Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  Nick grabbed the 2nd Squad leader by his harness and screamed in his ear, hoping to be heard over the firing, “Find anyone in that vehicle and get them back in our perimeter and back to your vehicle.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man shouted.

  Nick looked for and found Preacher. He grabbed Preacher’s sleeve and yanked him to the spot where Marcus had gone down.

  They emerged from the smoke and saw the dust and smog from the shot at Marcus had mostly dissipated. They could now see his body, which lay in a curled fetal position. Nick reached him first, landing much too hard on his own knee as he knelt by Marcus’s chest.

  “Marcus!” he yelled.

  Marcus only groaned. They rolled him on his back, and Nick noticed that Marcus’ legs were shredded. One boot and entire lower leg were gone. The other looked mangled far beyond repair, bone sticking out and skin hanging in strips.

  Nick glanced behind him and confirmed the MRAP was between them and the two tanks, providing cover from that threat. They would have probably reloaded by now, even if their gunners were untrained and mostly incompetent. He seriously hoped the Taliban hadn’t forced actual Afghan government troops to drive the tanks because they would be much better skilled.

  “We’ve got some cover because of the MRAP,” Nick said to Preacher. “Now, we’ve got to get tourniquets on both legs, or he’s going to bleed out before we can even get him to the medics.”

  They yanked tourniquets out, lifted what remained of his legs, and cinched the life-saving straps so tight that Marcus screamed in pain.

  Nick watched Preacher finish applying his tourniquet and again felt grateful the men of S3 were blooded veterans who didn’t freeze up or panic. They grabbed Marcus, lifted him, and wrapped his arms across their shoulders. They carried him between their bodies as they sprinted back across the street.

  A tank fired again, and they felt the explosion beyond them in the street. The bastards had fired at them carrying Marcus, only missing by feet. At least they hadn’t blown up another MRAP in their perimeter, Nick thought.

  They lugged Marcus behind the three 2nd Squad members still firing and hauled him back to the middle MRAP as fast as they could. Dr. Clayton and her two PAs jumped out of the back of it and charged toward them.

  “He’s taken two serious leg wounds,” Nick yelled. “What’s the situation on the other casualties?”

  “Three seriously wounded, and that’s not counting many smaller injuries,” Dr. Clayton said. “I’m running out of supplies.”

  “We’re getting out of here. Get him stable.”

  They loaded him into the already blood-soaked rear of the MRAP. Marcus was fading. Nick slapped him in the face several times. Each time harder, each time getting no response. By the fourth time, the slaps were hurting Nick’s hand, he was slapping him so hard.

  “You’ve got to hang with us, Marcus!” Nick hollered. “We’re taking you to the hospital!”

  Nick turned from him as the medics took over, wiping his eyes. He took a deep breath and flushed the scene from his mind. He had work to do, and a damn hell of a lot of it if any of them were going to get out of here alive.

  Chapter 95

  Nick ran back to the front of his MRAP in the center of the 180 and climbed in it.

  “Squad leaders,” he shouted into the radio, “we need to load up and get the hell out of here! Squad members, get back to your MRAPs.”

  As they acknowledged the order, Nick stepped out of the MRAP and slung a smoke grenade toward the tanks.

  “Give me more smoke on the left side,” he radioed. “And to the front, toward the apartment buildings.”

  Several more smoke canisters popped on the left and spewed thick smoke across the street. Two yellows and one green. And to their front, a red and white smoke bellowed up.

  The rate of fire from the Taliban escalated as the return fire from S3 diminished, and as the Taliban sensed their departure. Nick knew they were taking more casualties by the minute.

  “Open up with those .50s more!” Nick screamed into the radio.

  The .50s picked up their rate of fire.

  “1st Squad loaded up and accounted for,” their squad leader said.

  Confirmations filled the radio while others hurriedly asked questions on the net.

  “Is Scott in the second MRAP?”

  “Where’s Murdock?”

