Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  The boy had waved back energetically, smiling in the cute and heart-warming way that only an innocent face could. But he had counted the trucks and estimated the number of men in each one as they passed, and once the trucks were out of sight, he had let the kite go and run away from the road. Out of sight behind some large boulders, he pulled up a radio partially buried under a rock.

  Mushahid received the boy’s report on the number of troops and trucks approaching, merely thanking him. He called two of his experienced men to his position to discuss the matter. On the one hand, they had hauled so much ammunition to the hill and prepared some incredible fighting positions. On the other, each had been under artillery fire before and to hear of such an extensive bombardment planned for the hill? Well, that was something no one wanted to try to survive.

  Even survivors lucky enough to not be wounded would be dealing with ringing eardrums, assuming they could prevent complete loss of hearing. And certainly half of their men would be killed or wounded before they could fire onto the enemies climbing up the slopes. Maybe more. And if the Afghans flew a drone or two by? Or allowed the Americans to resume air operations?

  It was a frightening image to consider. Their mission had been to draw away an army battalion from inside the city. They had achieved this, and in the end, Mushahid reasoned they would serve the cause better by escaping off the hill with as much of their ammunition as possible.

  Leaving so much heavy machine gun ammunition was a serious loss, but he couldn’t call for assistance to help them withdraw. The Afghan government and Americans monitored all their communications by radio and would quickly alter their strategy.

  So, Mushahid decided to add some cunning to their plans. He lifted the radio and informed the young boy, “Tell our families and supporters that we are dug in well. We anxiously await the government’s attack and will embarrass the puppet soldiers of America.”

  And with that, his men scrambled to pack up and climb over the backside of the hill and down the other side. Mushahid had no waiting transportation, and he couldn’t call for any, obviously, but the Taliban thrived at living off the land and remaining hidden. He’d either stow their heavy weapons with a friendly supporter that lived nearby or have a local drive into Kabul with a messenger from his unit to share their change of plans.

  The people supported the Taliban, having grown to hate the Americans. And they weren’t much fonder of the corrupt Afghan government. Not to mention, they feared offending the Taliban, who could still be ruthless in an instant.

  Mushahid would use these realities to get support from the people, and they’d use the local residents to get the men and their weapons into Kabul one way or another. Of that, he was confident.

  Chapter 74

  Marcus looked over the warehouse. It was only day two of S3’s stay in Kabul, and although their decrepit shelter was still gross and had enough rats running through it to feed them for days, the logistics team had made some nice improvements. And all of them at Marcus’ request.

  Although big Bossman Woods wasn’t exactly sweating the rustic living conditions (“rust” being the key syllable here) of their new abode, Marcus had felt otherwise. There was an unspoken rule born into the male mind, about men only being Men if they, without hesitation or complaint, stayed the course on the road most shat upon. The military operated on the same rule, but it applied to both Men and Women. Plus, in the military this rule was very clearly stated, often loudly and mere inches away from your face.

  But after years of difficult service in the United States Marine Corps, Marcus no longer felt an obligation to that particular rule. He didn’t have anything left to prove to anyone. And when he had the option of comfort, he would accept it gladly and without shame.

  He also wasn’t going to require the brave and talented people around him to go without basic amenities either. So, despite knowing that he’d eventually somehow manage to “forget” the orders completely, Marcus still attempted to ask Nick about some minor upgrades to their temporary home.

  “We’ll only be a few days,” Nick had said. “No point. Let’s stay focused on the mission.”

  Marcus had at least two problems with Nick’s reasoning. First, he had learned some years ago that in the military or in a combat situation “a few days” could very easily turn into a few weeks or more. Secondly, this was Nick. While it was quite common for leadership to prioritize a mission above their troops, Nick Woods and his sniper focus took the idea to a whole new level. The man was nothing short of manic when he was mission planning, especially in this case as he didn’t have a clue what he was actually planning for.

  Marcus had watched as Nick darted about at a furious pace. He was directing the four squads to patrol various parts of the city -- both to get a feel for their new surrounding and to hopefully spot some clue that might portend an upcoming attack. Besides the patrols by the squads, Nick had also hidden his three sniper teams in carefully selected observation posts. Finally, he grilled the four attached police officers, asking them to talk with their fellow officers and search for patterns that might be overlooked.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, he was harassing the IT experts to double-down on their combing through of Ahmud al-Habshi’s computer and servers. But the IT people couldn’t read Pashto, and the language folks were mostly back in the States, so there was lots of forwarding, uploading, and scanning of documents. All of which took time and had produced almost zilch in regards to intelligence, minus the information that led to the ambush on the supply convoy.

  So having expected nothing less, Marcus had immediately and “accidentally” deleted Nick’s response from his brain. A couple radio conversations later, and the S3 logistics team arrived from Bagram Airfield with supplies and ready to work.

  Within an hour, the team had gotten the electricity up and working, and a neat grid of cots had started to form. The cots weren’t the most comfortable, but they sure beat having to sleep on the concrete floor another night. And certainly not even the Bossman and his rickety old spine would be able to complain about that.

