Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3)
Page 6
Now, sixty-three years old, he stood atop the Taliban and would soon lead the culminating victory of a decades-long movement for supremacy in Afghanistan. He felt completely unworthy in this role, but it was fate that had put him here, and he would do his best to honor and serve Allah as long as it was willed.
Chapter 20
Mushahid Zubaida and Rasool Deraz worked their way up the steep hill. The two hundred fighters in their elite guard had spread out in a wide line of men, pushing up the mountain range on different angles.
They targeted rock outcroppings or depressions where possible fighters might hide. Mushahid carried an AK-74 and wore web gear loaded to capacity with magazines and grenades. He was Rasool’s final line of defense, and no one would get through him.
Rasool himself carried a walking stick and string of worn prayer beads. A small satchel hung across his chest by a singular strap. In it, he kept his Quran, a couple of religious texts, his prayer mat, some paper, and a pen.
Far before they reached the site of the fallen villagers, Rasool and Mushahid could make out the sound of women wailing. Their anguished cries echoed up and down the mountains, sending chills up Rasool’s spine. He didn’t want to imagine the horror they were about to walk upon.
“Mushahid,” he said, “a moment please.”
Mushahid, the bravest warrior Rasool had ever known, was several feet ahead, searching intently for snipers or any other signs of danger. Mushahid bowed slightly and stopped.
Rasool lowered his head, closed his eyes, and asked for the right words to say and the wisdom to know what actions to take.
He tried to calm himself. This was always the worst part, but his people needed him. So he finished his prayer quickly and with calm resolution, he moved up the hill.
They crested the hill and looked down to find an eruption of frantic activity. Mushahid winced and quickly turned his head away to look at his mentor and friend.
Rasool was a thin, frail man with a scraggly, gray beard. His turban and loose white shirt were tattered and frayed. His loose, black pants were ragged as the leather sandals he wore, whose soles were worn almost through in places.
Mushahid and others had insisted Rasool wear the newer, more suitable clothing they had bought him, but Rasool always insisted the clothes be given to younger fighters.
“The nights get cold in the mountains of Afghanistan,” he had once said. “There are still nights I can’t forget in my dreams. The cold cut me so deep when we were fighting the Russians.” Rasool had smiled that warm, elder-like, all-knowing smile and placed his hand on Mushahid’s shoulder. “Our men on the front lines deserve what resources we can spare. Not old men such as me living under the protection of a roof.”
Mushahid didn’t doubt that Rasool had suffered some cold nights. The Soviet invasion was before Mushahid’s time, but stories abounded of Rasool’s devotion and courage.
Mushahid and Rasool stood atop the high ground from which the villagers had begun their attack. Bodies were piled below them both down the slope and up the next one. The two experienced warfighters gazed upon the battlefield and examined what the villagers must have seen across from them.
“Let’s go on down now,” Rasool said. “I am ready.”
They traversed down the slope toward the first wounded and dead fighters. Rasool moved slowly, using his walking stick and slipping on gravel as his shaky legs tried to keep him vertical.
Mushahid, tall and strong, marched down the slope sure-footed and alert, his weapon ready and his fierce, beady eyes scanning odd-looking shapes and rock piles well within sniper range. He kept no more than three steps from Rasool, close enough to catch the older man if he fell, but far enough to allow the man to feel independent.
It took the two of them several minutes to descend down the draw, but they could now clearly see -- even with Rasool’s poor eyesight -- that it was worse than they could have ever imagined.
Bodies lay busted and broken all along the slope. All around, people worked frantically to save the wounded, while others clung to one another sobbing or prostrating over lifeless forms while screaming with savage grief. Rasool noted that all of the people were women or elderly men. A few older children were employed as gophers, running back and forth, fetching bandages and water, but there was not a single man of fighting age among them.
Rasool walked toward the nearest body, who lay unattended. He dug his walking stick firmly into the ground and leaned hard on it for support as he slowly kneeled. The man was dead, his face marked by an entry wound just left of his nose. Blood and yellow brain matter had trickled down the hill from behind the man’s head, and ants had already discovered the feast and were carrying off pieces in a heavily trafficked path.
Rasool put his fingers over the man’s open eyes and pulled down the eyelids. Mushahid watched Rasool from where he stood. How many times had he seen Rasool pull a fighter's eyes shut with his frail, veiny hands? How many men had he seen Rasool pray over a final time?
Mushahid turned from him and kept alert. His men were still moving all about, scouting on this finger, the next one, and the one after that. The elite guard of the Taliban leadership moved quickly without the burden of packs or heavy weapons. In addition, they had legs accustomed to steep terrain and lungs acclimatized to thin air.
Rasool Deraz and Mushahid Zubaida spent more than two hours on the side of the hill. For Rasool, it was the same process over and over. The wounds changed, but never the solution.
