Brad Thor

by The Apostle

It was a clear night with enough starlight for a marksman like Gallagher to be able to engage his targets with the optics he had on his weapon. Flipping up his NODs, he settled his shoulder into the stock of his LaRue sniper rifle and calculated the lead on his moving target.

  As the truck closed to within a hundred meters, Gallagher slowed his breathing and prepared to fire. Exhaling, he focused on his sight picture and gently applied pressure to the trigger.

  There was a muffled pop as the round spat from the suppressed rifle and blistered through the air toward its target. Gallagher’s lead had been perfect and the bullet took out the truck’s right front tire.

  The effect was instantaneous, and the driver immediately slowed the vehicle to a full stop. With no clue to what they could have hit to cause such a dramatic blowout, all of the men climbed out of the truck to survey the damage. Short of painting targets on themselves, the small party of Taliban soldiers could hardly have made it easier on Gallagher.

  As they squatted in unison to investigate the shredded tire, Baba G whispered, “Clean-up in aisle five,” and began applying pressure to his trigger.

  The bullets ripped from the weapon, filling the night air with a fine red mist as they tore into heads, throats, and even chests. There was a faint tock, tock, tock like the stamping of sheet metal as a handful of rounds either went slightly wide or passed directly through their victim’s flesh and pinged into the body of the truck.

  Gallagher had definitely oversaturated his targets, but it was one of those cases where if a little was good, a lot was better. He had absolutely no doubt that those four had climbed aboard the Seventy-two-Virgin Express and weren’t going to pose a problem to anyone, anymore.

  Flipping his NODs back down, Gallagher scanned the area as he inserted a fresh magazine into his weapon. “Convoy 1, you’re all clear,” said Gallagher over the radio. “Don’t trip over the bodies on your way out.”

  “How close are they?” asked Harvath.

  “Outside, up the road to your left. Within a hundred meters. And, by the way, you’re welcome.”

  Turning to Fontaine, Harvath said, “If those are Massoud’s men, there could be some worthwhile intel on them.”

  The former JTF2 operative illuminated his Suunto and checked the time. “I’ll go,” he said. “You need to get to that jirga, because as soon as those bodies are found, their buddies are going turn this village upside down.”

  “That’s assuming there are more of them,” said Harvath.

  “Trust me. They’re like roaches. For every four Taliban you see, there are forty more hiding somewhere nearby.”

  “Unless Massoud took the rest with him.”

  “For all we know,” cautioned Fontaine, “Massoud is still here. That’s the mindset we need to operate under.”

  “Agreed,” said Harvath. “Are you sure you’re okay with checking out that truck?”

  Fontaine nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Thank you,” replied Harvath as he made his way to the door. Hailing Gallagher, he said, “Convoy 2 is going to investigate the four downed tangos. Convoy 1 is returning to your position.”

  “Roger that,” replied Gallagher. “Two out with a split. I’ll cover you both as best as I can.”

  “Negative,” said Harvath, who wanted to afford Fontaine as much protection as possible. “Keep your eyes on Convoy 2. Convoy 1 will come back on his own.”

  “Roger that.”

  Once they were ready, Harvath nodded and Fontaine pulled back the door. It was still quiet at their side of the village as the two men crept outside.

  Harvath gave Fontaine the thumbs-up and the Canadian took off toward the four dead Taliban with the flat while Harvath retreated several feet, risked a flash photo of the structure with his camera phone, and then carefully made his way back to where Gallagher and the two Afghans were waiting.

  Baba G didn’t bother looking up at Harvath when he rejoined them. His eyes were focused on Fontaine. “We ready for phase two?” he asked.

  “Yup,” replied Harvath, who removed his Afghan cell phone and, handing it to Daoud, said, “It’s time to make the call.”

  The interpreter took the phone and dialed Fayaz’s cell phone. He spoke briefly to the elder, then disconnected the call and returned the phone to Harvath. “They are ready for us,” he said.

  Harvath nodded and, tucking the phone into his pocket, got on his radio and said, “Convoy 2, we’re ready to roll to our next location.”

