Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (13 page)

Chapter 37

While Nick
and his team struggled to get down the hill so they could return to their base
in Afghanistan, a thirteen-year-old boy emerged from the shadows on the hill
near the compound. The boy had been ordered to stay at home by his father, but
he had snuck out to follow the warriors of his village.

He had kept his distance
during all the firing, but now there was only silence. So in the last minutes
of darkness, the boy emerged from a wadi and stood before a field of riddled
and broken bodies. Moments ago, he had seen a truck drive off down the hill and
felt it was now safe to approach the fallen.

A few lay gasping out
their final breaths while others wept softly, murmuring strangled words.
Whether the words were pleading or prayerful, the boy could not tell. But nevertheless,
those anguished voices rang like echoes in his heart and summoned up the
courage buried deep within him. No longer did he fear what punishment might
befall him for disobeying his father. Men lay dying all around him, and he had
to do something.

However, the boy’s newly
discovered bravery threatened to sputter out as he drew nearer toward the
wretched bodies. The site. The smell. He had to will his stomach to not be
sick, will his legs not to run.

He slowly kneeled to keep
from fainting, closed his eyes, and slapped his face in an effort to clear his
head. But even as the haze left his brain, he felt helpless, unsure of what he
was supposed to do. Then, a few feet away he saw a radio on the ground next to
the outstretched hand of a dead fighter.

Instantly, it was clear.
He needed to call for help, and with that, he scrambled over the ground toward
the dropped device. Picking up the radio, he pressed the button and screamed,
for all that he was worth, for help.

It was only after the call
and the subsequent reply of confirmation that the boy noticed his own ragged
breath and trembling hands. His courage had lasted long enough to press that
button, but ultimately no further. A boy had made that call, and a boy was all
that remained.

The call was directly
received by a radio operator at the current hideout for Rasool Deraz. Mushahid
Zubaida had not been at all happy when a young boy came to wake him, claiming
the news was “urgent.”

Yesterday had been very
long and unpleasant, to say the least. And after the day’s grisly events, a
good night's sleep had been the one thing Mushahid had felt he had to look
forward to. Now, here he was being shaken from a dream -- a good dream, too, as
it didn’t include the faces of dead villagers -- by an equally blurry-eyed boy,
and it was highly unlikely that he was about to hear urgently good news. And
though he probably should have reacted with a tad more restraint, the boy had
fled from Mushahid’s hut terrified and in tears after delivering the message.

The poor radio operator
didn’t get off much better. Mushahid had stormed into the room, interrogating
the man about his identity and proof of any intelligence. But by the third
stuttering repetition of the operator’s report, Mushahid had slipped from anger
into shocked disbelief.

While he had selected a
team of their best Taliban fighters for a quick response force, neither he nor
Rasool had even imagined the possibility of another attack so soon, and
certainly not one that very night. They, truthfully, hadn’t anticipated an
attack at all, for that matter.

With their secrecy exposed
after the standoff with the villagers earlier that day, the enemy shooters
should have been rushing back for the border. That being the expectation,
Mushahid had resigned himself to holding his team back and let the trespassers
exhaust themselves as they scrambled to escape on foot. He had planned to go
tomorrow with his trucks loaded with rested fighters. They would quickly catch
up and intercept the interlopers.

But upon hearing that not
only had the Taliban’s communication center been raided, but another mass of
local fighters had been gunned down, Mushahid felt like he was tumbling head
over heels down a mountain of questions.

Had he been blinded by his
own arrogance? Should he have sent his men to hunt down the invading party
immediately? It had been what his blood-roaring instincts demanded to be done
at that time.

But Rasool had ordered him
otherwise. Should he not have trusted his leader? No. It had been the right
answer, the rational answer. It was nothing short of suicidal for such a small
team to trek deeper into enemy territory, especially now that the enemy had to
be aware their presence.

The concept seemed so
absurd, no impossible, that Mushahid was now considering the possibility of a
second team or other hostile forces moving about Pakistan without their
knowledge. It was a terrifying thought, but also one that Mushahid couldn’t
afford to let take root any deeper in his brain. So forcing himself to remember
the wisdom of his beloved and trusted mentor, Rasool Deraz, Mushahid quickly
shook the distracting thoughts from his head.

