Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  That was the good news. The bad news, as Red had stated, was that there was no getting around them. Nick pulled the poncho liner over his head and used his red-lens flashlight to study the map. He wanted to confirm his suspicions. Unfortunately, his suspicions had been right on the money. The satellite imagery showed a hell of a number of cliffs and drop-offs farther up the hill top in this area.

  Nick’s team would need mountain climbing gear to ascend the peak and move to the other side, which was a complete no go. They lacked the gear, and it was far too dangerous in the dark when they hadn’t prepped for it.

  Nick stayed under the poncho liner longer than necessary. He needed to think, and he for damn sure needed to come up with a solution. Fast.

  Chapter 7

  Nick Woods made his up mind after less than two minutes of running through the options. None of the possibilities looked good, but that’s how war goes. It doesn’t go your way. Life doesn’t either, Nick remembered, briefly thinking of Anne, his late wife, and wondering if he’d be reunited with her before this mission ended. He shook away the thought and refocused on the present.

  As Nick saw it, the team had three major options.

  Option one was to hold in place, hoping the Pakistani infantry battalion packed up, moved off the hill, and departed the area. The problem with this option was there was no telling how long the unit would be there, and Nick worried about their own rapidly depleting food and water. Plus, the nearby Pakistanis could push toward them and put them in some deep shit.

  Option two involved trying to slip through the middle of the Pakistani lines. Maybe attempt it at 0330, when sleep and fatigue are at their greatest. But that seemed fraught with serious risk, given that they’d be carrying heavy packs and water jugs. And since they’d have their weapons at the ready, any guard or sleeping man who woke would instantly recognize them as intruders, despite their similar weapons and local attire.

  Option three involved moving down the hill, to the valley that was chock-full of travelers and homes. Nick had a map of that area, but S3’s intel team hadn’t provided the kind of detailed satellite photos that the team needed. So, they’d have no idea how many homes were on that route, as it had been too far out of the planned infiltration route.

  Without climbing gear, Nick knew a long and arduous trek to the top of the hill wasn’t a possibility. Bottom line, it had to be one of the three options.

  Nick believed waiting out the Pakistani army was dangerous. It could take days for them to leave, and Nick, Marcus, Truck, and Red weren’t getting any stronger under each day’s unrelenting sun.

  Infiltrating the Pakistani army’s lines was undeniably their worst option. Maybe if just one of them spoke the language and could talk their way out of being spotted, then maybe. But none of them did, and with the moon nearly full -- a requirement for the mission, so they could move well at night -- sneaking through so many Pakistani troops was nothing short of suicide.

  Thus, the men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter were going down the hill.

  Chapter 8

  Nick lifted the poncho liner and whispered for his team to pull it in. All four ducked below the canopy of Nick’s outstretched arms.

  Nick flipped his red-beam flashlight on and oriented the team to their position. He then explained the three options they had. Nick asked if there were any angles he had overlooked, and he received nothing but headshakes.

  “Since those are our options,” he said, “we’ll go with option three and push down the hill. We’ll cross the valley road and push up the opposite hill. We’ll move forward a couple of miles and with luck, we’ll be beyond the Pakistani army at that point. We’ll cross back to this side of the valley and continue on our planned course.”

  Marcus nodded his head and said, “I like the idea of crossing back to this mountain range. We know from our planning that this side of the valley is our best route in, and we have better detailed satellite imagery of the terrain.”

  “Yeah,” Truck agreed, “we’ve practically got our infiltration route memorized, except for Red, who’s too stupid to remember anything.”

  “That’s why I carry a map,” Red replied with a grin.

  Truck stretched his right leg out and groaned. “All right, but let’s make it quick so that my bum knee doesn’t get any ideas and drop my ass down the hill,” he said.

  Red reached over and punched Truck hard in the calf of his straightened leg. Truck’s only response was a grunt.

  “So,” Red said, “I guess since we’re down a leg thanks to gimp here, pushing forward and taking on those Pakistani bastards is out of the question?”

  Nick smiled and looked over at Marcus, who was shaking his head and chuckling. The team could always count on Red’s confidence.

  “Marcus?” Nick asked. “Any other thoughts?”

  “It’s a solid plan,” Marcus confirmed. “And it’s the best option we have under the circumstances.”

  Chapter 9

  The four men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter descended the hill, picking their way around loose gravel and crumbling dirt that gave way under the weight of their heavy footsteps and gear. Red led the way, followed by Nick, then Truck with his RPK machine gun, and finally Marcus, who pulled rear security.

  Each man knew the next part would prove pivotal. On one hand, they were dressed to fit in. Loose pants, turbans wrapped around their heads, Soviet-bloc weapons, and random green and black smocks. On the other, their packs and assault gear, though of non-American variety, still gave them away. Rarely would Afghans or Pakistani be carrying so much gear, and if it were necessary, they’d use pack mules.

  But this couldn’t be changed, and taking on some villagers certainly beat duking it out with the heavily-armed Pakistani army.

  The team soundlessly descended further and further, attempting to stay in dark shadows. It took almost two hours as they were trying to be patient on Truck and his knee, but they soon neared the road at the bottom of the valley.

