Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  “We’re so getting in trouble for this!” Truck laughed, a hint of boyish mischief in his voice. Damaging a mosque was high up on the list of offenses that American troops could commit.

  “We’re already in trouble,” Nick replied. “Might as well add ‘wrecking an ancient mosque’ to the charges.”

  The 40,000-pound battering ram toppled the gate from its hinges as easily as a grown man might flip a tall champagne glass on its side. The gate exploded from its anchors and flew thirty feet across the compound’s grounds. Truck slammed on the brakes hard, so the MRAP would stop before it busted through the outer wall fifty yards ahead, flipped, and rolled down the steep slope.

  MRAPs aren’t made for quick stops, and the vehicle failed to stop before slamming the other wall. It knocked half of the wall down the side of the hill, but at least it helped stop the MRAP.

  “Fuck me,” Red said from up in the gunner’s turret.

  Everyone tried to recover from the collision and G-forces, so they could deploy quickly. By the time they untangled themselves, the other two MRAPs had entered the mosque’s compound.

  Fighters poured from all three vehicles, swarming the small mosque like a vengeful nest of hornets. Before the .50s could even get turned and on target, the fighters were rushing into two separate entrances.

  The mosque’s old doors didn’t even have locks.

  Nick heard firing and cursed his body for not being as fast as the younger bucks in the unit. By the time he had circled the MRAP and rushed through the front door, the main sanctuary of the mosque had been cleared.

  Five dead Taliban lay in pools of blood by their weapons, and S3 members were stacked on the door to what looked like a small storage room. Or maybe a small prayer room or confessional. Nick wasn’t well-versed on mosque layouts, so damned if he knew.

  Meanwhile, other members checked the final nooks and crannies of the mosque for anyone hiding out, since Nick didn’t see Mushahid or Deraz among the bodies on the floor.

  As the searched wrapped up, Nick felt a growing confidence that Mushahid or Rasool was in the final room the team members were stacked on. Every fiber of his being told him that was the case.

  “No grenades!” he yelled across the sanctuary. “Flashbangs only!”

  Chapter 106

  Rasool had heard the heavy vehicles crash through the gate and the fighting in the sanctuary. The AK fire had ended quickly, and he overheard only the aggressive language of the foreigners now.

  He had been praying, no weapon even near him when they arrived. And though it would have been nice to go down in a blaze of glory, shuffling across the floor to his weapon (even with the assistance of his staff) would have proven too slow. So he had said a few final words in prayer, grimaced in pain as he stood, and rolled up his prayer mat.

  He pulled his satchel over his head and moved toward the door, when it suddenly flew open from an impact. He saw a police officer retracting his leg from a powerful kick before his eyes caught a grenade bouncing in.

  His heart skipped a beat -- maybe three -- as he imagined what a horrific way it would be to die by a grenade exploding right next to you. But something in his mind told his heart it was too small for a grenade. Maybe one of those non-lethal ones the Americans use.

  Then an ear-splitting boom erupted and an eye-splitting flash blinded him as he was knocked off his feet. He tried to stop the room from spinning, but he was completely disoriented. Before he could have another thought, he felt someone knee him in the back and pin him to the ground.

  And then there were shouts he didn’t understand, some yelling that sounded like cheering, and then his arms were being wrenched behind his back. They were bound by something sharp, and he was hoisted to his feet.

  Nick tried to push through his men, who were celebrating.

  “We got him!” said Taylor, a member of their 2nd Squad.

  Nick shoved his way through and saw him. An old man had been yanked to his feet, his arms held by two stout S3 members.

  It was certainly Rasool Deraz, but he looked older and more fragile than Nick expected.

  Nick couldn’t help but smile. Even knowing he (or Mushahid) would be in the room, it seemed too good to be true. And Nick instantly realized that if Mushahid wasn’t here protecting Deraz, he was at the presidential palace.

