Awakening the Bear
Mansfield could feel the sting in his eyes as sweat dripped down his brow. And he thought Burma was bad. For over two years he had been posted in Afghanistan, strategically located at the crossroads of major trade routes and roughly north of the British Raj. At least that’s what he knew it as when he departed.
“Stavros, you and some of the others are staying in India. I’m leaving with O’Malley, McGinnis, Pax and Kilderry.”
He could still recount that conversation, it seemed like another age. Their mission was to infiltrate enemy-occupied Afghanistan to ascertain Soviet troop strength. They spent the better part of the year establishing contacts with local resistance forces. That too seemed like another age.
The sun was beating down on their position as were the Soviets. They were located at the foot of the Hindu Kush mountains, more than 70 miles north of Jalalabad where numerous safe houses and friendly villages dotted the landscape.
“Local fighters are being overwhelmed over, soviet tank brigade is forcing them to route.” The radio cackled as Gifford, code-named “Macedon”, looked on through a set of binoculars behind a jutting sunbaked rock formation.
Their operation had gone well, too well. In the wake of communist Spain’s downfall the USSR had violently clamped down on their areas of influence, Afghanistan was no exception. MI6 had conducted several surprise attacks against government collaborators and even orchestrated the assassination of at least 2 local Soviet commanders. However, the unit under the command of Lieutenant Mansfield had really done it with the killing of a regional Soviet leader in the heart of Kabul. Launching a series of attacks on various convoys their target was lured back to the capital, it is there where British intelligence agents unleashed their armed resistance fighters in a surprise raid. They were the diversion. The Soviet general was eliminated but this proved to be their undoing.
Several bullets whizzed by Gifford’s head as he relayed orders for O’Malley to break it down and pull out. After Kabul, the reds mercilessly hunted down all those responsible using their air force to pummel the mountain ranges almost day and night. Pax bought the farm first while Kilderry and McGinnis soon followed using their cyanide pills. This was merely 48 hours ago. Another age.
The enemy forces had managed to encircle the village and were tightening the noose, trapping O’Malley and several tribal fighters inside. Tank rounds forced the earth to erupt in towers of dirt and smoke as the defenders gave ground. Then he heard it, the roar of jet engines as MiG-17s screamed overhead, they were setting up their attack run. There would be no prisoners.
“O’Malley! You got boku enemy contacts coming straight at you. Get out!” Another tank round landed right near the Lieutenant’s position. The surviving forces not enveloped began to retreat.
“No dice mate, we’re surrounded and you know it.”
“Bloody hell use the chaos to get away.” Static followed for what seemed to be agonizing minutes.
“I won’t be paraded all over Red Square. God speed Macedon, O’Malley out.”
Mansfield felt a hard tug at his tan combat fatigues as he instinctively drew his Colt M1911 pistol at the source. It was one of the local resistance fighters, his knew him simply as Gazali.
“It is over, we must go.” Having learned what he could of Pashto the stubborn MI6 operative understood and relented.
The distant sounds of battle slowly died down as the survivors hustled further away from the area. Given the Soviets still mercilessly hunting down foreign agents and local resistance alike, all cells were ordered to pull out. It would take Gifford over a month to cross back into so called friendly territory dodging numerous Soviet patrols, by the time he was out of danger his uniform was in tatters with no food and little water.
As his collaborators melted away once he made it over the border he was set to rendezvous at a village no more than 4 miles away from the frontier. However when he arrived things had changed. Stavros was not present, instead a man named Swami Jinnah code-named “Tristan” received the worn-out agent at the safe house. They had met several times before but this time around Jinnah seemed reserved, distant even.
“Welcome back Macedon. It is good to see you again, however, things have changed.”
Changing into a fresh set of clothes the Lieutenant drew his last cigarette, lighting it and quickly taking a long drag.
“Where is Stavros, Tristan?”
He shook his head. “He has departed the country, many of your people have. The British Raj has fallen Macedon, a coup d'etat was launched and toppled the RNP government. You and your men are no longer safe here, much less welcome. The British are in the process of evacuating the country. You are to grab what belongings you have and leave for British Burma immediately. I will guide you there and bid you farewell.”
And that was that. Their efforts had backfired, while they succeeded in causing chaos against the Soviets the agents had kicked up a hornets nest and paid for it dearly. The attacks were far too brazen. Afghanistan and India too, seemed like a lost cause. Efforts were made to conceal this embarrassment, given the state of affairs with the end of the British Empire as we knew it and the fall of communist Spain what transpired would remain only known to the circus.
