The original Primary Strike Team in Mexico had lost a SEAL who went by the name of Bulldog. He had been wounded too badly in Mexico to remain on the team. And Lizard, the quiet Puerto Rican Marine, had died from a gunshot wound to the neck. That left only Nick, Marcus, Red, Truck, and Preacher, who had recovered nicely from his combat wound in Mexico.
Preacher was the most religious man on Nick’s team. His parents had been missionaries, and the 5’10” man had felt “called” to join the Marines. Nick didn’t know about being called, but Preacher had done four hard tours, two of them with MARSOC.
One man short of the six needed for the Primary Strike Team, Nick and Marcus selected an unexpected candidate to fill the final roster spot. They looked past some incredible options who were men -- Navy SEALs, Delta, Marines -- and picked a woman. And not just a woman, but also a Muslim. She was college educated, to boot, making her the only college educated member on the team. (Nick and Marcus weren’t real keen on bringing in some know-it-all prior officer.)
But Lana Haider defied about every standard Nick held prior to meeting her. He had gone into the selection, which included physical tryouts and shooting contests, wanting a knuckle-dragging shooter. But it didn’t take long to focus on Lana, one of only two women to make the final twenty prospects.
Marcus had argued prior to the tryouts that a woman would aid S3 in its undercover work, especially in the area of surveillance. Nick agreed, but made clear he wouldn’t lower the standard simply to make it happen.
He hadn’t needed to with Lana.
She shot well. Certainly not as good as some of the best from Delta and the SEALs, who worked on it daily for hours. But Lana brought a ton to the table that the Delta, SEALs, and Marine shooters didn’t bring.
Lana had been born in Saudi Arabia. And like most young girls, she was raised under a father who was a strict disciplinarian and ardent believer of Islam. He also frequently abused her mother. Unbeknownst to him, his wife worked hard behind the scenes as part of a movement to grant women more rights in Saudi Arabia, including the right to drive.
Unfortunately, Lana’s mother was eventually discovered, so she fled to America with her daughter to seek asylum. Lana was raised in America from the age of eleven. Following in the footsteps of her mother’s perseverance and drive, Lana received an abundance of scholarships, and after attending the finest private schools, she graduated with honors from Harvard.
She mastered several languages used mostly by Muslim fanatics -- no accident -- and made it her life-long mission to fight the radicals perverting the religion of Islam.
After school, she did a stint with the CIA as an analyst before convincing them to put her in the field. Her background in basketball and volleyball as an athlete growing up had conditioned her body and toughened her for the training she endured, all of which she accepted without complaint.
She thrived in fieldwork for the CIA but rebelled with the rest of it all. The bureaucracy. The politics. The paperwork. The lack of trust and routine polygraphs.
Consequently, when word spread among those in the know about a new group called S3, she inquired further. Once she confirmed it was a legit organization doing serious work for the CIA, she pursued joining the group with an admirable tenacity. And this was even prior to the openings that occurred following the nasty fighting in Mexico.
But it wasn’t until Nick and Marcus saw her in action that they pushed her to the head of the line. That seemed like so long ago, but only a few months had passed. The eleven-day long mission had wrecked Nick’s sense of time.
He helped his Primary Strike Team pick up their brass after they finished shooting. Once they were done, he called them into a huddle.
“Guys, I’m not saying anything you don’t already know, but we looked like hell out here today,” Nick said, specifically looking at Marcus, Red, and Truck. “Thankfully, Lana and Preacher showed us how it’s supposed to be done, but we need to get our shit together. And fast.”
Nick removed his helmet and adjusted his heavy armor to remove some pressure off his shoulder.
“Marcus, you heard anything from intel?”
“They’re saying it’ll be a couple more days before they have anything off of al-Habshi’s computer,” he said.
“We clearly need it,” Nick said, a bit relieved. “And while we’ll have some free time in the next couple of days, let’s not get crazy. Red, no fighting. Truck, take it easy on the beer.”
Both men grinned at each other.
“Let’s go get some damn chow,” Nick said, and the group walked back toward their rooms.
Chapter 53
While the Primary Strike Team of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter recharged and primed themselves for the next mission, a team of analysts dove into the treasure trove of equipment brought back from the mission into Pakistan. These men and women were non-S3 members, and Nick and Marcus were glad they didn’t have to oversee this part of the operation.
The CIA had deployed several technology specialists and IT experts to Bagram Airfield after Nick and his team pushed off for Pakistan. The thinking behind the move was that if, by some near-miracle, the team pulled off their mission, the intelligence gathered would be absolutely time critical.
The Taliban would quickly learn that loads of valuable information had been seized, and they wouldn’t hesitate to relocate key leaders, munitions, and safe houses. Consequently, the analysts were completely prepared to tear into the computer and servers the moment they arrived at Bagram Airfield.
A special room had been built that had several additional generators for increased electrical capacity, and the computer team had brought in more than two hundred pounds of various computer parts (older and newer), as well as wiring configurations. No one knew whether the Taliban was using ratty computers ten or twenty years old, or brand-new, top-of-the-line equipment. And the IT specialists wanted to be prepared for either option without any delay of trying to track down some hard-to-find part in Afghanistan.
