Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Page 4

  Perhaps it was an American, or perhaps it was a wayward soldier for the Pakistani army. The Army had moved hundreds of troops into the area, but the terms had been spelled out prior to the incursion. And a silencer among their troops? Completely unnecessary and almost impossible to fathom.

  The Pakistani army wouldn’t interfere with villagers or search tribal enclaves, and local villagers were supposed to leave the Army alone. But someone -- either an American or a foolish soldier in the Pakistani army -- had made a big mistake. Many of the urban-raised soldiers saw the tribal villagers as nothing but uneducated and dangerous religious zealots.

  Tariq wasn’t sure who he hated most: an American or a so-called “Muslim,” who had turned his back on the true teachings of Islam.

  “Round up our warriors,” Tariq Hijazi commanded to the men around him. “We will hunt down this fool.”

  Chapter 12

  Nick and the S3 team had pushed hard after the incident with the dog. They now camped four and a half miles east of the enclave.

  In the other direction, less than a mere four miles separated them from Ahmud al-Habshi’s compound. But depending on what was being discovered and decided about the dead dog they’d left behind, that four miles might as well be another hundred miles. If they had a hunting party after them, then Ahmud al-Habshi would be their last concern.

  Worries of such a threat had caused them to look for a hideout up on a finger -- a high piece of ground -- that ran down from the ridge, instead of in one of the small valleys nestled just beneath the higher hills, as they had been. If they were being tracked, they’d be found either way. And it was better to be up high and able to defend yourself than down in some gully hoping they didn’t toss grenades down on you.

  As the sun and the heat climbed higher and higher, the men sweated under their nets. Each man was awake and alert, fighting off fatigue with the kind of energy that can only come from the feeling of being hunted.

  Although they couldn’t be sure, the suspicious and volatile reputation of the people in this area made it easy to assume that danger was not far behind them. The villagers, or possibly even the Pakistani army if they had been alerted, might have spread out and could approach from above, below, or from either side.

  There’d be no sleeping today.

  Nick laid on his stomach, rolling dirt between his fingers and chewing on their situation. He looked down at the dirt, then dragged his hand across the dry, dusty ground. Damn it, he thought, he was sick of all the humping and more than ready to infiltrate al-Habshi’s compound.

  “Hey, guys,” Red whispered. “We’ve got a serious problem.”

  Nick turned and saw Red, who was behind him, holding his hand out with two shell casings in it.

  Truck saw the casings, as well, and scoffed, “Sorry, you little commie environmentalist, but there are no recycling bins in the area.”

  “No, asshole,” Red replied, clearly not in the joking mood. His eyes were fixated to his palm. “I only have two casings. I thought I fired two rounds into that dog, but I just remembered to reload my pistol and the magazine is missing three rounds. I left a casing back there.”

  That wasn’t good, Nick thought. And then he remembered the stress of the moving through the huts and how he’d ordered everyone to move out immediately.

  “It’s my fault,” he said. “I shouldn’t have rushed you back there.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. I thought I only fired twice.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Marcus said. “We live as a team, and we die as a team.”

  No one said anything for a moment, and Marcus added, “Truth be known, it should have occurred to me to grab that dog. We could have carried it out of there, and the bloody mess could have easily been buried under loose dirt.”

  Nick slung a handful of dirt to the ground with frustration. The situation was spiraling out of control. It was out of the norm for him to have overreacted to his fear. It was out of the norm for Red, such an incredible point man, to have accidentally fired three rounds instead of two. He was typically used to the adrenaline. And Marcus never missed anything.

  What the hell was happening to them? He wiped his nose and knew it was the fatigue. This mission just pushed the parameters of what any team could achieve.

  He ran his hand through the dirt and wondered if he’d signed their death sentences the moment they crossed the border.

  “It is what it is,” Nick finally said. “Let’s stay sharp and with luck, we’ll hit this compound tomorrow.”

  He picked up another clod of dirt and sifted it through his fingers. He saw movement, dropped the dirt, and raised a pair of binoculars along the trail behind them.

  “Speak of the devil,” Nick said.

  Chapter 13

  Tariq Hijazi and his men slowed. They had to be getting close. And at some point, the trail would end with a man waiting for them. And that man would be armed.

  Tariq had more than thirty men with him, and besides being armed with AKs, his men had brought machine guns and RPGs to strengthen their power. At forty-four, Tariq was more than an elder. He was the enclave’s military leader. And this hunt presented a great opportunity for fame.

  He was willing to sacrifice them all, including himself, to earn the respect and honor he had spent his life pursuing.

  The group pushed to the top of another finger of the mountain range, scanning ahead.

  “There!” one of his men yelled, pointing to the next finger.

  And squinting, Tariq saw it. Off in the distance, on the next piece of high ground, a small, almost-imperceptible hump. Some kind of netting barely flapping in the wind, with what appeared to be several men hiding in its shadows.

  Nick Woods and his team had given up the idea of concealment and were no longer lying motionless. They had been spotted, and now it was time to fight. Red, Marcus, and Truck now faced the same direction, watching their backtrail from under the net.

