Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Read online

  All four men had accepted that death was a likelihood on this mission, for sure, so they’d said their prayers long ago.

  The battered Toyota cleared forty miles per hour and seemed to glide on the loose sand and gravel as it lost traction and skimmed over the ground. Truck realized he’d momentarily lost control of the two-ton vehicle.

  The seven men facing the truck could have stopped it statistically speaking, but they lacked the training and mindset of professional soldiers. Between seeing their buddies gunned down from impossible distances earlier to seeing the determination of the driver headed fearlessly toward them, they decided they’d had enough.

  They broke, turning and running to dodge the path of the oncoming vehicle.

  Truck considered aiming toward a couple of them and running them down. But the 4x4 felt too loose and unresponsive in the shale and gravel. He figured there was a decent chance he’d turn, and the truck would fishtail sideways then flip once the wheels caught on something.

  No. A couple squashed villagers were not worth killing themselves over. Especially this close to the border.

  He stuck to the prudent course of action and kept the steering wheel straight for the village and what passed as a road in this wild and forbidden land. They screamed by the fighters and zoomed through the village. A few stray rounds spit by from behind them, but the bullets were high and the real danger had passed.

  Chapter 47

  Three miles down the road, the ramshackle village of mud huts barely visible behind them, Truck stopped the Toyota so the team could regroup. The fighters climbed out of the truck bed and checked weapons and magazines. They sipped water, crammed down chocolate energy bars, and wiped off sweaty brows.

  A euphoria gripped the team for having survived the ordeal, but there were no laughs or jokes as was so common following most firefights. The team was still in enemy territory, and they hadn’t made it across the border to safety yet.

  Marcus noticed Nick’s blood-soaked Taliban jacket and checked the wound. He helped Nick remove his gear and pulled the Afghan khet, or traditional tunic, off the injured shoulder. The round had clipped his left shoulder -- a bad graze wound. It had cut into the skin perhaps a millimeter or two, doing no real damage. Just creating a real bleeder.

  Truck joked, “We wouldn’t even report that in Special Forces.”

  Marcus grabbed some blood clotter and a bandage and patched up Nick’s shoulder. Red stepped away to relieve himself, and Truck popped the vehicle’s hood to inspect the engine.

  “Looks good,” Truck said, slamming the hood down minutes later. “It’s got a few small leaks, but it’ll get us where we’re needing to go.”

  Red lit a cigarette, catching a much-needed hit.

  Nick kept an eye on their rear while Marcus doctored the wound. Nick grimaced, as Marcus finished the job, then said, “Let’s redistribute ammo while we have a moment. Dig in the truck bed and make sure everyone has as much as possible. And Red, help Truck load some of the empty drums for the RPK.”

  Nick pulled his top back on and dug a map out. He oriented the map and studied their upcoming checkpoints before they crossed the border. Up ahead was the side road they’d use to bypass the closest checkpoint. Even if the checkpoint was almost always vacant, Nick was done taking chances for the day.

  Their bypass road proved more difficult to navigate than expected, but it wasn’t anything worse than what they’d already seen. After a few more self-built rock ramps, like before, the Toyota made it up over the high ground and into the sanctuary of Afghanistan.

  “It’s nice to be back home,” Red said, as they headed down the high ground.

  “Speak for yourself,” Marcus answered. “This isn’t my damn home.”

  They drove on ten miles to put plenty of distance between them and any Taliban pursuit force that might be after them. They also avoided all forms of civilization, attempting to stay as covert as possible.

  Nick directed them to an empty spot that had great visibility around them and would be easily defendable. With that, the team started laying rocks into straight lines spelling out “HELP” in big, capital letters. Ahmud al-Habshi was completely alert by this point, and he seemed fully aware that he’d been abducted and transported to a country he probably didn’t want to be in.

  “Shit’s not so fun when you’re not sitting at your keyboard in a safe house, is it?” Red said, taunting the man.

  The man looked at him stupidly, clearly not comprehending English, and too frightened to stare back with anger.

  Red pointed at him. “This man’s a damn coward. A complete damn coward.”

  “We’ve got them in every army,” Nick said. “He’s just a fucking pogue who thought this was a game. Turns out, it’s not. Now leave him alone and get back to work.”

  The team worked for a couple of hours, building up the letters until they were each eight feet long.

  “They look good,” Truck said, once they were finished. “But how long before anyone is brave enough to check on the signal?”

  “Probably a long damn time,” Red said, laying down against his pack to rest. “There aren’t many Americans left in the country, and we’re practically in no man’s land. There probably hasn’t been a patrol or flyover of this area in months or maybe even a year.”

  “No doubt,” Nick said, “that they’ve given up on this district. But they’ll come eventually.”

  He dug in his pack and pulled out an emergency beacon used by pilots in the Air Force. It was designed to automatically transmit a distress signal, and would get someone investigating in a hurry since almost nothing caused more alarm than a stranded pilot.

  Nick spent a few minutes putting the device together with its battery in place. He had been given it in a completely deactivated state since on real planes they activate on their own once the ejection seat leaves the plane.

