Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Page 29

  “We have the troops already here to deal with this situation. It doesn’t have to be over. Let me coordinate with the commanding general at Bagram, and we can deal with this.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Mr. Smith said, his voice tired. “But the President wanted to minimize our presence even before all this went down. And he’s still pissed about the order that we couldn’t operate air or ground troops after the Apache friendly fire incident. And he’s super pissed the Afghan president sought asylum in Iran instead of with us. We’ve got a lot of money and secrets over there that we don’t want the Iranians getting ahold of, but we clearly do not have a government in place that we can trust or support any more. The billions in aid packages. The asylum request. The President is done with our Afghan expedition. It’s over, Nick.”

  “But this doesn’t have to be over,” Nick said again, his anger returning. “Hell, we send in some Rangers and Marines, allow our forces to operate once more, and re-establish the Afghan government. Or even a new one.”

  “The Department of Defense made that very suggestion, Nick, but the president was having none of it. He said we’ve been there fifteen years, and this was never his war to begin with. The public wants us out. Believe me, if you could only see CNN or MSNBC right now. Even FOX has turned against us. Trust me, Nick. It’s over.”

  Nick was at a loss of words. Twenty minutes ago, he had been fighting for a new country that though weak, still had a chance. Nick and his men had been sweating and bleeding and dying for a cause against truly evil men. And now he was being told it was all for naught. That it was over.

  Nick had men bleeding out this very minute, maybe even Marcus, and he was being told their lives had been sacrificed for nothing. For less than nothing, really. The Taliban would rule again, and the Afghan president would flee to Iran and share a treasure trove of information, which would cost America even more lives in the years to come.

  Nick regretted having ordered his men to the presidential palace.

  He bowed his head and closed his eyes. It was still too much for him to accept. He lifted his head, squeezed his eyes tight until they hurt, and felt something run out of them. Sweat? Tears? Marcus’ blood?

  He was about to explode. He needed to break something. Or someone. Or himself.

  Calm down, Nick, he told himself, beginning some breathing exercises that he’d been taught by the VA to control his rage and paranoia.

  Mr. Smith either sensed or heard what was happening, and said nothing.

  Nick managed to pull himself together. He reset himself mentally.

  “It’s not over,” Nick said, conviction starting to take hold. “I’m telling you, this is winnable.”

  “The decision’s been made, Nick,” Mr. Smith said, his voice sounding sympathetic. “The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban. Primarily, they will -- wait, let me read this -- quote ‘insist on the safe evacuation of all service members, and full accountability of any missing or wounded.’”

  “The President’s not on the ground here,” Nick said. “He doesn’t know what I know. They probably don’t have three hundred fighters in the capital. If that.”

  “Nick,” Mr. Smith said, his voice having changed from persuasive and friendly to stern and commanding. “This. Is. Over. That is the word coming down from the President. The President -- our commander in chief -- agrees with the State Department that we should negotiate terms and withdraw. He’s made his decision. You, as well as all military units, are ordered to only fire in self-defense and to cease any and all operations underway. You are to collect your men, wounded, and equipment and make your way to Bagram, where they are expecting you.”

  “This isn’t over,” Nick said.

  “Nick, I am ordering you to collect your men, wounded, and equipment and make your way to Bagram,” Mr. Smith repeated. “That is precisely what was handed to me directly from the President’s chief of staff, and the Department of Defense is aware of your unit’s orders, too. If you don’t comply, you could be engaged as a renegade unit. So, I suggest you make your way to Bagram Airfield, as directed.”

  Nick thought of the raid into Pakistan, as well as the pain and effort that it had cost Marcus, Red, Truck, and himself. He recalled the moment the tank had fired, seeing Marcus’ mangled legs flash through his head. He’d never walk again for sure.

  A rage and anger welled up inside of him. It was too deep, too personal for him to rein in.

  No, this wasn’t over by a long shot.

  “Nick? You there?” Mr. Smith asked.

  “Fuck your orders. And fuck the President’s orders,” Nick said. “This isn’t over.”

  Chapter 100

  Nick hung the phone up and stared at it. He realized it might ring at any second, so he fully powered it off, located the battery, and removed it. He thought about throwing the thing against the wall, he was so angry, but that’d be pretty stupid if he needed to use it again. Which he probably would.

  He couldn’t even imagine relaying the conversation he’d just had with his men and women. America would negotiate with the Taliban for the safe passage of American troops out of Afghanistan?

  That was beyond nuts. The American military hadn’t lost a battle yet to these bastards. That’s why the Taliban stuck to using IEDs as their primary weapon. Cowardly weapons planted by villagers who were usually paid to place them. The Taliban was too chicken-shit to even plant them themselves.

  The Taliban hadn’t -- and literally couldn’t -- stand up to the firepower of the U.S. military.

  One thing Mr. Smith had said stuck out in Nick’s mind.

  “The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban.”

  Nick replayed the statement in his mind several times, as the anger burned in him with a fire that nothing on earth could stop.