  They had shoved packs in front of them for cover, as well as cushioned rifle rests, and pulled ammo out from the pockets of their packs.

  Truck yanked out a big piece of beef jerky and threw it into his mouth, then while prone, pushed himself forward into his RPK machine gun, using his toes to press forward and apply pressure against the bipod legs.

  Red popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. It was his first cigarette in nearly two weeks, and he relished the nicotine rush. Besides, he’d always believed that he shot better when he smoked.

  Marcus checked their rear and stuck his head out from the net, looking up and down the hill. He wanted to find the best egress route in case they couldn’t stop the villagers.

  And Nick went into his own world. Despite his role as the leader, Nick was, at his core, a sniper first. And in situations like this, it was not possible to focus on sniping individual targets, while at the same time monitor the overall situation as necessary when in command. Thankfully with the vast expertise of each individual and the cohesion they had as a team, there wasn’t really much to command. And whatever leadership was needed when Nick was otherwise engaged, was instinctively picked up by Nick’s more than capable second-in-command, Marcus.

  Nick had laid six, ten-round magazines to his left and eased behind the Dragunov weapon he carried. He was the only man on the team toting a sniper rifle, and now he felt glad that he’d made the choice to bring it.

  Marcus was watching the group of villagers through his binoculars when he said, “Mark the older one with the white turban and scraggly beard as the leader.”

  Nick smiled to himself, grateful to have a man like Marcus in S3 assisting him. Nick moved his scope toward the man in question.

  Marcus scanned the group of villagers topping the crest of a hill. “I count at least thirty, maybe more. Hard to tell with them all moving around.”

  “Distance?” Red asked.

  “Maybe twelve or fifteen hundred yards?” Marcus said, some doubt in his voice. “Nick? What do you say?”

 
Nick tried to use the Dragunov’s scope to measure the height of the men and assess the range better, but the targets weren’t being cooperative. And he hadn’t drawn a range card as he would have had he been in a true sniper capacity. Range cards had notable landmarks and pieces of cover with the correct distance to within mere yards. When the fighting began, the cards could make all the difference in the world, since thinking that boulder was 500 yards away instead of 700 was a big deal and enough to cause you to miss.

  “Nick?” Marcus asked again.

  “Sounds like a good guess,” he replied. “Definitely too far to shoot right now. But once they start down the draw, they’ll be in range pretty quickly.”

  Chapter 14

  None of the tribes around Tariq recognized the government of Pakistan. And they certainly didn’t follow its laws.

  In fact, even as far back as 1999, unhappy tribal fighters from this area had attacked government offices in the capital city of Islamabad. The insurgent reputation of the tribal regions was well-founded, and the anger was constantly stoked by the numerous madrassas that dotted the area. These religious schools created many of the devout believers from which the Taliban drew many of its recruits.

  The tribes’ hostility for the Pakistani government was only surpassed by their hatred for America.

  It was America who continually supported and propped up Israel. It was America that had led the effort to place sanctions against Iraq in the ’90s, which had greatly reduced imports and exports, leaving thousands of men, women, and children starving and malnourished.

  It was the same America that later invaded Iraq, unprovoked, and it was this same irreverent country that had stationed troops near the two holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Some Muslims hated Americans simply because they believed that they were a godless, greedy people, but Tariq saw them as being much worse. In Tariq’s mind, America was a meddlesome, power-hungry country bent on the annihilation of Islam and its people.

  Claims of freedom and democracy were mere excuses to bomb and slaughter other Muslim countries, whether they be Afghanistan, Libya, Syria, or perhaps Iran next.

  And for Tariq, the government of Pakistan was as guilty as America. It practically did America’s bidding, and for all Tariq knew, he was currently tracking some American advisors (or CIA troops) embedded alongside the Pakistani army.

  But whoever it was, Tariq planned to show them exactly why not even the Pakistani army dared to mess with the tribes of the Federally Administered Tribal Areas.

  Tariq’s younger brother passed him a handful of magazines.

  “What do you think?” he asked Tariq.

  Tariq had been studying the netting and had come to his conclusion.

  “I think it’s Americans,” Tariq answered. “They are certainly not Pakistani army. No uniforms and they are dressed like us. No tribesman would be hiding out here or under something like that.”

  “Agreed,” his brother said, nodding slowly, “Only foreigners who didn’t know the language or our ways would be forced to hide near of the top of these hills like wild goats.”

  “Precisely,” Tariq responded.

  None of Tariq’s tribe had fought the Americans before, but all of his men had seen combat. They had battled the tribe of ul-Chuk three different times in the past ten years, and many of their fighters had spent several seasons sparring alongside the Taliban operating within Afghanistan.

  His men had also fought the Pakistani army. It was just last year when the Pakistani army had stupidly decided it would push in the tribal areas and attempt to assert control.

  What a ridiculous idea. No army or country had been able to control the tribal areas of Pakistan -- not even an army of battle-tested, British-led troops in the World War II era. Tariq’s great-grandfather had fought in that campaign, and his family shared a proud history of fighting skill.

  These Americans, without their air support or tanks, would be no match for Tariq and his men.

  A confident smirk spread across the man’s face. Tariq was certainly glad his men had brought along their RPGs and medium machine guns. They were going to come in handy.