If the fighter was dead, he simply closed their eyes and prayed a final prayer for them. If they were wounded, he calmed their fears and tried to stop the bleeding. Then, Rasool would wave down any of his available guards to carry the man back to a home to be cared for. Many would die despite the effort, but a surprising number would make it.
Rasool knew the best thing to give to a wounded man was the same thing he tried to give the movement: hope. Calm down the men going into shock, or already in shock, and get them breathing normally again. Inform them that you’d seen worse wounds on men who had survived, even if it wasn’t true. Maybe tell them a joke about when you had fought the Soviets back in the ’80s.
Give each man hope, just as you gave the movement hope. Even when territory was lost to the enemy, even when buildings had been flattened and brave leaders had been killed, give the survivors hope. In all things, give hope.
Over the course of the gruesome ordeal, Rasool had managed to piece together some of the story. Years of battlefield experience along with what little he could learn from the few coherent survivors had told him that they were looking at a small number of highly skilled shooters. According to his estimations, the charging villagers had been taken down swiftly and efficiently, and probably in less than two minutes time.
However, the accomplished veteran was surprised when he noticed that a few of the fallen men’s clothing had been neatly cut and used to bandage wounds, an act that considering the state of these men would have been almost impossible for them to have managed themselves. He had also learned from the people first on the scene that a couple of the least wounded had been lightly bound with paracord.
It was strange to think but given the evidence, Rasool could only conclude that the shooters themselves had attempted to aid their targets while at the same time ensuring that no one was capable of leaving the site. This conclusion stirred up a tangle of thoughts and emotions that Rasool decided was best to tuck away for now and think over later if he had the chance.
As more and more information was collected, Rasool’s earlier suspicions were no longer simply holding true. No, his suspicions had grown arms and legs. Rasool closed his eyes as he let the truth wash over him. Americans had entered into the country of Pakistan.
“Only four shooters?” Mushahid asked.
“It is shocking at first thought,” Rasool said. “But as you think about it, it starts to make sense. Any larger group would be more difficult to hide.”
“Agreed,” Mushahid muttered.
“What do you think these men are doing on this side of the border?” Mushahid asked.
“Probably reconnaissance and intelligence gathering. Too small a force for anything else.”
Rasool had not yet shared his conclusions with Mushahid. The younger man might very well be the next in line to lead the Taliban; he needed to learn to make his own conclusions. And hopefully, Rasool would have enough time to teach his friend the importance of making well-informed decisions versus rash and dangerous ones. He worried about Mushahid and what the fierce warrior might become after Rasool was gone.
They arrived at the top of the hill where the four shooters had made their stand. Rasool leaned hard on his walking stick and struggled to catch his breath as they took in the scene.
Brass laid in piles and the position provided a perfect view of the hill below. Rasool saw more boot prints and the clear ground markings in the dust where four gunmen had lain.
“Mushahid, who do you think did this?” Rasool asked between wheezing breaths.
“I don’t think any of our Muslim brothers could have pulled off such a stand,” the Taliban’s most competent fighter said. He pointed toward the ground upon which they stood, and the dirt showed where four bodies had lain. “It really was only four men who caused such carnage. None of our men,” he shook his head with disgust, then spoke angrily, “none of our men could have pulled off such fire discipline and accuracy.”
Rasool simply nodded.
“Americans?” Mushahid guessed. “Or maybe Pakistani elite soldiers trained by Americans.”
Rasool considered Mushahid’s alternate answer but dismissed it. He scanned the hills around them. Whoever they were, they were on foot. And they had either headed deeper into Pakistan after the battle or turned to run for the border. He assumed it was the latter. Surely, they’d run for their lives after losing the element of surprise.
Excellent shooters they may be, but Rasool doubted there were many men who were capable of pushing on considering not only the elements but the fervent and viscously territorial nature of the people surrounding them in every direction.
“Select some of our best men from the elite guard as a rapid-reaction force,” Rasool instructed. “And have two or three trucks ready to respond. Whoever did this will show up soon, and we shall seek vengeance for our brothers who died on this hill.”
“As you wish,” Mushahid said, clearly pleased with the order.
“Now, leave me for a moment,” Rasool said, reaching in his satchel for his prayer mat. “I need to pray for our brave men and that Allah’s justice falls swiftly upon these intruders.”
Chapter 21
Six hours later, Nick Wood’s team hid along a rock outcropping in the waning hours of sunlight. After the terrible turn of luck earlier that day, they had somehow managed to arrive at their destination unnoticed.
Below them, far down the mountain range, they could see the bottom of the valley. Straight across, an almost identical range faced them -- the same one they had used as an alternate route earlier in the mission to avoid the Pakistani army for a day.
All four men made use of the daylight to notice every bit of key terrain that could be seen. Soon, their lives would depend on how well they had memorized the land around them.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t see into every corner of their target compound fifteen hundred yards below them. Its walls were simply too high. That concerned them a little, but intel consistently revealed that there were between five to ten men in there. No women. No children.
