Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Page 26

He pressed his transmit button. “Gunners, engage.”

  The two .50 calibers exploded and shook the MRAPS as they tore into the column and troops ahead. The stream of massive rounds cut through trucks and blew people in half. Technically, .50s were designed for use against vehicles, buildings, and airplanes back in World War II, since their bullets were too large and expensive for use on personnel. But Nick had learned long ago that they worked wonderfully against enemy troops in the open.

  Especially when they were lined up like this. Each 700-grain bullet was capable of speeding through multiple human targets, or even trucks unless they hit an engine block.

  At this moment, anywhere on the street in front of the two S3 MRAPs was a kill zone.

  The back doors of the two vehicles kicked open, and the riflemen for each squad leapt out, rushing forward. They ducked, dropped, or hid behind whatever cover they could find. Those with no cover assumed the prone position to get as low as possible. Soon their M4s joined the one-sided slaughter.

  Each squad member had an Aimpoint sight, and they didn’t miss at 200 yards. Blood painted the street, and shrieks and screams reached the S3 lines despite the massive roar of their firing.

  Some return fire erupted, but each time it did, it was quickly silenced by a sharp-sighted squad member or the hammering .50s.

  “Sitrep,” Marcus said over the radio from the rear of the column, using the military shorthand for “situation report.”

  “Pretty one-sided so far,” Nick said. He pulled a map from his cargo pocket. Surely the Taliban would push to the side streets to try to flank the two MRAPs they saw. He doubted they knew about the other MRAPs behind them that were obscured from their vision. Nonetheless, the Taliban still held a huge advantage in numbers. Several hundred to less than fifty in S3.

  Unfortunately for Nick, he was off the mark on his estimation by about five hundred.

  Chapter 87

  Rasool Deraz was in the middle of prayer, rocking backward and forward on his prayer rug. He had moved to a hidden location, keeping only a few bodyguards with him.

  Having fewer men for protection freed up more fighters for the operation while also keeping a lower profile for him. This should keep him safe until Mushahid and his fighters had secured the presidential palace.

  Rasool pushed his thoughts of the mission from his mind and resumed his praying. His positive feelings for the operation grew stronger and with each passing minute, he prayed harder.

  He had not been watching the time, but surely the column must be close to the presidential palace by now, and he had heard not a single round fired! He rocked faster and prayed still harder. It appeared Allah had delivered their enemy in the most miraculous of ways.

  The sound of two heavy machine guns stopped his rocking in its tracks. He knew the sound well. Fifty caliber machine guns. “Fifties,” the Americans called them. Or, “Ma Deuce,” short for an M2 machine gun.

  He had studied the weapon extensively and seen them in action. They were murderous weapons. The only thing he feared more were the cursed Apache attack helicopters.

  More gunfire joined the .50s. This was lighter in octave and emanated from the American-made M4s. Or perhaps M-16s. But the speed of their lightweight bullets and rifles were unique and quite different from the communist-bloc AKs.

  Rasool tried to return to prayer, but the intensity of the firing picked up and prevented him from focusing on the task.

  A fear creeped into his chest. This did not sound good. He gave up on praying and stood. He exited the private prayer room and picked up a radio from his satchel that he had stowed by the door.

  “Mushahid, what is happening?”

  Over the sound of heavy firing and snapping bullets, Rasool heard Mushahid say, “We’ve run into heavy resistance. Several armored personnel carriers.”

  “Have preparations for air operations commenced at Bagram?”

  “No, sir,” Mushahid replied. “Our spies say no preparations for either air or land battle have begun by the American forces. But our forces are ready in case they try.”

  “Then let’s deal with these armored vehicles,” Rasool said.

  Rasool lay the radio down and considered going to pray more for their success, but realized it wasn’t necessary in this case.

  Chapter 88

  The gunfire from the .50s and M4s had cleared most of the Taliban from the street ahead. Probably sixty or seventy bodies lay crumpled in the street. Several trucks burned and would explode soon.