  And on and on, but soon all men were accounted for. Nick radioed with strong command in his voice, “Peel off, head right, and take the first left you can to get us out of the line of fire. Absolutely full speed.”

  The MRAPs bolted from their position, tank rounds exploding behind them.

  “We’re hit!” screamed the squad leader in the last MRAP directly behind Nick.

  “Keep moving if you can,” Nick yelled back into the radio, nodding to Truck who looked to him for direction. “We can’t stop here.”

  “We have heavy casualties, but MRAP still operational,” came the reply.

  “Keep moving!” Nick reiterated, more panic in his voice than he intended.

  There was no way they could stop to assist more wounded without losing a lot more men. A LOT.

  The four overcrowded, remaining MRAPs fled the scene and made a quick left to depart the kill zone as quickly as possible. The last thing Nick saw in his side mirror was the tanks turning their turrets toward the walls of the presidential palace.

  S3 had never been the primary target in the first place. It was all about the Arg and the Afghan government. Nick and his shooters had simply been in the way.

  As they turned the corner, they left behind a burning MRAP, part of Marcus’ legs, and the fate of a newborn democracy.

  Chapter 96

  Nick worked the phones and radios as the MRAPs hurtled toward the warehouse. The rear MRAP that had taken the tank round had been hit in its troop compartment, which was terrible for the troops, but allowed it to function at full capacity, thus enabling the column to retreat murderously fast back toward the warehouse.

  The streets were empty. No Taliban. No civilians. No Afghan forces -- army or police.

  It was as if the entire capital was aware that a power shift was under way.

  Nick called Cormac, his security man at the warehouse, and instructed him to forget trying to link up in front of the presidential palace, but instead to prepare to help the unit offload and transport the wounded back to Bagram Airfield.

  “I want the seriously injured in light police trucks, not MRAPs, so that they can get there as quickly as possible,” Nick said. “Find the best drivers you’ve got. Marcus and others have serious, life-threatening wounds. Every minute counts, so you better have those trucks doing about 60 miles per hour.”

  “Roger that,” Cormac said.

  Nick hung up and called Dean, his logistics man at Bagram. He informed him of the change in plans and the seriously wounded men who’d be coming in shortly.

  “Dean, get ahold of the base commander and have him get their emergency room on full alert with full staff on hand. And tell the base commander to alert the guards at the gate. We can’t have any delays getting these guys in. They’ll be coming in light-green Afghan police trucks. And so help me, if these trucks get searched for IEDs by the MPs, I’ll have someone’s head. The trucks have been in our custody the entire time and are clean.”

  “Roger that, boss. Let me start making those calls.”

  “And Dean?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Once you’ve got the base commander alerted, you round up four or five men and be waiting at the gate. If some dipshit officer doesn’t get the word from the general not to stop the trucks, or still insists on a search of the trucks, you guys draw down and get those trucks through without delay. Marcus’ life literally depends on it. And this is a direct order from me, so I’ll take the fall and burn if it comes to that.”

  “Roger that, Nick. On my life, there won’t be any delay.”

  “Thanks, Dean.”

  Nick
looked back in the MRAP and saw Dr. Clayton working on Marcus. She had applied QuikClot bandages to each leg and had already started an IV of some form of fluid or blood expander. Preacher held the bag high, so it would drain down well. The medical regimen was above Nick’s head.

  “Dr. Clayton,” Nick said, “be ready when we get up to the warehouse. There will be more seriously wounded in that last MRAP from the tank shot.”

  She didn’t look up, but said, “Call the boys at the warehouse and have them gather a stack of clean T-shirts ready to be used as quick pressure dressings.”

  “Will do,” Nick replied. “And, Red, work your way up here if you can.”

  Chapter 97

  Nick ended the call to the warehouse and turned back to see if Red had somehow climbed his way to the front, over all the troops in the back, in addition to Marcus laid out in the middle with Dr. Clayton and Preacher hovering over him. In hindsight, Nick should have brought an extra MRAP or two, as each one was now incredibly overcrowded after losing the fifth vehicle to the tank shot.