The good news was that from what they could make out, the people within the compound were behaving as if they were completely unaware of any firefight. But considering that this particular compound served as a center of communication for the Taliban, it was safer to assume otherwise. It might be possible that they just didn’t see themselves or the compound as a real target of interest. Ultimately Nick couldn’t be sure from what he was seeing, so he would just have to do what he did best: plan for the worst.
The movement outside the compound all along the valley was very similar. The people seemed to be moving along at an everyday kind of pace, wrapping up chores or carrying things up the meandering trails. No one acted as if they had a clue about the firefight just four miles away. And why should they know? Despite their close proximity to a communication hub, there were very few means for the people to get information. There were no news stations around here. No newspapers. Just radios and word of mouth.
Whatever the case may be, the S3 team hoped the situation remained as calm as it appeared for just a little longer. In just a few hours, the first hurdle of this strenuous mission would be cleared, and they’d be racing back toward the border and safety.
But before any of them could anticipate a victory, there were gut checks to be done. It was part of the warrior process, a mental preparation so necessary that they treated it as if it were religion. And although there was never any stated rule, there appeared to be a universal belief that this ritual was best done in whatever light was available.
There was no voodoo or superstition about it; it was simply easier to face your realities when you can physically see your target or the people around you. Even the bravest of men could tell you that bolstering your courage is a much greater challenge in the dark. There’s just something about the pitch-black that invades all your senses and gives strength to your doubts.
So as the sun descended toward dusk, the S3 team set in for a full, four-man watch in unified silence.
This was it. This was what they’d sacrificed for, crossing endless steep fingers and sleeping in the dirt each night. This was why they had been forced to slaughter a group of overly confident villagers. None of the men would ever be proud of that firefight.
But the past was in the past, and tonight they’d climb over a wall and more men would die. Maybe some of their own wouldn’t make it, as the men in the compound would be experienced Taliban fighters.
That was the gut check. Shutting out echoes of the past. Hunting your doubts and fears, slaying them into silence. Seeing the realities and the odds then committing yourself to stand in spite of them. With the situation fully understood, the only thing left was to prepare the fighter.
Like a boxer in their pre-fight routine. Quiet locker room. No distractions. See yourself in the ring. Moving. Slipping. Hands working. Punches going out. Connecting. See the fight the way you want it to go. Ignore your fears. Forget past defeats.
Only victory could reside in your head now. Only confidence, the belief that the hard training will pay off. And maybe just a little hope that a lucky break or two was coming your way.
Darkness creeped into the hills of Pakistan, and the men of S3 shifted into a mental rehearsal of the mission, playing through the physical actions and imagining every possible contingency.
They had talked and walked through it all dozens of times. It was all there. In their heads. Mapped out and memorized until they could do it in their sleep.
The hit was simple, and they had etched in their minds the compound and its layout from staring at hundreds of satellite images and high-resolution photos provided from drones.
The compound featured only one opening, and it was at the front. The gated entrance faced down the hill, which made sense as the complex was far up the hill. In fact, it was by far the highest on either mountain range, and its occupants certainly didn’t want any visitors.
Inside the compound, three mud huts stood. All big enough to have maybe two or three rooms.
Besides the three huts, there was a huge satellite dish, which was powered by a generator. And the compound usually had one or two four-wheel-drive trucks. That was likely a necessity, given how steep the path was up to
the compound.
The compound in itself wasn’t too intimidating. Not being able to confirm the number of possible Taliban troops currently present, however, made the simple-looking compound all the more dangerous. A simple compound made for an enclosed space with little cover, and a number of clear sightlines for bullets to find you in a multi-directional capacity.
But that was what they had to work with, and the time to back out or come up with a new plan had come and gone. The time to be scared and imagine bad things happening was back when you were planning and deciding what you needed to pack. There was no going back. Only moving forward remained. And the men of S3 were ready. Ready to charge forward and unleash unholy hell.
Chapter 22
As the night progressed, the team remained in their position. They set a watch and took turns napping until 0215 when they awoke and made final gear prep.
The men loosened up, bending their knees and swinging their upper bodies from side-to-side. They were beyond sore and aching from the forty-plus miles of trekking, but now it was “go” time and soon the adrenaline would ease all their aches and pains.
Marcus used a red-beam flashlight under a poncho liner to fill a syringe from a bottle. Once they grabbed Ahmud al-Habshi, he’d be drugged to knock him out. Marcus finished filling the syringe, tapped the air bubbles out, and placed a cap on the needle. He stowed it in a pouch on his web harness.
Red rehearsed, extending his silenced .45 and looking over its sights. In his supporting hand, he’d be holding a blindingly powerful LED flashlight. Across from him, Truck kneeled with his RPK across his knees and checked the 75-round drum on his machine gun.