Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Read online

  And partly it was an assumption, which truly pissed him off. They had assumed that the Taliban regularly traversed it, so surely they could. Nick reminded himself that to assume anything “makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’”

  Even a single sniper pulling recon on the objective would have been able to tell them they were wrong by watching just one truck wrestle to make its way up the mountain.

  “Marcus, you and Red empty out your packs and run back up the hill. I’d say there’s some ammo we could collect from those attackers outside the compound. Find what will fit our weapons, and if there’s a bunch of 5.45 mm, go ahead and grab it all, plus one or two of the best AK-74s you find.”

  Nick and his team carried the older style AK-47s, preferring a heavier bullet (7.62 x 39 mm) with more punch, especially when distance was a concerning factor. Newer AKs fired a smaller and lighter bullet (5.45 x 39 mm), quite similar to M-16s (5.56 x 45 mm).

  Nick figured if there were five hundred to a thousand rounds of 5.45 mm ammo up on the hill, it would be stupid to leave it and much better to grab a couple newer AK-74s so that they could use it, as well.

  For all Nick knew, his team could be headed toward an Alamo-like situation, needing all the ammo they could find. And since they had the truck, a little more weight and a couple extra weapons weren't a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

  As Marcus and Red jumped in the truck bed to dump their packs, Nick had one other thought. “Oh. And Red, you might as well run back to the compound and grab that RPG we saw if there are at least a couple rounds for it.”

  “Will do,” Red said, with a wicked grin.

  Nick nodded and moved down the hill to build more rock ramps. They’d get down the hill eventually, one way or another.

  Chapter 37

  While Nick and his team struggled to get down the hill so they could return to their base in Afghanistan, a thirteen-year-old boy emerged from the shadows on the hill near the compound. The boy had been ordered to stay at home by his father, but he had snuck out to follow the warriors of his village.

  He had kept his distance during all the firing, but now there was only silence. So in the last minutes of darkness, the boy emerged from a wadi and stood before a field of riddled and broken bodies. Moments ago, he had seen a truck drive off down the hill and felt it was now safe to approach the fallen.

  A few lay gasping out their final breaths while others wept softly, murmuring strangled words. Whether the words were pleading or prayerful, the boy could not tell. But nevertheless, those anguished voices rang like echoes in his heart and summoned up the courage buried deep within him. No longer did he fear what punishment might befall him for disobeying his father. Men lay dying all around him, and he had to do something.

  However, the boy’s newly discovered bravery threatened to sputter out as he drew nearer toward the wretched bodies. The site. The smell. He had to will his stomach to not be sick, will his legs not to run.

  He slowly kneeled to keep from fainting, closed his eyes, and slapped his face in an effort to clear his head. But even as the haze left his brain, he felt helpless, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Then, a few feet away he saw a radio on the ground next to the outstretched hand of a dead fighter.

  Instantly, it was clear. He needed to call for help, and with that, he scrambled over the ground toward the dropped device. Picking up the radio, he pressed the button and screamed, for all that he was worth, for help.

  It was only after the call and the subsequent reply of confirmation that the boy noticed his own ragged breath and trembling hands. His courage had lasted long enough to press that button, but ultimately no further. A boy had made that call, and a boy was all that remained.

  The call was directly received by a radio operator at the current hideout for Rasool Deraz. Mushahid Zubaida had not been at all happy when a young boy came to wake him, claiming the news was “urgent.”

  Yesterday had been very long and unpleasant, to say the least. And after the day’s grisly events, a good night's sleep had been the one thing Mushahid had felt he had to look forward to. Now, here he was being shaken from a dream -- a good dream, too, as it didn’t include the faces of dead villagers -- by an equally blurry-eyed boy, and it was highly unlikely that he was about to hear urgently good news. And though he probably should have reacted with a tad more restraint, the boy had fled from Mushahid’s hut terrified and in tears after delivering the message.

  The poor radio operator didn’t get off much better. Mushahid had stormed into the room, interrogating the man about his identity and proof of any intelligence. But by the third stuttering repetition of the operator’s report, Mushahid had slipped from anger into shocked disbelief.

  While he had selected a team of their best Taliban fighters for a quick response force, neither he nor Rasool had even imagined the possibility of another attack so soon, and certainly not one that very night. They, truthfully, hadn’t anticipated an attack at all, for that matter.

  With their secrecy exposed after the standoff with the villagers earlier that day, the enemy shooters should have been rushing back for the border. That being the expectation, Mushahid had resigned himself to holding his team back and let the trespassers exhaust themselves as they scrambled to escape on foot. He had planned to go tomorrow with his trucks loaded with rested fighters. They would quickly catch up and intercept the interlopers.

  But upon hearing that not only had the Taliban’s communication center been raided, but another mass of local fighters had been gunned down, Mushahid felt like he was tumbling head over heels down a mountain of questions.

  Had he been blinded by his own arrogance? Should he have sent his men to hunt down the invading party immediately? It had been what his blood-roaring instincts demanded to be done at that time.

  But Rasool had ordered him otherwise. Should he not have trusted his leader? No. It had been the right answer, the rational answer. It was nothing short of suicidal for such a small team to trek deeper into enemy territory, especially now that the enemy had to be aware their presence.

