Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (20 page)

Chapter 56

Nick’s
Primary Strike Team, the other three squads of six, and his six man sniper
squad pulled back into Bagram Airfield following the mission. S3 was renting
massive MRAPs, or Mine Resistant Ambush Protected trucks, from the Afghan
government. These vehicles featured a v-shaped bottom to protect troops from
IEDs and mines.

Marcus had
worked out a lease for enough MRAPs to transport all four of S3’s squads, plus
an additional four vehicles to replace any that broke down or became damaged.

Just the
thought of the sixty thousand dollar lease made Nick sick to his stomach. He
hated how big S3 had already grown. The unit was now just shy of a hundred men,
with only twenty four of those folks being actual shooters on active squads.

The
management and coordination of S3 had become a nightmare before the group even
deployed, so Nick and Marcus brought on Dean, a logistics expert to combat
this. They promptly put him in charge of dealing with supplies and organization
-- the beans, the bullets, and the Band-Aids.

S3 also now
had its own internal security element. Nick and Marcus had learned in Mexico
that having no additional security meant one of the squads was constantly on
duty, something that cut down the sharp edge of these units since guard duty
was boring and tiresome. Worse, it affected operating tempo, since squads lost
time that could be spent training or resting -- or even operating.

Nick wanted
four squads of trigger-pullers ready to go at any time, so S3 had grown even
larger and hired additional shooters to serve as its own internal security
element. It, too, had a leader in charge of it -- an expert in physical
security who was a former Marine Staff Sergeant that had helped protect several
embassies around the world.

Nick didn’t
like how big S3 had grown, but he appreciated the fact that he and Marcus could
focus solely on going after bad guys without having to worry about trucks
needing maintenance or if the perimeter was secure.

Once back
inside the perimeter of Bagram Airfield, the convoy of MRAPs pulled to a nearly
abandoned part of the base. This area had also been leased by S3, and around
the small installation, the team’s security expert had built their own
fortifications: HESCO earth-filled defensive barriers, loads of concertina
wire, and anti-vehicle barriers, not to mention cameras, optics, and defensive
towers.

It might
have been overkill since the base had its own defenses, but Nick didn’t want an
internal attack from Taliban infiltrators. The Taliban regularly infiltrated
the Afghan army, as well as placed fighters inside the large number of local
manual laborers. These workers had almost free rein over the base while the
Afghan soldiers were armed for bear in full-fighting gear. Already more than
one hundred and fifty Americans had been killed by insurgents who had
infiltrated the ranks of the Afghan army.

The trucks
halted outside the S3 perimeter. A member of the security force removed the
anti-vehicle barrier and waved the MRAPs into the smaller perimeter.

The squads
dismounted, and everyone felt tired, as was always the case after a mission.
Unfortunately, there was a lot to be done. The MRAPs needed to be refueled and
have basic maintenance done on them. The squads needed to be debriefed. Marcus
needed to check in again with the CIA analysts digging into Ahmud al-Habshi’s computers
while Nick checked in with the intel experts on the latest moves made by Rasool
Deraz and the Taliban.

And at some
point, they’d need to find time to shower, eat, and rest up before they went
out again. Just another lovely day in Afghanistan, Nick thought. And it was a
pattern hundreds of thousands of Americans had gone through and mastered on
deployments lasting up to a year or longer in this harsh country.

Chapter 57

Rasool Deraz
felt a deep sense of foreboding. A fear that left him feeling sick to his
stomach. He and his main security man and confidant, Mushahid Zubaida, had been
enraged by the raid into Pakistan.

They had
felt personally insulted that four men had brazenly entered their sanctuary and
executed a raid on one of their compounds. It was scary enough that the
Americans had known which compound to hit but even scarier that so much had
been taken from their outpost. The stolen computers had given them great
concern, specifically because they had no idea what all might have been on
them.

