Truck laughed.
“Roger that, sir.”
They turned another corner where suddenly a Toyota 4x4 blocked the street. A black Taliban flag flew from its truck bed.
The truck had a machine gun on a pintle mount and four fighters standing around the vehicle. The older, bearded men looked absolutely terrifying, especially if you were an unarmed (or lightly armed) civilian.
But if you were riding in an armored, 50,000-pound MRAP, they didn’t seem quite so frightening. They were fifty yards away, and they had that cocky look victors wore.
Truck laughed. “These guys are about to learn the hard way it’s not over yet.”
“Yep,” Nick said. “Red?”
Red, up on the .50, ripped a burst at the truck. The fragile vehicle disintegrated from the bullets shredding through it with barely a pause.
“Hit it,” Nick said.
Truck floored the MRAP, and the diesel bellowed. The MRAP picked up speed, and the uninjured fighters scattered. The beastly nightmare of a vehicle plowed through the Toyota without registering an impact, shoving it back forty feet before its tires caught pavement and flipped it over and over.
The MRAP shuddered as Truck hammered down on the brakes. Before it had fully stopped, Nick opened the door and stepped down from it. The remaining Primary Strike Team members emptied from the back.
They came out, weapons up, searching for targets. The surviving fighters had dispersed, running inside the buildings around them.
“Be careful,” Nick said.
He didn’t want them entering any rooms unless they had to. Behind them, the two other MRAPs pulled up to help cover them with their heavy weapons. Their shooters deployed out the back, as well, setting up 360-degree security.
“This needs to be quick,” Nick said, stating the obvious.
The last thing he wanted to do was deal with a couple hundred Taliban responding to the gunfire.
Chapter 103
“Contact front!” yelled Preacher.
Nick turned to see two Taliban trucks rounding the corner. Like the Toyota they’d kick-tossed earlier, the two approaching trucks had pintle-mounted machine guns.
But unlike the first truck -- which had looked like a like a “Greetings from the Taliban” postcard with their proud flag flying and a group of the most quintessential-looking Taliban fighters posing valiantly-- these trucks were piled high with heavily enraged and armed Taliban men.
Red’s .50 roared to life from the front MRAP, and a string full of S3 shooters from the two rear vehicles pushed forward and lit in on the approaching fighters with their M4s. Before Nick could kneel and raise his rifle, he discovered it was already over for their opponents.
But the next set of Taliban wouldn’t brazenly parade out into the open like the first two.
“Contact rear!” he heard someone yell.
Bullets snapped by Nick’s head from down the street, causing Nick to duck behind the MRAP. He knelt, staying low.
Shit, he thought, this is going to be a replay of earlier. We’ll defend ourselves, more Taliban will respond, and they’ll encircle us and rain down RPGs.
Or those damn tanks will arrive.
Shit. Why had he ever thought this plan would work?
Well, it would work, dumbass, he answered himself in a scolding manner, if you would focus on the task at hand instead of worrying about the damned tanks.
As soon as Nick popped back up, hoping to scan the battlefield and prepare the next strategic move, more bullets fell upon the MRAP and forced Nick to duck back down. Fuck.
The barrage of fire increased on his location, and Nick pushed lower down until he laid completely prone on the concrete.
Come on, Nick. Don’t lose focus. You’ve got to grab what you came for and get your team out of here.
But being on the ground severely limited Nick’s ability to see the area like he needed. He became frustrated, as he was effectively pinned down, unable to gain a decent vantage point. He was just about to give up and make the call to haul ass back to the warehouse when he saw a spreading pool of blood on the concrete. His eyes traced the blood trail back and found that it was coming from the other side of the flipped Toyota. Bingo.
“Lana!” Nick yelled over the firing.
She immediately responded, zigging and zagging toward him as he motioned for her to follow. They darted and dashed their way forward to the mangled Toyota. Nick figured the engine could light the gas at any moment, but it was too late to worry about that as they crouched behind it for cover from the incoming bullets.
