Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  S3 members scrambled across the gear and crowded floor to circle the MRAP.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Nick shouted. “The highly esteemed and incredibly wise president of Afghanistan,” he said sarcastically, “has decided in his infinite wisdom to hold a celebration over his magnificent defeat of the Taliban. And he’ll be holding it right in front of the Arg. Today.”

  “Good lord,” someone said.

  “Clearly, we’re canceling our mission into the shithole we planned to hit today. The name of which I still can’t pronounce.”

  “Al-shit-bar,” Truck offered with a chuckle.

  “Close enough,” Nick replied. “Now, the celebration is at two this afternoon, so we need to move fast.”

  “Damn,” came another comment.

  “He’s bringing the enemy right on his doorstep,” Lana added with a curse. “They’ll be able to hide right in with the crowds.”

  “He doesn’t believe there is an enemy,” Red said. “They were quote ‘decisively crushed.’”

  “It is what it is,” Nick said. “Marcus, I want you to lead a quick recon of the objective. Take 1st Squad, grab your interpreters, and get us plenty of photos. We need to plan out our defense.”

  Nick searched the crowd for his snipers.

  “Rider, grab your interpreter and police trucks and scope out some good sniper hides on the objective.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “Lana, you come with me. We’re headed to the presidential palace so we can coordinate with them and alert them of our presence. Our police uniforms will help, but we don’t want any accidents.”

  Lana nodded, then Nick added, “And, squad leaders, you must keep your police attachments with you. We can’t have our own members harassed or detained by their already too-stretched police force.”

  “In case there’s not time to say it later,” Lana said, “be aware that all police officers may not be friendly. And I’m not just talking Taliban members who infiltrated the police department and have been laying low. I’m talking about Taliban members who may be wearing stolen uniforms today.”

  There were some murmurs about that.

  “Let’s move fast, everyone,” Nick said, cutting off the bitching. “We’ll need a full defensive battle plan well before 1 p.m. so we can have everyone in place before the crowds prevent us from moving about on the site, which I suspect will be packed.”

  Chapter 83

  The crowds of people exploded beyond the confines of the courtyard and streets surrounding the presidential palace. The sheer mass of people as they pressed their way forward was impossible to imagine for a westerner.

  People shoved and squeezed forward, and there was a palpable energy that was off the charts. Nick had no idea why everyone kept pushing forward as if they had a need to make it to the front. It wasn’t like the president was handing out money.

  The crowd had so overwhelmed everyone’s expectations that Nick had been forced to move each of S3’s squads away from the danger of being surrounded and crushed. They had initially stationed themselves on the outskirts of the assembly area with a squad at each of the four corners.

  But as the thousands and thousands of people filled the area, pouring in from side streets and main streets, it was clear that S3 would be in serious shit if the attack went down as expected. There were all kinds of significant dangers. One being that vendors had arrived early and set up probably fifty or more vending stands. Trucks with food and people stuffed in the back had bulled their way in, as well. These vendors and trucks could be crammed with weapons inside their crates and under tarps.

  The Afghan police weren’t checking the vendors or trucks, despite a suggestion from Nick and Mr. Smith to both the leadership of the police force and a senior advisor to the president. Instead, the police officers were just as caught up in the feeling of euphoria and celebration.

  And still more people pushed and jostled forward. The crowd of ten thousand-plus people finally proved too dangerous for the liking of Nick and Marcus. They ordered all of S3 to withdraw back to their warehouse. Even that took nearly half an hour as they crept and crawled in vehicles through the masses, yelling and shouting at people to move out of the way.

  “Guess we’ll just have to respond once the shoot'n starts,” Red said, after they finally arrived at the warehouse.

  About the only good news was they had aerial footage up and running within an hour. Nick had called his logistics man, as they fought their way out of the presidential square to get with Bagram Airfield and beg, borrow, or steal some small drones. The logistics man was in good with an Army master sergeant he had served with, and since the drones weren’t being used anyway, he allowed his buddy to borrow them.

  “But, if,” the master sergeant said, “a major attack happens and the Afghan government finally allows American forces to operate, then I’ll need them back so fast that your head will spin. No delays. No excuses.”

  “Fair enough,” the S3 logistics man had said. He hoped Nick didn’t force him to burn a good friend and relationship if things turned to hell because he knew Nick would almost never relinquish the drones once an attack started.

  Chapter 84

  Practically every member of S3’s four squads, as well as the sniper squad, waited with nerves on edge back at the warehouse, huddling around three small monitors. Those in the front sat, while those immediately behind them kneeled. Finally, those in the back stood, wedging themselves between others.

  Each studied the three monitors with an intensity and focus you might see in a heart surgeon as she makes the crucial cut.

  The footage was from the three borrowed drones, and it was remarkably good. Unfortunately, it was on screens too small for so many people to be watching. The Army master sergeant had even allowed S3 to borrow the three drone operators. Partly, he felt there was less chance of a crash occurring this way. And partly because it would help ensure that he retained control of them should the Taliban make their move.

  Nick and Marcus sat on two footlockers right between the operators.

  “Zoom in on that truck,” Marcus said.

