Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (19 page)

Chapter 54

Deep in the
recently renovated tech room, the CIA analysts scored their first real find on the
same day that Nick’s Primary Strike Team put forward a lackluster day on the
range. The analysts discovered from the servers an email about an upcoming
supply convoy, which appeared to be scheduled for only three days away.

The analysts
searched further back in the archives for additional messages related to it and
stumbled upon supplemental clues and data that provided a fuller picture. It
turned out that the truck convoy was a regular occurrence, taking place each
month. Supplies came out of Pakistan and were delivered at a number of stops
throughout Afghanistan.

The
motorcade shipped into the country badly-needed RPG and recoilless rifle
rounds, as well as huge amounts of currency. RPG and recoilless rifle rounds
were hard to come by in Afghanistan, and money wasn’t much easier. The country
was so poor that even a well-structured organization like the Taliban, which
taxed and preyed on the people for “gifts,” struggled to accumulate financial
resources.

The crucial
weapon deliveries brought the Taliban goodwill and allegiance from the tribal
leaders throughout the country. In a country where even poor, eleven-year-old
boys carried assault rifles, the RPGs and recoilless rifles were difference
makers. They brought power to whichever tribal warlord wielded them. In
addition, the weaponry resupplied various commanders of their organization.
Once in the hands of Taliban chieftains, the currency worked its way down as
payment to fighters and bribes to informants.

Past emails
revealed the monthly convoys ranged in size from three to four trucks, with
between ten to fifteen fighters providing protection. Best of all, the analysts
had been able to determine the route the convoy used by tracing messages
between the Taliban and various villages the convoy stopped in along its
course.

Now, S3 had
a target, a date, and a route.

The team
needed to pick the best ambush location and time of day to strike. Nick called
the Primary Strike Team together to assemble in the briefing room.

Nick glanced
down at his watch and saw it was time for the meeting to start, but Marcus
wasn’t there yet.

“Let’s wait
a few minutes,” Nick said to the Primary Strike Team members. “Marcus is
checking in with the analysts one final time for any new intel they may have
discovered before we pull together our plans.”

While the
team waited, the usual banter broke out.
Nick kept to himself at the front of the room,
while Red and Truck argued about football. Red wouldn’t shut up about Ohio State
while Truck went on and on about his home state's team, the Texas Longhorns.

Lana and Preacher were
bent over a map, studying a few possible ambush locations. The delay from
Marcus returning with the information was taking longer than expected, and Nick
found his mind drifting. Drifting to a moment that would happen after the
mission was finished.

Smith, the high-level CIA
official whose real name Nick didn’t even know, and who truly was in charge of
S3, had promised Nick that when S3 completed its mission in Afghanistan, he’d
give Nick the name behind the CIA unit that had gone off the rails and led to
the death of his wife, Anne. Nick and his reporter friend, Allen Green, had
killed the lower-level leader of the group -- a man named Whitaker.

But the true leader behind
the rogue CIA group had never paid for his crimes. Nick and Allen had accepted
a deal from the man and ended their search upon facing imminent death from a
drone strike and troops in helicopters waiting to pounce.

Nick recalled
word-for-word the conversation he’d had with his boss prior to their departure
to Afghanistan.

“How do I know you’re
telling me the truth about who’s behind this?” Nick asked. “What keeps you from
using me to take down the wrong person? Just some enemy of yours?”

“Logic,” Smith said. “When
I tell you the name, you’ll know he’s the only possible person who could have
been behind it.”

Nick had held the phone
and chewed on that. He still had never met in person with Smith, or Mr. Smith,
as Nick had jokingly referred to him the first time they talked.

“Why can’t I do it before
we pack up and leave?” Nick asked. “I want this man bad.”

“Because the man is well
guarded, and there’s not the time to do it right. We need your unit in
Afghanistan pronto before Deraz topples the government there.”

Nick pondered that answer
but decided to push back.

“You underestimate me. I
can get him. Plus, I have a great team around me. We’ve got time.”

“No,” Smith said. “You
don’t have near enough time. He’s guarded by Secret Service agents, and we
can’t have a bloodbath. It’ll really need to be planned.”

Nick paused. He wanted to
push hard, be a total demanding asshole, but he also knew Smith was his only
way of getting to the man. Plus, Smith was his boss and kept him doing what he
loved more than anything else in the world. But their relationship was complicated
and often nasty.

Taking a deep breath, Nick
calmed himself down and said, “How do I know you’re not just stringing me
along? That after we go to Afghanistan, you won’t delay again afterward. Make
up some other reason why I can’t get him.”

“Again, logic,” Smith
replied. “The man has become too big a thorn in the CIA’s side, so it’s time
for him to pay for all his dozens of misdeeds.”

“Sounds a little
convenient,” Nick grunted.

“It is.”

“And if I get killed over
in Afghanistan, trying to take down this Rasool Deraz feller?”

“We’ll get someone else.”