Nick spotted the source of the blood. A Taliban fighter lay pinned beneath the truck. His right arm was crushed beneath the weight of it, and his right ankle was nearly cut off, the foot inside the space where the window had been and the top of the cab slicing right through the lower leg bone.
As if that wasn’t enough, his left shoulder had been clipped by a bullet, and it drained blood slowly into a good-sized pool around his body.
“He still alive?” Lana asked.
“Not sure,” Nick said.
The body was pale and covered in a cold sweat. Nick used his boot to nudge the body.
The man whimpered and tried to move, then was painfully reminded of his pinned position.
“Ask him where Deraz is,” Nick said.
Lana translated, but the man refused to look her in the eyes.
She finished, and he ignored her. “Ask him again,” Nick said.
She did, and again, no response.
Maybe it was the man’s male pride that had him refusing to speak to an armed, uncovered woman -- a serious affront to a male fundamentalist. Or, he was going for bravery, which in his present situation meant stupidity.
More bullets cut down the street, and Nick ducked lower. As he checked his surroundings, a thought occurred to him.
Deraz was notorious for being secretive in hiding his location. It’s why he had never been captured or hit by a drone’s Hellfire missile. It was also why Nick and his boys had gone trekking into Pakistan for intel.
Maybe the guy legitimately didn’t know where Deraz waited. That would actually make perfect sense, as well, for why the man ignored the question. Plus, there were very few faithful followers, willing to dime out their beloved leader. But that didn’t mean they’d go down for the sake of Deraz’s guard dog.
“Ask him where Mushahid Zubaida is,” Nick said.
Lana Haider threw the words out in the unique and harsh Afghan language though sadly Nick had no idea if she was speaking Pashto or Dari.
This time, the man snapped his eyes to her as she spoke Mushahid’s name.
“He knows,” Nick said.
“Looks that way,” Lana confirmed.
The man then averted his gaze from her and Nick, an insult in Afghan culture.
“Ask him again.”
Lana did, but he ignored her and Nick.
“Again,” Nick said.
She did, but he continued to ignore them both.
Nick didn’t need this. Or have time for it. Bullets relentlessly ricocheted off the truck and snapped up and down the street from both his men and the Taliban fighters firing.
Nick moved his M4’s barrel toward the man and allowed the point of the barrel to press down just a bit into the man’s wounded left shoulder near the bullet-entry point.
The fighter screamed and bucked as much as he could, yanking and flinging his one free arm. Nick put his knee down on the flailing appendage, and the man cursed and yelled in desperation. Nick couldn’t understand him, but the meaning was clear.
Nick pulled the barrel from the man’s shoulder and glanced at Lana.
“I’m assuming that wasn’t directions to Mushahid’s location?”
“He called you a goat whore,” she said, “and you don’t want to know what he said about me.”
“It’s okay, Lana. Show him what you think of him and his smart mouth,” Nick said with a wink.
And with the go-ahead, Lana m
ercilessly backhanded the smart mouth across the face, causing blood and spittle to fling more than a yard forward. The man's head whipped viciously to the side, and he rebounded from the blow looking a little dizzy.
Shit, Nick, thought, raising his eyebrows. Can’t let her have at him again, or we’ll have to pack him up and take him to go. Nick had forgotten the woman had a heavy background in martial arts.
When the man recovered from the dazed look, a stunned expression came over his face. A dirty woman striking a man? Oh, the ironic and completely deserved horror, Nick thought. The betrayed, whimpering look on Smart Mouth’s face was simply too priceless. In fact, Nick felt that he would be remembering that look for a long time.
Then Nick got back to business and drove the barrel of the M4 about an inch into the wound.