  The Taliban who had survived the onslaught had fled indoors among the buildings that lined the street or ducked into one of the alleyways.

  Nick knew they’d flank his column and possibly surround it soon. Then, S3 would be in serious trouble. It would just be a matter of Taliban fighters firing down some RPGs from the rooftops and blowing the MRAPs to pieces.

  Nick didn’t feel like playing fish in a barrel, so he wanted the column to move. And fast. But where?

  He yanked the map out and studied his location on its grid-like squares, as well as the burning hulks of the Toyota trucks in front of him. The solution was so obvious that he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner.

  The Taliban column had been moving toward the presidential palace. That was their primary target. S3 had intercepted them and given them an unpleasant surprise. And the Taliban would no doubt respond, encircle, and destroy S3 if they stayed put.

  But their primary target was the presidential palace. Not S3. And since the MRAPs were in an indefensible position on the narrow streets, the choice on what Nick’s unit should do was clear. They’d turn the column around, rush to the presidential palace, and set up a defensive position with the five MRAPs since the place was no longer encircled by thousands of cheering residents.

  Nick figured they’d probably set up a half circle, or an 180 as it was called, around the Arg’s primary approach.

  And, Nick thought with grim determination, perhaps the third Afghan army battalion would arrive soon. Hopefully, before S3 ran out of ammunition or all died.

  “Everyone, load up,” Nick said into his mic. “We’ll back the vehicles up before they surround us. And, Marcus, lead us to the presidential palace. We’ll set up a defensive position there.”

  Chapter 89

  Just minutes later, the five MRAPs of S3 roared into the presidential palace courtyard. Two police officers stood by their light patrol truck, and they looked happy to see reinforcements arrive. They had AKs out, but no armor or helmets.

  These men were outfitted for regular police duties, not all-out battle.

  “Stop here, Truck.”

  The MRAP rolled to a stop. Nick said over his shoulder, “Lana,” and stepped out.

  Lana exited the MRAP’s rear door and jogged up to him. Together, they approached the two police officers. The relieved policemen met them halfway.

  “Ask them,” Nick said, “where the rest of the police force is. And where their MRAPs and armored personal carriers are.”

  Lana translated it, and the men gestured and yammered in the language Nick was quickly growing to despise.

  Lana said, “They say the president didn’t want all the armored vehicles around during the celebration. That the vehicles would remind people of the war and the threat, and since there was no threat, there was no need for armored vehicles.”

  Nick cursed and kicked the ground, he was so angry. The president’s arrogance was probably going to get a lot of people killed today, including some of his own.

  “Ask them where the rest of the police are!” he roared.

  Lana said a few words and they motioned and spewed out a string of words.

  “They ran,” Lana said, feeling a bit sorry for the men, “when the people fled.”

  Nick looked about and noticed some police hats and a few police shirts stuffed by potted trees and anti-vehicle barriers. Clearly, some had decided it would be safer if they weren’t in uniform.

  A sort of impending doom started to creep up on Ni
ck. Afghans were notoriously fickle in their allegiances. Their loyalty almost always shifted to the winning side as a matter of self-preservation. It was a concept that seemed impossible to grasp as a westerner, but this was a country of tribes. One day you fought the tribe across the river. The next day, you fought alongside them as if they hadn’t killed your brother the day before.

  The only exception to this rule was westerners. Then, you’d ignore your local enemies, and everyone would fight them. Unless they paid you great sums of money, and then you’d fight on their side -- sort of -- while oftentimes alerting your comrades to their movements and plans.

  And the moment the tides turned, you’d switch sides to your true allegiance and state the obvious, “That you had needed the money for your family, but never really fought on the Americans’ side.”

  “Tell them,” Nick said, “that reinforcements are on the way. And that they should find a position behind some of these concrete vehicle barriers. Say a thousand troops are coming. Whatever it takes to get these guys some damn confidence back.”

