Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (35 page)

Chapter 104

“Where to?”
Truck asked, when Nick climbed back into the MRAP.

“Just get us
the hell out of here,” Nick said. “Head back to the warehouse.”

The .50s
were roaring on each of the three MRAPs, as the incoming fire horrendously
increased. Nick hoped they didn’t have a gunner get hit up in one of the
turrets. There were shields and plates that protected most of their bodies, and
their helmets covered much of their heads, but it wasn’t uncommon to have a
gunner take a hit.

The MRAPs
howled as they sprinted down the road straight toward the enemy. Even though
this took them straight into more danger, turning the vehicles around was
nearly an impossibility. The MRAPs would have been a sitting duck, begging some
RPG gunner to shoot as it sat horizontally, barely moving, trying to pull off
an eight-point on a street already far too narrow.

They only
needed to go roughly a block until they could take a right and start working
their way back to safety.

Good thing
the tires could run flat and be re-inflated, Nick thought, because the fire
pouring in on them only increased as the enemy saw them getting away. And then
they finally reached the intersection for the right-hand turn. They proceeded
around the corner and away from the presidential palace. The fire immediately
began to slacken with each hundred yards they gained.

“So the
Taliban is clearly saturated around the presidential palace,” Nick said, mostly
to himself.

Truck grunted
but remained focused on his driving.

Nick
depressed his mic button.

“All squad
leaders, give me an ACE report.”

ACE stood
for ammunition, casualties, and equipment, and Nick had appointed temporary
squads and squad leaders prior to their departure. While they checked their men
and pulled together how much ammunition each man had expended, Nick leaned
around to face the rear of his squad.

“Lana, where
we headed?”

Lana worked
her way forward, and Nick pulled a map of the city out of his pocket.

“The wounded
Taliban fighter,” Lana said, “stated that Mushahid was at an old mosque which
is roughly translated in English as ‘The Forgotten One.’ I actually know of
this one. It’s pretty important in Afghan lore.”

“Where’s it
at?” Nick asked.

“It’s a
smaller mosque in one of Kabul’s older neighborhoods,” replied Lana. “It’s a
very humble place and considered one of the city’s first mosques ever built.”

“So, it’s
symbolic that they would be there?”

“Absolutely,”
she said. “Deraz is all about the symbolism. I’m pissed I never considered he
might be there. It makes perfect sense.”

“Don’t beat
yourself up,” Nick said. “None of the intelligence analysts in about a dozen
different agencies suspected it either. Just show me where it is on this map
and let’s get this shit done before we run out of time.”

While Lana
oriented the map, found their location, and searched for the mosque on the map,
Nick received reports from his temporary squad leaders. So far, no serious
injuries. Two men slightly wounded but bandaged up.

And the
squad leaders had already redistributed ammunition among their squad members.
They had better than eighty percent of the ammunition they had left the
warehouse. Plenty enough to conduct a raid and nab Mushahid. And if they were
truly lucky, Deraz, as well. But if the Old Lion, as he was called, wasn’t
there, Nick was betting that Zubaida would know his whereabouts.

Chapter 105

The MRAPs
headed east, and Nick studied the map, looking for the best approach routes to
the mosque. The city streets remained abandoned, and the vehicles hadn’t been
shot at in several minutes.

The Taliban
seemed to have concentrated on the Arg.

Nick
wondered how the two Afghan army battalions were doing on the outskirts of the
city. Were they still fighting? Or had they withdrawn? On the one hand, he
wanted to call Mr. Smith and find out the latest on the entire situation from
10,000 feet. But on the other, Nick and his shooters were down in the weeds and
already committed to this last-ditch effort.

“Wonder how
many felonies we’ve committed by now?” Nick asked.

“Fuck those
pussies,” Truck grunted.

Nick
wondered if any drones were watching the MRAPs. One side of him thought not.
They were probably focused on the presidential palace and the escaping convoy
that contained the president and his entourage of advisers.

He focused
again on their current situation. “The Forgotten One” had several routes to get
to it, but it sat alone on a hill with only a single road up to it. Nick would
have bet his right arm the place had served as a base or fort when it was
originally built.

He
scrutinized the map one more time and made up his mind on how they’d deal with
the situation. He pressed his mic button, explained his plans, and asked each
squad leader to confirm they had received the transmission.

The map
proved remarkably accurate. The three MRAPs took a turn off the main road and
started up the only street that led to the old mosque. The street was more like
a driveway than a road, and the mosque looked abandoned and pretty decrepit. No
vehicles sat parked in front of its mud walls, which stood probably fifteen
feet high. At the front, an iron gate blocked any traffic that might try to
enter the inner compound.

The walls
were so high that there was no way Mushahid or Deraz would be escaping if they
were in there. And the hill had a fairly steep, rocky slope on all sides except
for the driveway, which had been improved through the years. I’d even have
trouble with a quick escape down those slopes, Nick thought, and I’m a lot
younger than Deraz, that is if Deraz is here. And this meant the three MRAPs
had the only feasible exit covered.

“Good place
to defend,” Nick said to Truck, “but a damn bad place to try to escape from.”

And though
he saw no one, Nick felt Deraz was here. It was too perfect. Too out of the
way. Too hidden and desolate.

They were a
hundred yards away, approaching at fifteen miles per hour. The road had been
built on the hill’s most gentle slope, and its two-hundred yard length had
probably provided a great killing field too many times to count. Nick wouldn’t
have wanted to fight his way up it that was for sure.

But today,
it was devoid of obvious defenders. Clearly the Taliban, if they were here,
were relying on camouflage instead of a stout defense to protect whoever was
there. The road led to a small looping circle in front of the compound walls,
which would allow traffic to exit without having to back all the way down the
road.

The mosque
had been built before cars were a concern and thus lacked a parking lot or any
real accommodation for those who wanted to drive to it. Probably why its attendance
and use had ended.

Nick felt
some comfort in knowing that even devout Muslims would rather drive to their
religious services rather than walk through the rain or cold.

Maybe there
aren’t as many crazy fundamentalists as they want us to think, Nick considered.

Analyzing
the situation, Nick saw that S3 had two options. Ram the gate or circle down
part of the loop and park the MRAPs next to the wall. They could use the
massive vehicles as improvised stepladders to scale the towering walls.

Nick imagined
the long drops on the other side and the loss of surprise as men clambered up
and over. This wasn’t even a hard choice.

“Floor it
and ram the gate,” he said to Truck.

The MRAP’s
diesel growled as Truck put the pedal to the floor. The vehicle accelerated to
nearly forty miles per hour.

“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.