The man screamed and kicked with his only free limb -- his leg -- which Lana quickly sat on. His screams were maniacal. Nick figured it must have hurt like a bitch, but there was an entire country’s fate on the line. And that meant a lot of good Afghan men and women would die if these guys took over the country. He pulled the weapon out of the wound and leaned back, withdrawing his twelve-inch long Ka-Bar knife.
“Tell him if he doesn’t tell us where Mushahid is, I’ll use the knife this next time,” Nick said, bluffing.
Lana spat the words out at him, her voice hard and threatening. Nick moved the knife toward the wound, and the man watched it with complete horror. He was utterly trapped. The truck on his right leg and arm, Lana on his left leg, and Nick kneeling down on his left arm.
The knife wasn’t even within six inches before he started yammering to Lana, and it was clear this time, he wasn’t cursing.
“We’ve got it,” Lana said. “What do we do with him?”
Nick cursed. “Glad he fell for it. I’m getting too damned soft.”
He spoke into his radio, ordering some men to move up to their position. Together, the men lifted the truck enough so the man could be pulled out from under it. Then, they quickly patched him up.
Nick helped as they did this, informing everyone, “We’re not taking him prisoner. Just take his weapon, and let’s allow his buddies to get him some better treatment. Looks like he’ll make it if they get here fast.”
The man had come out of shock as he’d had the truck lifted off him and been patched up. All he’d really needed was reassurance that he could survive and someone to stop the bleeding.
And with the man taken care of, Nick ordered the shooters to cover each other and load up into their MRAPs. It was time to pay Mushahid -- and hopefully -- Deraz a visit.
Chapter 104
“Where to?” Truck asked, when Nick climbed back into the MRAP.
“Just get us the hell out of here,” Nick said. “Head back to the warehouse.”
The .50s were roaring on each of the three MRAPs, as the incoming fire horrendously increased. Nick hoped they didn’t have a gunner get hit up in one of the turrets. There were shields and plates that protected most of their bodies, and their helmets covered much of their heads, but it wasn’t uncommon to have a gunner take a hit.
The MRAPs howled as they sprinted down the road straight toward the enemy. Even though this took them straight into more danger, turning the vehicles around was nearly an impossibility. The MRAPs would have been a sitting duck, begging some RPG gunner to shoot as it sat horizontally, barely moving, trying to pull off an eight-point on a street already far too narrow.
They only needed to go roughly a block until they could take a right and start working their way back to safety.
Good thing the tires could run flat and be re-inflated, Nick thought, because the fire pouring in on them only increased as the enemy saw them getting away. And then they finally reached the intersection for the right-hand turn. They proceeded around the corner and away from the presidential palace. The fire immediately began to slacken with each hundred yards they gained.
“So the Taliban is clearly saturated around the presidential palace,” Nick said, mostly to himself.
Truck grunted but remained focused on his driving.
Nick depressed his mic button.
“All squad leaders, give me an ACE report.”
ACE stood for ammunition, casualties, and equipment, and Nick had appointed temporary squads and squad leaders prior to their departure. While they checked their men and pulled together how much ammunition each man had expended, Nick leaned around to face the rear of his squad.
“Lana, where we headed?”
Lana worked her way forward, and Nick pulled a map of the city out of his pocket.
“The wounded Taliban fighter,” Lana said, “stated that Mushahid was at an old mosque which is roughly translated in English as ‘The Forgotten One.’ I actually know of this one. It’s pretty important in Afghan lore.”
“Where’s it at?” Nick asked.
“It’s a smaller mosque in one of Kabul’s older neighborhoods,” replied Lana. “It’s a very humble place and considered one of the city’s first mosques ever built.”
“So, it’s symbolic that they would be there?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Deraz is all about the symbolism. I’m pissed I never considered he might be there. It makes perfect sense.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Nick said. “None of the intelligence analysts in about a dozen different agencies suspected it either. Just show me where it is on this map and let’s get this shit done before we run out of time.”