  The concept seemed so absurd, no impossible, that Mushahid was now considering the possibility of a second team or other hostile forces moving about Pakistan without their knowledge. It was a terrifying thought, but also one that Mushahid couldn’t afford to let take root any deeper in his brain. So forcing himself to remember the wisdom of his beloved and trusted mentor, Rasool Deraz, Mushahid quickly shook the distracting thoughts from his head.

  No. Mushahid didn’t have too many answers, but he certainly intended to get some. He just had one problem: none of his fighters were ready, and most were not even awake as it was still a couple hours from sunrise. For this reason, it took precious minutes to find and wake young boys to run to each hut and roust sleeping fighters.

  And even once the men were awake, none had their gear ready. They, too, had not expected an attack.

  To make matters worse, as more and more men began to wake and pull themselves together, the scene grew frenzied and louder. Neighbors and relatives were abruptly jolted from their slumber. Babies and small children wailed. Dogs barked, running in and out of huts, either excited or frightened by the sudden flurry of activity. Wives fussed and offered to prepare food for their summoned warrior-husbands. Some wives begged for their men just to eat something before they left, or at least allow them a minute to pack food for the trip.

  Mushahid yelled in frustration as the scene descended into mayhem, barking orders as loud as he could. His booming voice caused an immediate reaction, but not the one he was aiming for. Instead of inspiring his men into quick and efficient action, Mushahid’s aggressive leadership slowed progress further as the already startled men became flustered and panicked.

  In their haste to comply, the fighters became forgetful and confused, frantically searching all around with flashlights for gear, weapons, and even clothing. At least one fighter had torn an entire hut apart, hunting for his shoes and viciously screaming at his wif
e and children to find them. The man’s face had turned blood red with shame after his youngest child meekly pointed out that the items in question were already on his feet.

  Mushahid was livid and embarrassed. He stood feeling helpless as he watched the swelling chaos. The time to react was fleeting. And by the way it looked right now, time was about to bleed out from two slit wrists.

  Nick and his team had no idea that Taliban reinforcements were scrambling to intercept them. Nor did they know about the delays among those fighters that were giving the men of S3 a crucial head start. All Nick knew was that he felt major relief at finding an improved road at the bottom of the hill, once they finally arrived at it. For the moment, the team could really make some headway. Maybe even hitting speeds of twenty or thirty miles per hour.

  Nick needed the lucky break. His muscles were shaky and weak, and exhaustion weighed heavy on his shoulders. His body screamed for rest and recuperation, the kind that could only be gained by some uninterrupted deep sleep. A shower would be nice, too, he thought, as he looked down at the layers of sweat-caked dirt covering most of his body and clothes. He couldn’t even imagine how bad he smelled. Suddenly he was very thankful for the gift of olfactory fatigue.

  All of which supported the idea that Nick believed they should push to make it home today, if it were at all possible.

  The reasons for this were many. The men were dog-tired, same as him. And if they didn’t make a break for it, they’d have to find a place to hide the truck in. The drugs for Ahmud al-Habshi would also be wearing off, and there was no more to inject him with. That was yet another oversight the team had made on their pre-mission packing.

  Nick tapped Truck on the arm. “Slow down and stop here.”

  The Toyota pulled to a halt, and Nick opened the door, stepping out. Acknowledging Red behind the machine gun propped on bipod legs atop the cab and Marcus in the rear of the truck bed with his AK, Nick nodded toward the east.

  “Sun’ll be up soon, guys, but I’ve decided we’re pushing on. Even though it’ll be daylight.”

  He let that sink in.

  “I don’t think,” he continued, “we have it in us to hole up for another day, and who knows how many fighters will be assembling to find out who nabbed this computer punk in the back of the truck. So, we’re going all the way today, even though part of the travel will be by daylight.”

  “Hellz yeah,” Red said. He patted the stock of the RPK. “Might get to bag some more bad guys.”

  “Again, easy with my gun, you little gremlin,” Truck growled from the driver’s seat.

  “We probably kicked over a hornet’s nest with that raid back there,” Marcus said, “so I think it’s best we keep moving, as well.”

  “Then, we’re in agreement,” Nick said. “Let’s stay sharp and not ruin our track record of dodging bullets the past couple of weeks.”

  Nick climbed back in the cab, and the 4x4 resumed its westward trek toward Afghanistan. Besides numerous possible ambush sites, they still had one small town to push through. And Nick had a bad feeling that Red might get his wish to use Truck’s machine gun again before all this was over.

  Chapter 38

  Rasool Deraz walked toward his designated truck, an AK in his arms. He stopped to see Mushahid several feet up ahead. He watched the strong man let loose a visibly deep sigh as the last of the men -- finally -- loaded up into the three awaiting trucks.

  Poor Mushahid had allowed himself to get so frazzled so quickly by the situation. As the younger man’s friend and mentor, it had been very disappointing to witness Mushahid, yet again, lose control of his temper.