  And so he and the men of his tribe spread out, ready to attack.

  Nick and the S3 team waited. The villagers were still out of range, so Nick moved his head from the scope and looked over the ground the enemy had left to cover.

  As he studied the terrain up and down, Nick realized they would need to do more than just survive or simply stop the attackers. The steep hills lying between S3 and the pursuing villagers would make it all too easy for a stray target to slip out of view and make a run for help.

  Nick and his shooters were going to have to be sure and drop every single one of them.

  “Listen up, men,” Nick said, no longer bothering to lower his voice. “We can’t let any of these guys get away, so we’re going to avoid engaging them at max effective range. Let’s allow them in closer before we open fire.”

  The finger across from them sloped approximately forty percent and Nick scanned it to determine where the correct engagement range should begin. The team’s longest range weapon was his Dragunov, and under combat conditions, he felt comfortable dropping foes at eight hundred yards. But he wanted to wait until they were at six hundred yards.

  And he felt like their next longest range weapon -- Truck’s RPK machine gun -- could hit at that range, as well, with a good spotter. The AK-47s carried by Marcus and Red would be far more limited on their range. Despite the fact that they were souped up and topped with ACOG scopes, they would have to wait to engage until the targets arrived at three hundred yards. Nick picked out terrain features for each of the distances.

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” he said, and he quickly described to them how he hoped it would go down.

  Chapter 15

  Tariq and his warriors attacked. They jogged down the hill, fully aware that they’d have to cross the gully below before starting up the steep terrain to reach the Americans.

  But their confidence remained strong. Even the steep hill they’d have to assault shouldn’t be a problem with heavy suppression. They might take some losses, but they’d eventually swarm over their targets. Tariq and his fighters were certain of this.

  Nick used his sniper scope to scan the crowd of villagers as they started down the hill. He was looking for clues, tendencies, and really anything that might help his men get out of this jam alive.

  The fighters jogged down the hill, unrushed and unhurried. Smart move, Nick thought.

  “These boys are smart for not tearing off toward us,” Marcus said, clearly thinking the same thing.

  “They look confident,” Red added, “as if they expect us to just raise our weapons and fire some bursts toward them with our heads down.”

  “That’s just what they’re used to,” Truck laughed. “These dipshits are untrained, and they ain’t ever been in an actual military situation.”

  “He’s right,” Marcus admitted. “There are plenty of Taliban troops that have faced off with American forces, but these guys are pretty much farmers with guns. We should feel lucky that they haven’t picked up any tricks from their Afghan neighbors. Those suckers have learned to use the terrain as a weapon, planting IEDs everywhere.”

  “Yeah,” Truck replied. “But these poor bastards are out of the loop. And they’re about to learn one damn hard lesson.”

  Nick tried to block out the banter, mentally going over every angle. He wanted to kick himself when he suddenly realized that fighting beneath the net would be confining them too tightly together.

  But it was too late to make that adjustment now. Each of their flanks had AKs protecting them, and they had their machine gun and sniper rifle in the middle.

  Marcus lay at the far end of the group with his AK, then Truck waited behind his RPK, followed by Nick with the sniper rifle, and finally Red at the bottom with his AK.

  Their enemy advanced like a hungry pack of wolves, eagerly hunting their dinner. They’d be smarter to
be spread out wide instead of running so close together, Nick thought, but clearly they underestimated their “prey.”

  They were nearing the six hundred meter mark when Nick slowed his breathing, dialing himself in. To his left, Truck pushed harder into his bipods and let loose a deep breath of his own.

  Well, that’s our cue, thought Nick. After all, no can of whoop-ass had ever been opened without a good ole exhale to start.

  Chapter 16

  Although the advancing villagers were still out of effective small-arms range, they paused here and there to fire off bursts from their hips. Their bullets raked the hillside on which S3 waited, but only a few even came close.

  A man with an RPG knelt and fired, as well. His shot arced toward the hill and slammed into it with a roar. The shot was fifty yards short, but it sent gooseflesh ripping up Nick’s arms. RPGs were no joke.

  Nick quickly set his crosshairs on the man with the RPG. Nick eased the trigger back. A shot roared from his rifle and hit the kneeling man low, blasting through his groin, pelvis, and hips. He wouldn’t be running up the hill any time soon. Or breathing once he bled out or gave into shock, which should be in a matter of seconds.

  Nick rotated his rifle as Truck’s RPK let loose a burst into a clump of running men.

  “Up some,” he heard Marcus shout from Truck’s left, and the machine gun let loose again.

  Through his limited view in the scope, Nick couldn’t locate the leader in the white turban. So he randomly selected another man running break-neck speed toward them and fired. The man stumbled then dropped.

  Tariq saw bodies strewn along the path before him. The Americans seemed to have a sniper rifle and machine gun on the hill, and the rounds from them were cutting straight through his men.

  He’d heard the anguished cries all around him and stoically rushed by the bodies; some twitched erratically as the life drained out of them. They were getting into range now, and soon his remaining men would suppress the enemy’s fire, swarm over the hill, and exterminate these infidels.