While Lana oriented the map, found their location, and searched for the mosque on the map, Nick received reports from his temporary squad leaders. So far, no serious injuries. Two men slightly wounded but bandaged up.
And the squad leaders had already redistributed ammunition among their squad members. They had better than eighty percent of the ammunition they had left the warehouse. Plenty enough to conduct a raid and nab Mushahid. And if they were truly lucky, Deraz, as well. But if the Old Lion, as he was called, wasn’t there, Nick was betting that Zubaida would know his whereabouts.
Chapter 105
The MRAPs headed east, and Nick studied the map, looking for the best approach routes to the mosque. The city streets remained abandoned, and the vehicles hadn’t been shot at in several minutes.
The Taliban seemed to have concentrated on the Arg.
Nick wondered how the two Afghan army battalions were doing on the outskirts of the city. Were they still fighting? Or had they withdrawn? On the one hand, he wanted to call Mr. Smith and find out the latest on the entire situation from 10,000 feet. But on the other, Nick and his shooters were down in the weeds and already committed to this last-ditch effort.
“Wonder how many felonies we’ve committed by now?” Nick asked.
“Fuck those pussies,” Truck grunted.
Nick wondered if any drones were watching the MRAPs. One side of him thought not. They were probably focused on the presidential palace and the escaping convoy that contained the president and his entourage of advisers.
He focused again on their current situation. “The Forgotten One” had several routes to get to it, but it sat alone on a hill with only a single road up to it. Nick would have bet his right arm the place had served as a base or fort when it was originally built.
He scrutinized the map one more time and made up his mind on how they’d deal with the situation. He pressed his mic button, explained his plans, and asked each squad leader to confirm they had received the transmission.
The map proved remarkably accurate. The three MRAPs took a turn off the main road and started up the only street that led to the old mosque. The street was more like a driveway than a road, and the mosque looked abandoned and pretty decrepit. No vehicles sat parked in front of its mud walls, which stood probably fifteen feet high. At the front, an iron gate blocked any traffic that might try to enter the inner compound.
The walls were so high that there was no way Mushahid or Deraz would be escaping if they were in there. And the hill had a fa
irly steep, rocky slope on all sides except for the driveway, which had been improved through the years. I’d even have trouble with a quick escape down those slopes, Nick thought, and I’m a lot younger than Deraz, that is if Deraz is here. And this meant the three MRAPs had the only feasible exit covered.
“Good place to defend,” Nick said to Truck, “but a damn bad place to try to escape from.”
And though he saw no one, Nick felt Deraz was here. It was too perfect. Too out of the way. Too hidden and desolate.
They were a hundred yards away, approaching at fifteen miles per hour. The road had been built on the hill’s most gentle slope, and its two-hundred yard length had probably provided a great killing field too many times to count. Nick wouldn’t have wanted to fight his way up it that was for sure.
But today, it was devoid of obvious defenders. Clearly the Taliban, if they were here, were relying on camouflage instead of a stout defense to protect whoever was there. The road led to a small looping circle in front of the compound walls, which would allow traffic to exit without having to back all the way down the road.
The mosque had been built before cars were a concern and thus lacked a parking lot or any real accommodation for those who wanted to drive to it. Probably why its attendance and use had ended.
Nick felt some comfort in knowing that even devout Muslims would rather drive to their religious services rather than walk through the rain or cold.
Maybe there aren’t as many crazy fundamentalists as they want us to think, Nick considered.
Analyzing the situation, Nick saw that S3 had two options. Ram the gate or circle down part of the loop and park the MRAPs next to the wall. They could use the massive vehicles as improvised stepladders to scale the towering walls.
Nick imagined the long drops on the other side and the loss of surprise as men clambered up and over. This wasn’t even a hard choice.
“Floor it and ram the gate,” he said to Truck.
The MRAP’s diesel growled as Truck put the pedal to the floor. The vehicle accelerated to nearly forty miles per hour.
Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Page 30