Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (30 page)

Chapter 87

Rasool Deraz
was in the middle of prayer, rocking backward and forward on his prayer rug. He
had moved to a hidden location, keeping only a few bodyguards with him.

Having fewer
men for protection freed up more fighters for the operation while also keeping
a lower profile for him. This should keep him safe until Mushahid and his
fighters had secured the presidential palace.

Rasool
pushed his thoughts of the mission from his mind and resumed his praying. His
positive feelings for the operation grew stronger and with each passing minute,
he prayed harder.

He had not
been watching the time, but surely the column must be close to the presidential
palace by now, and he had heard not a single round fired! He rocked faster and
prayed still harder. It appeared Allah had delivered their enemy in the most
miraculous of ways.

The sound of
two heavy machine guns stopped his rocking in its tracks. He knew the sound
well. Fifty caliber machine guns. “Fifties,” the Americans called them. Or, “Ma
Deuce,” short for an M2 machine gun.

He had
studied the weapon extensively and seen them in action. They were murderous
weapons. The only thing he feared more were the cursed Apache attack
helicopters.

More gunfire
joined the .50s. This was lighter in octave and emanated from the American-made
M4s. Or perhaps M-16s. But the speed of their lightweight bullets and rifles
were unique and quite different from the communist-bloc AKs.

Rasool tried
to return to prayer, but the intensity of the firing picked up and prevented
him from focusing on the task.

A fear creeped
into his chest. This did not sound good. He gave up on praying and stood. He
exited the private prayer room and picked up a radio from his satchel that he
had stowed by the door.

“Mushahid,
what is happening?”

Over the
sound of heavy firing and snapping bullets, Rasool heard Mushahid say, “We’ve
run into heavy resistance. Several armored personnel carriers.”

“Have
preparations for air operations commenced at Bagram?”

“No, sir,”
Mushahid replied. “Our spies say no preparations for either air or land battle
have begun by the American forces. But our forces are ready in case they try.”

“Then let’s
deal with these armored vehicles,” Rasool said.

Rasool lay
the radio down and considered going to pray more for their success, but
realized it wasn’t necessary in this case.

Chapter 88

The gunfire
from the .50s and M4s had cleared most of the Taliban from the street ahead.
Probably sixty or seventy bodies lay crumpled in the street. Several trucks
burned and would explode soon.

The Taliban
who had survived the onslaught had fled indoors among the buildings that lined
the street or ducked into one of the alleyways.

Nick knew
they’d flank his column and possibly surround it soon. Then, S3 would be in
serious trouble. It would just be a matter of Taliban fighters firing down some
RPGs from the rooftops and blowing the MRAPs to pieces.

Nick didn’t
feel like playing fish in a barrel, so he wanted the column to move. And fast.
But where?

He yanked
the map out and studied his location on its grid-like squares, as well as the
burning hulks of the Toyota trucks in front of him. The solution was so obvious
that he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner.

The Taliban
column had been moving toward the presidential palace. That was their primary
target. S3 had intercepted them and given them an unpleasant surprise. And the
Taliban would no doubt respond, encircle, and destroy S3 if they stayed put.

But their
primary target was the presidential palace. Not S3. And since the MRAPs were in
an indefensible position on the narrow streets, the choice on what Nick’s unit
should do was clear. They’d turn the column around, rush to the presidential
palace, and set up a defensive position with the five MRAPs since the place was
no longer encircled by thousands of cheering residents.

Nick figured
they’d probably set up a half circle, or an 180 as it was called, around the
Arg’s primary approach.

And, Nick
thought with grim determination, perhaps the third Afghan army battalion would
arrive soon. Hopefully, before S3 ran out of ammunition or all died.

“Everyone,
load up,” Nick said into his mic. “We’ll back the vehicles up before they
surround us. And, Marcus, lead us to the presidential palace. We’ll set up a
defensive position there.”

