Chapter 62

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Captain Zhilkevich stood on the snowy ground, holding a thick cylindrical object in his hand. He opened it and looked around. This was a low-light night vision device, a valuable tool for night combat, expensive and rarely issued to individual soldiers. Only the reconnaissance company had one. With this device, they could observe hidden enemies at night.

Although he had already confirmed the area was safe, Zhilkevich still scanned the surroundings. There were no enemies hiding on the hillsides.

The snow continued to fall, and the cold wind was biting. Everyone's faces were frozen red despite wearing thick military coats.

Zhilkevich looked at the ground; the snow would soon cover the footprints left behind. It was time to continue the pursuit. He made a gesture, and the entire company followed the snowy trail in the canyon.

Their uniforms were white, blending perfectly with the snow. Even from a hundred meters away, they were almost invisible, completely merging with the snowy landscape.

When the sun rose again, the heavy snow finally stopped, but the temperature continued to drop. The cold wind blew the snow, making it impossible to see more than a few meters ahead.

In such conditions, even the most cold-resistant Eskimos would choose to stay indoors, warming themselves by the fire.

The surroundings were silent, except for the howling wind and the two teams almost a kilometer apart.

Zhilkevich's company had already caught up. If he acted now, he could ensure the complete elimination of the transport squad and the Afghan guerrillas. However, he did not do so. These people were not his targets yet. He wanted to follow the transport squad to find the guerrillas' base.

This was a long process. They were like a pack of hungry wolves on the plains, silently tracking their prey.

"Mr. Khvajah, how much longer do we have to go?" James asked Khvajah, who was riding a horse.

"Two more days," Khvajah replied. "After we cross the next mountain, we will head south. The mountain roads are difficult, especially after the snow. They are much more slippery than the canyon here."

The journey to get here took a day on horseback, and now, with the load, their speed was almost the same as walking.

James took out a flask from his back. On the way, he had filled it with high-proof brandy.

He raised his head to take a sip but found that the brandy inside the flask had frozen solid.

"I can't do this. I need to start a fire," James said.

"Mr. James, starting a fire will expose our position," Khvajah said. This American was unreliable, thinking that just because it was winter, they were completely safe.

As soon as Khvajah finished speaking, he saw James take out a gun from his back, release the safety, and pull the trigger.

"Bang." A bullet flew out of the gun, and the sound echoed far in the quiet valley.

Khvajah was startled. This American was determined to expose their position.

"Go!" James ignored Khvajah, spurred his horse, and galloped forward.

A pheasant tried to fly away, but it left a red trail on the snow.

James dismounted, caught the pheasant, and held it in his hand. The cold weather meant the pheasant hadn't eaten much and wasn't very fat, but after eating dry rations for over ten days, this pheasant was a welcome treat.

James took off his steel helmet, which he wore over his woolen cap to prevent attacks. It was perfect for this moment.

He flipped the helmet over, filled it with snow, and set it up to boil. First, he had to scald the pheasant to remove the feathers!

Seeing James enthusiastically preparing, Khvajah felt a burning anger in his chest. If this guy were in his guerrilla unit, Khvajah would have slapped him long ago.

James had no other thoughts; he was just exhausted. The hardships of the journey made him feel he needed to reward himself. With this wild pheasant, he could roast it, melt the brandy, and enjoy a moment of bliss.

As for the Soviets, in such a cold place, where would they be? The Soviets were surely hiding in the big cities.

When escorting the Pakistanis, James was very cautious. Now that the guerrillas had come to meet them, James felt his mission was complete and he was under no pressure.

"Mr. James, we need to continue moving forward," Khvajah said. "I'll leave one person to take you back to the base."

Khvajah wouldn't wait for James to finish his barbecue. It was dangerous here until they returned to the base.

"No need to leave anyone," James said. "You go ahead. You'll leave footprints. I'll catch up as soon as I finish eating."