  The team had opted for using the beacon as their rescue plan because they did not want to deal with Afghan checkpoints and disloyal villagers, who might see four men as an easy target. The thought process was that since there had been no American patrols in months, none of the local villagers would be keen on helping four exhausted Americans looking for help.

  Worse, word was probably spreading wider-and-wider by shortwave radio that the Taliban was looking for one of its men who had been abducted. Villagers would be heavily rewarded if they aided in his return.

  Chapter 48

  Nick looked down at the beacon and hoped it was working, then stowed it away in his gear.

  “Everyone grab some shut-eye,” he said. “I’ll take first watch.”

  Nick had his Dragunov sniper rifle slung across his back. It wasn’t the most tactical of ways to hold a weapon, but his right shoulder ached and didn’t need a rifle stock digging into it. Plus, the ground was flat, and they could see for miles.

  He scanned a 360, and content they remained safe for the moment, he walked up to al-Habshi and offered him a canteen. The man nodded, and Nick gently poured some water down his mouth. Some of it spilled down his face and chest, but there was no way Nick was going to unbind his arms or legs.

  Nick really wished they had a large American flag they could hoist or spread out and tack down, which would be easily visible from the air. Or, having a radio would have been even better. That’s how you’d do it in the movies, but this wasn’t the movies and you didn’t carry American flags or encrypted radios on deep strikes into foreign countries where you were quite likely to be killed or captured.

  He shuddered at the thought that the Taliban might have gotten their hands on an encrypted radio with which they could have used to spy on America or Afghanistan. It frightened him more to consider them nabbing an American-issued satellite radio, which had been another item that would have been nice to have had.

  Nick listened for a drone and hoped someone had taken note of the emergency beacon. Five minutes later, he arched his back and grunted from the soreness that screamed from too much abuse the pa
st eleven days. He straightened and twisted his upper body, working out some stiffness.

  Damn, he hurt all over. He resumed watching the direction he expected the drone to arrive from. And after what felt like two hours of boredom -- but was actually fifty minutes -- a drone investigated in the distance. No doubt the drone’s operator quickly recognized the large word “HELP” written in English and alerted his superior to the strange sight.

  Nick knew that would lead to more calls even higher up the chain of command, with lots of questions about exactly what unit might be operating in that district. And all would soon discover that no unit was actually operating in the area, which would lead to even more questions.

  Eventually, it would be decided that it was a trap, but no officer would rest easy without finding out why an emergency beacon went off.

  Nick wasn’t sure of what was being said, but the drone was eventually followed by the arrival of two Apache helicopters. Nick woke everyone up, and they stowed their weapons and walked away from their gear.

  You really didn’t want to anger a couple of Apaches.

  The Apaches circled in warily, beginning at more than a mile away. They searched for traps and ambushes with their sensors and infrared. They then slowly, carefully closer.

  Two fighter jets had been armed and sat waiting on a runway to respond should it prove a trap. The Apaches circled four different times, sliding in closer and closer.

  The entire time, Nick’s team stood away from their gear, their weapons stashed among their packs. No one wanted one of the pilots getting an itchy finger with the armament the Apaches carried. One burst from their 30 mm cannon would shred their entire party.

  Eventually, they had closed to within a thousand yards -- still essentially out of small arms, but easily within the range of their cannon and Hellfire missiles. Finally, one of them backed up and raced overhead at more than a hundred miles per hour, while his partner covered him, hoping to spring whatever trap might be set.

  When no trap occurred, one of them sat down a hundred yards away. It remained facing them and its sister provided in-air cover just behind them. A pilot climbed down and approached with his pistol drawn. Nick instructed his men to put their arms up and stay put as if they were surrendering.

  Nick removed his turban and walked toward the pilot, who wore a green flight suit. Nick moved slow and kept his arms parallel to the ground, out in a cross-like position. Nick remembered as he got closer that he was dressed like an Afghan, and realized he should have removed his outfit before they arrived. But he didn’t want to stop now and fidget with any clothing. The last thing he wanted this pilot to think was that he was some kind of suicide bomber.

  “That’s close enough,” the pilot warned, stretching out his Beretta M9 pistol and putting up his hand in a universal halt position. Thirty yards still separated him.

  “I speak English,” Nick said, “and boy, are we glad to see you guys.”

  The pilot, who wore the rank of Captain, lowered the pistol just a tad.

  “Who the hell are you guys? And what the hell are you doing out here? We were told no friendly units were operating in the area.”

  “That’s right,” Nick said. “The guys we work for don’t tell anybody where we’re working or what we’re doing.”

  Nick nodded back to his team and the bound body of Ahmud al-Habshi. Nick smiled and said, “Let’s just say we got a little turned around and failed to read our maps properly. And who knows? Maybe we ended up on the wrong side of the border.”

  “Roger that,” the pilot said with a smile. “It’s becoming clearer now. But I’ll still need to get some guys out here with some rifles to process you guys.”

  “Just have your commanding officer call our embassy and tell him there’s a Nick Woods out here in the middle of nowhere, asking to be picked up,” Nick said. “I promise you once you do that, we’ll be out of your hair in no time at all.”