No. Mushahid didn’t have
too many answers, but he certainly intended to get some. He just had one
problem: none of his fighters were ready, and most were not even awake as it
was still a couple hours from sunrise. For this reason, it took precious
minutes to find and wake young boys to run to each hut and roust sleeping
fighters.

And even once the men were
awake, none had their gear ready. They, too, had not expected an attack.

To make matters worse, as
more and more men began to wake and pull themselves together, the scene grew
frenzied and louder. Neighbors and relatives were abruptly jolted from their
slumber. Babies and small children wailed. Dogs barked, running in and out of
huts, either excited or frightened by the sudden flurry of activity. Wives
fussed and offered to prepare food for their summoned warrior-husbands. Some
wives begged for their men just to eat something before they left, or at least
allow them a minute to pack food for the trip.

Mushahid yelled in
frustration as the scene descended into mayhem, barking orders as loud as he
could. His booming voice caused an immediate reaction, but not the one he was
aiming for. Instead of inspiring his men into quick and efficient action,
Mushahid’s aggressive leadership slowed progress further as the already
startled men became flustered and panicked.

In their haste to comply,
the fighters became forgetful and confused, frantically searching all around
with flashlights for gear, weapons, and even clothing. At least one fighter had
torn an entire hut apart, hunting for his shoes and viciously screaming at his
wife and children to find them. The man’s face had turned blood red with shame
after his youngest child meekly pointed out that the items in question were
already on his feet.

Mushahid was livid and
embarrassed. He stood feeling helpless as he watched the swelling chaos. The
time to react was fleeting. And by the way it looked right now, time was about
to bleed out from two slit wrists.

Nick and his
team had no idea that Taliban reinforcements were scrambling to intercept them.
Nor did they know about the delays among those fighters that were giving the
men of S3 a crucial head start. All Nick knew was that he felt major relief at
finding an improved road at the bottom of the hill, once they finally arrived
at it. For the moment, the team could really make some headway. Maybe even
hitting speeds of twenty or thirty miles per hour.

Nick needed
the lucky break. His muscles were shaky and weak, and exhaustion weighed heavy
on his shoulders. His body screamed for rest and recuperation, the kind that
could only be gained by some uninterrupted deep sleep. A shower would be nice,
too,
he
thought, as he looked down at the layers of sweat-caked dirt covering most of
his body and clothes. He couldn’t even imagine how bad he smelled. Suddenly he
was very thankful for the gift of olfactory fatigue.

All of which
supported the idea that Nick believed they should push to make it home today,
if it were at all possible.

The reasons
for this were many. The men were dog-tired, same as him. And if they didn’t
make a break for it, they’d have to find a place to hide the truck in. The
drugs for Ahmud al-Habshi would also be wearing off, and there was no more to
inject him with. That was yet another oversight the team had made on their
pre-mission packing.

Nick tapped
Truck on the arm. “Slow down and stop here.”

The Toyota
pulled to a halt, and Nick opened the door, stepping out. Acknowledging Red
behind the machine gun propped on bipod legs atop the cab and Marcus in the
rear of the truck bed with his AK, Nick nodded toward the east.

“Sun’ll be
up soon, guys, but I’ve decided we’re pushing on. Even though it’ll be
daylight.”

He let that
sink in.

“I don’t
think,” he continued, “we have it in us to hole up for another day, and who
knows how many fighters will be assembling to find out who nabbed this computer
punk in the back of the truck. So, we’re going all the way today, even though
part of the travel will be by daylight.”

“Hellz
yeah,” Red said. He patted the stock of the RPK. “Might get to bag some more
bad guys.”

“Again, easy
with my gun, you little gremlin,” Truck growled from the driver’s seat.

“We probably
kicked over a hornet’s nest with that raid back there,” Marcus said, “so I
think it’s best we keep moving, as well.”

“Then, we’re
in agreement,” Nick said. “Let’s stay sharp and not ruin our track record of
dodging bullets the past couple of weeks.”