  But before Nick could have another thought, he got tackled. Truck grabbed him by his assault vest and started shaking him.

  “We fucking got him, Nick!!” he shouted. And then he head-butted Nick’s helmet with his helmet, as if they were crazy football players.

  Red grabbed Nick by his gear and started shaking him, as well. The little man’s contagious energy surpassed Truck’s brute strength, jerking Nick about and unbalancing him a bit.

  “Your plan worked!” Red screamed.

  Nick was embarrassed and yelled for them to stop, but no one could hear him over the hurrahs of Lana, Preacher, and a half-dozen other people. Nick ducked his head as multiple hands were now slapping him on his helmet and gear.

  “Damn it, stop it!” he called out, flustered.

  But the yells continued. He heard Lana say, “We saved the country,” and someone else follow with, “There’s no way we’ll end up in jail now.”

  Nick somehow shoved and fought his way out of the circle in the crowded room.

  “That’s enough,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  The jumping and hollering slowed. They had lost too many men today to be continuously overjoyed at the turn of events.

  “I’m serious,” Nick said. “That’s enough. This isn’t over, and we’ve got work to do.”

  He looked about, found Red, and pointed at the door.

  “Red, grab some men, set up additional security, and get those MRAPs parked behind the wall so they can defend the road coming up the hill.”

  “Roger that,” Red said.

  Nick looked about.

  “Where’s Lana?”

  “Here!” she said, pushing through the bodies.

  “Find a Taliban radio and start transmitting that we’ve captured Rasool.”

  “There’s one over here,” an S3 member said across the room.

  “Get it done,” Nick instructed. “And quickly. Say that he’s been captured by Afghan police forces. Say that the Afghan army has set up directional finding equipment and that they’re closing in with police units on the presidential palace. We’ll use some informational warfare against these fools.”

  He stepped away and re-assembled his satellite phone. He pulled his wallet out and located Allen Green’s phone number on a folded-up sheet that was worn and smeared. He deciphered the numbers and called him.

  Allen answered immediately, which surprised Nick since New York was eight and a half hours behind.

  “Nick! Are you okay? The news says the capital has fallen, the president has fled, and the State Department will soon negotiate a safe withdrawal for all American forces.”

  “Slow down,” Nick said. He had forgotten how fast his friend from New York talked. “I need your help. Both in the short term and probably in the long term.”

  “You’ve got it. You know that. What do you need?”

  “In the short term, I need you to leak a story to your friends in the AP. Tell them Afghan police forces have captured Deraz.”

  “Nick, I can’t burn my bridges with these people by making stuff up. Even if they print it, they’ll hate me afterward. They might even lose their jobs.”

  “No, hear me out. It’s true. I’m going to get a photo to you. We’ve captured him, but we don’t want credit for it.”

  “Our military?”

  “No, S3. But we disobeyed orders to do so. We were ordered to stand down, but you know me.”

  “Eesh,” Allen said. “Yeah, I know you.”

  “I know. I know. We need to get this story out ASAP. I’ll have one of our support people get you the photo. Give your news sources a heads up, so they can schedule the story to drop
as fast as possible. I need this story publicized immediately before our damn government surrenders over here.”

  “I’ll have a breaking news alert up that says Deraz has been captured in like ten minutes, but don’t leave me high and dry on this.”

  “We won’t. We’ll get you the pic, the details on where he was captured, et cetera. It’ll be a great story, but the credit goes to the Afghan police who showed incredible bravery, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Of course.”

  “But we need to be prepared to pivot, Allen. If the State Department or Mr. Smith target me for defying orders, we’ll need to reverse the earlier reports and say they were incorrect. That actually a military contractor unit called Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter apprehended him. I don’t want to do that, but the public will be my only leverage if they come after me and my men.”

  “Nick, if they come after you for risking it all and capturing Deraz, we’ll crucify them in the media. Heads will literally roll.”

