Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  Julia glanced to the left, looking over the space, and saw Nick Woods far off along the wall beside a very odd-looking table. He was dressed in his Afghan police uniform, and had both hands on his hips, his right one resting atop his holstered Glock. The man watched her blankly as she moved across the room and offered her a single polite nod of recognition. Julia wasn’t fazed at all by the man’s behavior. If he thought he was the first or even the worst stubborn veteran she’d met, then he was beyond mistaken.

  If building a peaceful, working relationship with Mr. Woods was easier for him with distance, then Julia was more than happy to oblige. She understood that for men like Mr. Woods, trust was probably not something given lightly. And for that reason, Julia hated that she’d let him get under her skin when they first met. She certainly understood how her reaction might have set her a step back with him.

  Scarred souls are terribly skittish in nature, and tend to wear the most armor. But Julia believed, that with time, they could work it out. Nick Woods was honestly the least of her worries, so she raised her hand in a stationary hello, letting a small smile show on her face as she nodded back respectfully. And then pushed on ahead to help her PA Ryan sort through the growing stacks of gear.

  But before she made it all the way there, she felt Marcus’ shoulder brush up against hers as he walked alongside her. The gentle giant of a man pulled her into a tight side hug. “Welcome to paradise, my lady,” he said playfully. “Now can I get you anything? Mai Tai, Margarita, a Bay Breeze, perhaps?”

  Julia smiled. “Just give me the rum, matey. And keep it coming,” she said baring her teeth and squinting an eye.

  “Aye, aye,” Marcus replied with a chuckle. He quickly squeezed her again and released her to move onward to her station.

  “Oh, I really do hope he brings back some booze,” she said to herself, looking gloomily at the piles of cases and supplies. “‘Cause I’ve got an assload of unpacking to do.”

  Nick hadn’t actually decided on how he’d greet Dr. Clayton when she arrived. If just one of the warehouse offices hadn’t been so damned disgusting, then he would have been happy to hole up in there and avoid her arrival altogether. But as he was a little concerned for the health of his lungs while hunkered in what was essentially a closed and spore-riddled closet, he decided against that plan. Eventually, he had settled on the plan of aloof and subtle acknowledgement of her existence.

  The only direct contact Nick had experienced with Dr. Clayton since their disastrous introduction was when he’d called the whole of S3 to attend a special briefing before their move to the warehouse in Kabul. She’d slipped in right before the meeting began and stood along the back wall. Nick noticed several members of S3 give the doctor a wave or head nod in silent greeting. She had smiled at all of them and even offered a nod of hello toward Nick when she’d seen him looking at her.

  Nick had been actively staring at her, but mostly because he hadn’t initially recognized her since she had her hair down and traded the scrubs for civilian clothing.

  When Nick had called for the all-hands mandatory meeting, he hadn’t actually realized that such a meeting would require the attendance of the official S3 physician. Thankfully, Marcus was, as usual, on his A-game. He somehow managed to read Nick’s mind -- because he certainly wasn’t able to understand the whispered, stuttering gibberish that came out of Nick’s mouth -- and stood to open the meeting, introducing the team to the newly hired Dr. Julia Clayton.

  Nick was glad he’d thought to suggest it, even though it was quite possible that Marcus had planned to do it himself anyway. But Nick was proud of himself regardless, and that little effort to play nice helped him quickly move past his surprise at her being there. He then gave the team their orders.

  At first, Nick had at first assumed that Dr. Clayton had hung back to shake hands and greet the rest of the team as they left the meeting room. But, as he still hadn’t planned on her being there, it wasn’t until the room had cleared, leaving her, Marcus, and Nick behind, that he’d realized that he hadn’t actually covered her orders. Nick braced himself for several things as she moved to meet them: harsh threats, a smart-ass comment maybe, possibly a physical impact of some sort.

  But the woman simply offered a polite smile and extended her hand to Nick. Nick hesitated long enough to remind himself to “never let ‘em see you sweat” and shook the lady’s hand.

