Marcus came out from under his poncho liner and placed it back into his pack. Finished, he moved to join the rest, who were already huddled and ready to move.
With the entire team together, Nick whispered, “All right, men. You know what to do. Remember, only Red shoots with his silenced pistol until there’s return fire breaking the silence. Once they open up, don’t hold back. Don’t forget to find cover and concealment when possible and yell when you’re reloading. You’re all pros, so I got nothing more I need to say. Let’s go bag this guy and get the hell back home. I’m due for a shower.”
The men hefted their behemoth packs and followed Red down the hill toward the compound. As Nick followed second in line -- his usual position -- he hoped they’d be able to figure out which one was Ahmud al-Habshi.
Each man carried a photo of him, but it was low-resolution and had been taken several years ago. Apparently there weren’t many photos to be found of al-Habshi, and the CIA had told Nick that they had struggled to pull up any information on the man at all. And they hadn’t meant that in a good way for poor, young Ahmud. Because information on Ahmud al-Habshi hadn’t been redacted or covered up like he was being protected. No. Information on him simply didn’t exist, because he wasn’t worth creating information on. Non-warrior, non-leader, therefore, non-important as far as the Taliban was concerned.
Nick thought it was all too ironic that the man largely responsible for promoting the Taliban into infamy managed to garner so little fame for himself. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” should have been his high school yearbook quote, thought Nick.
The little information Nick had been given on al-Habshi was that he had been a young university student studying computer programming when he was converted to the cause of righteousness. He had left the university, infuriated his moderate parents, and entered the fringes of the Taliban movement.
Ahmud had planned on becoming a foot soldier, but his computer skills had won out over his soft hands, lack of strength, and inability to fire a weapon in the right direction.
So although the men of S3 had joked about it, Plan B, for if they weren’t able to recognize al-Habshi, was to literally check hands and see whose were the cleanest and baby-softest.
The man would almost have to have soft hands. Al-Habshi spent nearly eighteen hours a day uploading propaganda videos and messages promoting jihad to chat rooms. He could type, and type fast, but no one expected him to have callouses from regular physical labor.
Still, if he was half as brainwashed as the rest of his terror group, he might not come quietly. And if that were the case, they’d have to put him down, and pray the seized computers would provide the intel they needed to locate Deraz.
But even if the intel wasn’t there, the raid would provide at least one long-term benefit for the struggling government of Afghanistan. Such a breach into Pakistan should force the Taliban to pull dozens -- if not hundreds -- of fighters out of Afghanistan to better protect their so-called “sanctuary” in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. In other words, the raid could effectively thin the Taliban’s herds and give Afghanistan’s government a fighting chance.
The team worked their way down the steep ridge and didn’t stop moving until they were less than a yard outside the compound walls. They formed a tight circle and dropped their packs, laying them down as quietly as you can lay down a hundred-pound piece of gear.
They took prone positions after stashing their packs, and Nick allowed the team members to catch their breath after the exertion of the descent. Plus, it provided time for them to grow accustomed to the sounds of the compound and surrounding area.
Nick drank some water from his canteen and wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The summer night air, the weighted movement downhill, and the tension had him sweating heavily.
They waited in the defensive position for ten minutes, listening for movement or anything else, but the night was quiet.
Nick passed the word to ready themselves. The men pulled small, powerful flashlights out and stood silently. With the lack of cloud cover and an almost full moon, the men could see about thirty yards in the darkness.
Nick looked at Marcus who smiled and nodded he was ready. Nick couldn’t help but smile back. Dwayne Marcus was the consummate warrior. The man headed for NFL stardom before September 11 and an amazing career in the Corps.
Nick turned and saw Truck with his machine gun, and Truck gave him a thumbs up. Nick saluted the Army Special Forces warrior, then looked to Red, who was watching the compound with absolute concentration.
Nick eased up behind him and squeezed him on the shoulder, the silent signal that the team was ready. Red nodded in acknowledgement without taking his eyes off the target and moved toward the compound.
Chapter 23
Red edged up to the compound wall, and Nick scanned the top of it. It was unlikely anyone would do a pull up and lift themselves over it, but tactics were tactics. And tactics called for watching the front, which in this case was the wall.
Nick covered the wall with his silenced .45 since he had stashed his sniper rifle with the packs. After all, a scoped sniper rifle was practically worthless for room clearing. He’d be using his pistol for tonight’s work.
Red and Marcus had removed their ACOG scopes from their AK-47s since their weapons had rail systems that would allow them to place them back on later with the scopes still be sighted in and accurate -- at least if they placed it back correctly in the right position. Nick’s sniper rifle lacked that capability, so he was stuck with his .45, which he didn’t see as too much of a disadvantage in close quarters. Especially with the flashlight in his supporting hand.
Nick scanned the wall with his pistol -- back and forth -- until he felt a hand tap his shoulder twice. He knew it was Marcus, and he knew that meant Marcus was now covering the top of the wall with his AK.
Truck moved past Nick and kneeled by the wall, placing his knee in a strong ninety-degree angle. Nick moved next to him and placed his leg in the same position and up against Truck’s knee, creating a step with their two legs.