  Nick was surprised that they had avoided any mud homes to this point. Though the border regions were sparsely populated, luck seemed to be on their side thus far.

  Red halted the team and signaled for them to spread out on line -- or in a straight line. Each team member found good positions that were either low to the ground or behind something. They all dropped their packs and aimed in on the “road,” which could hardly be considered such by Western standards. More like a gravel driveway barely wide enough for a single truck.

  Nick could feel his heart speed up, as the tension mounted. Now, they were committed. Any contact and it was on. An attempt to retreat up the hill with their heavy packs would surely end in failure. And they couldn’t ditch their packs and try to ascend either, because that meant certain eventual death, given they’d be without any supplies.

  No, any contact and they’d attack forward, killing whoever was in the way, as well as those who responded to the gunfire. Nick and Red, the only two with NVGs, scanned the road ahead, which could just be made out with the natural light.

  Between the men and the road, Nick estimated about four hundred yards of field. It was mostly flat and planted with some kind of knee-high crop.

  Nick looked twice over the ground but saw nothing. He looked toward Red, and the small point man signaled all clear.

  Nick swallowed down some water and reached over to lift his hundred-pound pack. He whirled it around, swinging it into place -- it was too heavy to simply lift -- and tightened up the straps. He bounced up and down, allowed it to shift, and adjusted the straps one last time. Unfortunately, when you weren’t using up ammo, it made it harder to lighten your load.

  The team was ready. Each man was standing, or truthfully, slightly leaning forward under their packs. The team would push together across the road, despite the unconventional nature of such a move.

  Typically, a unit would leave half of its men in place to provide a base of fire from cover, while the forward element moved across a dangerous sect
or. But S3 was too small to split up, and Nick wanted to rely on speed and keeping his men together. That way, if the shit hit the fan, they could fight together or work their way back.

  Thankfully, they crossed the field and the rocky path without incident. The four men pushed up the steep hill on the opposite side of their insertion route without difficulty, other than hauling up all their heavy gear. But they soon started running into compounds, which presumably had mud homes behind their walls. Red shifted their course left and right to dodge them, and they progressed further up the hill without detection.

  Soon, their legs and backs were shaky and weak with fatigue, but they’d done it. Now they were back to where there were no trails, no wandering villagers, not even a single pile of dog droppings.

  And it was a good thing. Dawn was approaching, and it was time for them to hunker down.

  Chapter 10

  It had been less than twenty-four hours since their near run-in with the Pakistani army, and despite the detour having cost them an entire night, Nick was filled with relief. After crossing back over to their original infiltration route, they had not seen a single sign of troops lurking anywhere in their vicinity.

  Still it had been unsettling to go from marching night after night in the wilderness with little to no trace of human existence, and then to nearly run smack dab into the middle of an army campground. Back on their route, the men of S3 remained on edge. Phantom patrols seemed to be hiding behind every rock and bend, wearing on the ragged nerves of the already fatigued shooters. Eventually, after a few hours of no visible threat, the men began to settle down, and their original routine continued.

  Remaining faithful to the routine, the S3 team suffered through another night of painful, arduous hiking. Nick looked and felt like shit. He reeked from nine days of no bathing, and his clothes could be heralded as “the next big thing in fashion,” that is if Bum’s Wear Quarterly were an actual publication. He was also now sporting a throbbing ankle and sharp lower back pains from some kind of wrenched nerve or muscle spasm.

  He could tell that the others were silently pushing through various dings, twists, and injuries, as well. They knew their target was close. Computer geek Ahmud al-Habshi sat in his compound just eight miles away, and in two nights, they’d bag his ass, seize his computer gear, and drop any idiots who were stupid enough to tangle with them.

  Nick and his team were ready to do the job they’d been hired to do. They’d walked too many miles and slept far too little; they not only itched for some action, they needed it. After all, al-Habshi’s compound was just the first step in this whole mission. They still had Deraz, the terrorist masquerading as a spiritual leader, to hunt and take down.

  Unfortunately for the men of S3, their luck ran out again. On the very next night, Red called a halt and pointed out more Pakistani army troops ahead.

  Nick nearly screamed with rage. For more than ten years, America had asked Pakistan to deal with the mutinous tribes along their lawless border. President Bush had pleaded with the country and supposed ally, and President Obama had followed, trying to convince them, as well.

  But Pakistan had tried and learned its lesson. The area was officially called, “the Federally Administered Tribal Areas,” and the inhabitants were almost all Pashtuns. They were fierce fighters, who were practically impossible to control.

  The area’s ferocious independence went back to the 19th Century, during the British colonial period. The British failed to ever gain full control of the tribes and settled on allowing the dangerous region to serve as an effective buffer to Afghanistan. Pakistan itself failed to control the area once the British left. In the ’70s, those passing through the Khyber Pass were warned by the Pakistani government to stay close to the road for their safety.

  Things were dangerous then, but they grew far worse after 2001 when the Americans with the help of the Northern Alliance drove the Taliban from power in Afghanistan. Those Taliban members who survived the onslaught of the world’s greatest military power fled to the Federally Administered Tribal Areas.

