Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (36 page)

Chapter 107

After
speaking with Bagram Airfield’s commander, Nick next called his IT people at
the same base. He quickly informed them of Deraz’s capture and asked if they
could hack into the Taliban’s website.

Sure, they
replied. They had Ahmud al-Habshi’s login information, after all, since they
had scanned and ripped the servers for all relevant password and login data.

Nick
instructed them he wanted them to log in and post thsat Deraz had been captured
but the Taliban would continue its fight against the forces of injustice.

“Just coordinate
with Lana so it sounds legit. As if they posted it.”

“Why not
just say it and put up a picture of like Sylvester Stallone as Rambo holding a
machine gun with an American flag behind him?” the lead IT man asked,
half-joking and half-serious.

“Because it
needs to look legit, not like some eighteen-year-old hacker from Texas posted it,”
Nick said.

“Roger that,
sir,” the IT man replied.

“I’ll have
Lana contact you in a minute, but be prepared to make this happen as quickly as
possible.”

Nick started
to hang up, then had a better idea.

“Say, any
chance you guys can hack the Afghan government’s website?”

The man
stuttered a bit. “Uh, sure. Most likely. Especially since now they’ve probably
got no IT people monitoring it.”

“Good. Then,
hack into it. Announce Deraz has been captured, and that police and army units
are moving back into the capital. Urge them to remain calm and ask residents to
stay inside. Something like that. Put that up in both English and the local
languages.”

“Roger that.
We’ll get something and get our translators in the States to put it in the
local language.”

“No,” Nick
said. “Use Lana. We need to stay off the radar on this.”

Several miles away,
Mushahid Zubaida was suffering from a mixture of emotions. Anger. Grief. Shame.
The disgraceful female voice on the radio now urging them to surrender mocked
him.

He had lost so many men,
but they had done it. They had taken Kabul. The presidential palace was theirs.
And it was at that very moment, while at the peak of victory, that Mushahid,
the Fist of the Taliban, learned of his greatest failure.

Rasool had been found.
Despite all their precautions, despite the power that had shifted in their
favor to secure the win, he had been taken.

Mushahid had roared and
rampaged at the news. He’d broken several pieces of the presidential furniture,
ripped down a large tapestry, and even lifted a large vase over his head and
heaved it through a window. He had just paused to take a breath, his
rage-filled eyes set on a large ornate mantle clock when his radio bleeped,
followed by the voice.

His spotter reported heavy
activity at Bagram Airfield. It appeared that American forces were back in
operation. Several aircrafts were being prepped for take-off, and troops were
loading up in vehicles.

They would be on top of
them in less than a half hour. It would take longer for the troops leaving
Bagram to get there, but it wouldn’t matter because by the time troops arrived,
the aerial attacks would most certainly wipe out what little remained of
Mushahid’s fighters. To make matters worse, it appeared that some of the army
deserters they’d gained were getting cagy, and the Taliban’s decimated numbers
continued to shrink. It seemed that certain loyalties were shifting and
returning to their government masters.

Mushahid could taste the
bile rise up in his throat as he realized that they had no choice but to
abandoned their conquest and run. And then he gave the mantle clock a taste of
his full wrath.

But suddenly as he stared
down at the shattered carcass of splinters and gears, Mushahid remembered the
other spotter he had sent out had not yet reported. Mushahid impatiently
called, repeatedly barking for his informant to reply. By the seventh or eighth
repetition, the spotter finally called back, sounding parched and breathless.
He announced that he had only just reached the location, his voice sounding
garbled as his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“What do you see at the
mosque?” Mushahid, asked, his voice trembling a bit as he clung to his last bit
of hope. “Is it true?”

It took a maddening amount
of seconds for the response to come back. Mushahid scanned his surroundings for
another inanimate victim to obliterate. But finally, the spotter reported, and
with every word, Mushahid’s world sank deeper.

The mosque had been
overrun with Afghan police. And they were just beginning to load up into their
impenetrable Cougar MRAPs, taking Rasool with them.

Mushahid cried out, grief
overtaking his rage. There would be no chance for rescue. They would never
catch them in time. And even if by some miracle they were to spot the convoy,
they were no match for the daunting MRAPs. In all his shame and anguish,
Mushahid would have welcomed the certain death that would follow such an
attempt.

He would never see his
mentor again. He had failed.

Mushahid gave into the
despair, begging Allah to take him where he now kneeled, sobbing on the
polished palace floors. But suddenly there was a calm in the storm of his mind,
and Mushahid found himself in a position that he never had wanted to believe he
would face.

Mushahid was no longer the
Fist of the Taliban, he was the Head of the Taliban. And to run blazingly into
such a guaranteed slaughter would effectively destroy the cause that his own
beloved Rasool had given his whole life for.

So Mushahid forced down
every rebellious instinct and let the wise, instructive words of Rasool Deraz
permeate his mind as he ordered (with great sadness) the Taliban’s retreat from
Kabul.