Red holstered his pistol and put his flashlight in his pocket. He stepped on their legs and reached up with his hands for the top of the compound wall. He then executed a slow pull up, trying to limit the sound of his gear and body dragging up the dirt wall.
At the top, he held himself in a pull-up position with just his head and eyes above the wall. He scanned the perimeter while his arms shook from the strain. Seeing nothing, he raised a leg and hooked it over the wall.
The wall was a foot wide, and he lowered himself as easily as he could on the inside of it, performing the “down” portion of a pull up from inside the compound. He dropped the remaining distance, spun toward the buildings, and withdrew his pistol. He took a knee and steadied his breathing.
Nick listened as hard as he could on the other side of the wall. He hoped the noise from Red’s gear dragging against the wall hadn’t alerted anyone. Nick waited silently, counting to one hundred and twenty. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
Reaching one hundred and twenty with no alarm, Nick holstered his pistol and pocketed his flashlight. He stood, turned toward the wall, and stepped on Truck’s knee to pull himself over. Nick hooked a leg over the wall and swung himself to the other side.
Marcus stopped covering the wall and took a position on the wall next to Truck. Truck unslung his RPK, extended its bipod legs, and placed it on the ground. He used Marcus’s leg to clamber to the top of the wall, as well.
Instead of dropping to the other side, Truck held his position at the top of the wall. He stayed low, laying on it and remaining balanced on its crown. On the far side, Marcus picked up the RPK, snapped the bipod legs against the barrel, and hefted it as high as he could.
Truck reached down for it, grabbed it by the barrel, and carefully pulled it up and over the wall. He hung it down by the barrel and Nick reached up for its stock. N
ick accepted its weight and brought it down to him. Behind Nick, Red kept watch with his silenced pistol.
Marcus repeated the operation, lifting his AK up toward Truck. Truck also nabbed it and handed it down to Nick.
All weapons across, Truck slid down the wall to join Nick and Red. On the other side of the wall, Marcus -- the tallest and most athletic member -- backed up six feet and ran forward. He jumped, kicked off the wall to gain height, and just managed to grab the lip of the wall. With complete ease, the exercise junkie pulled himself up, over, and down the other side as lightly as a ballet dancer.
Chapter 24
Truck recovered his RPK light machine gun from off the ground, and Nick handed Marcus his AK. The four men formed a defensive arc covering the three huts, each in the kneeling position and straining to hear anything that might signal danger.
They could see the three buildings fairly well in the moonlight though no door or windows faced their direction. Behind the huts sat a waist-high generator, a satellite dish, and a Toyota four-wheel-drive truck.
No one moved as Nick held them in position. He had thought their entry into the compound too loud until he remembered the mud huts had walls as thick as the one they’d just come over. Sound couldn’t penetrate such massive barriers, but still, if someone had been taking a leak or if they had a man roving on patrol inside the compound...
Nick again counted to one hundred and twenty. The team needed to catch its breath after the exertion of getting over the wall. He also wanted them to focus on their breathing. On relaxing. On accepting that they were in the compound, and the game was fully on.
Nick finished his count to one hundred and twenty. It was time. He leaned toward Red and squeezed his shoulder.
Red stood and switched to ninja mode, one of the few benefits of being small. He creeped forward in a smooth, heel-to-toe fashion, his silenced Glock .45 extended in front of him.
Nick mimicked his movement and covered him from the number two slot with his own silenced .45. Behind them, Truck and Marcus followed, with Marcus turned almost fully around watching their rear.
They passed the generator and satellite dish. Nick noted with relief that the wires and power cord from the dish trailed toward the middle hut. Intelligence sources believed Ahmud al-Habshi lived in the middle hut.
Red reached the back wall of the middle hut and moved to the left. At the rear corner, he peeked around and confirmed the alley between the two huts was clear. He took a deep breath and moved into it.
Red walked with his weapon up, his eyes watching the wall as he glided deeper into the abyss. Nick kept his pistol covering the front corner of the hut on the left, in case someone emerged from it. Truck kept his RPK toward the ground while Marcus maintained watch to their rear.
At the front of the column, Red’s eyes strained to see the details of the compound yard in front of the three mud huts. Even in the darkness, he could see two more trucks. Both were again four-wheel-drive Toyotas, which seemed so common in the area. He couldn’t see the front gate, but knew it was about thirty yards beyond the trucks.
Red stopped at the front corner of the middle hut. Nick, behind him, covered the left hut as best he could. The team held up for a moment while Red composed himself.
At this point, Nick was no longer in charge. It was on the point man, and Nick knew Red was setting himself before they hit their first hut, where he’d be in the lead.
Up at the front, Red knew he needed to move, but he struggled to swallow down his fear. He’d been in some deep shit during his seven tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, but this was an all-new level of deep shit. They were four men forty-plus miles behind enemy lines, with no radio or support or back up of any kind.
And once he cleared this final corner, there was a damn good chance that a non-silenced weapon would be fired and hundreds -- perhaps more than a thousand -- fiery, pissed-off Muslim men were going to come running from below in the valley.
