by Brad Thor
Just a foot more, thought Harvath as he angled the blade of his knife.
The man moved cautiously and continued forward. When the barrel of his rifle was within striking distance, Harvath lunged.
He grabbed the weapon and pulled the man off balance and into the tiny room. Wrenching the rifle from the man’s hands, he let it drop to the ground and slammed him up against wall. With his hand covering the man’s mouth Harvath pulled the blade back and prepared to strike, but then stopped.
He had felt something wrapped around the barrel of the man’s weapon. It had felt like tape. Baseer had said Massoud’s brother carried an AK-47 with its barrel wrapped with blue tape to let everyone know it wasn’t a functioning firearm.
Sheathing his knife, Harvath held the man tight against the wall and whispered for Fontaine to close the door.
As the door closed, Julia said, “Please. He’s mentally challenged. Don’t hurt him. He protected me.”
Looking over his shoulder at Fontaine, he said, “Shred those blankets. We’ll tie him and gag him.”
As Fontaine used his knife to cut the blankets in strips, Harvath held Zwak against the wall and kept his mouth covered. The man’s entire body was trembling. Harvath once again thought of the SEAL team that had been discovered by the Afghan goatherds. If he knew one thing about combat it was that you could never second-guess what another man had done unless you’d been there with him. He was thankful that he wasn’t faced with the same predicament they were.
If they acted fast enough, he hoped, they could be gone before anyone noticed Zwak was missing. He had also given Baseer, the chief elder of Massoud’s village, his word that if he encountered Zwak, he would do everything he could to make sure no harm came to the man.
Once they had Zwak gagged, they tied his hands behind his back and then laid him on the floor and hogtied him.
As they did, Zwak began crying. Julia Gallo bent and stroked the side of his face. She spoke reassuringly to him with her limited Pashtu and thanked him once again.
Once she had finished, Harvath took his MP5 back from Fontaine, clicked his IR strobe onto a battery, and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER 57
Mullah Massoud Akhund woke up earlier than usual to the sound of his stomach growling. He rolled over and looked at the empty pallet on the floor beside him. Zwak must have gotten up to check on the American woman. He was like a child with an injured bird, and Massoud feared he had grown too attached to her.
The Taliban commander also feared that his brother was holding a grudge. Zwak had not said a word to him since he had arrived at the mountain camp. Massoud knew his brother was angry at him for taking away his basketball shoes, but that was before the Russian had explained what had really happened with Elam Badar’s son, Asadoulah. Even though Massoud had promised to return the shoes once they were back home, Zwak still wouldn’t speak to him. But it wasn’t just the loss of the shoes that had wounded his pride.
In order to cover their tracks, Simonov had insisted Zwak wear a burka, just like the American woman, as they made the drive to the summer grazing pasture. Massoud understood the Russian’s logic. He also understood why Zwak had felt emasculated. Some of the soldiers had teased Zwak afterward and though the Russian had reprimanded them harshly, Zwak felt ashamed and the stern rebuke of the soldiers did nothing to repair his bruised ego.
Massoud wondered how much his brother had slept during the night, if at all. Though he might have stepped outside to relieve himself, he was most likely checking on the woman. He was incredibly protective. Massoud wondered if his brother understood that he felt exactly the same way about him. That was why he found so many important jobs for him to do. Whether he did or whether he did not, reasoned the Taliban commander, Allah knew.
Rising from his thin bedroll, Mullah Massoud stepped past the sleeping soldiers crammed one on top of the other, quietly opened the door, and slid outside. They had much to do today and he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Besides, it was good for his men to see him up so early. It would set a good example.
He walked toward the small hut they were using to hold the woman and looked for Zwak. Except for when he slept or when he prayed, he had not been far from the woman the entire time she had been their prisoner.
Massoud walked around the building and, not seeing his brother, wondered if maybe he was inside with the woman. He knew the two had developed a relationship. And while he didn’t think it was wise, he found it difficult to discourage his brother from speaking with her. He knew what his duty was and he also knew that no matter how much kindness she showed him, she would never be able to charm Zwak into setting her free. He was all too aware of the shame that would bring on the entire family. It was far beyond having your basketball shoes taken away or being forced to disguise yourself in a burka.
Completing a full turn around the little outbuilding, Massoud stopped at the door, wondering if Zwak might be inside, but then saw that the wooden peg that held the door locked was firmly in place. Zwak had to be either at the latrine or in the cookhouse trying to get something to eat before morning prayers.
Feeling the urge himself to urinate, Massoud headed toward the trench. If Zwak was there, he hoped that sleep had softened the stone in his heart and that he might be ready to talk.
One of the strange ironies of night was that it always seemed coldest right before the first rays of the sun pierced the darkness to touch the earth. The Taliban commander pulled his patoo tighter around his shoulders and readjusted the angle of his AK-47.
Looking up as he walked, he regarded the stars and almost believed he could see them twinkling out one at a time, like tiny lamps being extinguished in the sky as daylight arrived to relieve them. Shifting his eyes away from the sky and back to the path he was walking, he saw something. Though his mind raced for an alternative explanation, he knew even from this distance what he was seeing; dead bodies.