  Lana blathered and gestured loudly, as the Afghan people always did.

  They argued some, and Nick couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped in, put his hand on the largest one’s shoulder, and spun him around. Nick pointed at a concrete barrier that made a great position.

  “Tell him,” he said to Lana, “that he is to take up a position right there. And that if he moves away from the post before I relieve him, I will shoot him on the spot.”

  Lana passed along the message, and the man looked from Lana to Nick. Nick stepped closer, and his eyes bore into the man. The man nodded, and the two men ran to the position.

  “That’s more like it,” Nick said.

  “They probably wish they had run sooner,” Lana said.

  “Only if we lose. If we win, those guys will be getting promoted.”

  Chapter 90

  The lack of other police or soldiers was a serious problem. The presidential palace, called the Arg, sat on a massive 83-acre piece of ground. Nick recalled that “Arg” meant “citadel” in Dari and Pashto, and that in his research on it, he had discovered it was originally built in 1880 by King Abdur Rahman Khan.

  King Khan had built it as a castle, and it still had its high walls. But the need for walls and a moat were moot these days, and it operated in its current state on a defense in depth concept. Typically, there were vehicle checkpoints, soldiers on patrol, and anti-vehicle barriers blocking the streets.

  But the checkpoints had been taken down, and the barriers had been cleared for the massive celebration. And when the word spread of the approaching Taliban, the troops had fled. Or gone to get more gear. Or whatever bullshit excuse they’d said as they left their positions. The bottom line was that they weren’t there.

  This was the problem with poorly trained troops who were underpaid and underappreciated. It’s why they usually covered their faces in most dangerous and unstable countries, as they had in Mexico. The police officers were ashamed and scared, which is what happens when a government lacks popular support and troops haven’t been trained well.

  The MRAPs had circled into a formation while Nick and Lana talked with the police. Marcus jogged up to Nick from the rear vehicle.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Marcus said.

  “Yeah, the vehicle barriers are gone for the celebration,” Nick said. “But we can stop their trucks with our .50s. We’ll just need to be alert for VBIEDs.”

  Vehicle-borne IEDs were the scariest weapon possessed by the Taliban. They often hid between 200 to 500 pounds of explosives in trucks or cars, and they had the potential to wipe out dozens of people in one blow.

  “How many policemen and troops you figure are behind those walls in the Arg?” Marcus asked.

  “Maybe fifty or a hundred. But if the Taliban breach the walls with explosives or a VBIED, I’d bet everything I own that whoever’s left will turn and run out the back.”

  “Agreed. So, what’s our plan?”

  “Let’s position our MRAPs into the best 180 perimeter that we can, nice and spread out. Then let's redistribute ammo from those who haven’t fired any to the squad members in vehicles one and two. They fired a decent amount back there on that street.”

  “Sounds good,” Marcus said.

  “Once the ammo is redistributed, we’ll spread our squad members out and take it from there.”

  “And if the Taliban hit the presidential palace from a different direction?”

  “I’ve studied the maps pretty hard and think this is the most logical approach, but if they do, we’ll peel a couple vehicles and squads off and move around to engage them.”

  A bullet snapped by, missing by only inches. Nick and Marcus dropped to their knees, looking outboard.

  “Sniper,” Marcus said, stating the obvious.

  “Looks like our friends have arrived,” Nick replied. “That’s probably an advance scout, but the rest will be here soon. Let’s get everyone in position and that ammo redistributed pronto.”

  Chapter 91

  The assault on the presidential palace slowly escalated from that first single round. A gunman would pop up in a window -- or from a roof -- and loose a burst at S3. Sometimes, an S3 riflemen would knock him down with their M4. Sometimes, the Taliban fighter would duck before anyone got him lined up straight.

  But they usually bagged him on his next attempt, if he didn’t change firing positions. And several Taliban had already fallen in just such a manner.

