Nikolai, say something ! You may not be able to say something two days from now, because you may be dead !” Andrei stared into the eyes of Nikolai and, grabbing his collar with one hand, shook him hard, though suddenly his voice modulated, as it traveled from exhortation to entreaty. Andrei Belinkov wanted desperately to hear Nikolai condemn the mad vicious bloody venture in which the Soviet Union was engaged “ for no purpose except a meaningless enlargement of empire and the sweet smell of nearby Iranian oil . That’s the only purpose of it,” he half muttered. His hand loosened its grip on Nikolai’s collar and a tear came to his eye. He dropped his hand. “It is a quite dreadful way to die, is it not, Nikolai?”
    Nikolai spoke now. His voice had acquired a new timbre, one Belinkov had not heard before.
    â€œIt is a terrible way to die, yes, Andrei. The death of the mujahedin who surrendered to us two weeks ago, that too was a terrible way to die.”
    Belinkov turned away. “What are we supposed to do with the prisoners?”
    Nikolai did not answer.
    Belinkov relented. “You are right, it was a terrible way to die. I have not got used to it.”
    Operation Bottleneck worked according to schedule for the first two days. Early on the third day, a Soviet surveillance plane flying at 50,000 feet reported that the mujahedin appeared to be consolidating on the southern base of Mountain “A” preparatory to crossing the ravine to the safety of the high range, two miles across. Colonel Dombrovsky was elated and ordered two battalions of light infantry to begin the forced march to the east side of the mountain, proceed to deploy, and fire at the enemy. Orders went out to the artillery to begin their arduous trek to both sides of the mountain. The radio from the surveillance plane alerted the Soviet fighters and bombers on standby 75 kilometers to the north.
    One hour later, several hundred mujahedin began to cross the ravine. At 8:35 a.m. the Soviet air force could be spotted on the western horizon—as heavy a concentration of Su-17s and Su-25s, thought Nikolai, as one might expect to see flying over Moscow on May Day! He continued to lead his men, at quick-time, to the eastern side of the mountain, where they would squat down and contribute their own firepower to the slaughter. The bombers, he guessed, would come in at about 5,000 feet, the fighter planes at 1,000 feet. And now the explosive sounds of falling bombs began, synchronizing with the deadly rat-tat-tat of the fighters’ machine guns.
    And then—Nikolai stared in disbelief. Six fighter planes, almost as if exercising a joint maneuver, abruptly left their offensive configuration. Three exploded before hitting the ground. The ten surviving planes in the squadron, executing the Soviet plan, consummated their 180-degree turn at the south end of the ten-mile-long ravine and whizzed back to strafe again the mujahedin, whose numbers, designed to swell as Muhammad Ezi’s regiment made their way to the range, were however rapidly diminishing. Suddenly, four more fighters were struck, three going down directly in flames; one, with a smoky contrail as if gasping for air, lost its altitude slowly, crashing, finally, an eternal twenty seconds later, into the west face of the range. The surviving six fighters abandoned the cauldron, and suddenly the bombing fleet dematerialized into the horizon.
    It was then that the rebels’ rifle fire concentrated on the Soviet battalion that had been poised to fire into the ravine, by now almost empty of targets as the