Nick climbed
back in the cab, and the 4x4 resumed its westward trek toward Afghanistan.
Besides numerous possible ambush sites, they still had one small town to push
through. And Nick had a bad feeling that Red might get his wish to use Truck’s
machine gun again before all this was over.

Chapter 38

Rasool Deraz walked toward
his designated truck, an AK in his arms. He stopped to see Mushahid several
feet up ahead. He watched the strong man let loose a visibly deep sigh as the
last of the men -- finally -- loaded up into the three awaiting trucks.

Poor Mushahid had allowed
himself to get so frazzled so quickly by the situation. As the younger man’s
friend and mentor, it had been very disappointing to witness Mushahid, yet
again, lose control of his temper.

The man had not even
realized how badly he had inflamed the chaos and confusion. Rasool truly did
the best he knew how with Mushahid, but sometimes he wondered if the overly
passionate man was only meant to be a fighter and no more.

The old man offered a sigh
of his own up to Allah and continued moving toward the truck. There were bigger
things than Mushahid to worry about right now, Rasool thought. He began to
prepare himself for what they might discover at the attack site, as well as
theorize what kind of efforts might help repair or at least minimize the
damage. Rasool was deep in thought when Mushahid suddenly appeared at his side.

“Please don’t get too
close,” Mushahid softly pleaded with the older man.

Rasool stopped, but he did
not bother to look over at the man. He already knew what he would find. It was
always the same look: a face forced into a bland expression to suggest
passivity, but betrayed by eyes that practically pulsated with concern, as if
hypnotic in purpose.

It was the only form of
leverage his protector was brave enough to employ, as Mushahid knew better than
to beg or even hint that the older man should stay behind. As the head of the
Taliban, Rasool reserved the sole right to make those decisions. For only he
understood the full weight of the title, the responsibility, the burden, the
regret.

And with the growing
number of men lost, this was a personal affront to Rasool. These were his
people, whether they be soldiers or villagers. They were dead because they
fought for the very cause he commanded.

There would be no holding
him back. Not this time.

Rasool finally turned to
face the other man, locking onto the other’s gaze and matching it with his own.
From head to toe, Rasool’s body was set straight and square. He held his head
high like the proud warrior he was, and his eyes emanated a declaration of
unyielding defiance toward his opponent’s will. As well-intentioned as the
man’s motives might be, Rasool would not surrender an inch to his Mushahid’s
over protective manipulations.

The stare down lasted only
seconds before Mushahid slowly closed his eyes, hanging his head in submission.
Rasool knew Mushahid wasn’t a stupid man, but his focus and judgement were much
too limited.

Their communication center
had been targeted for a specific reason. But Mushahid, so preoccupied with
guarding Rasool and performing his duties as the Fist of the Taliban, failed to
comprehend just how significant of a loss they might be facing. If sensitive
information had indeed fallen into the wrong hands, not only could it
compromise Rasool’s personal safety, but it could threaten the entire
organization.

Seeing the strong man
finally surrender, Rasool relaxed and sighed. He appreciated Mushahid’s
concerns. However, inevitability was gaining on them, and if Mushahid wasn’t
careful, he would likely break when the time came for him to face it.

“My brother, we must all
trust in Allah’s shield of protection,” he reminded the strong man in a voice
soft but insistent. “And we must never assume any single life is more important
than a willingness to surrender and become a living, breathing tool for His
purpose.”

Mushahid raised his eyes
to look at his mentor, and Rasool patted him forgivingly on the arm. Then
without another word Rasool, stepped past the man and toward his waiting
vehicle.

As Rasool stepped away, it
occurred to Mushahid that the only time he ever felt truly afraid was when he
thought about losing his leader. Mushahid worried about what would happen if
Rasool was taken. And he reminded himself that he needed to remember his place
and receive rather than give orders from Rasool. He struggled mightily to find
the right balance in this regard. And the Old Lion didn’t make it any easier
being so stubbornly humble.

It had taken much longer
than Mushahid had wanted to assemble his men, but finally, the pursuit team was
ready to go. There would be three trucks with six fighters in the back and two
up front. That would make eight men per truck, equaling twenty-four total.