  Nick could sense the Taliban increasing their numbers, building up beyond his ability to see them as fighters flocked to the sound of firing like dogs drawn to the scent of bacon.

  S3 only had a sight distance of fifty to a hundred yards, with the group spread out in a half circle in front of the primary entrance to the presidential palace. A boulevard, with a small green park, lay just before them, while four- and five-story apartment buildings were to their left and right.

  Nick’s MRAP sat parked in the center of the perimeter. The other four MRAPs were spaced to each side roughly twenty yards apart. They were pointed nose outward for two reasons. One, the perimeter was small and limited in size. It would have been a struggle to park them horizontally even if they had wanted to. Two, parking them sideways would prevent them exiting quickly by pulling straight out, assuming the enemy made a move to breach the presidential palace through one of the other walls.

  So far, the .50s on the MRAPs had remained silent, per Nick’s orders. Since they only had eight hundred rounds, Nick had instructed them to attempt to hold their fire unless the unit came under intense suppression. Truthfully, they had less than eight hundred rounds per gun after they had redistributed the ammo that vehicles 1 and 2 fired earlier at the Taliban column.

  Nick wanted S3 to save its heavy machine gun ammunition for VBIEDs. Nothing stopped a truck barreling toward you like a .50 pouring lead into it.

  Two Taliban fighters opened up on them from the right, and as S3 fighters pivoted to the threat, four or five more Taliban opened up on their left. Here it comes, Nick thought.

  The pressure was building, and the Taliban definitely aimed to make this their primary breach point. At least until S3 stopped them cold. Then they’d probably pivot to another side of the presidential palace.

  Nick was inside the armored and bullet proof cab of his MRAP, which he felt supremely shitty about since most of his men were in the open. But he needed to call Mr. Smith for an update, and it was hard to hear outside with all the firing going on.

  “Nick? You there?” he heard Mr. Smith say.

  “I’m here,” Nick replied, focusing back on the phone call and not the immediate situation. He quickly filled Mr. Smith in on their engagement of the Taliban column, and their movement to the defensive position in front of the presidential palace.

  “Tell me some good news,” Nick added.

  “Shit has hit the fan in Washington,” Mr. Smith said. “There are emergency meetings happening at the D
epartment of Defense, the State Department, the National Security Agency, the CIA, you name it. The president’s schedule is being rearranged to pull together an emergency meeting with him, as well.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone has suggested ignoring the new rules and getting our military power up in the air and our boots out into the streets?”

  “It’s being suggested, but instantly shot down by those in charge. We don’t want to quote ‘breach Afghan sovereignty,’ they say, unless explicitly authorized by the Afghan president.”

  In his rear view mirror, Nick glanced through the iron gates of the presidential palace and noticed some nervous-looking police officers, who were in vests and helmets, unlike the two out front. But these police officers didn’t look too keen on stepping outside the gate to help S3 fight off the attack.

  “You might want to pass along that there’s not a whole lot of Afghan sovereignty going on right now,” Nick said with disgust.

  “If the situation deteriorates, it might happen,” Mr. Smith said. “But that’s a decision that will need to be approved at the highest U.S. levels.”

  “Meaning the president?” Nick asked.

  “Yes, so we’re talking two or three days before that might happen.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Nick shouted. “We might not even have two or three hours.”

  “I know. I’m doing everything that I can.”

  “How close is the Afghan army to getting its third battalion here?”

  Mr. Smith paused. One of those really long pauses that inspires paranoia rather than confidence. Finally, he spoke. “Look, Nick. Our satellite intercepts and footage have caught three Toyota trucks entering the base of the third Afghan battalion.”

  “Taliban?”

  “Yes. And they weren’t shot at or stopped on their way in. They were clearly invited, and we strongly suspect the battalion leadership has been bribed or threatened to not respond.”

  Nick recalled the concept -- or lack thereof -- of Afghan loyalty.