Having to wait for some special part to be flown in from America or China wasn’t an option, so they had spent hours and hours debating what all should be brought as they prepped and packed for the mission. It turned out the equipment was modern and in pretty fair condition, giving the jostling it had received and a couple of bullet impacts. The impacts were to non-critical areas, so quite quickly the team had a data link set up by satellite to load thousands and thousands worth of terabytes to language and cultural experts waiting back at Langley, Virginia.
Additional translators from the Department of Defense had been brought in, and the intel was torn into with a ferocity not seen since the post 9/11 frenzy following its aftermath. The analysts focused primarily on emails and documents, setting aside videos (and non-published videos) for later. Tracking down new faces and locations recorded on these video clips would take place after the initial urgency ended.
And while all this work took place, Nick and the Primary Strike Team rested, began running again, and practiced their shooting skills and immediate action drills. S3 would be ready to rock and roll once the word arrived on where to strike next.
Chapter 54
Deep in the recently renovated tech room, the CIA analysts scored their first real find on the same day that Nick’s Primary Strike Team put forward a lackluster day on the range. The analysts discovered from the servers an email about an upcoming supply convoy, which appeared to be scheduled for only three days away.
The analysts searched further back in the archives for additional messages related to it and stumbled upon supplemental clues and data that provided a fuller picture. It turned out that the truck convoy was a regular occurrence, taking place each month. Supplies came out of Pakistan and were delivered at a number of stops throughout Afghanistan.
The motorcade shipped into the country badly-needed RPG and recoilless rifle rounds, as well as huge amounts of currency. RPG and recoilless rifle rounds were hard to come by in Afghanistan, and money wasn’t much easi
er. The country was so poor that even a well-structured organization like the Taliban, which taxed and preyed on the people for “gifts,” struggled to accumulate financial resources.
The crucial weapon deliveries brought the Taliban goodwill and allegiance from the tribal leaders throughout the country. In a country where even poor, eleven-year-old boys carried assault rifles, the RPGs and recoilless rifles were difference makers. They brought power to whichever tribal warlord wielded them. In addition, the weaponry resupplied various commanders of their organization. Once in the hands of Taliban chieftains, the currency worked its way down as payment to fighters and bribes to informants.
Past emails revealed the monthly convoys ranged in size from three to four trucks, with between ten to fifteen fighters providing protection. Best of all, the analysts had been able to determine the route the convoy used by tracing messages between the Taliban and various villages the convoy stopped in along its course.
Now, S3 had a target, a date, and a route.
The team needed to pick the best ambush location and time of day to strike. Nick called the Primary Strike Team together to assemble in the briefing room.
Nick glanced down at his watch and saw it was time for the meeting to start, but Marcus wasn’t there yet.
“Let’s wait a few minutes,” Nick said to the Primary Strike Team members. “Marcus is checking in with the analysts one final time for any new intel they may have discovered before we pull together our plans.”
While the team waited, the usual banter broke out. Nick kept to himself at the front of the room, while Red and Truck argued about football. Red wouldn’t shut up about Ohio State while Truck went on and on about his home state's team, the Texas Longhorns.
Lana and Preacher were bent over a map, studying a few possible ambush locations. The delay from Marcus returning with the information was taking longer than expected, and Nick found his mind drifting. Drifting to a moment that would happen after the mission was finished.
Smith, the high-level CIA official whose real name Nick didn’t even know, and who truly was in charge of S3, had promised Nick that when S3 completed its mission in Afghanistan, he’d give Nick the name behind the CIA unit that had gone off the rails and led to the death of his wife, Anne. Nick and his reporter friend, Allen Green, had killed the lower-level leader of the group -- a man named Whitaker.
But the true leader behind the rogue CIA group had never paid for his crimes. Nick and Allen had accepted a deal from the man and ended their search upon facing imminent death from a drone strike and troops in helicopters waiting to pounce.
Nick recalled word-for-word the conversation he’d had with his boss prior to their departure to Afghanistan.
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth about who’s behind this?” Nick asked. “What keeps you from using me to take down the wrong person? Just some enemy of yours?”
“Logic,” Smith said. “When I tell you the name, you’ll know he’s the only possible person who could have been behind it.”
Nick had held the phone and chewed on that. He still had never met in person with Smith, or Mr. Smith, as Nick had jokingly referred to him the first time they talked.
“Why can’t I do it before we pack up and leave?” Nick asked. “I want this man bad.”
“Because the man is well guarded, and there’s not the time to do it right. We need your unit in Afghanistan pronto before Deraz topples the government there.”
Nick pondered that answer but decided to push back.
“You underestimate me. I can get him. Plus, I have a great team around me. We’ve got time.”
“No,” Smith said. “You don’t have near enough time. He’s guarded by Secret Service agents, and we can’t have a bloodbath. It’ll really need to be planned.”
Nick paused. He wanted to push hard, be a total demanding asshole, but he also knew Smith was his only way of getting to the man. Plus, Smith was his boss and kept him doing what he loved more than anything else in the world. But their relationship was complicated and often nasty.