  “Copy that, Convoy 1. I’ll meet you there. Convoy 2, out.”

  Using a tiny Cejay fingerlight to illuminate Fayaz’s hand-drawn map of the village, Harvath and Gallagher went over the route they were about to take to the jirga one last time, but Asadoulah shook his head and suggested another route.

  Harvath didn’t like it. It was too direct and went straight through the center of the village. “Na,” he insisted, using the Pashtu word for no, and then retraced the route he intended them to take.

  Grabbing Harvath’s left index finger with the small aviator’s light secured to it with Velcro, Asadoulah illuminated Harvath’s proposed route once more and pointed to specific structures along the way. “Taliban, Taliban, Taliban, Massoud,” he whispered with his broken jaw as he pointed to house after house after house.

  Harvath looked at Gallagher. “What do you think?”

  “Well, out of all of us,” he replied, “this kid’s the only one who’s been to this village before. And I may not be crazy about walking right up Main Street, but he sure seems adamant about it.”

  “Fine,” said Harvath as he turned off his fingerlight and tucked the map back into his pocket. “We’ll do it his way, but that means no NODs. If even one person sees us and gets suspicious, we’ll be blown before we ever make the jirga.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Though the moon wasn’t full, it was entirely too bright for Harvath’s liking, as were the stars. As the group moved deeper into the village, they threw long shadows across the ground and were silhouetted against every mud brick and stone building they passed.

  They slipped from one property to the next, staying low and seeking out as many places of concealment as possible. There was no sound except for the wind, which had begun to pick up, and the river of snowmelt that rushed past the village as it made its way further down into the valley. The cold mountain air enveloping them was filled with the scent of wood smoke and roasting meats.

  With his back against one of the many walled village compounds, Harvath was about to peek around the corner to make sure it was safe for them to proceed when he heard a noise. Immediately, he signaled for everyone to get down.

  Straining his ears against the sound of the river, he tried to make out what he was hearing. As the noise got closer, he figured out what it was. Footsteps.

  Contrary to what people saw in the movies, suppressed weapons were not completely silenced. Gallagher’s taking shots from his suppressed weapon on the outskirts of the village was one thing, Harvath’s trying to do so here among the densely packed houses was something else entirely. They couldn’t risk it.

  Waving everyone back, Harvath pulled his knife from its sheath. Letting his MP5 hang from its sling beneath his patoo, he readied himself to take out whoever was coming around the corner. With one hand poised to clamp down and cover the person’s mouth so he couldn’t scream out, and the other wielding the knife, which measured over a foot in length, Harvath prepared to attack.

  The footsteps grew closer and as they did Harvath adjusted his grip on the weapon’s notched handle. Slowing his breathing, he focused on the sound of the approaching figure. The person was less than a meter away at this point. Harvath inched closer to the edge of the building and got ready.

  Closer the footsteps came. As they did, Harvath took in a deep breath of air. Like a statue he stood perfectly still. As had been true in the raid on the interrogation facility beneath the Soviet military base in Kabul, and as was true in all such scenarios, the keys to success were speed,
surprise, and overwhelming violence of action.

  When the figure suddenly appeared, Harvath sprang.

  Grabbing the person by the throat, Harvath yanked him off his feet, spun him around the edge of the building he was hiding behind, and slammed him up against the wall. The blackened-steel blade was up against the soft flesh of the person’s throat in a fraction of a second. Harvath looked into the face of his victim and saw abject terror in his eyes. He also saw that his victim was a boy no older than fourteen.

  Suddenly, Asadoulah had broken away from Gallagher and was at Harvath’s arm imploring him in Pashtu, “Na, na.” Then he spoke the first word Harvath had heard him say in English, “Friend.”

  Harvath looked at Asadoulah and then back at the teen he had pinned to the wall. Slowly, he lowered the boy back down to the ground.

  He left the blade in place, just underneath the teen’s chin, but removed his hand from around the boy’s throat. As he did, Harvath raised his finger to his lips and instructed the teen to remain quiet.

