Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (31 page)

Chapter 92

Nick dropped
out of the MRAP and jogged from position to position along the perimeter,
checking on his men and informing them they needed to hold here for a while.

He knew he
could have done this by radio, but there was nothing like having a leader come
by to individually check on you. And sometimes as a leader, you’d pick up on
some piece of intel that a shooter would share with you face-to-face, which
might not have been shared by radio. Usually, the shooter would have no idea
how much of an impact it would create when combined with something from the
other side of the perimeter.

After Nick
had “walked the line,” which in this case meant ducking and sprinting along it,
he arrived back at his middle MRAP and realized he needed to study the
situation further. He was confident the intermittent fire that continued to
build was only a feeling-out process by the Taliban.

They had
something up their sleeve, but until they revealed it, there wasn’t a lot Nick
or S3 could do about it.

Nick decided
to take the spare moment he had to do what he loved doing best. Shooting. Now
granted, this was some short-range shooting, especially for a sniper, but he
hadn’t fired his M4 today. Plus, he didn’t want any of these bastards sending
any of his team to the morgue, so a little thinning of the herd was most
certainly called for.

Nick propped
open the heavily armored door of his MRAP and stepped up between it. It was too
high to stand between from the ground, but standing on a large step provided a
halfway-decent position.

He leaned
his weapon through the opening created by the windshield and the door,
searching for a target. This wasn’t very comfortable, but he’d endured worse
positions to fire from. Rounds zipped and popped into their perimeter and he
searched the building to his right for a target.

A bullet
smacked the truck and he flinched, far more than he meant to. Half of his right
leg was exposed below the armored door. But at least it was only a leg.
Besides, on the bright side, if he took a round in the knee or lower leg he’d
never have to worry about another forty-mile field trip anywhere by foot.

It’s all
about perspective, he thought.

A muzzle
flash caught his eye. It came from a darkened room in the four-story building
to his right. Nick swung his M4 toward it, placing his Aimpoint sight where
he’d seen it. Even with the magnification of the sight, he couldn’t see the
shooter. But he knew the man was there, back in the shadows, so he fired three
rounds at where he thought he was.

Nick had no
idea if he hit his target. And that’s how real combat went. Confirmed kills
were nearly impossible to verify and almost never happened. Usually it was a
lot of people shooting from your side at a lot of people who were firing at you
from their side, and eventually, their side scurried off, taking whoever might
have been wounded or killed with them.

Most of the
time the enemy ran right about the time your close air support arrived on
station, but that wouldn’t be happening today, thanks to the Afghan president’s
orders. Nick decided he’d knock the shit out of that dumbass if he ever got to
meet him.

More muzzle
flashes caught his eye to his left, coming from a shot-out window. He rotated
toward it and fired four times on both sides of the window about knee high. Hopefully,
the bastard was ducking behind the wall and caught them in the chest. Assuming
the bullets penetrated the wall, which he’d never know.

He fired
five rounds under the window about two feet above where he guessed the floor
was, in case the guy had ducked below the window sill.

“Here they
come,” he heard one of his members yell on the radio. “Contact right!”

Chapter 93

Nick knew he
needed a full mag for whatever threat approached, so he reloaded his weapon
with a fresh magazine and crammed his nearly empty one in his dump pouch.
Weapon ready to go, he looked right and saw three Toyota trucks flying toward
them.

“VBIEDs,
nine o’clock!” he screamed into the radio. “Everyone engage! Open up with those
fifties!”

The entire
S3 perimeter that could see the trucks erupted, and this was no longer
controlled sustained fire. This was what the Marine Corps called FPF, or Final
Protective Fire. All weapons at near-cyclic rate. Automatic. Burst. Whatever
the fastest rate of fire your weapon could achieve, you let it run.

The first
truck exploded in a massive detonation, expelling flames, dust, and smoke into
the air in an impressive fireball. A shockwave rocked S3’s perimeter, even from
a hundred yards away.

But they had
stopped the truck thanks to the fact that the sight distance down the roads on
both flanks in front of the presidential palace far exceeded their short sight
line to the apartments to their front.

This
distance down the roads gave them more space to engage VBIEDs and hopefully
survive their deadly explosions. But the second truck darted through the smoke
and dust, accelerating toward them with immense speed.

Again the
.50s and most of the M4s on the line tore into the truck. It exploded, as well,
shaking the ground and rattling every man on S3’s line. But at probably seventy
yards away, Nick felt confident his team had again escaped serious harm.