  The camera tilted and zoomed, but nothing could be seen under a heavy tarp.

  It was probably the twentieth or thirtieth time they had suggested a flight change or camera zoom, and still nothing had been seen. The S3 members behind them would often break the silence and point to something, but nothing had come of any of their efforts so far.

  “Where are they?” Truck yelled.

  He wasn’t the only one frustrated. Nick could feel in his gut that the enemy was somewhere in the crammed-in masses, but their discipline was impressive.

  “Damn it,” Marcus cursed. “I know they’re in there.”

  The words “in there” struck a weird nerve in Nick. He felt that sick-to-his-stomach feeling he’d once felt when a sniper had him in his sights in the woods of Camp Lejeune.

  Of course they weren’t in there because that’s where they’d be expected.

  “Zoom out,” he ordered to the drone operators. “All of you.”

  And with that, the drone operators quickly found the Taliban. A massive column of men was moving down the street toward the presidential palace, still probably a mile or two away. They rode in Toyota trucks beneath black Taliban flags, driving slowly as if it were some parade.

  “Holy shit,” Preacher said, and he didn’t typically cuss.

  “And this is what happens when you won’t allow us to operate drones or air power,” Red said. He stopped suddenly and jumped to his feet. “What the hell? Why aren’t they firing?”

  Afghan police units were parting and scattering as the convoy moved forward. Not a single round was fired at those in the convoy.

  “They are probably broadcasting on a megaphone from the lead truck, saying that anyone that decides not to confront them will be spared,” Lana proposed. “It’s common practice. And since the Taliban only attacks so openly when they have vastly superior numbers,
probably no police officer wants to risk being on the losing side when the battle’s over.”

  “Those motherfuckers,” Red said. “They’re frozen up. Deer-in-the-headlights kind of shit.”

  “Well, we’re not,” Nick said. “Mount up, everyone. And Dr. Clayton, I hope you’re ready to travel because you’re coming with us.”

  Chapter 85

  As the squads ran around grabbing gear and mounting up, Nick dialed Mr. Smith.

  “It’s going down,” Nick said, the moment the call connected.

  “What’s happening?”

  “One large column of Taliban moving toward the presidential palace. We’re moving to intercept them.”

  “What are your --”

  Nick turned the phone off and stuffed it in his pack.

  Marcus stood there, now donned in his full Afghan police gear, including bullet-proof vest and helmet.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked.

  “Hell if I know. We’ll just drive out there, shoot some of these fools, and see how it plays out.”

  “Sounds like my kind of plan,” Marcus replied, smiling.

  Nick yanked his assault vest and web gear on, then slung his M4 across his chest and cinched his helmet down.

  The two walked toward the line of vehicles.

  “Order of movement,” Nick yelled, “is Primary Strike Team in the front MRAP followed by 1st Squad, 2nd Squad, Sniper Squad, and 3rd Squad in the rear. Marcus, you ride with 3rd Squad. Dr. Clayton, assign your team members so that you’re spread out one per MRAP in the middle vehicles. Snipers, pack your long guns, but you’ll be operating as a regular squad, so take your M4s as your primary weapons. Once we make contact, I’ll issue orders on what our plans are.”

  “Ooh-rah!” screamed Red, already climbing in the first vehicle.

  “Yut!” yelled someone else.

  That would be about as much of a pep talk as S3 would get. These were professional fighters, and this wasn’t their first dance. And once you’ve done it a few times, you don’t need inspirational speeches or silly maxims about standing together.

  Each squad climbed and squeezed in its own v-shaped hull MRAP. They were using the popular Cougar 6x6 model, which had four wheels in the back and two in the front. Besides the v-shaped hull providing excellent protection from IEDs, the armored sides of the Cougar MRAP shielded them against all machine-gun fire. As long as they didn’t run into any RPGs, they’d be fairly safe in the movement to the battlefield.

  In the first vehicle, Truck drove, and Nick clambered into the passenger seat. Nick checked in with each squad leader and confirmed they had all their men present and accounted for. Then, the convoy had roared out of their fenced-in warehouse base and tore off toward the Taliban convoy.

  They would intercept the column within just a few minutes. Nick finished reviewing a map he had pulled out and studied the roads they’d be operating on one final time. With that done, he folded the map and shoved it under his armored vest. He picked up the encrypted phone and dialed Mr. Smith.

  “What’s the Afghan government doing?” Nick asked.

  “Don’t hang up on me again!” Mr. Smith shouted.

  “Stop your bitching. I’ve got thirty seconds.”

  Mr. Smith angrily exhaled.

  “Right now they’re in complete turmoil. The celebration broke up when word of the approaching column reached them. The people dashed out of the square. And the security detail for the president is moving him down to his bunker until security forces deal with the Taliban.”

  “They call up the army yet? Looks like the police are running without firing a shot.”

  “They’ve called up their third battalion that’s guarding the capital, but there’s a problem. First, it’s the least prepared or experienced. And they weren’t on any kind of alert, so it’ll take at least an hour or two before they’re ready to respond. The president, unfortunately, deployed the best two battalions, who were best positioned to counter.”