  The boy looked at Asadoulah and then back at Harvath and nodded. Harvath lowered the blade. The second he did, the boy tried to rabbit on him. Harvath, though, was ready. Grabbing hold of him, he once again lifted the teen off his feet by his throat and pinned him against the wall.

  Harvath hissed for Gallagher and Daoud to come over, while Asadoulah tried to calm his friend down.

  Daoud was at Harvath’s side in a flash and Harvath instructed the interpreter about what he wanted to say to the boy. “Tell him we’re not here to hurt him, but if he doesn’t calm down I will.”

  Frightened by Harvath’s intensity, Daoud hesitated. “Tell him,” Harvath snapped.

  The interpreter relayed Harvath’s orders to the boy. “Now ask him how many Taliban are in the village right now.”

  Daoud obeyed, and despite Harvath’s hand wrapped around his throat the boy was able to croak out an answer.

  “At least twenty,” the interpreter replied.

  “Where?” asked Harvath.

  The boy had no idea.

  “What about Massoud?”

  “Gone,” Daoud translated.

  “And the American woman?” Harvath asked.

  Daoud listened and then said, “The boy says they took her with them.”

  Harvath lowered the teen back down to his feet, pointed at the ground, and told him to sit. Daoud was about to translate, but as the boy sat right down, he saw that Harvath had made himself perfectly clear.

  “What are we going to do about him?” asked Gallagher. “We’re not going to kill him.”

  “Of course we’re not,” said Harvath.

  “We also can’t let him go. If we do, he’s going to raise the alarm and we’re as good as dead. We’ll not only have Massoud’s men on us, we’ll have every other member of this village gunning for us.”

  Gallagher was right. He remembered the story of a four-man SEAL team in Afghanistan that had been dispatched to capture or kill a high-ranking Taliban leader only to be discovered while doing their reconnaissance by a small group of goatherds. Hamstrung by politically correct rules of engagement and fearful of what their own government might do to them if they pursued the most logical option, the SEALs reluctantly and against their better judgment let the goatherds go. Within an hour, the team was engaged in a firefight with over 150 Taliban. Three of the SEALs, as well as the sixteen-man rescue force sent in via a Chinook helicopter that was shot down, were killed. Only one of the SEALs survived, and even then just barely, to recount the horrific tale. It was a situation Harvath was not interested in repeating.

  Looking at Asadoulah, Harvath said to Daoud, “Ask Asadoulah if this boy is one of the friends who accosted Dr. Gallo with him.”

  The interpreter put the question to Asadoulah, and the boy turned his face away in shame. That was answer enough for Harvath.

  Staring back down at the teen he’d told to sit, Harvath said, “I want to know this boy’s name.”

  The interpreter posed the question and the teen replied, “Usman.”

  “Repeat my promise to Usman that as long as he cooperates, no harm will come to him.”

  As the interpreter spoke to the boy, Harvath withdrew his map of the village and illuminated it with his fingerlight for the boy to see. “Tell him where we’re going and ask him if he knows if there are any Taliban or any other villagers that he has seen out. In fact, I also want you to ask him why he is out.”

  Daoud put all the questions to the boy and then said, “His uncle’s family has a stomach flu. His mother made dinner for them and he took the food to their house. He was on the way home when we found him.”

  “What about Taliban or other villagers?”

  “He said he didn’t see any other villagers. He saw a truck with four Taliban in it twenty minutes ago, but nothing since.”

  Harvath wondered if that was the same truck Baba G had taken care of. “Ask him where Massoud went.”

  Daoud asked, but the boy replied that he didn’t know.

  “How many of his men are still here?” Harvath asked.

  The boy shrugged. “Only a few,” he replied. “No more than ten.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We have a small village. It is not easy for Taliban to hide here,” said the boy.

  Harvath didn’t believe him. There was just something about this kid that he didn’t like. Looking at Gallagher, Harvath asked, “Did you bring any restraints?”

  Baba G reached into his pocket and handed a pair to Harvath, who ordered Usman to stand up and hold out his hands. Sliding his knife back into its sheath, Harvath locked the boy’s wrists together with a pair of the EZ cuffs and then asked Daoud for his kaffiyeh.