  She had then looked at Marcus, who responded with a bright smile. Marcus, the rat-bastard, had then turned that damned grin on Nick, a blatant (and smug) refusal to help him negotiate this conversation.

  “Uhh,” Nick said. “I guess you’re wondering about your orders, then.”

  “Well, yes,” she replied. “But I also just wanted to sincerely thank you for the job, Mr. Woods.”

  Nick was honestly a little stunned, not just because of what she’d said, but because she really appeared to have meant it. Shake it off, Nick told himself.

  So Nick did his best to press on and save the analysis for later if he felt like worrying about it. After that, the three of them briefly sat to quickly run through the initial plan of her involvement and the possible contingencies that might come up. She had accepted the orders without complaint and simply responded with a couple surprisingly insightful questions.

  They’d then stood, everyone shaking hands, and she’d thanked them both. But she’d suddenly stopped inside of the door and turned to look at Nick.

  “How’s your shoulder, Mr. Woods?”

  Nick just looked at her, feeling lost for what should have been an easy answer. And after a painful four seconds, Nick’s brain finally caught up, and he managed to croak out the reply, “Doin’ better.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she responded, smiling lightly before making her exit.

  Unfortunately, even with the additional and overall positive interaction, Dr. Clayton had not managed to improve Nick’s personal opinion of her at all. And while Nick could not put his finger on the specific problem, he was quite frankly tired of thinking about it. Sometimes you just don’t like people, he had assured himself, doesn’t mean they’re bad people. It just means what it means: you simply don’t like them.

  However, Dr. Clayton had done enough to momentarily persuade Nick that professionally she might have potential. So as long as the doctor remained cooperative, Nick was willing to give her a shot. Besides, he honestly didn’t have many doubts about her abilities per se. He mostly worried about the probability of her inspiring a mutiny against him. Or something less dramatic, but still to the effect of being a ripe, old pain in his ass.

  And so, Nick watched as Dr. Clayton arrived. He watched as his fighters fussed and celebrated her coming. A bit excessive, Nick thought. Well, at least it was over with, and he could get back to doing what he excelled at.

  Nick leaned back and propped his knee against the wall. Crossing his arms, he observed the various squads as they prepared for tomorrow’s dangerous mission.

  The Primary Strike Team joked and laughed as they prepared their gear. They displayed the levity and lightness of experienced troops that you might find in the SEALs, Green Berets, and MARSOC. Something about shooters at that level kept them from having to act and maintain the posture of hard-asses, more commonly found in regular infantry units.

  The other three support squads had a more serious and determined look. Each of the six-man squads was off in their own small areas they had claimed in the warehouse. These men packed gear and checked weapons same as the Primary Strike Team, but they had a different look. They appeared more serious and focused, wearing tougher demeanors. Nick knew every member on each squad would go out of their way tomorrow to attempt to impress Nick or Marcus and earn a spot on the Primary Strike Team.

  And off in a far corner, all by themselves, was the sniper squad. The three teams of two wiped down scoped, long rifles and inspected ammo bullet-by-bullet as if each round was a precious diamond. Nick knew they were looking for the smallest possible deformities, despite the
fact they were already using expensive, hand-loaded match ammunition.

  Snipers will be snipers, he thought with a smile, remembering his day of being one himself. He walked to his office and grabbed his M4. He decided to walk the perimeter and make sure the S3 security element was wide awake and doing its job. The unit only had a small perimeter and chain-link fence protecting them from whatever might come, so this wasn’t a time for anyone to be dropping their guard.

  Chapter 80

  The team members going out on the patrol awoke the next morning at 5:30 a.m., feasted on MREs (slight exaggeration), and conducted final gear prep. They’d be moving out at 9 a.m. to arrive in the neighborhood by 9:30-ish. At that point, no one was really sure what would happen.

  Perhaps they would drive around the streets in the MRAPS and only get some ugly stares. If that happened, Nick didn’t know what they would do except return to base after an hour or so.