The fear that they had been discovered was surpassed by an even greater fear. Was one of them his brother?
Abandoning all concern for his own life, Massoud charged toward the mass of corpses. Two of the bodies were face up with bullets through their heads and he could immediately see that neither was Zwak. Though the third man was obviously too tall to be his brother, Massoud still bent and rolled him over. The lifeless eyes of his lieutenant stared up past him. Where was Zwak?
While the kitchen seemed an obvious place to look, Massoud’s instincts as a commander were starting to take over and his gut drew him back to the storage hut. If the men from Elam Badar’s village had come to make war, they could have begun by quietly taking out the sentries, but that’s not what was happening here. This was about the woman. It was a rescue attempt of some sort; he could feel it. And if he was right, the moment she was safely away, the skies would open and all kinds of hell would rain down upon them.
Gripping his AK-47 now, Massoud ran back to the hut, pulled the peg from the lock, and pushed open the door. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, and then he saw his brother bound and gagged on the floor.
The Taliban commander bent down, removed his brother’s gag, and set to work on the strips binding his wrists and feet behind his back.
“No crying,” he ordered. “Not now, Zwak. What happened?”
The admonition had no effect.
Massoud withdrew a small knife and cut him loose. Helping Zwak to his feet, the Taliban commander grabbed his brother’s face in his hands and held it. “It is okay, Zwak. No one is going to hurt you,” he said. “You need to show courage. You need to be a warrior now and tell me. Where is the American woman?”
The mentally challenged man’s breaths came in short, sharp stabs. “They took her,” he managed to choke out.
“How many?”
“Two.”
The first thing that came to Massoud’s mind was that he had been sold out. Someone in his organization had double-crossed him so they could ransom the woman back themselves
. “Did they speak? Did you hear their language? Was it Dari? Pashtu?”
“Na,” said Zwak. “They spoke her language. English.”
Massoud’s heart began pounding even faster, and he willed himself to calm down. That could mean anything. “Did you see their faces?”
“Na,” repeated the mentally challenged man. “They had no faces. Only mouths,” he stammered as he pantomimed holding a pair of binoculars up to his eyes.
Night vision goggles, thought the Taliban commander. Had he been sold out to an ANA commando unit? Or worse, had the Americans somehow found them and sent in a special operations team?
As quickly as the thought entered his mind, Massoud pushed it away. If this was the work of the Americans, he and his men would be dead by now. Once they recovered the woman, they would have come into the camp and killed everything that moved.
That was another thing; he had not heard any helicopter. Whoever had done this could have only come in via vehicle or by foot.
Removing his cell phone, Massoud turned it on and stepped nearer to the doorway to get a signal. Though many new towers had been built in Khogyani, reception, especially at the mountain camp, could be spotty.
Holding the phone outside, he was finally able to lock on to a tower. Remaining in the shadow of the doorway, he called down to his roadside checkpoint nearest the village.
A man named Mohambar answered on the third ring. The connection was terrible.
“No,” the sentry shouted into his phone. “Only the three trucks from Dagar a half hour ago. We have seen nothing since.”
“And where are those trucks now?’ asked the commander.
“Please repeat?”
“Where are those trucks now?”
“Still at the camp with you.”
That had to be it. After ordering his men not to let anything pass, Massoud disconnected the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. He didn’t need to press his brother any further. The bodies of the men outside were still warm. Considering the temperature, they couldn’t have been dead long. Whoever was behind this had to be connected to those trucks. He had to act fast. They couldn’t be allowed to leave.
Making Zwak promise to stay put, he rushed back to the building he’d been sleeping in and woke four of his most trusted bodyguards. Together they moved quickly to the structure next door, where the commander nudged the Russian awake with the toe of his boot.
Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Simonov sat up and said, “What’s going on?”
Massoud signaled for him to be quiet and whispered, “We have a problem.”
CHAPTER 58
Reshteen and his cousins had already finished unloading and were busy assembling breakfast when Harvath and Fontaine swept Julia Gallo into the cookhouse.
“Time to leave,” said Harvath as he pulled out another IR strobe, attached it to its battery, and tossed it to Fontaine, who walked outside to affix it to the top of Reshteen’s truck. Harvath had tossed his other strobe onto the roof of the structure where Zwak lay tied up. Taking him with them was out of the question. The best Harvath could do was to try to shield him from the impending airstrike.
Julia Gallo was looking longingly at the platters of fresh nan and hot kebab, and Reshteen gathered a bunch up and handed them to her.
As the CARE International doctor began hungrily eating, Harvath waved the Afghans toward the door. “There’s a 40mm hurricane headed this way and I’d like to beat the traffic. All right by you guys?” he said, though he knew the villagers didn’t understand a word of English.
Fontaine returned from taping the strobe to the top of Reshteen’s truck and tossed Harvath a heavy black nylon bag. He then stepped back outside with his radio.
Fishing out Gallagher’s blood-stained armor, Harvath said to Gallo, “You need to put this on.”
He helped her get ready, and as he did, Reshteen and the Afghans went outside to ready their vehicles. Fontaine remained at the door as a lookout.