  Pantomiming what he wanted, Harvath waited for Usman to open his mouth and then used the long piece of checked cloth as a gag. He wrapped the remaining fabric around the boy’s neck and the lower part of his face. It wasn’t the world’s best disguise, but it was better than nothing, and if the boy tried to yell for help, nobody was going to hear anything unless they were standing right next to him.

  Harvath made Usman Daoud’s problem and told the interpreter to keep hold of the boy’s arm and make sure he didn’t get away. Harvath then flashed his MP5 so Usman could see it, and had Daoud tell him that if he tried to run or made any noise whatsoever, he would shoot him. He told Asadoulah the same thing just in case.

  Then, with the two teens in tow, Harvath gave the order to move out and prayed they wouldn’t encounter any more trouble before they made it to the jirga.

  CHAPTER 44

  When the center of the village finally came into sight, Harvath instructed his group to stop while he pulled on his NODs and took a long, careful look around.

  As Fayaz’s map indicated, in the center of the village was an elevated wooden structure surrounded by a copse of trees. It looked like a tree house with a wide, wraparound porch. Lights burned inside, and over the tumble of the icy river as its water slushed down out of the mountains, Harvath could hear voices. The two shuras were still engaged in their jirga. It was time.

  Harvath moved his three Afghan charges quickly through the open, over to the stand of trees, while Gallagher covered them. Once they were safely at the base of the structure, Gallagher traversed the open space and joined them.

  “What do you want to do with him?” Baba G asked as he nodded toward Usman. “Should we cut him loose?”

  Harvath powered down his NODs and stuffed them into one of his coat pockets. “We’ll let his elders decide what to do with him,” he said as he pulled out his knife and sliced off the boy’s plastic restraints. Daoud helped unwind the kaffiyeh from around his face and warned him to remain silent.

  Putting Daoud in the lead, Harvath ordered his team up the stairs. At the door, the interpreter removed his loafers and stepped inside. Harvath and company immediately followed suit.

  Inside there was a group of gnarled, weather-beaten men with automatic weapons. Some belonged to Fayaz and hi
s shura, the others were local and immediately scrambled for their guns.

  “Salaam alaikum. Salaam alaikum,” Daoud repeated with his hand placed over his heart in an attempt to reassure the men that they meant no harm.

  The locals weren’t buying it. Harvath and Gallagher were Westerners and that could only mean one thing—trouble.

  The men hurriedly leaped to their feet, the room filling with the metallic clicks of AK-47 safeties being flipped off.

  “Salaam, salaam,” Daoud continued to implore the men. Peace, peace.

  Gallagher took a step to his right to better shield Asadoulah. One of the locals recognized Usman standing behind Harvath and began speaking to him.

  “Tell them we’re here to see the shura,” Harvath said to their interpreter.

  Daoud relayed the message, but the man ignored him. Instead he kept speaking to Usman and was now cocking his head, beckoning the boy to step away from the strangers and join him on the other side of the room.

  The interpreter once more repeated his request and the man swung his rifle barrel over and focused his sights right on the center of Daoud’s face. Immediately, all of the color drained from his face.

  It was a very aggressive move, and in unison Harvath and Gallagher pulled their weapons out from under their patoos and trained them on the handful of Afghans who were aiming at them from the other side of the room. It was a Mexican standoff, Afghanistan style.

  Across the room, the man began raising his voice as he called for Usman to come to him. “Na,” Harvath said. No.

  The man did not like that answer and was about to reply when a door on the other side of the room opened. In the doorway stood an older man with a long, gray beard, coal-black eyes, and a thick scar that ran from his nose to the bottom of his left ear. He appeared to be one of the village elders, and he was very angry.

  He yelled at the villagers to put down their guns and, reluctantly, they did. He then turned his eyes upon the group of strangers.

  Daoud bade the elder peace and, as they had not been invited into the village like Fayaz and his shura had been and were in effect trespassing, immediately requested melmasthia—protection and hospitality.