Khvajah had brought a dozen men and several donkeys. They were already short-handed. Leaving one for James was just out of consideration for a friend.

Now that James said he didn't need anyone, Khvajah smiled and led the transport squad on.

Khvajah saw through James's thoughts. This guy had shot a pheasant and was roasting it for himself. If he left a guerrilla behind, he would have to share half. This guy didn't want to.

This American... Khvajah was speechless. As long as this guy had a horse, he would catch up after eating and drinking.

The transport squad left, and James was left in the middle of the road, proudly watching the snow in his helmet melt and boil. He then put the pheasant in, just right.

After plucking the feathers and skewering the pheasant with a bayonet, James started his barbecue. He didn't know that his delay was causing trouble for someone behind him.

Zhilkevich crouched in the snow, watching this guy through his binoculars, frowning.

Just now, the Afghan had fired a shot, startling Zhilkevich. His men immediately released the safeties on their guns, but fortunately, no one fired.

He then realized that one of them had shot a pheasant! What a reckless guy. Transporting these weapons was a highly confidential mission, and he had shot a wild pheasant! Were these guerrillas really that hungry?

James, dressed in thick clothes with only his face exposed, had grown a long beard from not shaving for days. This made Zhilkevich not realize that this guy was an American.

Zhilkevich and his men hid behind, waiting. They watched the transport squad disappear from sight.

They had chased for a night and half a day, all in vain.

Was their position exposed, and this guy was here to ambush them? It didn't seem so. Seeing this guy gather firewood, start a fire, boil water, and scald the pheasant, he was clearly a food lover.

Zhilkevich could only watch helplessly. This valley was a strategic pass, and this guy blocking the way meant they couldn't pass.

The sides were cliffs. Climbing around them? Zhilkevich shook his head. It was too dangerous, especially after the snow and the severe cold last night. Under the snow, there was hidden ice, making it impossible to climb.

Beside him, the platoon leader Kryshevich made a throat-cutting gesture, indicating he wanted to take action.

Now, that guy was focused on his barbecue. Crawling close and eliminating him would be easy. The entire reconnaissance company was dressed in white, and even their weapons were white, making them invisible in the snow.

However, this guy was clearly a high-ranking member of the guerrillas. Otherwise, he wouldn't be riding alone and eating alone. Eliminating him would be easy, but it might alert the guerrillas ahead.

If the guerrillas discovered they were being followed, it would be much harder to find their base. These guerrillas were very stubborn. Capturing and interrogating them would yield no information about the guerrillas' secrets.

Zhilkevich shook his head vigorously, and Kryshevich had to give up.

James, unaware that he had just narrowly escaped death, was focused on his barbecue. Roasting a pheasant was a skill. If overcooked, it would be tough and unpalatable; if undercooked, it would be raw.

When he saw the fat dripping from the pheasant, James couldn't resist tearing off a piece and eating it.

He took a few bites and a sip of brandy, thoroughly enjoying himself.

The smell of the roasted pheasant carried on the wind, and the entire Soviet company behind him was salivating.

Seeing the guy in front eating heartily, Kryshevich made another gesture to Zhilkevich, requesting to eliminate the guy and then... eat the leftover chicken, even the bones.

By now, the sun had moved to the west, and two hours had passed.

Finally, Zhilkevich nodded. They couldn't wait any longer. The longer they waited, the farther the guerrillas would get. This guy might be deliberately blocking their way to hinder their pursuit.

Seeing Zhilkevich nod, Kryshevich drew a dagger from behind, held it in his hand, and slowly crawled out of the snow cave.

This was not an ordinary dagger. It was the NRS-2 dagger-gun, a combination of a dagger and a silenced pistol, equipped only by Soviet special forces. The handle of this dagger could fire a 7.62mm special round, killing silently.

Damn Afghans! Kryshevich cursed in his heart as he slowly crawled forward, getting closer to James.

At this moment, James was eating with his mouth full, his appetite fully satisfied.