With Allah’s help,
Mushahid assured himself, they would be back, and they would fight another day.

Chapter 108

Nick waited
a full forty-five minutes before he risked calling Mr. Smith. By then, the
three MRAPs had returned to the warehouse with Rasool Deraz.

The base
army commander had deployed a hundred soldiers to the warehouse to protect the
high-value target. For now, S3 retained control since Nick wasn’t sure if Deraz
would be given up to the Afghan government or to the American government. As
Smith liked to put it, that was a decision far above his paygrade.

On paper, the
hundred soldiers had deployed to provide protection to some American defense
contractors who were under siege and surrounded. That wasn’t close to being
true, but it was the only way for the base commander to allow the soldiers to
operate legally. The base commander had also immediately re-established air
ops, informing his superiors of the move and the besieged American contractors.

His
superiors, from Afghanistan to Washington, didn’t counter his decision. They
were all in cover-their-ass mode, and it was the base commander’s ass on the
line. No way would they issue orders that might lead to Americans dying, which
would promptly stop their career in their tracks.

Additionally,
the base general had detached several soldiers with radios to serve as forward
observers for S3. Nick’s company lacked the correct radios to coordinate with
American air power, and both Nick and the base commander wanted to reclaim the
presidential palace as quickly as possible. Both men knew if they waited for a
decision from Washington, they’d be told to hold in place and it might take
half a day to get any real guidance.

Better to
act and seek forgiveness, both believed. And as long as they won and the
results weren’t disastrous, they knew they’d be cheered and celebrated. Not to
mention, the presidential palace had truckloads of secrets in it. Informants’
names. Rooms full of intelligence. Crates of top-secret documents from the
United States.

This intel
needed to be secured, and quickly. Nick had put Red in charge of a convoy of
three MRAPs, with the Army forward observers, to seek out the tanks and secure
the presidential palace. He had to deal with something far more unpleasant --
and crucial -- than fighting the enemy or recapturing the country’s capital building.
This seemed impossible at first blush, but welcome to fighting wars in the
modern day era, where every politician and general would sell you out in a
heartbeat and write a book some day with half of the country’s secrets in it.

Nick
returned to the one functioning office and dialed Mr. Smith’s number.

As soon as
he answered, Nick knew he was in for some fun.

“What the
hell have you done? Why have you not been answering your phone? Where are you?”

Nick waited
for him to finish.

“We’ve had
some technical difficulties with the phone,” Nick said with a smile a mile wide
across his face.

“You have no
idea how much shit you’re in. We told you to stay in place, and we know you did
something. And now there are all these false stories out saying Deraz has been
captured. I know you did that. Do you know how fucked we are when it comes out
that it’s not true? That the war is actually over and we lost. You set everyone
up for a major disappointment.”

“But it is
true,” Nick said.

“What do you
mean it’s true?” Mr. Smith snapped.

“We captured
him. S3 captured him, that is. But for now, we’ll just say the Afghan police
did.”

Mr. Smith
was silent. Nick knew it was a lot to take in. It was nice, for once, having
the power in the conversation.

But then the
man continued.

“Nick, you
disobeyed orders. You’re in so much shit. We’re talking congressional hearings
here and prison. Prison, Nick. You knew what your orders were.”

“Those
hearings are going to be fun,” Nick said, “when I and the base commander and
all the other military officers share how we were ordered to cease all
operations and capitulate like complete cowards. Who’s going to take credit for
those orders, by the way?”

“This isn’t
a game, Nick,” Mr. Smith chided.

“You damn
right, it isn’t!” Nick screamed. “Marcus and a slew of others are shot all to
hell while you fucks sip coffee and decide what we should do from the comforts
of your conference rooms!”

“Nick, calm
down.”

“No, you
calm down! This can go down one of two ways. Option one is you convince your
bosses at the CIA that they can, for once, be on top of the political game.
They can take credit for helping save a country that almost fell to pieces.
They can help make this a victory and inform the President that the CIA used
assets on the ground in a contractor company to capture Deraz and save the
country.”

“Nick, we
had orders. Even my bosses. That won’t work,” Smith explained.

“The hell it
won’t! They can say on-the-ground assets lost communication with their superiors
and reacted to fresh intelligence on the location of Deraz. Just say they were
unable to obtain guidance from their superiors, so they took initiative and
launched an immediate operation to capture the Taliban’s most highly valued
target.”

Mr. Smith
sighed.

“I can pitch
that, but that story is about as bad as something a middle schooler would
create. They’re not going to go for it.”

“Then we’ll
go with option two,” Nick growled.

“And what’s
option two?”

“Option two
is I go to all-out war on every dumb bastard that had a hand in this nonsense.
Including you, if you get in my way. There will be so many leaks in the press
and so much public outrage that even the janitors at the White House will be
forced to resign.”

“It’s a
politically delicate situation,” Mr. Smith replied, sounding a bit surprised.
“I’ll have to get back to you.”