Neither
Rasool nor Mushahid had ever even used a computer -- Rasool too old to want to
learn, and Mushahid having lived the life of a Mujahideen fighter in
Afghanistan, a place where electricity was mostly non-existent in the
countryside. And since the Taliban’s primary computer expert had been snatched,
as well, it wasn’t like they could ask him what was on the computers.

And so
Rasool and Mushahid had been extremely worried about the new developments. Both
the unprecedented deep strike into Pakistan, which had required them to beef up
security along the borders, and the intel they had lost presumably to
Americans.

Still
brooding on the developments several days after the raid, Rasool had said to
Mushahid, “We need to move our timelines up.”

“Agreed,”
Mushahid replied.

Mushahid
preferred aggressiveness over timidity anyway, so it wasn’t a tough decision
for him. Rasool, on the other hand, was a patient and cautious man. His
prudence was about the only way a male fighter ever made it to old age in
Afghanistan.

Back when
the Americans first invaded, Rasool had been content to be composed and
even-tempered as he had fought the Americans. It was the same strategy his
elders had employed when they led him against the Soviets. Small hit and runs.
No major offensives. Use IEDs and ambushes. Never get pinned down. Keep your
forces dispersed. Win over the people, and spread misinformation and fear.

But clearly
something had changed. Perhaps with so much pressure on the Afghan government,
they had asked for more help from the Americans. In some ways, that was good.
It was harder to get the Afghan people to fight the government when it was
composed of (and controlled by) Afghans who were known and respected. However,
the Americans brought almost unprecedented competence with them.

The recent
battle between the villagers and the Americans on the hill, as well as the
vehicle battle that occurred near the border was evidence enough of that. And
clearly, not only had the Afghan government brought back in some Americans,
they had taken the leash off this unit. Perhaps it was a CIA group? Or maybe
some of their Delta Force or SEALs?

Rasool had
read about each of the groups, looking for an edge against them. Whoever it
was, he didn’t really care. But he needed to deal with this new wrinkle before
the group pulled apart his organization piece by piece, no thanks to all the
information that was probably stored on Ahmud’s computer.

Rasool and
Mushahid plotted and planned over an entire day, interrupting their plans only
with meals and prayers. In the end, they came up with a three-part plan that
would not only deal with the new unit but would also once and for all finally
topple the Afghan government.

Chapter 58

The day
after the ambush on the Taliban convoy, Nick and Marcus scheduled a full-on
training day. The four squads of S3 were to rotate between four training
stations. At one station, they’d work on hand-to-hand combat. At another, a
circuit course with weights. At another, a weapons range. And finally, a fire
and maneuver course. Unfortunately, they couldn’t do any firing on the last
one, due to the size of the range at Bagram Airfield, but rehearsals were still
possible.

The four
squads formed up with full-battle gear on, and Nick and Marcus led them on a
jog down to the range. The run covered a couple of miles, and that proved
pretty challenging since they were wearing vests, helmets, and gear. Plus,
running in boots isn’t fun, even on a good day.

At the
range, the other squads broke off to continue to their stations. The Primary
Strike Team took the weapons range first. Still breathing hard, they inserted
hearing protection and locked and loaded their weapons. Nick put them in a line
and slapped Red on the helmet.

Since the
logistics element of S3 had put up some flimsy cardboard walls stapled to some
2x4s, no one knew what to expect on the range beyond the walls, which extended
twelve feet high. Red entered the make-believe hallway and pushed forward. He
followed the “hallway,” turned the corner, and then moved on.

They heard
the sound of gunshots from his M4. Finally, Red yelled, “Clear,” and exited the
range from the right side. Marcus went next, wasting no time. And once he
finished, Lana, Truck, and Preacher took their turns.

Nick heard
Preacher yell “clear,” and he raised his M4 up from its assault sling. His
shoulder wound burned, but he blocked the pain out as he walked down the hall,
heel-to-toe, his rifle barrel steady. He twisted right, cleared the next
hallway, and took the obvious left. It was obvious, because they were, after
all, on a range and the targets had to be in the expected direction with the
berm behind them.