It was the
third one that Nick worried about the most. They would have very little time to
see it and engage it since the second truck’s blast and smoke had been still
closer than the first.

“Fire into
the smoke on the road!” Nick yelled, since everyone was waiting for a target to
emerge. They had forgotten that their bullets could still reach what they
couldn’t see.

The perimeter
resumed firing, focusing on the road and sweeping across the dust-filled cloud
of gray and black.

An explosion
roared behind the cloud, and Nick felt relief sweep through his body. And as he
reloaded again, he realized the fire on S3 from the buildings to their front
and sides had picked up tremendously while their attention had been diverted.

Nick pivoted
his rifle to their front and engaged a muzzle flash with three rounds. Nearby,
a machine gun of some type -- RPD or RPK? -- roared unabated from a window
three rooms down. He, and at least two other people, poured bullets into it,
cutting down whoever that had been.

But the
bullets flying at them increased heavily. At least seventy Taliban fighters
were pouring fire at them.

“Man down!”
someone screamed into their radio.

Nick knew it
wouldn’t be their first.

Nick pressed
his radio transmit button. “Get him to our middle MRAP. Medics are our
location, over.”

Nick resumed
his attention to the front. Before he could line up a target, an RPG zipped
into the line. Nick ducked the blast, as did everyone else. It slammed to the
right of him. He heard screams coming from someone. Maybe two someones.

“Squad
leaders,” Nick said into the mic, “check your men. Give me a status report.”

Nick fired
at an idiot who silhouetted himself on an apartment building across from him,
and the man jerked back in pain and fell. Rounds pinged off the MRAP’s door and
window, and Nick ducked down beneath its armor.

He saw a
target in a doorway that had opened and raised up to engage it. But before he
could acquire the man in the scope, a torrent of rounds pounded the MRAP’s
door. The bullets were so thick that he slinked back into the cab and shut the
door.

His
thirty-five men were being overpowered by the Taliban, and it didn’t require
much imagination to see every one of them dying on this small perimeter.

Nick
depressed the mic button, “All squads, use your fifties to engage targets.
Gunners, limit to two- or three-round bursts to conserve your ammunition,
over.”

The .50s
opened up, firing against the Taliban and dominating the firefight. They were
so much louder and more powerful than all the other weapons engaged in the
clash. Plus, the .50s added five more outgoing weapons to S3’s side, and it was
a game of numbers right now.

As more
bullets slammed into the MRAP’s bullet-proof windshield, Nick also remembered
that the .50s were behind armor, as well, so it would be harder to suppress
their gunners. Perhaps they could help turn the tide of the battle.

Nick checked
his gear and counted his remaining magazines still loaded. He had gone through
almost half of them, and he wasn’t firing nearly as much as the rest of his
squads.

He grabbed
his encrypted phone and dialed Mr. Smith.

“Any
change?”

“Nick, there’s
been no change. It hasn’t even been that long since we last talked.”

Nick
recalled the three VBIEDs and bullets hitting his MRAP, mere inches from his
head.

“It’s been a
lifetime since we last talked. We’re taking casualties, running through our ammunition,
and you need to know there’s a chance we won’t be able to hold.”

Nick cut the
phone off before Mr. Smith could answer him, and he radioed his logistics man
back at Bagram Airfield. He quickly informed him that they were running low on
ammunition and that they needed to load up several dozen boxes of ammo into
some trucks.

“Grab some
of the security guys and start off for the warehouse.”

“Roger
that,” the man said.

Nick radioed
the warehouse and got his primary security man on the line. He briefed him on
the situation, informed him they were heavily outnumbered, and he’d need to
prepare to bring most of his security guys to link up with them.

“Leave only
three or four men there to guard our gear at the warehouse. We literally need
every person we can spare.”

Nick opened
the MRAP’s door again and stepped back to his firing position. The fire was as
intense as it had been before. Nick saw movement in a window and saw the front
of an RPG catch the glint of the afternoon sunlight. Nick engaged him, and Rocket
Man fell back into the room.

The only
advantage S3 had were scoped weapons and far-more accurate shooters since
American troops spent literally weeks and weeks honing their accuracy and
shooting skills.

Nick
depressed his mic button and transmitted to his S3 troops in the perimeter.
“Just as a heads up, guys, I’ve got more ammunition headed to the warehouse for
us to resupply with later. But we need to be careful with what we have on us
right now. Sustained fire only, unless we see another VBIED.”