“Tell your
bosses to get in touch with the Afghan president. Have him turn the convoy
around and meet up with the two battalions on the outskirts of Kabul. We’ve
nearly secured the presidential palace, and the Taliban are running. Let’s save
this country and forget the bullshit politics. I hardly think after missing the
attacks of 9/11, failing to foresee the rise of ISIS, and a dozen other
screw-ups, that the CIA wants to have to explain how it missed that the Taliban
was about to capture the capital. That no one saw it coming. Let’s give the CIA
a win. They could use one.”

As he waited
for a response, Nick’s hands shook with adrenaline, frustration, and
incredulity. Surely, they’d see the clear solution and do the right thing for
once. Nick gritted his teeth, as he listened to the silence on the other line.

“I’ll see
what I can do,” Mr. Smith conceded.

Nick
listened to the phone click dead and smiled. He knew common sense would win out
and he had escaped with his skin again somehow.

He looked
around the warehouse for a vehicle. Now all he wanted to do was check on Marcus
and the others back at Bagram.

Chapter 109

Nick opened the office
door and was surprised to see Red standing outside it.

“Oh. Hey, Red.” Nick said.
“How are you back already? Is the presidential palace secured?”

“Yes, sir.” the man
reported, but with an unusual lack of enthusiasm. “It was actually pretty easy.
The Taliban was running off by the time we got there. And the few that thought
to brave it out didn’t stay long when they heard the planes and helo’s.”

“What planes and helo’s?”

“Well, the decision to
move on the palace got deferred to the Bagram base commander, since our
four-star general in charge of all operations in Afghanistan was in Washington
for an emergency meeting with our President. And the Bagram commander was all
for saving Afghanistan. He decided to stake his career on it.”

Nick had watched Red
closely as the little man gave his report. Something was off about him. He was
too serious, subdued even.

“Well,” Nick said, setting
his observations aside. “It’s no big secret, really, that our general was a
political appointment and a coward at best. But I’m impressed to have actually
found a kindred spirit among us. That one-star base commander deserves a
promotion in my book.”

“Yeah, he does,” Red
agreed. “Because that’s not all he did. Not only did he back us up big time, he
called for an all-out effort to secure the palace. Fifty soldiers came in right
behind us, and the commander had ordered another hundred flown in behind that.”

“Wow,” replied Nick,
impressed.

“He’s also just announced
a beefed up convoy with Apache escorts to bring the president back into Kabul,”
Red continued. “Plus, believe it or not, Afghan police are drifting back in as
well. And their wearing their uniforms.”

“That infamous Afghan
allegiance at its best,” said Nick, shaking his head. “Damn, I guess we really
have licked the Taliban, at least for now anyway.”

Red simply nodded, but his
eyes had drifted off, resting in an unfocused gaze at the wall. Nick was about
to question Red about his behavior, but suddenly the man asked, “So what
happened with Mr. Smith?”

Nick was a little startled
to hear the question come out of Red’s mouth with such a genuine limit of
interest in his voice. His eyes still looking, while not really looking, at the
wall.

“Uh,” Nick started. “Well,
it was pretty ugly. But I think he has a good story to tell his superiors. And
hopefully, they’ll buy it.”

“But if not,” Nick
hesitated as Red’s focus sharply snapped back on him. “Red, I want you to
assure our team that I will fall on the sword. I made the orders, and as far as
the CIA knows, I never told anyone that the orders were illegal.”

Red looked Nick dead in
the eye. “And I’ll be right there with you, boss,” the man said with absolute
resolution. “I won’t let you go down all by yourself.”

Nick gave the small man a
grateful smile. “We’ll just cross that bridge if we have to. But it sounds like
things are coming together and with luck, the results will weigh more than our
errors in judgement.”

Nick felt such a relief at
how things had played out. There was a part of him that just wanted to
celebrate what they’d actually pulled off, illegal or not. But there was
another part of him that delayed the celebration as existing matters pressed
heavily on his mind.

Nick patted Red on the
shoulder, the man’s eyes looked almost hollow this close. “Come on,” Nick said.
“I want to go find a couple vehicles and check on Marcus.”

Nick had just stepped
passed Red when he realized that the little man wasn’t following him. He hadn’t
even moved.

Nick stopped and looked
back. “What is it, Red?”

The little man turned, his
face squinting and straining as he tried to hold back the rush of tears
tumbling down his face.

“No…” Nick muttered.

“Dr. Julia called,” Red
sobbed. “Marcus didn’t make it, man. He’s gone.”

Red dropped his head into
his hands, and at the same time, a flaming brick smashed into the floor of
Nick’s stomach. His head started to spin, and he thought he was going to fall,
but Red was there to catch him.

Red pulled Nick’s
unwounded arm around his small but sturdy shoulders. “Come on, boss,” Red said,
shaking his own grief enough to help support his leader. “Let’s go back to the
office for a bit.”

Nick stumbled back to the
office, leaning on Red, and felt the warmth of an unwelcome and traitorous tear
slowly trickle down his face.

Marcus…