  “Chasing ghosts,” Nick said with disgust, recalling the “fight” for the hill outside Kabul.

  “Precisely. So you’re on your own for at least a couple of hours.”

  The Taliban were just a couple blocks ahead, by Nick’s estimation, and he had little time remaining.

  “Alert your contacts in the Afghan government that we’re moving to engage the Taliban and we’re in MRAPs and Afghan police uniforms.”

  “Will do.”

  Nick hung up as their MRAP turned a corner. Afghan civilians rushed toward them. Some ran, others pulled small children.

  “They look pretty scared,” Truck said.

  “This is their worst fear,” Nick replied.

  Nick pressed his radio transmit button.

  “Red,” he said, “stay alert on that gun. We’re getting close.”

  “Roger that,” Red said.

  They had Red in the turret above them on a .50 caliber heavy machine gun. The designers of the MRAPs had put a lot of thought into the turrets and designed them so that their gunners were mostly protected by bulletproof armor and glass in the turret. The turret was controlled by a small joystick, but if they took hits and lost the electronics, it could be hand-cranked, as well.

  And if worse came to worst, and they lost the turret and gun, Truck could use the front bumper of the MRAP to take down a few of the Taliban. Nick had no problem at all sending as many as he could to see Allah.

  Nick glanced in the side mirror and saw the four other MRAPs following in their wake, their gunners alert on their .50s, as well.

  Well, he thought with a shrug, I’ve gone to war with less.

  S3 was well protected and heavily armed. And it was soon going to be a very bad day for a bunch of Taliban. With luck, Afghan reinforcements would arrive, and they’d have several more great stories afterward to tell over a few beers.

  But if things went south, then Nick figured this beat dying in a bed at a nursing home.

  Chapter 86

  One block deeper and the civilians were sprinting and screaming, looking over their shoulders. Terror gripped them.

  “Taliban’s got to be close,” Nick said.

  He yanked his map out and confirmed their location. “Yep,” he said. “Take a right up here, and we should be just about there.”

  S3 rounded the corner, and there the Taliban was, merely a couple hundred yards away. Same column, no change in formation or demeanor.

  “Clearly no one has fired at them in the time it took us to get here,” Nick said. He pressed the transmit button. “Hold your fire for a second, Red.”

  Nick pointed to the right of the fairly narrow street and said, “Pull the MRAP to the right side of the road. Let’s get the next MRAP up to our left.”

  As Truck moved the vehicle over, Nick ordered the next MRAP with 2nd Squad in it to pull alongside them. Their two massive hulls blocked the entire street, and the Taliban halted, not even two hundred yards between them.

  It was a standoff, but S3 sat behind armor and bullet-proof glass. The Taliban rode in open-bed Toyotas, which would have been vulnerable to even pistol fire.

  But they had Allah on their side, so maybe armor wasn’t necessary, Nick thought. The Taliban shouted at the MRAPs through a large megaphone. Fighters climbed out of trucks and moved forward by the front truck.

  “Precious aren’t they?” Nick said with a smirk.

  Truck laughed. “I’m not going to lie. It’s a little funny that they think we’re going to run.”

  Nick scanned the buildings around them for fighters on the rooftops, who might be toting RPGs. He didn’t see any. There wouldn’t have been time yet, anyway.

  “These fools still think we’re Afghan police,” Truck said with amused delight.

  It was a little entertaining, Nick admitted, and some of these men needed and deserved to die. But others were probably misled and misinformed young men who would die before the prime of their lives because of other people’s brainwashing. And that’s what Nick hated
most.

  Truck seemed less contemplative of the moral ambiguity as he prattled on. “Is this the point,” Truck asked, “where the Afghan police would just hand them the keys to their vehicles?”

  “Probably,” Nick said, checking their surroundings one final time.

  Nick leaned around and looked behind him into the troop compartment. “What’s he saying, Lana?”

  One of their braver fighters had pressed forward another ten yards and was shouting into a megaphone.

  She pushed open the heavy rear door and listened a few moments.

  “He’s saying,” she said, “that if we turn and throw down our weapons, our lives will be spared, as well as our families. But if we don’t, they will kill us, find out our identity, and slaughter our families, as well.”

  This helped Nick focus on the task at hand and end any dwelling on ill-informed young men. These were some seriously bad people.

  Nick turned back to the front and depressed his radio, which transmitted to every member of S3.

  “Listen up, guys. Vehicles 1 and 2 have encountered the enemy. On my command, their heavy machine gunners will engage. Once the enemy is engaged, squad members of vehicles 1 and 2 will disembark and push alongside our vehicles to engage the enemy. All other vehicles and squad members will hold position and await orders. How copy, over?”

  Each squad leader, who doubled as a vehicle commander, confirmed the instructions.

  The Taliban to their front looked increasingly impatient. As if they couldn’t understand why the police were delaying their surrender. Fighters in the street yelled and gestured. Nick didn’t speak their language, but it was clear it was starting to hit them that this wasn’t going to go down like it had with other police. And that these police were in armored vehicles, not out in the open.

  “Here we go,” Nick said, and a smile crept across his face.