Nick realized he was the
perfect man to take down this public official. If Nick died trying or was
captured, the CIA wouldn’t mind a “war vet gone mad” headline in the paper. And
the press would quickly discover the death of Anne. They would immediately cite
it as the reason for Nick’s actions.

“Just tell me his name,”
Nick said. “Tell me his name before I go over there so I can have something to
look forward to.”

There was a brief pause,
then Smith broke the silence.

“Senator Ray Gooden.”

The moment he said it,
Nick knew it had to be the man. The Texas Senator had been around for almost
forty years. And he’d chaired the Armed Forces Committee for nearly two
decades, as well. He was perfectly positioned to have led the off-the-books
group.

More to the point, Nick
wasn’t a huge follower of political news, but you didn’t have to be to know
Senator Gooden was always under investigation for something. Not to mention he
had a serious black mark on his record following the mysterious death of a
democratic opponent. The opponent had been more than twelve points ahead in
every poll with the election just two days away when his plane crashed soon
after takeoff following yet another successful fundraiser. An investigation
found faulty wiring, which oddly had not been found in a preflight inspection
conducted two hours prior to taking off.

During that campaign, four
major newspapers had endorsed his opponent. Since then, the number had
continued to rise, regardless of the opponent. Senator Gooden was hated. By the
press. By his opponents. By the majority of the people across the country,
except for in Texas.

And yet he kept getting
elected. Everyone knew how dirty he was. He had taken illegal campaign
contributions. He had been investigated twice by the Senate Ethics Committee
for conflict of interest. But, with every opponent since candidate Bob Kile,
who died with his wife, four aides, and two pilots in the fiery crash just
outside of Houston, Gooden had easily been re-elected.

The man’s tactics were as
brilliant as they were barbarous. Nude pictures of daughters or wives of rivals
leaked to media outlets and bloggers. Strange investigations by the IRS were
launched. Unexplained endorsements for the Republican Gooden would emerge from
Democrats who had spoken poorly of him just weeks before.

Gooden was old school
politics, and he believed a little dirt and leverage could win any political
battle. To date, he’d been right.

But now Nick
had him in his sights.

Nick
remembered not overplaying his hand or showing how big a deal it was to
discover Gooden’s name. Instead, Nick merely thanked Smith for the information,
ended the call, and then immediately prepared contingency plans for Gooden in
case Nick was killed in Afghanistan.

Nick relayed
the name to Marcus and famed reporter, Allen Green, who had publicized Nick’s
story of being sold out a few years earlier. Through a ton of hard work that
spanned literally years, Allen had pieced together the full story of how Nick
and another Marine Scout Sniper had operated on top secret missions in
Afghanistan against the Soviets in the ’80s. After the story had broken, the
two had been forced to go on the run. And in those weeks that followed, they
had become good friends.

Nick
informed Marcus and Allen in person so that no trace of Senator Gooden’s name
would be found on either audio or written means by the NSA. Allen assured Nick
that if something happened to both Nick and Marcus while they were in
Afghanistan, he would expose Senator Gooden and take him down through the
media.

Nick
remembered the brilliant mind of Allen, as he had used everything from websites
to former news contacts to break down the undercover CIA wing run by Senator
Gooden and a man named Whitaker. Allen practiced a different kind of warfare.
One in which the power of the internet and media was harnessed. But he also
remembered the anti-gun, anti-violence man using an MP-5 to help finish off
Whitaker, saving Nick’s life in the process.

Nick was
confident that Allen would follow through with Gooden, just as he was confident
Marcus would, as well, should Nick go down in a blaze of glory.

A door
slammed shut and broke Nick from his thoughts. Marcus walked toward him with a
file folder and a legal pad covered in scribbled notes.

“I’ve got
the latest intel,” he said. “And it’s not all good.”

Chapter 55

The unit
made its plans for the ambush, rehearsed its actions, and rested with what time
remained. And at dawn of the morning the convoy was expected to arrive, the
members of S3 waited in concealed positions. And they waited some more.

This was the
part that sucked most about ambushes. Just waiting and waiting. And as the
morning sun crept higher and burned brighter, the suck factor escalated
quickly.

Unlike most,
Nick didn’t mind the waiting. Laying perfectly still had saved his skin too
many times to count. He ran his hand along the dust and gravel, picking up a
small piece of dirt between two fingers and crushing it, a growing habit of his
when waiting. He returned his gaze to the route below them and thought back to
the time he’d outwaited a counter sniper in the woods of Camp Lejeune, North
Carolina.

Yeah, being
patient and learning to wait was definitely a skill worth keeping sharp. And on
the bright side, at least they were in American uniforms again and carried what
they preferred, including tactical gloves, CamelBaks, and knee pads, for those
who liked them.

Finally,
four hours later than expected, the “dawn” convoy showed up just a bit before
lunch. Four trucks eased their way down a rocky, dirt road, which cut through a
valley flanked by long ridges on both sides. No civilization existed in either
direction for better than five miles. This was Taliban country, and the men
bouncing about in the trucks appeared relaxed.

