Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (25 page)

Chapter 72

Inside
Kabul, no one could hear the fighting above the road on the hill. The sound of
machine guns and explosions failed to carry back into the massive city. The
distance was simply too far.

But word of
the disastrous carnage soon spread as ambulances raced into town. A fear began
to grip the city as news of the battle grew into larger and larger
exaggerations with each telling. Before long, most of the city believed the
Taliban had the city under siege. No supplies or reinforcements could move in.
No one could run and safely flee.

It was an
absurd fear, the kind that can only take root in a country entrenched in
decades of war and conditioned to believing bad news.

No one
thought to check the many other roads in and out of the city. Instead, people
assumed the worst and rushed around to grab food and water. Kabul had seen much
war in its day, and its residents knew what was needed to survive. Whether it
was the Soviets invading or the fighting that followed in the civil war, the
people of Kabul had learned due to necessity how to survive without power and
water.

As the
madness of fear spread, the Afghan president decided to hold a press conference
to calm the people. Against the desires of his police and military advisors, he
held the press conference in a highly visible manner on a public street corner.

In front of
dozens of cameras allowed through a security barrier of troops, he assured his
country that a battalion of elite troops was in the process of driving the
Taliban off the hill above the road. He also refuted claims that the city was
under siege, promising residents that they had no reason to panic. It was just
all irresponsible rumors that had grown out of control. He ended by saying that
despite the fighting on the city’s outskirts, the facts were that Taliban
attacks against the government were actually down.

“Fear is the
Taliban’s greatest weapon, and I ask the people of Afghanistan to ignore the
rumors and sickening tactics used by our enemy,” the president said.

In the
question and answer period that followed, he angrily knocked down several
inquiries regarding the permission for the Americans to operate again. Or, to
even resume air operations, since he had so swiftly rejected the use of ground
forces.

“Our Afghan
police and military forces are more than sufficient to defend our great
country,” he said. What he didn’t say was that China and Iran had offered
emergency aid packages that totaled to billions of dollars as a way to gain
influence and access to the country’s rich resources of mines and minerals. The
Afghan president had decided to switch teams and secure a better deal. Besides,
the Americans were already on their way out prior to the nasty friendly fire
incident.

He was just speeding
events up as he saw necessary.

Just a few
miles from the street corner where the Afghan president had given his press
conference,
S3
had temporarily set up shop in an abandoned warehouse inside Kabul.

Nick, Marcus, and Mr.
Smith had agreed that while the servers from Ahmud al-Habshi gave up little
actionable intel about the coming attack, it would have to go down in Kabul.

“As goes Kabul, so goes
Afghanistan,” Mr. Smith said during one of their strategizing conference calls.

And indeed, he was right.
In a country of thirty million, more than three million lived in Kabul. The
next largest city was Kandahar, which had less than 500,000 in it. Most of
Afghanistan was rural and tribal. The country’s capital city of Kabul decided
everything. Who the country allied with. How much the people would be taxed.
Which tribal leaders were to be tolerated and which were to be squashed.
Whether heroin, the country’s preferred and most reliable cash crop, would be
legalized.

This had necessitated the
movement of S3’s combat units (the Primary Strike Team, the three support
squads, and their sniper element) into the capital city. They had also brought
some security and support staff, but these were only for the defensive
protection of the warehouse.

This meant that Nick had
only twenty-four shooters, the four enlisted Afghan policemen, and three
two-man sniper teams to stop whatever the Taliban might be planning. And while
no one had any idea of what that plan might be, staying at Bagram Airfield
would have been strategic suicide. Not only was the base a solid hour away from
Kabul, but getting into the capital after the turn of events would become
almost impossible. In the event of an attack, all roads into Kabul would be
closed down by Afghan checkpoints that would take forever to circumvent with
approvals from on high to soldiers and police who were illiterate and often
without even the benefit of having radios on hand.

So despite not knowing the
Taliban’s next move, their present location would at least allow them to
respond quickly. But the location was not their only advantage. With
authorization from the president of Afghanistan, the entire S3 unit had been
re-outfitted to both blend in and operate better within the city.