Chapter 89

Just minutes
later, the five MRAPs of S3 roared into the presidential palace courtyard. Two police
officers stood by their light patrol truck, and they looked happy to see
reinforcements arrive. They had AKs out, but no armor or helmets.

These men
were outfitted for regular police duties, not all-out battle.

“Stop here,
Truck.”

The MRAP
rolled to a stop. Nick said over his shoulder, “Lana,” and stepped out.

Lana exited
the MRAP’s rear door and jogged up to him. Together, they approached the two
police officers. The relieved policemen met them halfway.

“Ask them,”
Nick said, “where the rest of the police force is. And where their MRAPs and
armored personal carriers are.”

Lana
translated it, and the men gestured and yammered in the language Nick was
quickly growing to despise.

Lana said,
“They say the president didn’t want all the armored vehicles around during the
celebration. That the vehicles would remind people of the war and the threat,
and since there was no threat, there was no need for armored vehicles.”

Nick cursed
and kicked the ground, he was so angry. The president’s arrogance was probably
going to get a lot of people killed today, including some of his own.

“Ask them
where the rest of the police are!” he roared.

Lana said a
few words and they motioned and spewed out a string of words.

“They ran,”
Lana said, feeling a bit sorry for the men, “when the people fled.”

Nick looked
about and noticed some police hats and a few police shirts stuffed by potted
trees and anti-vehicle barriers. Clearly, some had decided it would be safer if
they weren’t in uniform.

A sort of
impending doom started to creep up on Nick. Afghans were notoriously fickle in
their allegiances. Their loyalty almost always shifted to the winning side as a
matter of self-preservation. It was a concept that seemed impossible to grasp
as a westerner, but this was a country of tribes. One day you fought the tribe
across the river. The next day, you fought alongside them as if they hadn’t
killed your brother the day before.

The only
exception to this rule was westerners. Then, you’d ignore your local enemies,
and everyone would fight them. Unless they paid you great sums of money, and
then you’d fight on their side -- sort of -- while oftentimes alerting your
comrades to their movements and plans.

And the
moment the tides turned, you’d switch sides to your true allegiance and state
the obvious, “That you had needed the money for your family, but never
really
fought on the Americans’ side.”

“Tell them,”
Nick said, “that reinforcements are on the way. And that they should find a
position behind some of these concrete vehicle barriers. Say a thousand troops
are coming. Whatever it takes to get these guys some damn confidence back.”

Lana
blathered and gestured loudly, as the Afghan people always did.

They argued
some, and Nick couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped in, put his hand on the
largest one’s shoulder, and spun him around. Nick pointed at a concrete barrier
that made a great position.

“Tell him,”
he said to Lana, “that he is to take up a position right there. And that if he
moves away from the post before I relieve him, I will shoot him on the spot.”

Lana passed
along the message, and the man looked from Lana to Nick. Nick stepped closer,
and his eyes bore into the man. The man nodded, and the two men ran to the
position.

“That’s more
like it,” Nick said.

“They
probably wish they had run sooner,” Lana said.

“Only if we
lose. If we win, those guys will be getting promoted.”

Chapter 90

The lack of
other police or soldiers was a serious problem. The presidential palace, called
the Arg, sat on a massive 83-acre piece of ground. Nick recalled that “Arg”
meant “citadel” in Dari and Pashto, and that in his research on it, he had
discovered it was originally built in 1880 by King Abdur Rahman Khan.

King Khan
had built it as a castle, and it still had its high walls. But the need for
walls and a moat were moot these days, and it operated in its current state on
a defense in depth concept. Typically, there were vehicle checkpoints, soldiers
on patrol, and anti-vehicle barriers blocking the streets.

But the
checkpoints had been taken down, and the barriers had been cleared for the
massive celebration. And when the word spread of the approaching Taliban, the
troops had fled. Or gone to get more gear. Or whatever bullshit excuse they’d
said as they left their positions. The bottom line was that they weren’t there.