  Marcus was looking forward to some air conditioning, currently being worked on, and the promise of prepared meals during their stay. He was just smiling over all the progress when he heard an irritated, country-laced holler behind him.

  “Marcus!”

  Marcus’ smile drooped as he turned to look across the room. Nick sat in a metal folding chair behind his homemade, and literally jacked-up command center. He had the receiver of an encrypted satellite phone pressed to his ear in one hand while the other hand was impatiently beckoning Marcus.

  While the warehouse contained three actual designated office spaces, at the present none of them were very functional. None of the small offices had any exterior ventilation source, and over time, the leaking roof, radiant heat, infestations (plural), and general decay had turned the environment of each into that of a very large petri dish. And as the place had been abandoned years ago, they’d found that at least one of the offices had now been turned into the loving home of Mr. and Mrs. Rat, their two dozen beautiful children, plus their three hundred adorable grandchildren.

  But somewhere Nick had managed to unearth a square, rusted folding table missing only one of its four legs. Then using a thick discarded book, a second folding chair, and a crooked car jack (and thus the “jacked-up” description), he’d managed to get the surface mostly level. And at some point, he’d secured the artificial appendage together with a hastily wrapped cast of duct tape. On the table was a collection of various maps, satellite images, and other intel paraphernalia.

  “Marcus, snap out of it and get over here!” the man barked.

  Marcus walked across the warehouse, following a line of contraband cots, and secretly hoped he wasn’t about to get his ass unnecessarily bitten off because of them.

  “What’s up, boss?” he asked.

  Nick hung up the phone and sat back in the squeaky-folding chair, clenching his hair in his fists and groani
ng. A look of annoyed madness briefly crossed his face.

  “I’m coming up empty,” Nick said, exasperated. He motioned to the map of Kabul and the scattered papers before him.

  Marcus gave a mental sigh of relief. Nick remained so wholly focused on the Taliban that he hadn’t found time to get pissed off about Marcus’ plot with logistics.

  “Well,” Marcus said, “I’ve been over the options about a hundred times myself, and I’ve only got the same answer that I gave you before. They’ll most likely try and hit the president’s building.”

  Nick still looked frustrated.

  “Remember, that’s why we picked this location, Nick,” Marcus said, trying to give the man some assurance. “And now that we’re set up and ready to go, positioned this close to our best probable target, I don’t know what else there is for us to do but wait.”

  Nick shook his head in dissatisfaction. “That’s not good enough. Damn it. There has to be something we’re overlooking or that we could be doing.”

  Marcus gave him a small smile. He knew that Nick wasn’t really this worked up because they weren’t as prepared as they could be. The man was simply a strike-first kind of guy. And the waiting, plus the unknown threat, was making him restless.

  “Well, we could,” Marcus speculated, “wrap Red up in an American flag and let him wander down the street. See if he draws any fire, maybe?”

  Marcus turned his head directing Nick’s gaze far across the open-bayed warehouse, where the little man stood shadow boxing when he was technically supposed to be resting.

  “You know he’s crazy enough to do it,” Marcus said.

  Nick watched Red for a moment, impressed as he’d always been, with the man’s speed, skill, and endurance.

  “I don’t know,” Nick said, grinning a bit. “I’m kind of partial to the little asshole. But, just to be safe, let’s make that our backup plan.”

  Chapter 75

  The Afghan president stood behind an ornate podium, gazing out at the press before him with a warm greeting that was the complete opposite of what he truly felt. He had heeded the advice of his military advisors and decided to hold this press conference in the safety of the room where he typically addressed the country.

  The reporters had bitched to no end about being arrayed around him on a street corner after his last press event. It’s true, he thought. He had made a hell of a target for a car bombing, but he was disgusted by the fact that they were more worried about their own deaths than doing their duty to save the country by calming the fears of the terrified people.

  They’re self-interested, spoiled troublemakers, he thought. And not for the first time. Yet he smiled at them with as genuine a smile as he could summon. The smile was not for them, but for the people who might see it on their TVs or at cafes in the city.

  But despite his lack of regard for the press, he was feeling much better about the security situation since the report from the military. The Taliban had made their play and been promptly stomped.

  “I’m here to announce that Afghan government forces have routed Taliban insurgents occupying a hill outside Kabul. Our army coordinated artillery and mortar fire to obliterate the Taliban positions, which were quickly seized afterward.”

  He smiled and nodded to some light applause.

  “My message to the Afghan people is that the Taliban cannot stand up to our military. Our heavy weapons and the courageous actions of our troops will always carry the battlefield. Furthermore, today’s military action proved once and for all that our forces do not need American assistance.

  “As I stated before the fight, I will not allow American forces to operate in our country again. While we are appreciative of their efforts through the years, we can now stand on our own two feet thanks to their help. Our forces are well-led, well-supplied, and well-armed. But more importantly, they are more diligent and careful.

  “I don’t believe for one second that Afghan pilots would have lit up that compound as the American Apaches did. And can we blame them? This isn’t the Americans’ country. They’re mere soldiers, wanting to survive our war so they can return home safely to their families.

  “Our soldiers are more prudent. They recognize the local soldiers on the ground. They know the families in each town. They operate with more discretion. I’m aware that some advisors advocate allowing American troops to operate again. I’m even aware that some of our residents feel the same way.