  “We may need it. Now, get to work on that news alert about Deraz’s capture. I’ve got a country to save.”

  Nick then hung up and looked at another number in his wallet. He had written down the Bagram Airfield commander’s number without listing the general’s name as a precaution when they had gone into Pakistan. It was an absolute, last-ditch effort that they could have used had they obtained a cellphone from a dead fighter there.

  And as the phone rang, Nick hoped he could convince the base commander to start operating again. Nick smiled. Yes, he thought. It would only be, ahem, in self-defense of an American contractor company that was under grave attack.

  Nick laughed at the loophole he had found. Well, Mr. Smith had said they could fight in self-defense. It wasn’t Nick’s fault they had been blocked by the Taliban from leaving Kabul and gotten turned around as they tried to escape. And it was certainly an accident that they had gone deeper into the city instead of toward safety.

  Sometimes those GPSs didn’t work worth a damn.

  Chapter 107

  After speaking with Bagram Airfield’s commander, Nick next called his IT people at the same base. He quickly informed them of Deraz’s capture and asked if they could hack into the Taliban’s website.

  Sure, they replied. They had Ahmud al-Habshi’s login information, after all, since they had scanned and ripped the servers for all relevant password and login data.

  Nick instructed them he wanted them to log in and post thsat Deraz had been captured but the Taliban would continue its fight against the forces of injustice.

  “Just coordinate with Lana so it sounds legit. As if they posted it.”

  “Why not just say it and put up a picture of like Sylvester Stallone as Rambo holding a machine gun with an American flag behind him?” the lead IT man asked, half-joking and half-serious.

  “Because it needs to look legit, not like some eighteen-year-old hacker from Texas posted it,” Nick said.

  “Roger that, sir,” the IT man replied.

  “I’ll have Lana contact you in a minute, but be prepared to make this happen as quickly as possible.”

  Nick started to hang up, then had a better idea.

  “Say, any chance you guys can hack the Afghan government’s website?”

  The man stuttered a bit. “Uh, sure. Most likely. Especially since now they’ve probably got no IT people monitoring it.”

  “Good. Then, hack into it. Announce Deraz has been captured, and that police and army units are moving back into the capital. Urge them to remain calm and ask residents to stay inside. Something like that. Put that up in both English and the local languages.”

  “Roger that. We’ll get something and get our translators in the States to put it in the local language.”

  “No,” Nick said. “Use Lana. We need to stay off the radar on this.”

  Several miles away, Mushahid Zubaida was suffering from a mixture of emotions. Anger. Grief. Shame. The disgraceful female voice on the radio now urging them to surrender mocked him.

  He had lost so many men, but they had done it. They had taken Kabul. The presidential palace was theirs. And it was at that very moment, while at the peak of victory, that Mushahid, the Fist of the Taliban, learned of his greatest failure.

  Rasool had been found. Despite all their precautions, despite the power that had shifted in their favor to secure the win, he had been taken.

  Mushahid had roared and rampaged at the news. He’d broken several pieces of the presidential furniture, ripped down a large tapestry, and even lifted a large vase over his head and heaved it through a window. He had just paused to take a breath, his rage-filled eyes set on a large ornate mantle clock when his radio bleeped, followed by the voice.

  His spotter reported heavy activity at Bagram Airfield. It appeared that American forces were back in operation. Several aircrafts were being prepped for take-off, and troops were loading up in vehicles.

  They would be on top of them in less than a half hour. It would take longer for the troops leaving Bagram to get there, but it wouldn’t matter because by the time troops arrived, the aerial attacks would most certainly wipe out what little remained of Mushahid’s fighters. To make matters worse, it appeared that some of the army deserters they’d gained were getting cagy, and the Taliban’s decimated numbers continued to shrink. It seemed that certain loyalties were shifting and returning to their government masters.

  Mushahid could taste the bile rise up in his throat as he realized that they had no choice but to abandoned their conquest and run. And then he gave the mantle clock a taste of his full wrath.

