Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (28 page)

Chapter 80

The team
members going out on the patrol awoke the next morning at 5:30 a.m., feasted on
MREs (slight exaggeration), and conducted final gear prep. They’d be moving out
at 9 a.m. to arrive in the neighborhood by 9:30-ish. At that point, no one was
really sure what would happen.

Perhaps they
would drive around the streets in the MRAPS and only get some ugly stares. If
that happened, Nick didn’t know what they would do except return to base after
an hour or so.

But every
bit of his instinct assumed they would take fire, and then they’d just be
reacting to whatever came at them. Perhaps they’d dish it out at range, using
their heavy weapons from the MRAPs to silence those foolish enough to engage
them. Or maybe they’d clear some buildings if the occasion presented itself.

It would be
a great way to seize a damning amount of ammunition and weapons to prove to the
Afghan president that real trouble was headed his way. But regardless of how
the mission went down, Nick wanted to have most of the day (with its crucial
sunlight) to fight their way through it -- or out of it, if it were serious
enough.

S3 was
prepared to fight in the dark, packing all their night vision gear and
batteries just in case, but Nick and Marcus didn’t want to be in the middle of
Kabul fighting at night. Too many ways to die or kill innocent bystanders in
such a crowded city.

But before
they could leave on their mission, Nick got a phone call at 8:20 a.m. from the
last person he wanted to hear from. As soon as Lana carried the encrypted phone
in his office and informed him Mr. Smith was on the line, Nick wondered how he
would prevent his boss from knowing they were about to head into serious harm’s
way.

“Send it,”
Nick said, speaking into the phone with some real reluctance.

“Not sure
what you have on your plate today,” Mr. Smith said, pausing, waiting for Nick
to volunteer some information.

“We’re just
planning on running a couple insignificant patrols near the president’s
building,” Nick said with a grin. “Same as we’ve been doing.”

“Might want
to change your plans. We’ve learned the president is planning a major
celebration today, right in front of the presidential palace.”

“I assume
you’re not kidding.”

“Nope. Two
o’clock. Will probably be thousands attending, as they’re starting already to
spread the word. It’ll be on the loudspeakers soon and spreading from the
mosques. The president is even planning a speech. Says he wants to celebrate
the rout of the Taliban.”

Nick cursed
loudly and said, “This is it. Got to go.”

Chapter 81

Rasool Deraz
stepped out of an inner sanctum of one of Kabul’s holiest mosques. Mushahid
Zubaida had waited for more than an hour while Rasool prayed inside the room.

Rasool
greeted him with the warmest smile, and Mushahid noticed the man’s eyes
glistening. He shuffled up to Mushahid and hugged him hard, his frail arms
exerting much effort.

Rasool
released him and pulled back, a tear rolling down his wrinkled cheek. He
reached up and lightly patted Mushahid on his face.

“I have
foreseen a great victory for our people,” Rasool said. “Allah has shown me that
today is the day.”

Mushahid
took a deep breath and bowed at the news. How could he convince the man to wait
two more days? Especially when he got these kinds of feelings from above?

“But, sir,”
Mushahid said, “we would have a greater chance of success if we wait two more
days, as we had been planning all along.”

“No, it is
time. Allah has shown me.”

Rasool was
still smiling, and Mushahid knew he would have to tread carefully. No mere
mortal could suggest that perhaps Allah was wrong. And when a religious
believer, who had such deep faith as Rasool, felt they had been foretold
something, then plans or objections such as tactical considerations no longer
mattered.

“If Allah
wills it, then we will gain victory today,” Mushahid said, humbly bowing. “But
if we wait two more days, then we’ll have three hundred more fighters, and the
mere soldier in me would feel far more confident.”

He smiled
with the words, making them as delicate as possible.

“You worry
too much,” Rasool said. He wrapped his arm around Mushahid and leaned on him as
the two walked toward the front of the mosque, where he had left his cane and
their shoes.

“How many
fighters have entered the city?” Rasool asked.

“We now have
nearly eight hundred.”

“That is
more than enough.”

“The tribal
elders have been quite generous,” Mushahid said. “They have not only sent some
of their best fighters, but their women have also delivered more than enough
food for the men to eat.”