Nick cleared
his throat and continued. “I’ve also alerted our security element at the
warehouse to form up and move out to link up with us. So, we’ll have twelve or
fifteen more men with us soon, and they’ll be bringing more ammunition, as
well.”

Nick heard
someone say, “Fuck yeah.”

And another
say, “Thank God.” He couldn’t make out their voices, and neither were
authorized transmissions. But both summed up the situation nicely.

“We got
tanks moving in on the left,” someone said.

Nick glanced
down the road to his nine o’clock and saw three hulking tanks rumbling toward
them. They were M60A1s, American tanks used by the Marines all the way up until
the ’90s when the newer M1 Abrams took over. Nick remembered hearing that the
U.S. had transferred five or so of them to the Afghan government.

“About time
we caught a break,” he said into the radio. Marcus was on the left side of the
perimeter, having remained with the rear squad and MRAP that he had traveled in
on.

“Marcus,
step out, wave them down, and point out where the enemy fire is coming from.
All other members prepare to pick up your rate of fire when I give you the
signal to cover for Marcus. And I’ll want those .50s rocking when he does.”

Chapter 94

The tanks
lumbered toward the S3 position. When they were fifty yards away, Marcus said
over the radio, “I’m ready. Cover me, everyone.”

Nick brought
his weapon up and fired twenty rounds of single fire at the apartment building
to his right. Others did the same, and the increased fire from S3 overwhelmed
the Taliban who slinked down or back from their positions. The .50s alone were
like five massive fire hoses spraying the buildings.

With the
enemy suppressed, Nick pulled his eyes from the scope and watched Marcus as he
jogged out in the middle of the street. He was jumping up and down, waving his
arms with the M4 dangling across his chest in its sling.

M60A1 tanks
were notorious for having small vision slits that were difficult to see out.
And since no crew members rode outside the tank, he had to get their attention
through the vision slits to be seen.

The turret
turned toward him, and Nick felt grateful they had seen him so he wouldn’t have
to stand out in the open street any longer. He was also glad they had worn
their Afghan police uniforms, so there’d be no confusion that resulted in any
friendly fire incidents.

Marcus was
waving the tanks forward with his left hand and pointing to the buildings the
enemy hid in across from them with his right. Now the tanks would know
precisely where the Taliban positions were, and a few shots from the tanks 105
mm main guns would go miles toward convincing the Taliban to fall back.

It didn’t
matter how many troops you had. When tanks started targeting your position, it
was impossible not to want to run for cover and retire from the battlefield for
the day. No different than when air cover arrived.

Nick spun
back around and fired more shots at the building to his left. He didn’t see any
targets -- S3 had dominated the firefight the past fifteen to twenty seconds --
so he fired a couple rounds into a window, spun further right, fired two more
rounds into another window, and rotated to still another.

He heard
someone scream, “No!” and turned back to his left.

The front
tank had continued rolling forward, but its turret was aimed directly at
Marcus. What the fuck? Nick thought.

And then the
colossal, main gun bellowed. Marcus vanished in an explosion of blazing fire
and smoke.

Nick
screamed in terror! “NOOOOO!!!!!!”

It had to
have been a mistake. Surely they just hadn’t noticed his helmet and uniform.
Nick composed himself as best he could and said into his radio, “3rd Squad!
Pull your MRAP into the road so they can see we’re friendlies!”

Nick jumped
from his firing position on the MRAP and ran behind it. He realized he’d need
help carrying Marcus, so he ran back up the driver’s side and dove next to
Preacher. The Army Special Forces member was in the prone and completely
focused on whatever he was shooting at.

Nick slapped
Preacher’s helmet twice.

“Preacher,
come with me! We have to get Marcus!”

Preacher
stopped firing and jumped to his feet, but it was clear from his face that he
hadn’t heard what Nick had said about Marcus. Rather, he had only seen Nick’s
gesture of “follow me.”

The two
sprinted back to the rear of the MRAP and ran down the line toward the left
side of the perimeter. They stayed behind all the shooters so no one had to
stop firing (or accidentally shot them).

The MRAP on
the left flank had followed Nick’s orders and charged forward to reveal itself
and warn off the tanks. Nick and Preacher cleared the end of perimeter and were
about to run into the street when the second tank’s main gun spewed another
round.