Nick pressed
a push-to-talk button on the front of his gear and whispered into his throat
mike.

“This has to
be them. Government troops, even local police from the nearest village, would
be nervous as hell this deep in enemy territory.”

A sniper
team came on the net.

“We confirm
weapons in the back. Break. Thirteen men visible. Break. Light weapons. No
heavy machine guns present, over.”

“Roger,”
Nick said.

S3 was
deployed in a classic L-shaped ambush formation. Above the road, the six
members of Nick’s Primary Strike Team lay in hiding. They waited in a
horizontal line, paralleling the road. To the front of the ambush site, the six
members of 1st Squad concealed themselves. They formed the short part of the
L-shape, intersecting the road. They had equipped themselves with two M240
medium machine guns, which sat on tripods and were placed low near the road for
maximum coverage. They’d be firing knee-high along the ground, their two beaten
zones overlapping in an “X” approximately where Nick wanted to spring the
ambush.

Adding to
this destruction were two sniper teams perfectly hidden on high ground of their
choosing. The thirteen Taliban didn’t stand a chance against the six shooters
on the hill from the Primary Strike Team, the six shooters to the enemy’s
direct front, and the two sniper teams who never missed.

Fourteen
Americans in near-perfect positions against thirteen men riding in the open.
Worse, thirteen men who were overconfident, tightly compacted, and about to be
surprised on their “home” turf.

Nick liked
the odds, but he’d stacked them further in his favor by having 2nd Squad on the
hill behind them. That would keep anyone from walking up on the Primary Strike
Team with their backs turned. Additionally, 2nd Squad’s six men were prepared
to come over the hill and assist if any unexpected Taliban reinforcements
arrived.

And if
things got incomprehensibly ugly, 3rd Squad sat a half-mile up the road
guarding all their vehicles. But they could always leave a man on site and
deploy down the hill as an additional reserve element. Nick slowly eased his
scoped M14 and watched the convoy cover its final distance.

The men in
the trucks weren’t even looking up at the hills. They were that confident. It’s
been awhile since they’ve had much to fear, Nick thought.

The vehicles
entered the kill zone, and Nick pressed his mic button, “Contact. Contact.
Contact.”

A single
sniper shot cracked the silence, followed by a fusillade of M240 machine gun
and M4 rifle fire. Nick hoped that first shot had been one of the sniper teams
taking out the front driver. The most important thing was stopping the first
truck, to keep them from driving through the ambush site.

Nick noticed
with glee that probably three-quarters of the ambushers were focusing their
fire on the front truck. Nick centered his scope on the front truck’s cab and
saw that the two men in it had been riddled with bullets. He decided to avoid
taking any chances and quickly fired once into the passenger and driver. At
barely two hundred yards, both were easy shots.

As the truck
rolled off what passed for a road, it slammed to a halt in a ditch, its bumper
crumpling against a massive boulder.

Nick shifted
the scope left into the bed of the truck and saw a man springing into action,
trying to stand and bring his AK to bear against the massive machine-gun fire
coming up the road from the two M240s in 1st Squad. Since Nick was shooting
laterally from up the hill, he aimed at the man’s shoulder and pulled the
trigger.

The M14
bucked, the man dropped. At such close distance, Nick wouldn’t be missing
today. Nothing else moved in truck one, but fighters were scrambling out of
truck two. The Taliban planned to fight their way out of this, it seemed. Not a
terrible strategy in most cases.

Nick
followed a bearded man running forward, waited for him to stop behind a rock,
and put a 7.62 round through his head. Nick tracked the next man through his
scope, but the young man stumbled and landed hard from someone else’s bullet
before Nick could pull the trigger. Nick put a round into the man’s prostrate
body, but it was probably unnecessary. Someone had hit him hard.

Systematic,
well-aimed shots continued from the Primary Strike Team, while the M240s
continued to roar in a talking guns manner -- left machine gun, pause, right
machine gun, pause, no different than if they were practicing on the range.
Nick scanned his sector for targets but saw none. He looked up from his M14 and
observed that all four trucks were shot up. Bodies lay slumped, piled, and
broken throughout the ambush site.

It was a
little surprising with how fast all their targets had been dispatched. Nick
pulled his weapon down and keyed his mike, “1st Squad, cease fire.”

As the
machine guns from 1st Squad stopped firing, Nick stood and saw his Primary
Strike Team members standing, weapons at the ready and aimed on the kill zone.

“Snipers,”
Nick said into his radio, “keep your eyes peeled for reinforcements. We’re
going in.”

Nick
hand-signaled the Primary Strike Team forward. They’d clear the ambush site,
stack the RPG munitions, and blow them in place. They’d hang onto the currency
for S3’s use in future operations since turning it over to the Afghan
government would only lead to it lining someone’s pockets.