This was the
problem with poorly trained troops who were underpaid and underappreciated.
It’s why they usually covered their faces in most dangerous and unstable
countries, as they had in Mexico. The police officers were ashamed and scared,
which is what happens when a government lacks popular support and troops
haven’t been trained well.

The MRAPs
had circled into a formation while Nick and Lana talked with the police. Marcus
jogged up to Nick from the rear vehicle.

“This
doesn’t look good,” Marcus said.

“Yeah, the
vehicle barriers are gone for the celebration,” Nick said. “But we can stop
their trucks with our .50s. We’ll just need to be alert for VBIEDs.”

Vehicle-borne
IEDs were the scariest weapon possessed by the Taliban. They often hid between
200 to 500 pounds of explosives in trucks or cars, and they had the potential
to wipe out dozens of people in one blow.

“How many
policemen and troops you figure are behind those walls in the Arg?” Marcus
asked.

“Maybe fifty
or a hundred. But if the Taliban breach the walls with explosives or a VBIED,
I’d bet everything I own that whoever’s left will turn and run out the back.”

“Agreed. So,
what’s our plan?”

“Let’s
position our MRAPs into the best 180 perimeter that we can, nice and spread
out. Then let's redistribute ammo from those who haven’t fired any to the squad
members in vehicles one and two. They fired a decent amount back there on that
street.”

“Sounds
good,” Marcus said.

“Once the
ammo is redistributed, we’ll spread our squad members out and take it from
there.”

“And if the
Taliban hit the presidential palace from a different direction?”

“I’ve
studied the maps pretty hard and think this is the most logical approach, but
if they do, we’ll peel a couple vehicles and squads off and move around to
engage them.”

A bullet
snapped by, missing by only inches. Nick and Marcus dropped to their knees,
looking outboard.

“Sniper,”
Marcus said, stating the obvious.

“Looks like
our friends have arrived,” Nick replied. “That’s probably an advance scout, but
the rest will be here soon. Let’s get everyone in position and that ammo
redistributed pronto.”

Chapter 91

The assault
on the presidential palace slowly escalated from that first single round. A
gunman would pop up in a window -- or from a roof -- and loose a burst at S3.
Sometimes, an S3 riflemen would knock him down with their M4. Sometimes, the
Taliban fighter would duck before anyone got him lined up straight.

But they
usually bagged him on his next attempt, if he didn’t change firing positions.
And several Taliban had already fallen in just such a manner.

Nick could
sense the Taliban increasing their numbers, building up beyond his ability to
see them as fighters flocked to the sound of firing like dogs drawn to the
scent of bacon.

S3 only had
a sight distance of fifty to a hundred yards, with the group spread out in a
half circle in front of the primary entrance to the presidential palace. A
boulevard, with a small green park, lay just before them, while four- and
five-story apartment buildings were to their left and right.

Nick’s MRAP
sat parked in the center of the perimeter. The other four MRAPs were spaced to
each side roughly twenty yards apart. They were pointed nose outward for two
reasons. One, the perimeter was small and limited in size. It would have been a
struggle to park them horizontally even if they had wanted to. Two, parking
them sideways would prevent them exiting quickly by pulling straight out,
assuming the enemy made a move to breach the presidential palace through one of
the other walls.

So far, the
.50s on the MRAPs had remained silent, per Nick’s orders. Since they only had
eight hundred rounds, Nick had instructed them to attempt to hold their fire
unless the unit came under intense suppression. Truthfully, they had less than
eight hundred rounds per gun after they had redistributed the ammo that
vehicles 1 and 2 fired earlier at the Taliban column.

Nick wanted
S3 to save its heavy machine gun ammunition for VBIEDs. Nothing stopped a truck
barreling toward you like a .50 pouring lead into it.

Two Taliban
fighters opened up on them from the right, and as S3 fighters pivoted to the threat,
four or five more Taliban opened up on their left. Here it comes, Nick thought.

The pressure
was building, and the Taliban definitely aimed to make this their primary
breach point. At least until S3 stopped them cold. Then they’d probably pivot
to another side of the presidential palace.

