Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (29 page)

Chapter 84

Practically
every member of S3’s four squads, as well as the sniper squad, waited with
nerves on edge back at the warehouse, huddling around three small monitors.
Those in the front sat, while those immediately behind them kneeled. Finally,
those in the back stood, wedging themselves between others.

Each studied
the three monitors with an intensity and focus you might see in a heart surgeon
as she makes the crucial cut.

The footage
was from the three borrowed drones, and it was remarkably good. Unfortunately,
it was on screens too small for so many people to be watching. The Army master
sergeant had even allowed S3 to borrow the three drone operators. Partly, he
felt there was less chance of a crash occurring this way. And partly because it
would help ensure that he retained control of them should the Taliban make
their move.

Nick and
Marcus sat on two footlockers right between the operators.

“Zoom in on
that truck,” Marcus said.

The camera
tilted and zoomed, but nothing could be seen under a heavy tarp.

It was
probably the twentieth or thirtieth time they had suggested a flight change or
camera zoom, and still nothing had been seen. The S3 members behind them would
often break the silence and point to something, but nothing had come of any of
their efforts so far.

“Where are
they?” Truck yelled.

He wasn’t
the only one frustrated. Nick could feel in his gut that the enemy was
somewhere in the crammed-in masses, but their discipline was impressive.

“Damn it,”
Marcus cursed. “I know they’re in there.”

The words
“in there” struck a weird nerve in Nick. He felt that sick-to-his-stomach
feeling he’d once felt when a sniper had him in his sights in the woods of Camp
Lejeune.

Of course
they
weren’t in there because that’s where they’d be expected.

“Zoom out,”
he ordered to the drone operators. “All of you.”

And with
that, the drone operators quickly found the Taliban. A massive column of men
was moving down the street toward the presidential palace, still probably a
mile or two away. They rode in Toyota trucks beneath black Taliban flags,
driving slowly as if it were some parade.

“Holy shit,”
Preacher said, and he didn’t typically cuss.

“And this is
what happens when you won’t allow us to operate drones or air power,” Red said.
He stopped suddenly and jumped to his feet. “What the hell? Why aren’t they
firing?”

Afghan
police units were parting and scattering as the convoy moved forward. Not a
single round was fired at those in the convoy.

“They are
probably broadcasting on a megaphone from the lead truck, saying that anyone
that decides not to confront them will be spared,” Lana proposed. “It’s common
practice. And since the Taliban only attacks so openly when they have vastly
superior numbers, probably no police officer wants to risk being on the losing
side when the battle’s over.”

“Those
motherfuckers,” Red said. “They’re frozen up. Deer-in-the-headlights kind of
shit.”

“Well, we’re
not,” Nick said. “Mount up, everyone. And Dr. Clayton, I hope you’re ready to travel
because you’re coming with us.”

Chapter 85

As the
squads ran around grabbing gear and mounting up, Nick dialed Mr. Smith.

“It’s going
down,” Nick said, the moment the call connected.

“What’s
happening?”

“One large
column of Taliban moving toward the presidential palace. We’re moving to
intercept them.”

“What are
your --”

Nick turned
the phone off and stuffed it in his pack.

Marcus stood
there, now donned in his full Afghan police gear, including bullet-proof vest
and helmet.

“What’s the
plan?” he asked.

“Hell if I
know. We’ll just drive out there, shoot some of these fools, and see how it
plays out.”

“Sounds like
my kind of plan,” Marcus replied, smiling.

Nick yanked
his assault vest and web gear on, then slung his M4 across his chest and
cinched his helmet down.

The two
walked toward the line of vehicles.

“Order of
movement,” Nick yelled, “is Primary Strike Team in the front MRAP followed by
1st Squad, 2nd Squad, Sniper Squad, and 3rd Squad in the rear. Marcus, you ride
with 3rd Squad. Dr. Clayton, assign your team members so that you’re spread out
one per MRAP in the middle vehicles. Snipers, pack your long guns, but you’ll
be operating as a regular squad, so take your M4s as your primary weapons. Once
we make contact, I’ll issue orders on what our plans are.”

“Ooh-rah!”
screamed Red, already climbing in the first vehicle.

“Yut!”
yelled someone else.

That would
be about as much of a pep talk as S3 would get. These were professional
fighters, and this wasn’t their first dance. And once you’ve done it a few
times, you don’t need inspirational speeches or silly maxims about standing
together.