  He looked at the blood on his gear, and on the grip and stock of his M4. He replayed the words again and again. There was something in those words, something that hid a deeper point. But what was it?

  “The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban.”

  He pushed the anger down, demanding his brain find whatever clue was buried in those words.

  “The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban.”

  And that’s when it hit him. This all came back to Deraz.

  Of course. Deraz was the head of the Taliban. Deraz was the man who was held in such high esteem by the typically unruly and hard-to-control Taliban fighters. Deraz was the man who the Afghan people trusted to be fair, even if he did hold views more fundamental and extreme than their own.

  Nick thought of Mr. Smith’s statement again.

  “The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban.”

  Of course, he thought! This was the final effort of a decade’s long strategy by Deraz. This was the final battle, and by all means any real leader would be nearby, overseeing the last epic battle that his entire legacy and life’s work rested on.

  Without Rasool, the Taliban would either appoint some other religious crazy who hadn’t paid his dues on the battlefield, and thus would lack the respect and support of the people. Or, they’d descend into internal fighting while several mid-level fighters jockeyed for power.

  The Afghan people didn’t respect religious leaders who didn’t work on farms or spend their time fighting. No typical Afghan could imagine a life spent completely in mosques or madrassas. No, the Afghan people would never stand for a religious zealot taking ove
r their country. Especially after all the freedom they had felt under American governance.

  No way would they go back to being forced to grow beards, or having their women whipped by sticks in the street for violating some minor offense. Or angry, religious men preventing their children from flying kites.

  An idea began to creep up into Nick’s mind. S3 just needed to find Deraz, bag and tag him, then somehow let the Afghan people know that the man was dead.

  Taking down Deraz was exactly what he’d been hired to do anyway.

  Chapter 101

  Nick opened the office door and stepped out into the warehouse.

  He surveyed the scene. The convoy of wounded had left, with most of the security men having gone with them to help protect the convoy. Nick couldn’t remember if he had instructed anyone to do it that way, but he was glad to see that either Red or Cormac, in charge of security, had read his mind.

  Red was too far away for Nick to hear what the little guy was saying, but he was clearly pointing and instructing those who remained behind. They had broken ammunition out of ammo cans and were reloading magazines.

  Nick marched across the warehouse toward the remaining squad members. He was almost uncontrollably resolute and pissed, and too far gone to try to hide it.

  Gear was strewn across the floor, much of it bloody. Helmets, assault vests, and even a gore-covered boot lay scattered across the warehouse floor. His men had probably thrown and slung the gear out of the MRAPs as they had hastily worked to get the wounded loaded in the police trucks and rushed to emergency care.

  He was halfway to the loading docks and could hear Red’s voice now.

  “Once you get your magazines fully reloaded, let’s get your water refilled, and get to cleaning your weapons. We’ll eat and clean up some more after that if there’s time.”

  Red spotted him approaching and stopped in mid-sentence. Nick walked around the cluster of fighters sitting on packs or standing about. They were sweaty and grimy -- about what you’d expect after spending loads of energy in a firefight, your adrenaline running one thousand miles per hour.

  He stopped next to Red who nodded but had a worried look on his face. Nick dropped his helmet on the ground, flipped it up with his foot so it was bottom up, and placed his rifle on it. He unsnapped his assault vest and yanked it over his head. He let that fall, as well.

  His men were still loading magazines, but no one talked now. They watched him, anxious for information on the situation. On what their next hour -- or even ten minutes -- might hold in store for them. Nick recognized the taste of grime and grit in his mouth, and he spit on the floor. He ground the spit out and leaned over to swallow down some water.

  He felt all the eyes on him. Nick didn’t like being the center of attention, but it went with the job. He stood back up and said, “Listen up.”

  As soon as he said it, he realized it was a damn stupid thing to say, as everyone was already locked on his every move.

  “Just got off the phone with Mr. Smith. Shit’s pretty fucked up right now.”

  He quickly ran through the situation and described that the war was over. And that soon, the State Department would negotiate with the Taliban for everyone’s safe return home.

  “That’s fucking bullshit!” Truck roared, jumping to his feet and hurtling his helmet thirty yards across the building and into the wall. It was an impressive physical feat, fueled with a heavy dose of adrenaline, Nick figured. He doubted Truck could replicate it under normal conditions. But then again, it was Truck.

  Nick gazed at his troops and saw hot anger in their eyes. They looked as betrayed and sick as he felt.

  He glanced at Red and saw Red was about to lose it, but the mantle of leadership seemed to be holding the typically volatile man in check.

  “Our orders are to cease all operations and make our way back to Bagram Airfield.”

  “Such bullshit,” Lana said, interrupting Nick. He couldn’t imagine how angry Lana must feel, having dedicated her entire life to stomping out radical Islam.

  Nick continued.

  “We are only authorized to fire in self-defense as we make our way back. Those, my friends, are our orders.”