Staffers from Mr. Smith’s
office had worked out an agreement with the Afghan president’s Chief of Staff
to provide the entire S3 unit with Afghan police uniforms, including assault
vests and helmets. His shooters would still be carrying their personal
(American) weapons, but at least with the added element of authority provided
by the police uniforms, they were less likely to draw attention. Plus it wasn’t
all that uncommon to see the occasional M4 here or there among the
better-equipped Afghan police forces.

Regardless of his tough
talk and unwavering, brave face presented to the press, the Afghan president
could feel a storm coming. But no matter how obvious or imminent the danger
looming upon the horizon might be, the president was ultimately caught in a very
precarious and delicate situation.

Publically, he could not
afford to allow American troops into Kabul, or he’d risk not only losing face
with the Afghan people, but it could greatly jeopardize the large financial
deals they had with China and Iran. Privately, however, he gladly welcomed any
additional support. And the contracted company of Shield, Safeguard, and
Shelter proved to be just the ticket. The way he saw it, this seemingly
government-unaffiliated operation would grant the city an additional thirty
elite troops aiding in security, with hopefully none of the nasty side effects.

It wasn’t the perfect
solution, but it was the best the president could do under the circumstances.
Because at this point, there was no way to prevent whatever was coming. There
was nothing to stop the dark and rising thunder clouds about to roll in. All he
and his country could do was hold tight and pray that somehow they could make
it through.

Chapter 73

While the Afghan president
calmed his people and S3 settled into their warehouse inside Kabul, the three
Afghan army rifle companies avenged the destruction of their sister company
with a ferocity that would have impressed most American infantry battalions.
They kicked off their assault with a twenty-minute barrage of artillery fire.

Enthusiastic gunners, who
rarely got to fire their artillery pieces in real action, bombarded the hill
with their heavy weapons. Nearly twenty minutes of ear-splitting, ground-rocking
explosions pummeled the hill. The heavy guns ceased, and commanders screamed
and cursed for two minutes until the battalion’s mortars finally opened up.

The mortar bombardment was
supposed to commence immediately following the cessation of firing by the
artillery, in order to prevent any movement or retreat of Taliban forces on the
hill. And in the moment following the artillery ceasing fire, as the dust
settled and an eerie silence returned, the two minutes had felt like a
lifetime. But the mortars soon followed, pounding the hillside, explosions
“whoomping” instead of shrieking in, as the artillery had.

The battalion mortars had
far fewer shells to lob up onto the hillside since they had to transport their
supplies to the fight itself. (Unlike the artillery unit, which fired from a
static base and had days’ worth of ammunition.)

Nonetheless, the mortar
gunners imagined with every shell that they dropped down the tube that their
own shells were ripping apart the hated Taliban on the hill. And mere minutes
after the mortars ceased firing, the warriors of the battalion kicked off their
attack, screaming as they went up the hill.

The soldiers launched
their attack with yells and cheers, some sprinting and charging for all their
worth. It was a sight to behold, but the yells ended quickly. Grunting and
struggling replaced the enthusiasm.

Two hours later, the
exhausted Afghan troops reached the top. An impressive feat to have scaled the
heights at such a clip, but nothing could assuage the disappointment each man
felt to find not a single enemy fighter had remained on the hill.

The Taliban had slipped
away and not endured a single round of artillery or mortar fire. Sweating and
cursing, the angry troops rested briefly and prepared for their climb back down.

Mushahid Zubaida had
changed his original plans with great reluctance. But he had concluded he must
retreat off the hill and avoid the upcoming battle following wave after wave of
damning intel reaching him. First, he had informants describe the Afghan
president’s press conference on the street corner. This was reported by
handheld radio from several spies inside Kabul.

More intelligence arrived
by an informant in the artillery unit that described their preparations for a
massive bombardment on the hill. A sympathetic officer with the unit had
scribbled a note and handed it to a kitchen worker who was leaving the base for
supplies. The man had taken it straight to another Taliban spy who had radioed
it immediately to “whoever the friend of Allah is out on the hill beyond our
gate.”

The final straw came from
a young boy serving as a spotter down on the road below. He waited several
miles from Mushahid’s position, watching the road and playing with a kite.
Given that the Taliban had banned kite flying when they ruled the country, it
seemed the perfect cover for passing Afghan soldiers who had waved at the brave
lad.