Each squad
climbed and squeezed in its own v-shaped hull MRAP. They were using the popular
Cougar 6x6 model, which had four wheels in the back and two in the front.
Besides the v-shaped hull providing excellent protection from IEDs, the armored
sides of the Cougar MRAP shielded them against all machine-gun fire. As long as
they didn’t run into any RPGs, they’d be fairly safe in the movement to the
battlefield.

In the first
vehicle, Truck drove, and Nick clambered into the passenger seat. Nick checked
in with each squad leader and confirmed they had all their men present and
accounted for. Then, the convoy had roared out of their fenced-in warehouse
base and tore off toward the Taliban convoy.

They would
intercept the column within just a few minutes. Nick finished reviewing a map
he had pulled out and studied the roads they’d be operating on one final time.
With that done, he folded the map and shoved it under his armored vest. He
picked up the encrypted phone and dialed Mr. Smith.

“What’s the
Afghan government doing?” Nick asked.

“Don’t hang
up on me again!” Mr. Smith shouted.

“Stop your
bitching. I’ve got thirty seconds.”

Mr. Smith
angrily exhaled.

“Right now
they’re in complete turmoil. The celebration broke up when word of the
approaching column reached them. The people dashed out of the square. And the
security detail for the president is moving him down to his bunker until
security forces deal with the Taliban.”

“They call
up the army yet? Looks like the police are running without firing a shot.”

“They’ve
called up their third battalion that’s guarding the capital, but there’s a
problem. First, it’s the least prepared or experienced. And they weren’t on any
kind of alert, so it’ll take at least an hour or two before they’re ready to
respond. The president, unfortunately, deployed the best two battalions, who
were best positioned to counter.”

“Chasing
ghosts,” Nick said with disgust, recalling the “fight” for the hill outside
Kabul.

“Precisely.
So you’re on your own for at least a couple of hours.”

The Taliban
were just a couple blocks ahead, by Nick’s estimation, and he had little time
remaining.

“Alert your
contacts in the Afghan government that we’re moving to engage the Taliban and
we’re in MRAPs and Afghan police uniforms.”

“Will do.”

Nick hung up
as their MRAP turned a corner. Afghan civilians rushed toward them. Some ran,
others pulled small children.

“They look
pretty scared,” Truck said.

“This is
their worst fear,” Nick replied.

Nick pressed
his radio transmit button.

“Red,” he said,
“stay alert on that gun. We’re getting close.”

“Roger
that,” Red said.

They had Red
in the turret above them on a .50 caliber heavy machine gun. The designers of
the MRAPs had put a lot of thought into the turrets and designed them so that
their gunners were mostly protected by bulletproof armor and glass in the
turret. The turret was controlled by a small joystick, but if they took hits
and lost the electronics, it could be hand-cranked, as well.

And if worse
came to worst, and they lost the turret and gun, Truck could use the front
bumper of the MRAP to take down a few of the Taliban. Nick had no problem at
all sending as many as he could to see Allah.

Nick glanced
in the side mirror and saw the four other MRAPs following in their wake, their
gunners alert on their .50s, as well.

Well, he
thought with a shrug, I’ve gone to war with less.

S3 was well
protected and heavily armed. And it was soon going to be a very bad day for a
bunch of Taliban. With luck, Afghan reinforcements would arrive, and they’d
have several more great stories afterward to tell over a few beers.

But if
things went south, then Nick figured this beat dying in a bed at a nursing
home.

Chapter 86

One block
deeper and the civilians were sprinting and screaming, looking over their
shoulders. Terror gripped them.

“Taliban’s
got to be close,” Nick said.

He yanked
his map out and confirmed their location. “Yep,” he said. “Take a right up
here, and we should be just about there.”

S3 rounded
the corner, and there the Taliban was, merely a couple hundred yards away. Same
column, no change in formation or demeanor.

“Clearly no
one has fired at them in the time it took us to get here,” Nick said. He
pressed the transmit button. “Hold your fire for a second, Red.”

Nick pointed
to the right of the fairly narrow street and said, “Pull the MRAP to the right
side of the road. Let’s get the next MRAP up to our left.”

As Truck
moved the vehicle over, Nick ordered the next MRAP with 2nd Squad in it to pull
alongside them. Their two massive hulls blocked the entire street, and the
Taliban halted, not even two hundred yards between them.

