"Boom, boom, thud, thud..."
The ground shook violently, each tremor reverberating through the air as if the earth itself were groaning under the weight of a looming storm.
Brigadier Faris Khalid jolted awake, his body aching as though he had been dragged through a battlefield. He sucked in a sharp breath, coughing as his lungs filled with gritty, smoke-tainted air.
What the hell is going on?
His vision swam, but he forced his eyes open. He lay on a desolate, rocky landscape under a sunless sky. The jagged terrain stretched endlessly, the air thick with dust and the distant metallic scent of blood and oil. Faris's instincts screamed at him that this was not Pakistan, not the border regions he knew so well.
The thunderous sound drew closer, the vibrations pounding through the ground like a war drum. Faris's ears rang as the noise grew deafening.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to a sitting position, his training taking over. He scanned his surroundings, his mind calculating escape routes, defensive positions, and threats. But what he saw froze him in place.
Looming over the ridge, a Soviet T-62 tank crawled forward, its iron tracks grinding over rock and dirt. The turret swiveled, its long barrel cutting through the haze like a predator's gaze searching for prey. Black smoke billowed from the exhaust, and the sharp growl of its engine filled the air.
A T-62? Faris's mind raced. He had seen this monstrous machine during his early years in the military. He glanced down at himself and stiffened. The crisp uniform of the Pakistan Army was gone. Instead, he wore a threadbare robe, a tattered leather vest, and a white turban that clung to his head. Beside him lay an old AK-47, its wooden stock scarred by years of use, and a battered RPG-7 launcher.
What is this?
Faris clenched his fists as his memories returned in a chaotic flood. He was Brigadier Faris Khalid, an officer in Pakistan's elite Special Services Group (SSG), commanding some of the most highly trained operatives in the world. He had spent years fighting insurgents, commanding counterterrorism operations, and training others in unconventional warfare. Recently, he had been tasked with overseeing strategic military exercises near the Afghan border.
The last thing he remembered was being aboard an Mi-17 helicopter, en route to inspect a forward post. Engine failure had sent the chopper spiraling into the mountains. The impact should have killed him.
Yet here he was.
But this body… it wasn't his. Memories of another life surged forward... of Muhammad Umar. He was a recently commissioned Second Lieutenant in the Pakistan Army, and his first mission was to be an instructor to Afghan guerrillas fighting the Soviet invasion in the 1980s. Faris gasped as the two sets of memories collided, merging like water and oil.
Am I… him?
The tank's grinding tracks snapped Faris out of his confusion. It was closing in, its turret locking onto his position.
"Driver, crush him!" barked a voice from inside the tank in Russian.
Faris's training kicked in, overriding his fear. He wasn't just Muhammad Umar; he was still Brigadier Faris Khalid, a soldier who had spent decades mastering war. His mind worked rapidly, assessing the situation.
The tank rumbled closer, its shadow falling over him. Faris spotted a shallow ditch carved into the rocky terrain. Without hesitation, he threw himself into it, pressing his body flat against the ground as the tank thundered overhead.
The air around him filled with dust and heat as the mechanical beast passed. Faris's heart pounded, but he stayed perfectly still, his instincts screaming at him to wait.
When the tank was just meters ahead, he scrambled to his feet, his hands finding the RPG-7. He had trained countless soldiers to use this weapon, and now that training would save his life.
The tank's turret began to turn, the barrel swinging toward him.
"Driver! Reverse! Fire the coaxial!" shouted the tank commander, his voice crackling over the noise.
Too slow.
Faris raised the launcher, steadying his breath as he aimed for the rear of the turret. He knew from years of experience that the engine compartment was the tank's Achilles' heel.
His finger squeezed the trigger.
The RPG fired with a deafening roar, the missile streaking through the air and slamming into the tank's rear. The explosion rocked the battlefield, flames erupting from the shattered armor. The tank shuddered violently as its ammunition ignited, triggering a second, larger explosion.
The turret blew off, landing in a twisted heap several meters away. Smoke and fire poured from the wreckage, the once-mighty machine now reduced to a smoldering carcass.
Faris dropped to one knee, his chest heaving as the dust settled. He stared at the burning wreckage, his mind reeling.
He wiped the dirt from his head and stared at the tank before him. Thick smoke now filled the air, and the flames had subsided. The turret had been torn from the tank's body and lay to one side, while the barrel was twisted and bent, likely from hitting the ground muzzle-first. Judging by the condition of the tank, there was no chance anyone inside had survived.
It had been a narrow escape. He had come dangerously close to being flattened by the tank. Staring at the red five-pointed star on the turret, Faris felt a wave of gratitude wash over him, thankful to have escaped such a fatal encounter.
He was no stranger to war. Whether as Brigadier Faris Khalid or Muhammad Umar, he had lived and breathed battle his entire life.
If this was his new reality, he would adapt to it. He is a soldier, and soldiers don't surrender. Not to the Soviets. Not to fate.
He stood, his grip tightening on the RPG-7. A grim determination burned in his eyes.
Whatever had brought him here, he would fight. And he would win.