The boy had waved back
energetically, smiling in the cute and heart-warming way that only an innocent
face could. But he had counted the trucks and estimated the number of men in
each one as they passed, and once the trucks were out of sight, he had let the
kite go and run away from the road. Out of sight behind some large boulders, he
pulled up a radio partially buried under a rock.

Mushahid received the
boy’s report on the number of troops and trucks approaching, merely thanking
him. He called two of his experienced men to his position to discuss the
matter. On the one hand, they had hauled so much ammunition to the hill and
prepared some incredible fighting positions. On the other, each had been under
artillery fire before and to hear of such an extensive bombardment planned for
the hill? Well, that was something no one wanted to try to survive.

Even survivors lucky
enough to not be wounded would be dealing with ringing eardrums, assuming they
could prevent complete loss of hearing. And certainly half of their men would
be killed or wounded before they could fire onto the enemies climbing up the
slopes. Maybe more. And if the Afghans flew a drone or two by? Or allowed the
Americans to resume air operations?

It was a frightening image
to consider. Their mission had been to draw away an army battalion from inside
the city. They had achieved this, and in the end, Mushahid reasoned they would
serve the cause better by escaping off the hill with as much of their
ammunition as possible.

Leaving so much heavy
machine gun ammunition was a serious loss, but he couldn’t call for assistance
to help them withdraw. The Afghan government and Americans monitored all their
communications by radio and would quickly alter their strategy.

So, Mushahid decided to
add some cunning to their plans. He lifted the radio and informed the young
boy, “Tell our families and supporters that we are dug in well. We anxiously await
the government’s attack and will embarrass the puppet soldiers of America.”

And with that, his men
scrambled to pack up and climb over the backside of the hill and down the other
side. Mushahid had no waiting transportation, and he couldn’t call for any,
obviously, but the Taliban thrived at living off the land and remaining hidden.
He’d either stow their heavy weapons with a friendly supporter that lived nearby
or have a local drive into Kabul with a messenger from his unit to share their
change of plans.

The people supported the
Taliban, having grown to hate the Americans. And they weren’t much fonder of
the corrupt Afghan government. Not to mention, they feared offending the
Taliban, who could still be ruthless in an instant.

Mushahid would use these
realities to get support from the people, and they’d use the local residents to
get the men and their weapons into Kabul one way or another. Of that, he was
confident.

Chapter 74

Marcus looked over the
warehouse. It was only day two of S3’s stay in Kabul, and although their
decrepit shelter was still gross and had enough rats running through it to feed
them for days, the logistics team had made some nice improvements. And all of
them at Marcus’ request.

Although big Bossman Woods
wasn’t exactly sweating the rustic living conditions (“rust” being the key
syllable here) of their new abode, Marcus had felt otherwise. There was an
unspoken rule born into the male mind, about men only being Men if they,
without hesitation or complaint, stayed the course on the road most shat upon.
The military operated on the same rule, but it applied to both Men and Women.
Plus, in the military this rule was very clearly stated, often loudly and mere
inches away from your face.

But after years of
difficult service in the United States Marine Corps, Marcus no longer felt an
obligation to that particular rule. He didn’t have anything left to prove to
anyone. And when he had the option of comfort, he would accept it gladly and
without shame.

He also wasn’t going to
require the brave and talented people around him to go without basic amenities
either. So, despite knowing that he’d eventually somehow manage to “forget” the
orders completely, Marcus still attempted to ask Nick about some minor upgrades
to their temporary home.

“We’ll only be a few
days,” Nick had said. “No point. Let’s stay focused on the mission.”

Marcus had at least two
problems with Nick’s reasoning. First, he had learned some years ago that in
the military or in a combat situation “a few days” could very easily turn into
a few weeks or more. Secondly, this was Nick. While it was quite common for
leadership to prioritize a mission above their troops, Nick Woods and his
sniper focus took the idea to a whole new level. The man was nothing short of
manic when he was mission planning, especially in this case as he didn’t have a
clue what he was actually planning for.

Marcus had watched as Nick
darted about at a furious pace. He was directing the four squads to patrol
various parts of the city -- both to get a feel for their new surrounding and
to hopefully spot some clue that might portend an upcoming attack. Besides the
patrols by the squads, Nick had also hidden his three sniper teams in carefully
selected observation posts. Finally, he grilled the four attached police
officers, asking them to talk with their fellow officers and search for
patterns that might be overlooked.