It was a
standoff, but S3 sat behind armor and bullet-proof glass. The Taliban rode in
open-bed Toyotas, which would have been vulnerable to even pistol fire.

But they had
Allah on their side, so maybe armor wasn’t necessary, Nick thought. The Taliban
shouted at the MRAPs through a large megaphone. Fighters climbed out of trucks
and moved forward by the front truck.

“Precious
aren’t they?” Nick said with a smirk.

Truck
laughed. “I’m not going to lie. It’s a little funny that they think we’re going
to run.”

Nick scanned
the buildings around them for fighters on the rooftops, who might be toting
RPGs. He didn’t see any. There wouldn’t have been time yet, anyway.

“These fools
still think we’re Afghan police,” Truck said with amused delight.

It was a
little entertaining, Nick admitted, and some of these men needed and deserved
to die. But others were probably misled and misinformed young men who would die
before the prime of their lives because of other people’s brainwashing. And
that’s what Nick hated most.

Truck seemed
less contemplative of the moral ambiguity as he prattled on. “Is this the
point,” Truck asked, “where the Afghan police would just hand them the keys to
their vehicles?”

“Probably,”
Nick said, checking their surroundings one final time.

Nick leaned
around and looked behind him into the troop compartment. “What’s he saying,
Lana?”

One of their
braver fighters had pressed forward another ten yards and was shouting into a
megaphone.

She pushed
open the heavy rear door and listened a few moments.

“He’s
saying,” she said, “that if we turn and throw down our weapons, our lives will
be spared, as well as our families. But if we don’t, they will kill us, find
out our identity, and slaughter our families, as well.”

This helped
Nick focus on the task at hand and end any dwelling on ill-informed young men.
These were some seriously bad people.

Nick turned
back to the front and depressed his radio, which transmitted to every member of
S3.

“Listen up,
guys. Vehicles 1 and 2 have encountered the enemy. On my command, their heavy
machine gunners will engage. Once the enemy is engaged, squad members of
vehicles 1 and 2 will disembark and push alongside our vehicles to engage the
enemy. All other vehicles and squad members will hold position and await
orders. How copy, over?”

Each squad
leader, who doubled as a vehicle commander, confirmed the instructions.

The Taliban
to their front looked increasingly impatient. As if they couldn’t understand
why the police were delaying their surrender. Fighters in the street yelled and
gestured. Nick didn’t speak their language, but it was clear it was starting to
hit them that this wasn’t going to go down like it had with other police. And
that these police were in armored vehicles, not out in the open.

“Here we
go,” Nick said, and a smile crept across his face.

He pressed his
transmit button. “Gunners, engage.”

The two .50
calibers exploded and shook the MRAPS as they tore into the column and troops
ahead. The stream of massive rounds cut through trucks and blew people in half.
Technically, .50s were designed for use against vehicles, buildings, and
airplanes back in World War II, since their bullets were too large and
expensive for use on personnel. But Nick had learned long ago that they worked
wonderfully against enemy troops in the open.

Especially
when they were lined up like this. Each 700-grain bullet was capable of
speeding through multiple human targets, or even trucks unless they hit an
engine block.

At this
moment, anywhere on the street in front of the two S3 MRAPs was a kill zone.

The back
doors of the two vehicles kicked open, and the riflemen for each squad leapt
out, rushing forward. They ducked, dropped, or hid behind whatever cover they
could find. Those with no cover assumed the prone position to get as low as
possible. Soon their M4s joined the one-sided slaughter.

Each squad
member had an Aimpoint sight, and they didn’t miss at 200 yards. Blood painted
the street, and shrieks and screams reached the S3 lines despite the massive
roar of their firing.

Some return
fire erupted, but each time it did, it was quickly silenced by a sharp-sighted
squad member or the hammering .50s.

“Sitrep,”
Marcus said over the radio from the rear of the column, using the military
shorthand for “situation report.”

“Pretty
one-sided so far,” Nick said. He pulled a map from his cargo pocket. Surely the
Taliban would push to the side streets to try to flank the two MRAPs they saw.
He doubted they knew about the other MRAPs behind them that were obscured from
their vision. Nonetheless, the Taliban still held a huge advantage in numbers.
Several hundred to less than fifty in S3.

Unfortunately
for Nick, he was off the mark on his estimation by about five hundred.