  They quickly gained influence there, and the cross-border attacks into Afghanistan grew so bad that America convinced Pakistan to do something. (Probably with billions in aid packages.) Pakistan deployed 80,000 troops into the Federally Administered Tribal Areas in 2004, but even that sizable force failed to tame the area.

  Pakistan was forced to sign a truce with the Pakistani Taliban, and though it deployed troops into the area eight more times between 2004 and 2006, control had never been established. The final treaty had stated the Taliban wouldn’t attack either Pakistan or Afghanistan from the tribal areas while granting them the privilege of carrying weapons and basically ruling the place as they pleased.

  Nick knew these details by heart as he and his team had studied the area extensively prior to the mission. And what pissed him off the most was that just ten days ago, when they were planning their mission and studying the satellite and drone imagery, there’d been no Pakistani army units in the area. Somehow, these troops had moved in during the past several days.

  The cynical part of Nick was sure these troops were here to hunt them down. But their actions hinted the opposite. This newest set of troops was once again completely unprofessional. They weren’t looking for men, and they certainly weren’t looking for a fight. Fires blazed, laughing men sang, a few even danced.

  It truly seemed this was merely another fake incursion into the tribal regions by the federal government, meant to appease America and release a few billion dollars more in aid. Nick assumed that the Pakistani army had most likely warned the tribes they’d be coming, giving the belligerent locals plenty of time to prepare and hide ammunition and pro-Taliban banners and flags.

  The team pulled back, huddled, and talked out their options. In this case, going down the hill was a no go. Numerous homes dotted the hillside and valley on the lower slopes. (They’d have to go above the troops, where there were fewer homes. Still, there were homes up there, too, according to their maps.)

  “We’ll just have to be careful,” Nick told the team.

  And careful they were as they approached the first set of homes. They slipped along walls, through alleys, and even in front of huts themselves. And somehow, even carrying all their gear and water jugs, they managed to infiltrate through the small enclave of homes.

  The men of S3 had also pulled off some masterful teamwork. Covering danger areas, using hand signals, and moving like shadows through the dark.

  But just when they thought they were in the clear and a good hundred yards from the last compound, they saw movement followed by the sound of a dog growling.

  “I got him,” Red whispered.

  Red dropped his AK, allowing it to hang across his body in its tactical sling, while he pulled a Glock .45 pistol. Red pulled a suppressor from his pocket and twisted it on as quickly as he could, then moved away from the group toward the threat.

  The dog approached closer, his growl growing louder as his eyes now saw what only his nose had smelled. Nick noticed the hair on the large dog raise and knew it was seconds from barking or charging them.

  “Shoot, Red,” Nick said.

  Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.

  The beast dropped, hit by three subsonic bullets from Red’s pistol.

  “Let’s go,” Nick said.

  Although they were on the outskirts of the enclave, Nick signaled the team forward, anxious to get away in case some villager unable to sleep investigated. Red was digging around in the dirt, picking up his shell casings.

  “Come on,” Nick hissed. “We gotta move.”

  They stepped out quickly, wanting to get as far away as possible from the enclave, as they’d just left their first potential clue since entering Pakistan.

  Chapter 11

  The early morning silence was shattered by the sound of a boy yelling.

  Tariq Hijazi, the village’s chief enforcer, raced toward the commotion equipped with his AK-47. He carried the AK not because of the s
hout, but because any self-respecting male over the age of twelve carried their weapons with them in this part of the country. Always.

  A couple hundred yards from his compound, Tariq pushed through a group of men to have a look at the boy, who he now saw was crying over a dog.

  The dog was dead. He yanked the boy out of the way and nudged the dog over with his sandal. Three bullet holes marked the head of what had been the enclave’s biggest and strongest dog.

  His first thought was that the tribe of ul-Haq was behind this. This tribe resided in the mountains on the other side of the road below them. Often, boys of each tribe would try to sneak up on each other’s homes as part of a way to show courage.

  It was a dangerous game that often left young boys dead, but whoever had made these three shots was no boy. (They were spaced a couple of inches apart -- remarkable shooting in the dark, and pretty good shooting in daylight.)

  “Tariq,” someone said behind him.

  “Shut up,” he hissed. “I’m thinking.”

  The dog was facing down the draw. Tariq followed the direction of the dog’s look and spotted a single shell casing ten yards away. He shoved a sleepy yet curious boy out of his way and picked it up.

  It was a short, pistol casing. On the base, it was marked “.45 AUTO.”

  Tariq pinched the casing in his hand. Could it have been an American? The .45 was a popular American round, and the shooting had been exceptional. And clearly silenced, since it hadn’t been heard. So, someone with an expensive (and hard to obtain) pistol attachment had shot the dog with incredible skill in the dark of night.

  The tracks in the dirt moved down the hill, and Tariq easily determined that the person who had done this wore boots. Further possible proof. Most Pakistani and Afghan men wore tennis shoes or sandals. Boots were a luxury beyond most of their means.