The two
leaders had used messengers to request each village and town to amass men in
the capital. They had stayed off the radios to prevent intercepts and avoided
stating any attack dates or plans. Secrecy trumped all else.

“There is
more than enough food to wait two more days,” Mushahid argued. “By waiting, we
can gain the fighters from the farthest provinces. Their longer journeys will
only delay us a couple of days, but will further ensure our chances of success.
And it will also allow them to take part in the victory and feel more committed
to our government once the president and his people flee.”

“It will be
your government,” Rasool said.

Mushahid
stopped. “What?”

“Yes, you
will reward the tribal leaders’ loyalty graciously after this magnificent
battle.”

Rasool
noticed the stunned look on Mushahid’s face.

“Ah, now you
know the other revelation Allah showed me inside that room. It is your time,
Mushahid. This will be my final battle. I will deliver you victory if it is
Allah’s will, and then announce that my time to step down has come.”

Mushahid
couldn’t even swallow. He stood there, frozen and stunned.

“Of course,
it will take a vote from the tribal elders, but I will push hard for your
selection. Your appointment is virtually assured.”

Mushahid
still had no idea what to say.

“It is time
I retire to the mountains,” Rasool said, smiling, his eyes glistening again. “I
wish to sit by the stream I played in as a child. I wish to live the simple
life again, raising goats and chickens. Telling stories to my grandchildren.
Hassan will be seven soon.”

The smiling
man gazed wistfully into the distance.

One of their
personal guards entered the mosque, allowed his eyes to adjust, and saw the two
men across the room. He hastily removed his shoes, placed his weapon against a
wall, and hurried to them.

Rasool broke
from his thoughts and said, “Yes, Assadullah?”

The man
bowed. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but word is spreading that the Afghan
president is holding a massive celebration. This afternoon. In just a few
hours, in fact.”

The man
lifted his head, but Rasool wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, Rasool was
looking off to the upper corner of the mosque, grinning and crying. He turned to
Mushahid and affirmed, “It is a sign. Yes, it is a sign. Allah wills it.
Proceed, Mushahid, while I go back to pray for your victory.”

Rasool
nodded at Assadullah. “Help me back to the inner sanctum and wait by my side
while I pray for our final victory.”

The man
bowed, and Mushahid did likewise.

“Go with
faith, Mushahid. It is our time.”

Mushahid
tried to bury his true thoughts about the attack as he headed for the door. He
would not undermine Rasool with any looks of doubt, nor would he share his true
thoughts about the attack with the men.

Chapter 82

Nick held
the heavy encrypted phone in his hand, looking down at it and all the buttons
on it. He glanced up at the troops, watching them through the small window on
the door. The squad members were either checking gear for the hundredth time or
throwing down some chow.

He gripped
the phone, processing what Mr. Smith had said about the planned celebration by
the president. He chewed on the news like a physicist studying a complex
equation.

Was it just
a celebration? That if S3 reacted to and changed their plans, they would simply
waste a day observing a mass of loyal supporters foolishly celebrating a
victory that wasn’t a victory? If they sat on the perimeter of the celebration,
waiting to pounce, and then nothing happened, would it be a pivotal wasted day?
A day in which they could have surprised and hit the Taliban in their staging
area had they ignored the celebration and entered the dangerous neighborhood
that he couldn’t even pronounce?

Every fiber
in his being told him that this was it. This monumentally stupid celebration by
the president would be when the Taliban made their move. If they were even
close to pulling off their attack, certainly they would move it forward for
such an incredible opportunity.

A
celebration? In front of the presidential palace, which had to be one of their
primary targets?

He made up
his mind. This was it, and there was no point second-guessing himself and
checking his assumptions. He needed to move. No, they needed to move. He thrust
the phone on the desk, grabbed his M4, and ripped open the door.

He slung the
M4 tactically across his chest and ran across the warehouse floor to the center
of their staging area. S3 members reacted to his sprint, looking up and getting
the attention of those who hadn’t noticed.

Nick leaped
up, grabbed the side of an MRAP, and vaulted to its roof.

“Pull it
in!” he yelled across the crowded floor of the warehouse. Vehicles, cots,
crates, and ammunition pallets covered the floor. Thankfully, the massive
warehouse had six, high bay doors that allowed them to easily pull in and drive
out their MRAPs and police trucks.

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.