  Chapter 49

  Rasool Deraz, the Old Lion, paused to catch his breath. He leaned on his walking stick and said to his bodyguard Mushahid Zubaida, “A little further, then let’s rest in the shade.”

  “As you wish,” said Mushahid, bowing his head in reverence.

  The two walked a little further before Rasool took a seat in the shade of a rock outcropping. It was clear the enemy had escaped again, and he wanted to rest and pray, now that they knew the enemy was gone.

  Mushahid, off to the side, switched his AK-74 from the ready position in both hands to a slung position. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Mujahideen! Mujahideen! We stop now. Find cover and rest.”

  Mushahid looked up the hill before returning his attention to their immediate surroundings. He caught glimpses of his fighters moving toward concealment and fighting positions. Mushahid pulled his AK-74 back into the ready position and flexed his strong arms and abs, still angry about their recent battle.

  Rasool saw the fire in his best fighter’s eyes and said, “My dear friend, look all you will, but I don’t think Allah will be bringing our enemies today.”

  Mushahid stopped searching the hills and met Rasool’s eyes. He nodded solemnly to his mentor, noticing against his wishes how old and tired his leader looked.

  Rasool’s face was lined with wrinkles. Around his eyes and neck, Rasool’s skin was creased and grooved as deeply as the draws along the mountains in which they called home. Mushahid averted his eyes and gazed down the hill, seeing in his peripheral the old man’s long, gray beard blowing in the wind.

  He truly is an Old Lion, Mushahid thought.

  “Please give me a little space,” Rasool said.

  Mushahid stepped back and watched Rasool pulled out his prayer mat and fell to his knees, clearly crying, his eyes sparkling as tears built up.

  Rasool was indeed crying. He hadn’t meant to. He had bowed to pray but soon found himself choking back tears. Seeing so many of his own men dead and wounded today -- after just seeing so many villagers dead on the side of the hill -- had shaken him as badly as anything. And still the Americans had gotten away.

  At least they were about ninety-nine percent sure they were Americans now. The villagers had heard English as the truck raced through, and one of the men had been black. Another had a red beard.

  With their escape clear, Rasool had found himself again left comforting the wounded. This time had been harder because, unlike the villagers that he hadn’t known, he had known every one of the men in the trucks of the pursuit force. The moans of the broken and the sight of the dead had brought back years and years of painful memories. Decades, really.

  How much longer, Allah? How many more must die? How many more villages must be flattened? How many more fighters and leaders will die from a missile screaming down from the sky from an unseen drone.

  Rasool wept until he could weep no more. He had hoped today would have brought a great victory, and yet somehow, it had brought one of his greatest defeats. Rasool had fought with his driver to get to the fight faster. Not for the reasons of sheer courage, but for the reasons of fatigue.

  Rasool couldn’t bear to face more of his followers lying crippled or dead. Every death. Every wound. Each took some of his strength out of him.

  Give me strength, Allah. Give me determination.

  Rasool ended his prayers and sat up. He beheld the hill before him and several that rose beyond it. How beautiful they looked. How gorgeous, yet daunting. How steep and cold and rough.

  It was the mountains and the history of the land that strengthened him when he couldn't feel the strength of Allah. Yes, he thought. We’ll win this fight as we’ve won with every other invader. The Americans are no stronger than Alexander the Great had been. Nor were they stronger than the British. Nor the Soviets.

  We will win yet again, he told himself. We, these tough and poor people. We, these devout and religious followers of The Way. We, these steep and unbreakable mountains. We will prevail.

  Rasool solemnly folded his prayer mat and placed
it back in his satchel. He knew his fighters wouldn’t find the Americans who had skirted the Pakistani border checkpoint today. Clearly, they were gone.

  But there would be tomorrow. Rasool Deraz felt the strength of pride fill his soul, and he used the walking stick to push to full height.

  “Mujahideen,” he yelled as deep and strongly as he could, his voice not nearly as strong or deep as Mushahid’s.

  Many of them popped up and looked toward him.

  “Mujahideen, we will make them pay. They may have gotten away this time, but we will make them pay.”

  A roar arose from his fighters as they lifted weapons and began to shout, “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”

  Chapter 50

  After a quick flight to Bagram Airfield, which was about as safe a place that existed in Afghanistan, the team had only a short time to wolf down some food before they began individual debriefings by S3 Intelligence Officers. The officers were technically straight-up CIA, but because of the secrecy of this particular operation, they were working under the S3 company name for additional protection.

  As every veteran knows, debriefings are a huge pain in the ass. The only plus side, Nick figured, was that Ahmud al-Habshi was going through the same thing. Only rougher. On the bright side, it worked in al-Habshi’s favor that he didn’t seem to have much stock in the bravery department. Hopefully, the soft man would cave quickly.

  But then again, Nick had learned not to assume weakness based only on superficial observations. A couple years back he’d met a man who had taught him a thing or two about mental toughness. Allen Green, the chain-smoking, veteran reporter for The New Yorker, had shown as much fearless courage as any knuckle-dragger Nick had ever met. And he had fought violence and danger with the forces of good, using transparency and the power of the media combined with truth to confound his opponents to no end.