And as if that wasn’t
enough, he was harassing the IT experts to double-down on their combing through
of Ahmud al-Habshi’s computer and servers. But the IT people couldn’t read
Pashto, and the language folks were mostly back in the States, so there was
lots of forwarding, uploading, and scanning of documents. All of which took
time and had produced almost zilch in regards to intelligence, minus the
information that led to the ambush on the supply convoy.

So having expected nothing
less, Marcus had immediately and “accidentally” deleted Nick’s response from
his brain. A couple radio conversations later, and the S3 logistics team
arrived from Bagram Airfield with supplies and ready to work.

Within an hour, the team
had gotten the electricity up and working, and a neat grid of cots had started
to form. The cots weren’t the most comfortable, but they sure beat having to
sleep on the concrete floor another night. And certainly not even the Bossman
and his rickety old spine would be able to complain about that.

Marcus was looking forward
to some air conditioning, currently being worked on, and the promise of
prepared meals during their stay. He was just smiling over all the progress
when he heard an irritated, country-laced holler behind him.

“Marcus!”

Marcus’ smile drooped as
he turned to look across the room. Nick sat in a metal folding chair behind his
homemade, and literally jacked-up command center. He had the receiver of an
encrypted satellite phone pressed to his ear in one hand while the other hand
was impatiently beckoning Marcus.

While the warehouse
contained three actual designated office spaces, at the present none of them
were very functional. None of the small offices had any exterior ventilation
source, and over time, the leaking roof, radiant heat, infestations (plural),
and general decay had turned the environment of each into that of a very large
petri dish. And as the place had been abandoned years ago, they’d found that at
least one of the offices had now been turned into the loving home of Mr. and
Mrs. Rat, their two dozen beautiful children, plus their three hundred adorable
grandchildren.

But somewhere Nick had
managed to unearth a square, rusted folding table missing only one of its four
legs. Then using a thick discarded book, a second folding chair, and a crooked
car jack (and thus the “jacked-up” description), he’d managed to get the
surface mostly level. And at some point, he’d secured the artificial appendage
together with a hastily wrapped cast of duct tape. On the table was a
collection of various maps, satellite images, and other intel paraphernalia.

“Marcus, snap out of it
and get over here!” the man barked.

Marcus walked across the
warehouse, following a line of contraband cots, and secretly hoped he wasn’t
about to get his ass unnecessarily bitten off because of them.

“What’s up, boss?” he
asked.

Nick hung up the phone and
sat back in the squeaky-folding chair, clenching his hair in his fists and
groaning. A look of annoyed madness briefly crossed his face.

“I’m coming up empty,”
Nick said, exasperated. He motioned to the map of Kabul and the scattered
papers before him.

Marcus gave a mental sigh
of relief. Nick remained so wholly focused on the Taliban that he hadn’t found
time to get pissed off about Marcus’ plot with logistics.

“Well,” Marcus said, “I’ve
been over the options about a hundred times myself, and I’ve only got the same
answer that I gave you before. They’ll most likely try and hit the president’s
building.”

Nick still looked
frustrated.

“Remember, that’s why we
picked this location, Nick,” Marcus said, trying to give the man some
assurance. “And now that we’re set up and ready to go, positioned this close to
our best probable target, I don’t know what else there is for us to do but
wait.”

Nick shook his head in
dissatisfaction. “That’s not good enough. Damn it. There has to be something
we’re overlooking or that we could be doing.”

Marcus gave him a small smile.
He knew that Nick wasn’t really this worked up because they weren’t as prepared
as they could be. The man was simply a strike-first kind of guy. And the
waiting, plus the unknown threat, was making him restless.

“Well, we could,” Marcus
speculated, “wrap Red up in an American flag and let him wander down the
street. See if he draws any fire, maybe?”

Marcus turned his head
directing Nick’s gaze far across the open-bayed warehouse, where the little man
stood shadow boxing when he was technically supposed to be resting.

“You know he’s crazy
enough to do it,” Marcus said.

Nick watched Red for a
moment, impressed as he’d always been, with the man’s speed, skill, and
endurance.

“I don’t know,” Nick said,
grinning a bit. “I’m kind of partial to the little asshole. But, just to be
safe, let’s make that our backup plan.”