It was a decent number of
men to take on such a task, but these also weren’t just any men. These were
twenty-four of the Taliban’s best fighters. And it was actually thirty-one
fighters if he included the additional fourth truck carrying Rasool and his guards.

But Mushahid was
determined to keep Rasool out of harm's way at all costs. Thankfully, the plan
was for Rasool to focus on inspecting the attack site and communication center
while Mushahid and his men pushed on and pursued the invaders.

Rasool and his guards
would also remain on alert and be ready to respond should Mushahid’s three
truck strike team call for assistance. Mushahid had agreed to the plan, but he
would make certain that there would be no call for backup.

But watching as the older
man walked away, Mushahid’s stomach clenched at the mere thought of letting
Rasool out of his sight. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a desperate
determination boiling up within him. Then spotting the driver of the fourth
truck, in which Rasool would be riding, Mushahid called him over and commanded
him to keep Rasool as far back as possible, and at all times.

He evoked a vicious threat
into every syllable of the command, an absolute promise that the driver would
suffer severely for the slightest deviation from his order.

“Do not listen to him,”
Rasool countered, with a light dismissive tone.

Rasool had circled back
around by them. The man had sounded almost playful even.

Most likely Rasool was
simply trying to assure the driver of his safety. In fact, Mushahid practically
guaranteed it. But why then did it seem to sting him so badly? The big man took
a slow, deep breath and let the subtle rebuke settle. Then turning his head
briefly to nod toward Rasool, a signal of his full acceptance and cooperation,
Mushahid then quickly jogged to take his position in the first truck.

Nearly
fifteen miles away, Nick’s team approached their final obstacle: a small
village almost straddling the border. Their plans had always been to push
through the village at night, relying on darkness to keep them safe. Or,
relatively safe.

They weren’t
opposed to fighting their way through in the daylight, but with darkness, they
would have only had to engage a few targets. Speed and surprise would have
given them their best shot at passing through it safely.

After forcing
their way through the village, they’d hit a side road that circumvented the
closest border checkpoint. This was mostly an extra cautionary measure, as the
checkpoint was vacant more than 320 days of the past year, according to
satellite intelligence.

But the
cover of darkness was definitely no longer an option. A gray haze announced
dawn and with full daylight just a few minutes away, the clock was ticking and
their problems rapidly multiplying.

Truck
stopped the
Toyota more than twelve hundred yards away. He turned the lights off since they
were no longer helping in any case. It was a small town, made up of several
dozen huts and probably eight or ten walled compounds.
And their only way out of
Pakistan, was a single road that ran straight through the center of it.

Up to this
point, the road they had been driving down had wound through narrow passes
created by steep hills on each side. But the road had opened up as the hills
retreated and grew less sharp and steep. Before them, the valley widened. It
was mostly free of rocks and obstacles, and the villagers ahead of them had
taken advantage of the mostly flat ground and planted crops. Probably heroin,
but thus was life in this barren part of the world.

The road had
even been good enough for them to easily hit speeds up to forty miles per hour.
Presumably, such quality roads allowed for these villagers to distribute goods
and buy supplies, but Nick guessed the road had been maintained so that Taliban
fighters and arms could quickly be pushed across the border into Afghanistan.

But this
town was their final hurdle. Further out, beyond it, the hills came alive
again. Vertical. Wrathful. Alive. A tight road cutting through a tighter
passage.

Nick stepped
out of the truck and glassed the town with a pair of binoculars.

“We’re
almost home, guys,” Nick said. “Across those hills is Afghanistan.”

“No,” Truck
answered. “Across those hills is a clean shower and all the beer I can drink.”

“And with
luck,” Red said, grinning like a ten-year-old boy about to eat ice cream,
“maybe a few hot chicks.”

“I just want
to hit the damn weights, once I’m cleaned up and rested,” Marcus said. “My arms
feel like they’ve lost two inches with all this humping and shitty food.”

“I don’t see
anyone out and moving,” Nick said, lowering the binoculars. “We might make it
through this town before they wake up.”

“Be the
first break we’ve caught yet,” Truck said.