  But every bit of his instinct assumed they would take fire, and then they’d just be reacting to whatever came at them. Perhaps they’d dish it out at range, using their heavy weapons from the MRAPs to silence those foolish enough to engage them. Or maybe they’d clear some buildings if the occasion presented itself.

  It would be a great way to seize a damning amount of ammunition and weapons to prove to the Afghan president that real trouble was headed his way. But regardless of how the mission went down, Nick wanted to have most of the day (with its crucial sunlight) to fight their way through it -- or out of it, if it were serious enough.

  S3 was prepared to fight in the dark, packing all their night vision gear and batteries just in case, but Nick and Marcus didn’t want to be in the middle of Kabul fighting at night. Too many ways to die or kill innocent bystanders in such a crowded city.

  But before they could leave on their mission, Nick got a phone call at 8:20 a.m. from the last person he wanted to hear from. As soon as Lana carried the encrypted phone in his office and informed him Mr. Smith was on the line, Nick wondered how he would prevent his boss from knowing they were about to head into serious harm’s way.

  “Send it,” Nick said, speaking into the phone with some real reluctance.

  “Not sure what you have on your plate today,” Mr. Smith said, pausing, waiting for Nick to volunteer some information.

  “We’re just planning on running a couple insignificant patrols near the president’s building,” Nick said with a grin. “Same as we’ve been doing.”

  “Might want to change your plans. We’ve learned the president is planning a major celebration today, right in front of the presidential palace.”

  “I assume you’re not kidding.”

  “Nope. Two o’clock. Will probably be thousands attending, as they’re starting already to spread the word. It’ll be on the loudspeakers soon and spreading from the mosques. The president is even planning a speech. Says he wants to celebrate the rout of the Taliban.”

  Nick cursed loudly and said, “This is it. Got to go.”

  Chapter 81

  Rasool Deraz stepped out of an inner sanctum of one of Kabul’s holiest mosques. Mushahid Zubaida had waited for more than an hour while Rasool prayed inside the room.

  Rasool greeted him with the warmest smile, and Mushahid noticed the man’s eyes glistening. He shuffled up to Mushahid and hugged him hard, his frail arms exerting much effort.

  Rasool released him and pulled back, a tear rolling down his wrinkled cheek. He reached up and lightly patted Mushahid on his face.

  “I have foreseen a great victory for our people,” Rasool said. “Allah has shown me that today is the day.”

  Mushahid took a deep breath and bowed at the news. How could he convince the man to wait two more days? Especially when he got these kinds of feelings from above?

  “But, sir,” Mushahid said, “we would have a greater chance of success if we wait two more days, as we had been planning all along.”

  “No, it is time. Allah has shown me.”

  Rasool was still smiling, and Mushahid knew he would have to tread carefully. No mere mortal could suggest that perhaps Allah was wrong. And when a religious believer, who had such deep faith as Rasool, felt they had been foretold something, then plans or objections such as tactical considerations no longer mattered.

  “If Allah wills it, then we will gain victory today,” Mushahid said, humbly bowing. “But if we wait two more days, then we’ll have three hundred more fighters, and the mere soldier in me would feel far more confident.”

  He smiled with the words, making them as delicate as possible.

  “You worry too much,” Rasool said. He wrapped his arm around Mushahid and leaned on him as the two walked toward the front of the mosque, where he had left his cane and their shoes.

  “How many fighters have entered the city?” Rasool asked.

  “We now have nearly eight hundred.”

  “That is more than enough.”

  “The tribal elders have been quite generous,” Mushahid said. “They have not only sent some of their best fighters, but their women have also delivered more than enough food for the men to eat.”

  The two leaders had used messengers to request each village and town to amass men in the capital. They had stayed off the radios to prevent intercepts and avoided stating any attack dates or plans. Secrecy trumped all else.