  There were more curses and plenty of arguing and bitching among the troops. Nick let them vent a bit. Hopefully, if they let a little of the hot air out with words, they’d be less likely to start breaking equipment or their fists on hard objects. Truck was dangerous enough by himself, but Nick really didn’t want to see the room break into a rampage.

  Once the anger had resided some, Nick resumed.

  “Well, honestly, I feel the same damn way. But we have our orders and we should follow them.”

  Even angrier curses and insults came at him, some sounding mutinous.

  “Fuck that,’ he caught Truck barking.

  “Shut up, you fuckers!” Red suddenly burst out, louder than Nick could have imagined his small, smoke-shriveled lungs could manage. “Get your ears out of your asses, the man just said ‘should follow.’”

  The room came to an abrupt silence. And Nick looked over to see Red looking at him with a pleadingly expectant look.

  And despite the rage rebounding inside of him, Nick managed to give the keen, little man a whisper of a smile.

  “Well,” he said, “it just so happens I do have a crazy plan that could take Deraz down and save this country. But you need to know there’s a very real chance that we risk prison once we return, assuming we live to tell about it.”

  Nick allowed that to sink in a bit.

  “We have been clearly ordered to stand down, and I have relayed those orders to each of you. I need to make it absolutely clear that those are lawful orders, and we break them at our own risk. We will likely wind up in prison after this.”

  He paused and added, “There’s also a chance that we will be engaged by our own military if we act. Mr. Smith literally informed me of such a possibility, saying we would, at that time, be seen as a renegade element of the U.S. military.”

  Nick gave everyone a full thirty seconds for his cautions to sink in.

  Nick finally said, “But having said all of this, maybe they’ll see what I plan to do as a mere detour on our way to Bagram. Or maybe they could be persuaded to see it as we were attacked and defending ourselves. Or maybe they’ll even forget they gave such stupid orders if we succeed. History often gets rewritten several times before it's cemented on paper.”

  Nick smiled. “Victory has a way of making people changing their minds.”

  A few smiles from the troops.

  “But let's not forget, there’s also the chance that they meant every word, and we’ll be hammered. End up in jail for several years. You just never know with politicians.”

  Nick scanned the crowd. Most, if not all, seemed to be on board with the renegade plan.

  Truck was shaking his head in anticipation, a grin of pure delight on his face.

  Lana was loading magazines, her face angry and determined. Lana hated Muslim fanatics probably worse than anyone on the team, having intimately experienced it as a child in Saudi Arabia. She might have broken orders even if Nick had not suggested it.

  Hell, she might have been crazy enough to have stayed behind to fight them alone. That’s how driven she was to do her part to extinguish the blight of the fanatics in her religion.

  Preacher appeared to be mentally preparing himself. Having been shot in Mexico, Nick knew Preacher understood better than most what they were putting on the line. Once you’ve been shot, it changes you. Makes you a little more aware that you’re not invincible.

  Nick didn’t need to look at Red. He knew that man’s decision.

  He scanned his ragtag band of madmen, plus one badass woman, one last time and smiled. Looks like we’ll be going hunting again, Nick thought.

  Chapter 102

  Nick and Red spent just a few minutes planning while troops broke out more ammo and loaded it into MRAPs. One of the squad members used a bucket and splashed out as much
blood as was possible in the MRAPs that were soaked in it.

  They’d be taking three MRAPs and only nineteen shooters. The snipers would again be operating as riflemen, using M4s, and everyone would stay in police uniforms to prevent any friendly fire. Not that there were any cops probably still doing their job.

  A few lightly wounded S3 members and a couple others who had concerns about disobeying orders stayed behind to keep the warehouse secure. Nick, in no way, held these men in any lower regard. Maybe he even envied them for their sound sanity.

  Nick was a zealot of his own making. He promised himself he’d never force anyone to join his self-destructive cause, and he wouldn’t hold it against those who decided to stay.

  And with that, he oversaw the loading of the three MRAPs. The convoy departed the compound and took a right, heading back toward the presidential palace. They advanced cautiously, about five miles per hour.

  “You tell me where to go,” Truck said to Nick.

  Their plans were vague, and their MRAP led the convoy again.

  “We’re looking for some morons with weapons who don’t run at the sight of us,” Nick said. “That’ll confirm in my mind that they’re Taliban and not residents just out on the street.”

  “Well, there are certainly no residents on the street,” Truck said, looking around.

  They had driven three blocks and not seen a single person. Buildings were locked up, and smoke floated into the sky from the direction of the Arg.

  It took another five minutes of cruising until they heard firing. It was scattered, and not heavy. It sounded as if the battle was over.

  “Think we’re too late?” Truck asked.

  “Always a possibility, but if that’s the case, we can turn, pick everyone up at the warehouse, and get the hell back to Bagram.”

  “That’d be hell on you having to have the State Department bail our asses out after all, wouldn’t it?”

  Nick glanced at Truck. “I thought I already showed you I’m not too old to whoop your ass.”