  The man had not even realized how badly he had inflamed the chaos and confusion. Rasool truly did the best he knew how with Mushahid, but sometimes he wondered if the overly passionate man was only meant to be a fighter and no more.

  The old man offered a sigh of his own up to Allah and continued moving toward the truck. There were bigger things than Mushahid to worry about right now, Rasool thought. He began to prepare himself for what they might discover at the attack site, as well as theorize what kind of efforts might help repair or at least minimize the damage. Rasool was deep in thought when Mushahid suddenly appeared at his side.

  “Please don’t get too close,” Mushahid softly pleaded with the older man.

  Rasool stopped, but he did not bother to look over at the man. He already knew what he would find. It was always the same look: a face forced into a bland expression to suggest passivity, but betrayed by eyes that practically pulsated with concern, as if hypnotic in purpose.

  It was the only form of leverage his protector was brave enough to employ, as Mushahid knew better than to beg or even hint that the older man should stay behind. As the head of the Taliban, Rasool reserved the sole right to make those decisions. For only he understood the full weight of the title, the responsibility, the burden, the regret.

  And with the growing number of men lost, this was a personal affront to Rasool. These were his people, whether they be soldiers or villagers. They were dead because they fought for the very cause he commanded.

  There would be no holding him back. Not this time.

  Rasool finally turned to face the other man, locking onto the other’s gaze and matching it with his own. From head to toe, Rasool’s body was set straight and square. He held his head high like the proud warrior he was, and his eyes emanated a declaration of unyielding defiance toward his opponent’s will. As well-intentioned as the man’s motives might be, Rasool would not surrender an inch to his Mushahid’s over protective manipulations.

  The stare down lasted only seconds before Mushahid slowly closed his eyes, hanging his head in submission. Rasool knew Mushahid wasn’t a stupid man, but his focus and judgement were much too limited.

  Their communication center had been targeted for a specific reason. But Mushahid, so preoccupied with guarding Rasool and performing his duties as the Fist of the Taliban, failed to comprehend just how significant of a loss they might be facing. If sensitive information had indeed fallen into the wrong hands, not only could it compromise Rasool’s personal safety, but it could threaten the entire organization.

  Seeing the strong man finally surrender, Rasool relaxed and sighed. He appreciated Mushahid’s concerns. However, inevitability was gaining on them, and if Mushahid wasn’t careful, he would likely break when the time came for him to face it.

  “My brother, we must all trust in Allah’s shield of protection,” he reminded the strong man in a voice soft but insistent. “And we must never assume any single life is more important than a willingness to surrender and become a living, breathing tool for His purpose.”

  Mushahid raised his eyes to look at his mentor, and Rasool patted him forgivingly on the arm. Then without another word Rasool, stepped past the man and toward his waiting vehicle.

  As Rasool stepped away, it occurred to Mushahid that the only time he ever felt truly afraid was when he thought about losing his leader. Mushahid worried about what would happen if Rasool was taken. And he reminded himself that he needed to remember his place and receive rather than give orders from Rasool. He struggled mightily to find the right balance in this regard. And the Old Lion didn’t make it any easier being so stubbornly humble.

  It had taken much longer than Mushahid had wanted to assemble his men, but finally, the pursuit team was ready to go. There would be three trucks with six fighters in the back and two up front. That would make eight men per truck, equaling twenty-four total.

  It was a decent number of men to take on such a task, but these also weren’t just any men. These were twenty-four of the Taliban’s best fighters. And it was actually thirty-one fighters if he included the additional fourth truck carrying Rasool and his guards.

  But Mushahid was determined to keep Rasool out of harm's way at all costs. Thankfully, the plan was for Rasool to focus on inspecting the attack site and communication center while Mushahid and his men pushed on and pursued the invaders.

 
Rasool and his guards would also remain on alert and be ready to respond should Mushahid’s three truck strike team call for assistance. Mushahid had agreed to the plan, but he would make certain that there would be no call for backup.

  But watching as the older man walked away, Mushahid’s stomach clenched at the mere thought of letting Rasool out of his sight. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a desperate determination boiling up within him. Then spotting the driver of the fourth truck, in which Rasool would be riding, Mushahid called him over and commanded him to keep Rasool as far back as possible, and at all times.

  He evoked a vicious threat into every syllable of the command, an absolute promise that the driver would suffer severely for the slightest deviation from his order.

  “Do not listen to him,” Rasool countered, with a light dismissive tone.

  Rasool had circled back around by them. The man had sounded almost playful even.

  Most likely Rasool was simply trying to assure the driver of his safety. In fact, Mushahid practically guaranteed it. But why then did it seem to sting him so badly? The big man took a slow, deep breath and let the subtle rebuke settle. Then turning his head briefly to nod toward Rasool, a signal of his full acceptance and cooperation, Mushahid then quickly jogged to take his position in the first truck.

  Nearly fifteen miles away, Nick’s team approached their final obstacle: a small village almost straddling the border. Their plans had always been to push through the village at night, relying on darkness to keep them safe. Or, relatively safe.

  They weren’t opposed to fighting their way through in the daylight, but with darkness, they would have only had to engage a few targets. Speed and surprise would have given them their best shot at passing through it safely.