  But suddenly as he stared down at the shattered carcass of splinters and gears, Mushahid remembered the other spotter he had sent out had not yet reported. Mushahid impatiently called, repeatedly barking for his informant to reply. By the seventh or eighth repetition, the spotter finally called back, sounding parched and breathless. He announced that he had only just reached the location, his voice sounding garbled as his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  “What do you see at the mosque?” Mushahid, asked, his voice trembling a bit as he clung to his last bit of hope. “Is it true?”

  It took a maddening amount of seconds for the response to come back. Mushahid scanned his surroundings for another inanimate victim to obliterate. But finally, the spotter reported, and with every word, Mushahid’s world sank deeper.

  The mosque had been overrun with Afghan police. And they were just beginning to load up into their impenetrable Cougar MRAPs, taking Rasool with them.

  Mushahid cried out, grief overtaking his rage. There would be no chance for rescue. They would never catch them in time. And even if by some miracle they were to spot the convoy, they were no match for the daunting MRAPs. In all his shame and anguish, Mushahid would have welcomed the certain death that would follow such an attempt.

  He would never see his mentor again. He had failed.

  Mushahid gave into the despair, begging Allah to take him where he now kneeled, sobbing on the polished palace floors. But suddenly there was a calm in the storm of his mind, and Mushahid found himself in a position that he never had wanted to believe he would face.

  Mushahid was no longer the Fist of the Taliban, he was the Head of the Taliban. And to run blazingly into such a guaranteed slaughter would effectively destroy the cause that his own beloved Rasool had given his whole life for.

  So Mushahid forced down every rebellious instinct and let the wise, instructive words of Rasool Deraz permeate his mind as he ordered (with great sadness) the Taliban’s retreat from Kabul.

  With Allah’s help, Mushahid assured himself, they would be back, and they would fight another day.

  Chapter 108

  Nick waited a full forty-five minutes before he risked calling Mr. Smith. By then, the three MRAPs had returned to the warehouse with Rasool Deraz.

  The base army commander had deployed a hundred soldiers to the warehouse to protect the high-value target. For now, S3 retained control since Nick w
asn’t sure if Deraz would be given up to the Afghan government or to the American government. As Smith liked to put it, that was a decision far above his paygrade.

  On paper, the hundred soldiers had deployed to provide protection to some American defense contractors who were under siege and surrounded. That wasn’t close to being true, but it was the only way for the base commander to allow the soldiers to operate legally. The base commander had also immediately re-established air ops, informing his superiors of the move and the besieged American contractors.

  His superiors, from Afghanistan to Washington, didn’t counter his decision. They were all in cover-their-ass mode, and it was the base commander’s ass on the line. No way would they issue orders that might lead to Americans dying, which would promptly stop their career in their tracks.

  Additionally, the base general had detached several soldiers with radios to serve as forward observers for S3. Nick’s company lacked the correct radios to coordinate with American air power, and both Nick and the base commander wanted to reclaim the presidential palace as quickly as possible. Both men knew if they waited for a decision from Washington, they’d be told to hold in place and it might take half a day to get any real guidance.

  Better to act and seek forgiveness, both believed. And as long as they won and the results weren’t disastrous, they knew they’d be cheered and celebrated. Not to mention, the presidential palace had truckloads of secrets in it. Informants’ names. Rooms full of intelligence. Crates of top-secret documents from the United States.

  This intel needed to be secured, and quickly. Nick had put Red in charge of a convoy of three MRAPs, with the Army forward observers, to seek out the tanks and secure the presidential palace. He had to deal with something far more unpleasant -- and crucial -- than fighting the enemy or recapturing the country’s capital building. This seemed impossible at first blush, but welcome to fighting wars in the modern day era, where every politician and general would sell you out in a heartbeat and write a book some day with half of the country’s secrets in it.