Taking a deep breath, Nick calmed himself down and said, “How do I know you’re not just stringing me along? That after we go to Afghanistan, you won’t delay again afterward. Make up some other reason why I can’t get him.”
“Again, logic,” Smith replied. “The man has become too big a thorn in the CIA’s side, so it’s time for him to pay for all his dozens of misdeeds.”
“Sounds a little convenient,” Nick grunted.
“It is.”
“And if I get killed over in Afghanistan, trying to take down this Rasool Deraz feller?”
“We’ll get someone else.”
Nick realized he was the perfect man to take down this public official. If Nick died trying or was captured, the CIA wouldn’t mind a “war vet gone mad” headline in the paper. And the press would quickly discover the death of Anne. They would immediately cite it as the reason for Nick’s actions.
“Just tell me his name,” Nick said. “Tell me his name before I go over there so I can have something to look forward to.”
There was a brief pause, then Smith broke the silence.
“Senator Ray Gooden.”
The moment he said it, Nick knew it had to be the man. The Texas Senator had been around for almost forty years. And he’d chaired the Armed Forces Committee for nearly two decades, as well. He was perfectly positioned to have led the off-the-books group.
More to the point, Nick wasn’t a huge follower of political news, but you didn’t have to be to know Senator Gooden was always under investigation for something. Not to mention he had a serious black mark on his record following the mysterious death of a democratic opponent. The opponent had been more than twelve points ahead in every poll with the election just two days away when his plane crashed soon after takeoff following yet another successful fundraiser. An investigation found faulty wiring, which oddly had not been found in a preflight inspection conducted two hours prior to taking off.
During that campaign, four major newspapers had endorsed his opponent. Since then, the number had continued to rise, regardless of the opponent. Senator Gooden was hated. By the press. By his opponents. By the majority of the people across the country, except for in Texas.
And yet he kept getting elected. Everyone knew how dirty he was. He had taken illegal campaign contributions. He had been investigated twice by the Senate Ethics Committee for conflict of interest. But, with every opponent since candidate Bob Kile, who died with his wife, four aides, and two pilots in the fiery crash just outside of Houston, Gooden had easily been re-elected.
The man’s tactics were as brilliant as they were barbarous. Nude pictures of daughters or wives of rivals leaked to media outlets and bloggers. Strange investigations by the IRS were launched. Unexplained endorsements for the Republican Gooden would emerge from Democrats who had spoken poorly of him just weeks before.
Gooden was old school politics, and he believed a little dirt and leverage could win any political battle. To date, he’d been right.
But now Nick had him in his sights.
Nick remembered not overplaying his hand or showing how big a deal it was to discover Gooden’s name. Instead, Nick merely thanked Smith for the information, ended the call, and then immediately prepared contingency plans for Gooden in case Nick was killed in Afghanistan.
Nick relayed the name to Marcus and famed reporter, Allen Green, who had publicized Nick’s story of being sold out a few years earlier. Through a ton of hard work that spanned literally years, Allen had pieced together the full story of how Nick and another Marine Scout Sniper had operated on top secret missions in Afghanistan against the Soviets in the ’80s. After the story had broken, the two had been forced to go on the run. And in those weeks that followed, they had become good friends.
Nick informed Marcus and Allen in person so that no trace of Senator Gooden’s name would be found on either audio or written means by the NSA. Allen assured Nick that if somethin
g happened to both Nick and Marcus while they were in Afghanistan, he would expose Senator Gooden and take him down through the media.
Nick remembered the brilliant mind of Allen, as he had used everything from websites to former news contacts to break down the undercover CIA wing run by Senator Gooden and a man named Whitaker. Allen practiced a different kind of warfare. One in which the power of the internet and media was harnessed. But he also remembered the anti-gun, anti-violence man using an MP-5 to help finish off Whitaker, saving Nick’s life in the process.
Nick was confident that Allen would follow through with Gooden, just as he was confident Marcus would, as well, should Nick go down in a blaze of glory.
A door slammed shut and broke Nick from his thoughts. Marcus walked toward him with a file folder and a legal pad covered in scribbled notes.
“I’ve got the latest intel,” he said. “And it’s not all good.”
Chapter 55
The unit made its plans for the ambush, rehearsed its actions, and rested with what time remained. And at dawn of the morning the convoy was expected to arrive, the members of S3 waited in concealed positions. And they waited some more.
This was the part that sucked most about ambushes. Just waiting and waiting. And as the morning sun crept higher and burned brighter, the suck factor escalated quickly.
Unlike most, Nick didn’t mind the waiting. Laying perfectly still had saved his skin too many times to count. He ran his hand along the dust and gravel, picking up a small piece of dirt between two fingers and crushing it, a growing habit of his when waiting. He returned his gaze to the route below them and thought back to the time he’d outwaited a counter sniper in the woods of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.
Yeah, being patient and learning to wait was definitely a skill worth keeping sharp. And on the bright side, at least they were in American uniforms again and carried what they preferred, including tactical gloves, CamelBaks, and knee pads, for those who liked them.
Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Page 16