  And since the last overcrowded MRAP in the convoy had taken a shot, as well, Nick’s lack of planning had probably cost some soldiers their eyesight or limbs. Or possibly their lives.

  There’s not time for that right now, he told himself. He focused on Red, who had a concerned look on his face.

  “You okay, boss?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same question,” Nick said.

  “Been a hell of a day, but I’m still keeping it pulled together,” Red replied, not a hint of humor in his disturbed demeanor.

  Nick motioned Red closer, their helmets now nearly touching. The strain of the massive diesel engine as they raced down the streets helped cover Nick’s voice.

  “Listen, Red,” he said as softly as he could. “I need you to step up as my number two man.”

  The reality of the statement seemed to stun Red. Nick saw him start to object.

  “No,” Nick said, glancing back at Marcus in the floor. “I need you, Red. He’s out of it, and when we get to the warehouse, I can’t get tied up with all the casualties.”

  Nick looked down and swallowed. Fuck. Why did he send Marcus out in front of that tank? He returned his focus to Red, who was finally beginning to comprehend what he was being asked to do.

  “I’m serious, Red. If I’m not careful, when we get back, I’ll be overwhelmed with getting Marcus back to Bagram. And who knows how bad those poor guys are in that last MRAP,” Nick said, shaking his head. He winced as he imagined the gory wounds that were certainly in that rear MRAP.

  He looked back at the little guy who had been with him since Mexico. “Red, I can’t get tied up with the wounded. And I can’t see so much life and limbs lost. It’ll affect my decision-making. And it pains me to say it, but the entire state of this country might rest on the decisions I make in the next twenty minutes. Do you understand?”

  Red dipped his head in acknowledgement, and Nick could see him preparing himself to deal with the madness and wounded in the last MRAP.

  “I’ve got it, boss,” he said. “As soon as we arrive, get the hell away from the vehicles, as far as you can, and start working the phones. I won’t let you down.”

  Nick nodded and lightly slapped Red’s helmet twice. He then depressed his radio button and announced over the net that Red was now the number two man in S3.

  Chapter 98

  The convoy roared into the warehouse compound after they were waved through the gates. Nick jumped from the truck once it stopped and glanced behind him to see the tremendous amount of damage to the rear MRAP.

  Could anyone have survived? Fuck, those were his men. He took a step in that direction and slammed right into Red, who had emerged first from the back of their MRAP.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Red yelled, grabbing his web gear and shaking him. “Go. Get over there and work the phones.”

  Nick shook his head in assent and turned to walk in the warehouse. Nearly two dozen security men sprinted by him toward the MRAPs to assist the wounded, who were being lifted or aided out of vehicles. Nick saw the green police trucks lined up, ready to roll out.

  I’ve done what I can, he thought. I need to get my ass back in gear and into the fight. Get in character, Nick.

  He picked up his pace and rushed into the warehouse.

  Behind him, he heard Red yelling.

  “Julia, who’s critical and who’s staying? And, you four, set up a blocking position on the street. Hurry up! We could’ve had spotters watching our trail.”

  Nick glanced back and saw everyone working together. Wounded were pulled from the rear MRAP; some got patched up, and others rushed to the waiting trucks, where other S3 members bandaged wounds and helped them remove their gear.

  Nick heard Red’s voice, “Let’s get that ammo out of that vehicle before it cooks off,” he ordered.

  The little man had transformed into a general. Nick turned a final time, now assured that everything was being handled as well or better than he could have done. He jogged into the one cleared office, needing to get all the sounds happening around him out of his head so he could think clearly again from 10,000 feet, and not in the weeds.

  He galloped into the nasty, dreary office and slammed the door shut. He yanked his helmet off and threw it in the corner. It bounced on the dirty, concrete floor. He pulled the sling of his M4 over his head and plunked his weapon on the desk, noticing blood all over his sleeves and assault vest. Marcus’ blood.