The MRAP in
the street exploded, erupting and nearly bursting in half. Nick and Preacher
screamed in horror and raced back to the perimeter.

“SHIT!!!!”
Nick shrieked.

“Those
aren’t friendlies!” Preacher yelled.

Nick
couldn't believe it, but two shots ruled out the possibility of it being an
accident. These were either Taliban-driven tanks or Afghan soldiers who had
defected to the enemy.

S3 had only
one advantage. With luck, the gunners would be unfamiliar with the beasts and
would take a while to reload the main guns. Even the Afghan soldiers hadn’t
received much training on the tanks, and being competent tankers who reloaded
fast was something that took weeks and weeks of drilling. And drilling wasn’t
something Afghan soldiers excelled at.

“2nd Squad,”
Nick screamed into his radio. “Grab two fire extinguishers and get to the left
flank immediately!”

They came
running up several moments later. Nick pointed to three of them. “You three,
provide a base of fire and cover us. Aim for the vision ports. The rest of you,
come with me.”

The three
designated cover men scurried forward and selected firing positions. As they
opened up on the tanks, Nick hoped they could at least crack and damage the
bullet-proof glass vision ports, temporarily blinding the tankers.

Nick,
Preacher, and the other three members of 2nd Squad sprinted into the street.
The MRAP burned and smoked. They ran into the cloud, coughing and straining to
see through it. The two men with the fire extinguishers doused the flames with
foam chemicals, and the flames retreated quickly.

Nick grabbed
the 2nd Squad leader by his harness and screamed in his ear, hoping to be heard
over the firing, “Find anyone in that vehicle and get them back in our
perimeter and back to your vehicle.”

“Yes, sir,”
the man shouted.

Nick looked
for and found Preacher. He grabbed Preacher’s sleeve and yanked him to the spot
where Marcus had gone down.

They emerged
from the smoke and saw the dust and smog from the shot at Marcus had mostly
dissipated. They could now see his body, which lay in a curled fetal position.
Nick reached him first, landing much too hard on his own knee as he knelt by
Marcus’s chest.

“Marcus!” he
yelled.

Marcus only
groaned. They rolled him on his back, and Nick noticed that Marcus’ legs were
shredded. One boot and entire lower leg were gone. The other looked mangled far
beyond repair, bone sticking out and skin hanging in strips.

Nick glanced
behind him and confirmed the MRAP was between them and the two tanks, providing
cover from that threat. They would have probably reloaded by now, even if their
gunners were untrained and mostly incompetent. He seriously hoped the Taliban
hadn’t forced actual Afghan government troops to drive the tanks because they
would be much better skilled.

“We’ve got
some cover because of the MRAP,” Nick said to Preacher. “Now, we’ve got to get
tourniquets on both legs, or he’s going to bleed out before we can even get him
to the medics.”

They yanked
tourniquets out, lifted what remained of his legs, and cinched the life-saving
straps so tight that Marcus screamed in pain.

Nick watched
Preacher finish applying his tourniquet and again felt grateful the men of S3
were blooded veterans who didn’t freeze up or panic. They grabbed Marcus,
lifted him, and wrapped his arms across their shoulders. They carried him
between their bodies as they sprinted back across the street.

A tank fired
again, and they felt the explosion beyond them in the street. The bastards had
fired at them carrying Marcus, only missing by feet. At least they hadn’t blown
up another MRAP in their perimeter, Nick thought.

They lugged
Marcus behind the three 2nd Squad members still firing and hauled him back to
the middle MRAP as fast as they could. Dr. Clayton and her two PAs jumped out
of the back of it and charged toward them.

“He’s taken
two serious leg wounds,” Nick yelled. “What’s the situation on the other casualties?”

“Three
seriously wounded, and that’s not counting many smaller injuries,” Dr. Clayton
said. “I’m running out of supplies.”

“We’re
getting out of here. Get him stable.”

They loaded
him into the already blood-soaked rear of the MRAP. Marcus was fading. Nick
slapped him in the face several times. Each time harder, each time getting no
response. By the fourth time, the slaps were hurting Nick’s hand, he was
slapping him so hard.

“You’ve got
to hang with us, Marcus!” Nick hollered. “We’re taking you to the hospital!”

Nick turned
from him as the medics took over, wiping his eyes. He took a deep breath and
flushed the scene from his mind. He had work to do, and a damn hell of a lot of
it if any of them were going to get out of here alive.