Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (33 page)

Chapter 99

Nick leaned
forward in his chair, stunned and silent. His mind racing with last-minute
contingencies.

“Why don’t
we get our air assets up?” he asked. “Hit those tanks, get our troops moving
out of Bagram, and get the Afghan president re-established. That wouldn’t be
hard to do at all.”

“Nick,” Mr.
Smith said, frustration rising in his voice, “I have to reiterate again that
this is above our pay grades.”

“It’s
clearly above someone's head.”

“Damn it,”
Mr. Smith said, from wherever his office was in Washington or Langley, “don’t
you think the Department of Defense already made that suggestion? We’re not all
incompetent.”

“Why aren’t
we doing it then?”

“Two things
intervened,” Mr. Smith said, his voice coming back under control. “First, radio
intercepts show the Taliban have moved a large stockpile of rockets and mortars
that they’ll use to shut down Bagram if we try it. When the order came out that
American troops couldn’t fly or operate, the Taliban instantly moved these
munitions into position. And they’re dug in. So if we even try it, we’re
talking serious casualties on our end. But besides that, the State Department
convinced the President that we shouldn’t provoke the Taliban.”

“Provoke the
Taliban?!” Nick screamed, his anger boiling in his blood. “They should see what
the Taliban just did to my men! Not to mention all the men and women we’ve lost
the past fifteen years while at war with these motherfuckers! So, news alert,
big guy: they’re already pissed off!”

Mr. Smith
let him curse and scream a bit more before saying, “Nick, it’s over.”

Mr. Smith
continued, his voice controlled and unfazed by Nick’s outburst, “The State
Department made the case to our President that a new power is in control of
Afghanistan, and they reminded him that we have nearly five thousand support
troops and advisors over there who will be in serious danger.”

“They
wouldn’t be in any danger if we’re allowed to fight,” Nick argued.

“Nick, you
know that whoever controls Kabul, controls Afghanistan,” Mr. Smith said. “The
Taliban already controlled much of the countryside. The capital was the final
straw. It’s over.”

“We have the
troops already here to deal with this situation. It doesn’t have to be over.
Let me coordinate with the commanding general at Bagram, and we can deal with
this.”

“You’re
preaching to the choir,” Mr. Smith said, his voice tired. “But the President
wanted to minimize our presence even before all this went down. And he’s still
pissed about the order that we couldn’t operate air or ground troops after the
Apache friendly fire incident. And he’s super pissed the Afghan president
sought asylum in Iran instead of with us. We’ve got a lot of money and secrets
over there that we don’t want the Iranians getting ahold of, but we clearly do
not have a government in place that we can trust or support any more. The
billions in aid packages. The asylum request. The President is done with our
Afghan expedition. It’s over, Nick.”

“But this
doesn’t have to be over,” Nick said again, his anger returning. “Hell, we send
in some Rangers and Marines, allow our forces to operate once more, and
re-establish the Afghan government. Or even a new one.”

“The
Department of Defense made that very suggestion, Nick, but the president was
having none of it. He said we’ve been there fifteen years, and this was never
his war to begin with. The public wants us out. Believe me, if you could only
see CNN or MSNBC right now. Even FOX has turned against us. Trust me, Nick.
It’s over.”

Nick was at
a loss of words. Twenty minutes ago, he had been fighting for a new country
that though weak, still had a chance. Nick and his men had been sweating and
bleeding and dying for a cause against truly evil men. And now he was being
told it was all for naught. That it was over.

Nick had men
bleeding out this very minute, maybe even Marcus, and he was being told their
lives had been sacrificed for nothing. For less than nothing, really. The
Taliban would rule again, and the Afghan president would flee to Iran and share
a treasure trove of information, which would cost America even more lives in
the years to come.

Nick
regretted having ordered his men to the presidential palace.

He bowed his
head and closed his eyes. It was still too much for him to accept. He lifted
his head, squeezed his eyes tight until they hurt, and felt something run out
of them. Sweat? Tears? Marcus’ blood?

He was about
to explode. He needed to break something. Or someone. Or himself.

Calm down,
Nick, he told himself, beginning some breathing exercises that he’d been taught
by the VA to control his rage and paranoia.

Mr. Smith
either sensed or heard what was happening, and said nothing.

Nick managed
to pull himself together. He reset himself mentally.

“It’s not
over,” Nick said, conviction starting to take hold. “I’m telling you, this is
winnable.”

“The
decision’s been made, Nick,” Mr. Smith said, his voice sounding sympathetic.
“The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully
established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire
with the Taliban. Primarily, they will -- wait, let me read this -- quote
‘insist on the safe evacuation of all service members, and full accountability
of any missing or wounded.’”

“The
President’s not on the ground here,” Nick said. “He doesn’t know what I know.
They probably don’t have three hundred fighters in the capital. If that.”

“Nick,” Mr.
Smith said, his voice having changed from persuasive and friendly to stern and
commanding. “This. Is. Over. That is the word coming down from the President.
The President -- our commander in chief -- agrees with the State Department
that we should negotiate terms and withdraw. He’s made his decision. You, as
well as all military units, are ordered to only fire in self-defense and to
cease any and all operations underway. You are to collect your men, wounded,
and equipment and make your way to Bagram, where they are expecting you.”