Nick was
inside the armored and bullet proof cab of his MRAP, which he felt supremely
shitty about since most of his men were in the open. But he needed to call Mr.
Smith for an update, and it was hard to hear outside with all the firing going
on.

“Nick? You
there?” he heard Mr. Smith say.

“I’m here,”
Nick replied, focusing back on the phone call and not the immediate situation.
He quickly filled Mr. Smith in on their engagement of the Taliban column, and
their movement to the defensive position in front of the presidential palace.

“Tell me
some good news,” Nick added.

“Shit has
hit the fan in Washington,” Mr. Smith said. “There are emergency meetings
happening at the Department of Defense, the State Department, the National
Security Agency, the CIA, you name it. The president’s schedule is being
rearranged to pull together an emergency meeting with him, as well.”

“I don’t
suppose anyone has suggested ignoring the new rules and getting our military
power up in the air and our boots out into the streets?”

“It’s being
suggested, but instantly shot down by those in charge. We don’t want to quote
‘breach Afghan sovereignty,’ they say, unless explicitly authorized by the
Afghan president.”

In his rear
view mirror, Nick glanced through the iron gates of the presidential palace and
noticed some nervous-looking police officers, who
were
in vests and
helmets, unlike the two out front. But these police officers didn’t look too
keen on stepping outside the gate to help S3 fight off the attack.

“You might
want to pass along that there’s not a whole lot of Afghan sovereignty going on
right now,” Nick said with disgust.

“If the
situation deteriorates, it might happen,” Mr. Smith said. “But that’s a
decision that will need to be approved at the highest U.S. levels.”

“Meaning the
president?” Nick asked.

“Yes, so
we’re talking two or three days before that might happen.”

“Are you
kidding me?” Nick shouted. “We might not even have two or three hours.”

“I know. I’m
doing everything that I can.”

“How close
is the Afghan army to getting its third battalion here?”

Mr. Smith
paused. One of those really long pauses that inspires paranoia rather than
confidence. Finally, he spoke. “Look, Nick. Our satellite intercepts and
footage have caught three Toyota trucks entering the base of the third Afghan
battalion.”

“Taliban?”

“Yes. And
they weren’t shot at or stopped on their way in. They were clearly invited, and
we strongly suspect the battalion leadership has been bribed or threatened to
not respond.”

Nick
recalled the concept -- or lack thereof -- of Afghan loyalty.

“So the
momentum has turned, and everyone is now looking out for their own skin?”

“Basically.
And some reports are coming in that there might even be some collaboration
between the Taliban and the Afghan army.”

“Meaning
working together? That kind of collaboration?” Nick asked.

“Yes.”

Now it was
Nick’s turn to pause. He thought of his logistics and security folks at the
warehouse, as well as his other support personnel at Bagram Airfield. If shit
went completely downhill, they might have to rescue his folks from the
warehouse and fight their way back to Bagram, which might prove the only safe
sanctuary in Afghanistan.

“Nick?” Mr.
Smith said.

“I’m here,”
Nick muttered.

“Nick, we’re
in unchartered waters here. This could be the fall of Saigon happening all over
again. Although some of the Afghan units will remain loyal, others will
disband, take their weapons, and return to their families and tribes. You need
to be prepared for that happening.”

Nick tried
to conceptualize S3 pulling off such a retreat with limited transportation, in
addition to transporting serious casualties in danger of bleeding out. He
recalled footage of the absolute chaos in Vietnam, as the capital fell. Thousands
of people reaching through and pushing on the embassy gates, begging to be
flown out. American personnel trying to hold them back, while also worried they
might be left behind.

Nick could
visualize the scene going down in his mind, only now the backdrop was Bagram.
Anger welled up inside of him, and he ripped the image from his head. Not on
his watch, damn it.

“That’s not
going to happen,” he said with finality. He clicked the phone off and stepped
out of the MRAP with his M4.