In the end, he moved not because he was ready, but because waiting at the corner of the two mud huts was more dangerous than going. Someone might walk out for a late night smoke or a generator might run out of gas, and they’d be caught in a hell of a quandary.
Red took one more breath and turned the corner on his right. Nick followed, staying just behind, and Truck and Marcus completed the tight stack.
Red had barely turned the corner when he came face-to-face with a man standing outside the mud hut’s door.
Chapter 25
The man was taking a deep draw on a freshly lit cigarette, the red tip glowing brightly against the dark. Being a smoker himself, Red hated knowing that the man wasn’t going to get to finish his very last cigarette.
Red slowly lifted the barrel of his silenced pistol toward the man’s head. The man stood ten feet away, but sensed movement in the shadows and peered forward. His mouth opened in shock, and he turned for an AK leaning against the wall beside him.
Red focused on his front sight and pulled the trigger twice. TSK. TSK. The man appeared to try to yell, but his body crumpled lifelessly. Two .45s to the brain have a way of ending all body function.
Red rushed forward, knowing speed mattered now more than ever.
A man called from inside the hut. “Yossef?”
Red made it to the door of the mud hut, which was nothing more than a rickety-looking thing made of cheap wood. Nick caught up to him and put his hand on his shoulder.
Red pulled his powerful flashlight out of a pouch and heard movement behind the door, moving toward them. “Yossef?” the man called again, but louder this time.
Red kicked the door in. He flicked the tactical flashlight on, flooding the room with a blinding light of several hundred illumination.
A shadow moving toward him shouted “Aiyeehh!!!” as he spun his AK toward Red.
Red blinded him with the powerful flashlight and fired violently and quickly. TSK. TSK. TSK. TSK. TSK.
The man kept coming, either hit and fueled by adrenaline, or Red had missed him in the chaos of the hasty entry. The man’s AK opened up, roaring in the small room. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Red shoved himself to the side, stumbling over a chair that toppled. As he fell, he desperately tried to re-aim his weapon, but the leg of the chair caught his arm, knocking his light and his weapon’s aim further off target toward the ceiling.
The man’s bullets tracked toward him, dirt exploding along the wall and ground. Red screamed, “AHHH!!!!” and knew he was dead.
But a powerful beam of light caught the man in the face, blinding him. TSK. TSK. TSK.
The man screamed as the rounds slammed him in the chest, and he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Nick put the light back on him and shot twice more into his head. TSK. TSK.
Truck rushed past Nick and the immobile Red, who was tangled up in the chair. His web gear was hooked onto it, and he fought to free himself in the darkness with just the aid of his flashlight.
Truck turned and headed into the next room at a sprint. Momentum mattered more than control or tactics. Light filtered from the next room, and he saw Ahmud al-Habshi working frantically on a computer. The man was typing desperately and completely ignoring an AK leaning against a beat-up folding table.
The room was deep. At least ten feet long and al-Habshi was at the far end, working at a small desk in the corner.
“He’s sending a message!” Truck screamed, running forward.
Truck ignored all tactical considerations. His mind possessed a single purpose: knocking al-Habshi to the ground.
He barreled into the room and never saw the man lurking in the corner, waiting to ambush the first person who entered the room.
The man knelt with his back to the wall, with his AK up and ready. He opened up the minute Truck burst into the room, rotating his weapon to catch up with the man sprinting into the room.
Nick entered the room milliseconds after Truck. The shooter in the corner swung his weapon as fast as he could after Truck, but hit just behind the fleetin
g, laterally-moving target. Not only could he not catch his target, he also failed to notice another man entering the room.
Nick stepped into the room, spun his .45 to the left, and fired two rounds center mass. TSK. TSK. As the man fell, Nick raised his pistol and fired a round into his face. The man dropped and started convulsing on the ground. Nick fired once more into the man’s head, and he stopped.
Meanwhile, Truck had closed the distance to al-Habshi. Unable to buttstroke the man since his machine gun was slung, he pivoted the weapon horizontally in front of him and dove forward. The weapon, acting like the front bumper of a car, slammed al-Habshi in the side of the head and knocked him to the ground.
Truck was tumbling from the collision, and he fell on al-Habshi as he heard the sound of Nick’s silenced Glock behind him dealing with whatever had been back in that corner. Truck pinned al-Habshi to the dirt floor of the hut, spun him to put him face down, and wrenched an arm behind his back. He added pressure, and al-Habshi screamed. Al-Habshi complied and placed his other arm behind his back.
Truck zip-tied the man’s arms and pulled a sack from his gear. He covered the man’s head and turned to give Nick a thumbs up.
Chapter 26
Marcus yelled from the other room of the hut.
“Guys, we’ve got shouting outside,” he said, his AK-47 covering the front door. “I think they’re gathering to rush us.”
Without any of their flashlights on, the cave-like room was enveloped in a crescent of thick blackness. Therefore as Nick, followed by Truck, re-entered the front room, they made an immediate right turn, pressing tightly to the back wall. Then allowing their shoulders to lightly brush up against the surface, they felt their way along the back wall, banked left at the corner, and moved up the right hand side of the hut.
Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Page 7