  He plopped into the chair exhausted, his hands shaking slightly as he picked up the encrypted phone.

  “What’s the latest?” he asked, forcing his voice to steady.

  “Pure pandemonium. We’ve got a drone up, watching the presidential palace. The tanks are blasting through the gates, and it’ll be only minutes until they get through.”

  Nick updated him on the fact that not only had they withdrawn, they had also suffered serious casualties. He didn’t mention that one of them was Marcus.

  “I don’t have a full tally on the wounded, but we’ve lost at least a squad of men,” Nick said. “Maybe two. We’re sending the most critical casualties to Bagram. And we’ve alerted the base to be ready there.”

  “Good,” Mr. Smith said. “We’ve got some footage that’s just come in and showed what a hell of a fight you put up. Get your men all accounted for, the wounded taken care of, and your gear collected. We’ll get you moved back to Bagram and flown out of there.”

  “Wait. What?” Nick asked, surprised.

  “Nick, it’s over. Like I said, it’s pure pandemonium. This is way above our pay grade now. The Afghan president fled with his entourage out the rear of the presidential compound. They’re in a large, hastily assembled convoy racing through the countryside toward the west. By this time, he’s already outside of Kabul, and our satellites have intercepted calls that he’s made requesting asylum with Iran.”

  Sweat ran into Nick’s eyes, stinging. He wiped his sleeve across his face, remembering too late that his sleeves were soaked in blood.

  He fought down the agitation and said, “This can’t be possible.”

  It was too much to comprehend.

  “It’s over, Nick. We lost. Rasool hasn’t taken over the entire capital, but he and the Taliban have won and are consolidating their control.”

  “What about the two Afghan army battalions on the outskirts of town?” Nick asked. “They'll be able to handle this. Especially if we open up with our drones and air assets.”

  “The Afghan president tried to bring in those two battalions, but they hit heavy opposition and were blocked. Stopped cold. Rasool had prepared for them.”

  Chapter 99

  Nick leaned forward in his chair, stunned and silent. His mind racing with last-minute contingencies.

  “Why don’t we get our air assets up?” he asked. “Hit those tanks, get our troops moving out of Bagram, and get the Afghan president re-established. That wouldn’t be hard to do at all.”

>   “Nick,” Mr. Smith said, frustration rising in his voice, “I have to reiterate again that this is above our pay grades.”

  “It’s clearly above someone's head.”

  “Damn it,” Mr. Smith said, from wherever his office was in Washington or Langley, “don’t you think the Department of Defense already made that suggestion? We’re not all incompetent.”

  “Why aren’t we doing it then?”

  “Two things intervened,” Mr. Smith said, his voice coming back under control. “First, radio intercepts show the Taliban have moved a large stockpile of rockets and mortars that they’ll use to shut down Bagram if we try it. When the order came out that American troops couldn’t fly or operate, the Taliban instantly moved these munitions into position. And they’re dug in. So if we even try it, we’re talking serious casualties on our end. But besides that, the State Department convinced the President that we shouldn’t provoke the Taliban.”

  “Provoke the Taliban?!” Nick screamed, his anger boiling in his blood. “They should see what the Taliban just did to my men! Not to mention all the men and women we’ve lost the past fifteen years while at war with these motherfuckers! So, news alert, big guy: they’re already pissed off!”

  Mr. Smith let him curse and scream a bit more before saying, “Nick, it’s over.”

  Mr. Smith continued, his voice controlled and unfazed by Nick’s outburst, “The State Department made the case to our President that a new power is in control of Afghanistan, and they reminded him that we have nearly five thousand support troops and advisors over there who will be in serious danger.”

  “They wouldn’t be in any danger if we’re allowed to fight,” Nick argued.

  “Nick, you know that whoever controls Kabul, controls Afghanistan,” Mr. Smith said. “The Taliban already controlled much of the countryside. The capital was the final straw. It’s over.”