“This isn’t
over,” Nick said.

“Nick, I am
ordering you to collect your men, wounded, and equipment and make your way to
Bagram,” Mr. Smith repeated. “That is precisely what was handed to me directly
from the President’s chief of staff, and the Department of Defense is aware of
your unit’s orders, too. If you don’t comply, you could be engaged as a
renegade unit. So, I suggest you make your way to Bagram Airfield, as
directed.”

Nick thought
of the raid into Pakistan, as well as the pain and effort that it had cost
Marcus, Red, Truck, and himself. He recalled the moment the tank had fired,
seeing Marcus’ mangled legs flash through his head. He’d never walk again for
sure.

A rage and
anger welled up inside of him. It was too deep, too personal for him to rein
in.

No, this
wasn’t over by a long shot.

“Nick? You
there?” Mr. Smith asked.

“Fuck your
orders. And fuck the President’s orders,” Nick said. “This isn’t over.”

Chapter 100

Nick hung
the phone up and stared at it. He realized it might ring at any second, so he
fully powered it off, located the battery, and removed it. He thought about
throwing the thing against the wall, he was so angry, but that’d be pretty
stupid if he needed to use it again. Which he probably would.

He couldn’t
even imagine relaying the conversation he’d just had with his men and women. America
would negotiate with the Taliban for the safe passage of American troops out of
Afghanistan?

That was
beyond nuts. The American military hadn’t lost a battle yet to these bastards.
That’s why the Taliban stuck to using IEDs as their primary weapon. Cowardly weapons
planted by villagers who were usually paid to place them. The Taliban was too
chicken-shit to even plant them themselves.

The Taliban
hadn’t -- and literally couldn’t -- stand up to the firepower of the U.S.
military.

One thing
Mr. Smith had said stuck out in Nick’s mind.

“The State
Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established
control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the
Taliban.”

Nick
replayed the statement in his mind several times, as the anger burned in him
with a fire that nothing on earth could stop.

He looked at
the blood on his gear, and on the grip and stock of his M4. He replayed the
words again and again. There was something in those words, something that hid a
deeper point. But what was it?

“The State
Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established
control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the
Taliban.”

He pushed
the anger down, demanding his brain find whatever clue was buried in those
words.

“The State
Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established
control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the
Taliban.”

And that’s
when it hit him. This all came back to Deraz.

Of course.
Deraz was the head of the Taliban. Deraz was the man who was held in such high
esteem by the typically unruly and hard-to-control Taliban fighters. Deraz was
the man who the Afghan people trusted to be fair, even if he did hold views
more fundamental and extreme than their own.

Nick thought
of Mr. Smith’s statement again.

“The State
Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established
control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the
Taliban.”

Of course,
he thought! This was the final effort of a decade’s long strategy by Deraz.
This was the final battle, and by all means any real leader would be nearby,
overseeing the last epic battle that his entire legacy and life’s work rested
on.

Without
Rasool, the Taliban would either appoint some other religious crazy who hadn’t
paid his dues on the battlefield, and thus would lack the respect and support
of the people. Or, they’d descend into internal fighting while several
mid-level fighters jockeyed for power.

The Afghan
people didn’t respect religious leaders who didn’t work on farms or spend their
time fighting. No typical Afghan could imagine a life spent completely in
mosques or madrassas. No, the Afghan people would never stand for a religious
zealot taking over their country. Especially after all the freedom they had
felt under American governance.

No way would
they go back to being forced to grow beards, or having their women whipped by
sticks in the street for violating some minor offense. Or angry, religious men
preventing their children from flying kites.

An idea
began to creep up into Nick’s mind. S3 just needed to find Deraz, bag and tag
him, then somehow let the Afghan people know that the man was dead.

Taking down
Deraz was exactly what he’d been hired to do anyway.

Chapter 101

Nick opened
the office door and stepped out into the warehouse.

He surveyed
the scene. The convoy of wounded had left, with most of the security men having
gone with them to help protect the convoy. Nick couldn’t remember if he had
instructed anyone to do it that way, but he was glad to see that either Red or
Cormac, in charge of security, had read his mind.

Red was too
far away for Nick to hear what the little guy was saying, but he was clearly
pointing and instructing those who remained behind. They had broken ammunition
out of ammo cans and were reloading magazines.

Nick marched
across the warehouse toward the remaining squad members. He was almost
uncontrollably resolute and pissed, and too far gone to try to hide it.

Gear was
strewn across the floor, much of it bloody. Helmets, assault vests, and even a
gore-covered boot lay scattered across the warehouse floor. His men had
probably thrown and slung the gear out of the MRAPs as they had hastily worked
to get the wounded loaded in the police trucks and rushed to emergency care.

He was
halfway to the loading docks and could hear Red’s voice now.

“Once you
get your magazines fully reloaded, let’s get your water refilled, and get to
cleaning your weapons. We’ll eat and clean up some more after that if there’s
time.”