Harvath had finished cinching up Gallo’s armor when Fontaine stuck his head back into the room, said, “Look sharp,” and then went back to peering out the doorway.
“What’s up?” asked Harvath.
“Company’s just arrived.”
“More sentries?”
“Negative. I’m looking at a big bushy Afghan with four bodyguards, and either Roman Polanski is thinking of shooting his next film in Khogyani, or I’ve got eyes on our Russian.”
Harvath finished tightening the straps on Gallo’s armor and then pointed to where he wanted her to take cover.
Joining Fontaine near the door he asked, “What are they doing?”
“They’re having a discussion with Reshteen and his cousins, but they’re doing most of the talking. I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” said Harvath as he tucked the stock of his MP5 up tighter against his shoulder.
“What’s the plan?”
“Let’s just relax. Maybe they’re only interested in the breakfast menu.”
“I doubt that,” replied Fontaine.
The two men held their position for several more moments until Fontaine said, “Okay, the bodyguards just raised their weapons and pointed them at Reshteen and the cousins. They’re now moving them away from the vehicles toward a wall on the other side. I think they’re going to execute them.”
Harvath swore under his breath. The last thing they needed was another full-on firefight with the Taliban, especially now, as they were in an even poorer position than they had been before.
“Are you sure?” he asked
“I could be wrong,” replied Fontaine. “Let’s wait until they pass out the blindfolds and cigarettes.”
Harvath was in no mood for the Canadian’s sarcasm. “If we open the door far enough for both of us to shoot, can we engage all six targets?”
Fontaine studied the scene outside for a moment. “Negative,” he replied. “At this point, I can only see the bodyguards.”
“What happened to Polanski and the bushy Afghan?”
“They’ve stepped out of my line of sight. Maybe they went for reinforcements,” said the Canadian. “Listen, the bodyguards are seriously getting ready to wax Reshteen and the cousins. We need to take them out.”
“If we take them out, you know what that means.”
Fontaine raised his NODs and pressed his rifle against the door frame. “If you’re trying to tell me that my application to the Kandahar Country Club might hit a few bumps with the membership committee, I can live with that.”
“Just make sure you only hit the bad guys,” replied Harvath as he joined Fontaine in the doorway.
“I’ll promise if you promise,” retorted the Canadian.
Harvath ignored him and gently slid the door open a few more inches. “You take the first two guys. I’ve got three and four.”
“Roger that,” whispered Fontaine.
“Now,” said Harvath.
Four suppressed shots snapped through the early-morning air in less than two seconds, dropping all four of Massoud’s bodyguards. Harvath waited for Massoud and the Russian to step out or return fire, but they did neither. Maybe they had gone for reinforcements. Or maybe they knew what was going on and had wisely taken cover. Harvath didn’t care, either way.
“Let’s go,” he said as he waved for Julia Gallo to join him.
“What about Mullah Shithead and Roman Polanski?” asked Fontaine.
“We don’t have the time to wait them out. Go, and I’ll cover you.”
Reshteen and his cousins were shaken but had enough presence of mind to already be running for the trucks. Harvath admired their courage. Though he didn’t speak Pashtu, he knew what Massoud’s bodyguards had been interrogating them about. And even though they surely must have known Massoud’s men intended to kill them if they didn’t get the answers they wanted, none of the villagers from Dagar had cracked. The dignity and honor of the Afghan people never ceased to amaze Harvath.
With Harvath
covering them, Fontaine positioned Julia Gallo on the floor of the backseat of Reshteen’s truck. “No matter what happens,” he warned, “stay down.”
Fontaine then got behind the wheel and fired up his truck as Reshteen and his cousins scrambled into the other two vehicles and did the same.
Harvath’s NODs were back down now, and noticing movement off to the side of one of the buildings, he let a volley of silenced rounds fly from his MP5 and then hopped into the passenger seat next to Fontaine.
“Hold on,” advised the Canadian as he ground the vehicle into gear and punched the accelerator.
The vehicle’s tires spun until they were finally able to take a bite out of the frozen road and the truck jerked forward. As they did, the staccato crack, crack, crack of automatic-weapons fire filled the early-morning air.
CHAPTER 59
Harvath returned fire through his open window and then, leaning back inside, stated, “We need to call in that CAS right now.”
After conducting their high-altitude reconnaissance of Massoud’s mountain camp, Flash 22 had marked its location and had returned to Bagram to refuel and ammo-up. Seeing how many Taliban were crawling around down below, the Spectre’s captain had guaranteed Fontaine that they would be back for more.
No matter how things went down, Harvath had seen the air support as the world’s best insurance policy. If he swept the camp and Julia Gallo wasn’t there, he could decide whether to call for a strike. If Julia was there and he could pinpoint her location, he could designate it with a strobe and have the AC-130 rake everything else. And, if they were lucky enough to take positive control of Julia and needed somebody to kick the back door shut for them, there wasn’t anything the Taliban had that could compete with heavily armed aircraft.
Fontaine kept one hand on the steering wheel and lifted up his radio in the other. “I’m not getting anything,” he said.
“Nothing?” replied Harvath, looking back out the window, knowing the Taliban were going to be on their tails any second. “Not on any of the channels?”