  “But I have carefully reflected on my decision and concluded once more that our forces are prepared to handle all security operations in our country. As a matter of fact, I have ordered another army battalion to deploy from Kabul to take up the pursuit of these Taliban survivors. And with that, I’ll take a few questions.”

  Chapter 76

  Nick, Marcus, and the Primary Strike Team watched the president’s speech the very moment it was uploaded online by a local news organization. It didn’t merit coverage by CNN or any English-speaking stations, so Lana Haider translated, pausing the video every couple of moments as she relayed the remarks.

  Once it ended, Nick glanced at Marcus and said, “Let’s go call Mr. Smith.”

  Through the magic of electricity and a working air conditioner plus a few fans, they had managed to get one of the three offices cool and well-lit enough to inspect. And with the help of a selfless (while also maybe not completely informed) volunteer willing to check the room for any vermin, they now had a usable, though still nasty, office space. Red had only screamed a little, but he had sworn over and over again that he’d just been a little startled. He also repeatedly mumbled that he’d never seen a rat as big as a dog before.

  Truck had laughed, snorting a bit, and asked, “Afraid of a big bad wolf, little Red?”

  Red’s eyes had widened as he quickly turned to face the big man. A vein had bulged from his cocked neck, and Lana and Preacher had managed to grab him, while Truck rocked back and forth on his heels, tearing up at his own joke.

  Soon after, Nick and Marcus walked into the one rat-free office inside the warehouse. While Nick worked the satellite phone to make a connection, Marcus leaned his M4 against the wall and started a set of push-ups.

  Nick propped his boots on a metal desk that had to be fifty years old.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing push-ups on this nasty floor,” Nick said while the phone attempted to connect.

  The phone usually took between fifteen to forty-five seconds to connect.

  “I’ve got my gloves on,” Marcus said, stilling going up and down with ease.

  “Still,” Nick replied. “This place is moldy as hell.”

  “Probably no worse than the damn trailer you lived in back in East Tennessee,” Marcus quipped.

  “I never lived in any trailer,” Nick snapped back. “Now quit stereotyping the good people of Appalachia before headquarters realizes how much insubordination I allow.”

  “Headquarters is already listening,” Mr. Smith replied, “but I’m glad Marcus brought it up because I have been dying to ask how you all manage without indoor plumbing and electricity. Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to get lost, Nick. So let me rephrase that: I’ve been dying to ask how y’all manage, I mean.”

  Marcus climbed to his feet and dusted off his gloves.

  Nick shook his head. “Mocking a poor and humble people,” Nick tsked. “But I guess I can’t say the behavior is all that surprising coming from a holier-than-thou, college-educated, and somehow still insecure New Englander.”

  “Aww.” Marcus cooed. “It’s really sweet how close the two of you are becoming.”

  Then Mr. Smith and Nick both cleared their throats at the same time. But before Marcus could jab them again on how adorable their synchronicity was, Mr. Smith managed to speak up and move the conversation along.

  “All in good jest,” Mr. Smith said. “Now back to the matter at hand, what’s the latest on your end?”

  “Did you see the press conference?” Nick asked.

  “I did,
and I was lucky enough to have an interpreter in my office.”

  “You’re slipping,” Nick said. “I figured you would’ve had someone steal you a copy of the speech before he ever said the words.”

  “I did,” Mr. Smith said. “But I wanted to make sure he stuck to it.”

  “Nice,” Marcus said.

  “Thankfully, we have several great sources in his administration, which would be even better if they actually knew anything about the upcoming Taliban attack.”

  “So you’ve gotten nothing new?” Nick asked.

  “If I had anything, I would have called. I’m not even sure the Pakistani ISI know the details of when or where. Just that it was originally going to happen in July, and now it’s being pushed up because they fear we have too much of the plan’s details on their servers.”

  “If Pakistani intelligence doesn’t know,” Marcus said, “then we’re not going to find out. They practically work hand-in-hand with the Taliban and Rasool Deraz.”

  “I’ve been trying,” Mr. Smith said, “to lean on our assets in ISI and in the Pakistani government, but I’m not getting much. Partly because they don’t have much. And partly because it’s hard as hell to secure informants in either organization, so when we get someone inside, their handler within the CIA becomes incredibly protective of releasing something that might lead to our informant’s death.”

  “What about the second battalion the president has deployed,” Marcus said. “Are they in contact with the enemy?”

  “They have no idea where the Taliban is,” Mr. Smith said. “We’re monitoring all their radio traffic.”

  “Maybe it’s just a PR stunt,” Nick suggested. “Maybe he’s not actually deploying another battalion.”

  “Oh, if only that were true,” Mr. Smith said. “No, he’s in the process of deploying a second battalion to the front. In his defense, he doesn’t realize his generals are afraid to admit that they have no idea where the Taliban fled. In the after-report, they told him they had seized the hill and were in pursuit of the survivors. A mere single sentence in their report. But he grabbed onto that sentence and ran with it, completely oblivious to the fact that the exhausted Afghan troops were wearily resting on top of the hill once they finally reached it.”