Red spotted
him approaching and stopped in mid-sentence. Nick walked around the cluster of
fighters sitting on packs or standing about. They were sweaty and grimy --
about what you’d expect after spending loads of energy in a firefight, your
adrenaline running one thousand miles per hour.

He stopped
next to Red who nodded but had a worried look on his face. Nick dropped his
helmet on the ground, flipped it up with his foot so it was bottom up, and
placed his rifle on it. He unsnapped his assault vest and yanked it over his
head. He let that fall, as well.

His men were
still loading magazines, but no one talked now. They watched him, anxious for
information on the situation. On what their next hour -- or even ten minutes --
might hold in store for them. Nick recognized the taste of grime and grit in
his mouth, and he spit on the floor. He ground the spit out and leaned over to
swallow down some water.

He felt all
the eyes on him. Nick didn’t like being the center of attention, but it went
with the job. He stood back up and said, “Listen up.”

As soon as
he said it, he realized it was a damn stupid thing to say, as everyone was
already locked on his every move.

“Just got
off the phone with Mr. Smith. Shit’s pretty fucked up right now.”

He quickly
ran through the situation and described that the war was over. And that soon,
the State Department would negotiate with the Taliban for everyone’s safe
return home.

“That’s
fucking bullshit!” Truck roared, jumping to his feet and hurtling his helmet
thirty yards across the building and into the wall. It was an impressive
physical feat, fueled with a heavy dose of adrenaline, Nick figured. He doubted
Truck could replicate it under normal conditions. But then again, it was Truck.

Nick gazed
at his troops and saw hot anger in their eyes. They looked as betrayed and sick
as he felt.

He glanced
at Red and saw Red was about to lose it, but the mantle of leadership seemed to
be holding the typically volatile man in check.

“Our orders
are to cease all operations and make our way back to Bagram Airfield.”

“Such
bullshit,” Lana said, interrupting Nick. He couldn’t imagine how angry Lana
must feel, having dedicated her entire life to stomping out radical Islam.

Nick
continued.

“We are only
authorized to fire in self-defense as we make our way back. Those, my friends,
are our orders.”

There were
more curses and plenty of arguing and bitching among the troops. Nick let them
vent a bit.
Hopefully,
if they let a little of the hot air out with words,
they’d be less likely to start breaking equipment or their fists on hard
objects. Truck was dangerous enough by himself, but Nick really didn’t want to
see the room break into a rampage.

Once the
anger had resided some, Nick resumed.

“Well,
honestly, I feel the same damn way. But we have our orders and we should follow
them.”

Even angrier
curses and insults came at him, some sounding mutinous.

“Fuck that,’
he caught Truck barking.

“Shut up, you fuckers!” Red suddenly burst out, louder than Nick could
have imagined his small, smoke-shriveled lungs could manage. “Get your ears out
of your asses, the man just said ‘should follow.’”

The room came to an abrupt silence. And Nick looked over to see Red
looking at him with a pleadingly expectant look.

And despite the rage rebounding inside of him, Nick managed to give the
keen, little man a whisper of a smile.

“Well,” he
said, “it just so happens I do have a crazy plan that could take Deraz down and
save this country. But you need to know there’s a very real chance that we risk
prison once we return, assuming we live to tell about it.”

Nick allowed
that to sink in a bit.

“We have
been clearly ordered to stand down, and I have relayed those orders to each of
you. I need to make it absolutely clear that those are lawful orders, and we
break them at our own risk. We will likely wind up in prison after this.”

He paused
and added, “There’s also a chance that we will be engaged by our own military
if we act. Mr. Smith literally informed me of such a possibility, saying we
would, at that time, be seen as a renegade element of the U.S. military.”

Nick gave
everyone a full thirty seconds for his cautions to sink in.

Nick finally
said, “But having said all of this, maybe they’ll see what I plan to do as a
mere detour on our way to Bagram. Or maybe they could be persuaded to see it as
we were attacked and defending ourselves. Or maybe they’ll even forget they
gave such stupid orders if we succeed. History often gets rewritten several
times before it's cemented on paper.”

Nick smiled.
“Victory has a way of making people changing their minds.”

A few smiles
from the troops.

“But let's
not forget, there’s also the chance that they meant every word, and we’ll be
hammered. End up in jail for several years. You just never know with
politicians.”

Nick scanned
the crowd. Most, if not all, seemed to be on board with the renegade plan.

Truck
was shaking
his head in anticipation, a grin of pure delight on his face.

Lana was
loading magazines, her face angry and determined. Lana hated Muslim fanatics
probably worse than anyone on the team, having intimately experienced it as a
child in Saudi Arabia. She might have broken orders even if Nick had not
suggested it.

Hell, she
might have been crazy enough to have stayed behind to fight them alone. That’s
how driven she was to do her part to extinguish the blight of the fanatics in
her religion.

Preacher
appeared to be mentally preparing himself. Having been shot in Mexico, Nick
knew Preacher understood better than most what they were putting on the line.
Once you’ve been shot, it changes you. Makes you a little more aware that
you’re not invincible.

Nick didn’t
need to look at Red. He knew that man’s decision.

He scanned
his ragtag band of madmen, plus one badass woman, one last time and smiled.
Looks like we’ll be going hunting again, Nick thought.