  “There is more than enough food to wait two more days,” Mushahid argued. “By waiting, we can gain the fighters from the farthest provinces. Their longer journeys will only delay us a couple of days, but will further ensure our chances of success. And it will also allow them to take part in the victory and feel more committed to our government once the president and his people flee.”

  “It will be your government,” Rasool said.

  Mushahid stopped. “What?”

  “Yes, you will reward the tribal leaders’ loyalty graciously after this magnificent battle.”

  Rasool noticed the stunned look on Mushahid’s face.

  “Ah, now you know the other revelation Allah showed me inside that room. It is your time, Mushahid. This will be my final battle. I will deliver you victory if it is Allah’s will, and then announce that my time to step down has come.”

  Mushahid couldn’t even swallow. He stood there, frozen and stunned.

  “Of course, it will take a vote from the tribal elders, but I will push hard for your selection. Your appointment is virtually assured.”

  Mushahid still had no idea what to say.

  “It is time I retire to the mountains,” Rasool said, smiling, his eyes glistening again. “I wish to sit by the stream I played in as a child. I wish to live the simple life again, raising goats and chickens. Telling stories to my grandchildren. Hassan will be seven soon.”

  The smiling man gazed wistfully into the distance.

  One of their personal guards entered the mosque, allowed his eyes to adjust, and saw the two men across the room. He hastily removed his shoes, placed his weapon against a wall, and hurried to them.

  Rasool broke from his thoughts and said, “Yes, Assadullah?”

  The man bowed. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but word is spreading that the Afghan president is holding a massive celebration. This afternoon. In just a few hours, in fact.”

  The man lifted his head, but Rasool wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, Rasool was looking off to the upper corner of the mosque, grinning and crying. He turned to Mushahid and affirmed, “It is a sign. Yes, it is a sign. Allah wills it. Proceed, Mushahid, while I go back to pray for your victory.”

  Rasool nodded at Assadullah. “Help me back to the inner sanctum and wait by my side while I pray for our final victory.”

  The man bowed, and Mushahid did likewise.

  “Go with faith, Mushahid. It is our time.”

  Mushahid tried to bury his true thoughts about the attack as he headed for the door. He would not undermine Rasool with any looks of doubt, nor would he share his true thoughts about the attack with the men.

  Chapter
82

  Nick held the heavy encrypted phone in his hand, looking down at it and all the buttons on it. He glanced up at the troops, watching them through the small window on the door. The squad members were either checking gear for the hundredth time or throwing down some chow.

  He gripped the phone, processing what Mr. Smith had said about the planned celebration by the president. He chewed on the news like a physicist studying a complex equation.

  Was it just a celebration? That if S3 reacted to and changed their plans, they would simply waste a day observing a mass of loyal supporters foolishly celebrating a victory that wasn’t a victory? If they sat on the perimeter of the celebration, waiting to pounce, and then nothing happened, would it be a pivotal wasted day? A day in which they could have surprised and hit the Taliban in their staging area had they ignored the celebration and entered the dangerous neighborhood that he couldn’t even pronounce?

  Every fiber in his being told him that this was it. This monumentally stupid celebration by the president would be when the Taliban made their move. If they were even close to pulling off their attack, certainly they would move it forward for such an incredible opportunity.

  A celebration? In front of the presidential palace, which had to be one of their primary targets?

  He made up his mind. This was it, and there was no point second-guessing himself and checking his assumptions. He needed to move. No, they needed to move. He thrust the phone on the desk, grabbed his M4, and ripped open the door.

  He slung the M4 tactically across his chest and ran across the warehouse floor to the center of their staging area. S3 members reacted to his sprint, looking up and getting the attention of those who hadn’t noticed.

  Nick leaped up, grabbed the side of an MRAP, and vaulted to its roof.

  “Pull it in!” he yelled across the crowded floor of the warehouse. Vehicles, cots, crates, and ammunition pallets covered the floor. Thankfully, the massive warehouse had six, high bay doors that allowed them to easily pull in and drive out their MRAPs and police trucks.