As Nick
entered the kill room, he realized the logistics folks had done a hell of a
job, given the fact they were forward deployed. They had somehow found a couch,
a chair, a wall locker to resemble a closet, and numerous targets. Nick flushed
the thought from his mind as he concentrated on the task.

Five targets
loomed before him, each realistic picture silhouettes. Nick scanned them,
looking for weapons. One had an AK pointed at the entry, and Nick put two
rounds in his chest and a kill shot in his head. He twisted and nearly fired on
a burqa-wearing woman. But her hands were empty and he moved to the next
target.

The next two
had weapons, as well, and Nick quickly engaged each with three shots. The final
one was another burqa-wearing woman, and Nick lowered his weapon until he
noticed the left hand had a detonator in it. He cursed, yanked his weapon up,
and put three rounds straight into her head -- ignoring the two, typical,
center mass shots.

Damn it, he
thought. He hoped the others had momentarily botched it, as well. He’d know soon
since the logistics team always recorded the squads from an elevated camera.
They’d review how the team members entered and cleared their sectors, as well
as examine how long it took.

Thankfully,
they wouldn’t be scoring shots today, unless someone missed a shot. Today, hits
on target were all that mattered. Hits and how long it took. If someone missed,
they’d review the tape to see when the misses showed up on the target.

Nick walked
off the course pretty sure he could feel his shoulder bleeding. But as his team
members watched him exit the range, he knew he wouldn’t be standing on the
sidelines for the upcoming stations in hand-to-hand, circuit course, and fire
and maneuver.

Chapter 59

“Crap!” Nick spit angrily, realizing he’d just popped the stitches in
his shoulder. The slobbering curses he threw in his head, however, were much
more vicious and colorful.

Despite all the effort he’d put into avoiding another trip to the base
hospital, he was now headed straight back since, for some damn reason, he
couldn’t manage a hair of self-restraint.

The training had started off simple enough, and Nick had been doing well
up until it came time for some hand-to-hand combat practice. Now, in hindsight,
Nick could see how Truck had goaded him into it, but that really didn’t help
much now. At least Truck had learned a little bit better not to mess with him,
because “old man” or not, Nick could whip some ass. Nick smiled, only to curse
himself more, as the split on his lip stung and began to bleed again.

And now here he was in another exam room, waiting for a doctor to stitch
him up. As soon as Nick realized the walk of shame he’d have to make back to
the hospital, he’d started prepping himself for another showdown with the
pretty lady doctor who’d stitched him up before. He drew lines in the sands of
his mind and decided that if she nudged a single toe over, he’d become really
uncooperative.

But all his preparation appeared to be unnecessary as a tall,
bespectacled, and straight-faced man entered the room.

“I’m Dr. Blair, Mr. Woods,” the man said in an informative manner, as
compared to a greeting.

“Alright there, Dr. Blair.” said Nick, “And is my regular doctor not
coming?”

The robotic Dr. Blair, who’d been watching Nick expressionless, while
maintaining a slightly unnerving level of steady eye contact since he’d entered
the room, was suddenly overcome by a brief series of fluttering eyelids. He
then sharply cleared his throat and responded in a voice sounding a bit higher
than before, “Uh, no. Mr. Woods, I’m sorry. But your regular doctor is
unavailable, as she is presently in surgery.”

Wow. Well, he’s clearly not the best liar, Nick thought, a little
stunned and perplexed. But instead of calling the man out on it, Nick simply
nodded his head and let the odd doctor stitch him up.

Oh well, thought Nick, I guess that’s that. And good riddance.

Two days
later, Nick was on a phone call with his CIA representative, Mr. Smith. The two
men passed inconsequential intelligence updates back and forth. And through
some unknown means of magic or maybe a conveniently timed concussive head
injury, Nick had yet to bark or growl once.

They were
about to finish up when Mr. Smith announced, “Oh, and I have one more business
matter to share with you.”

“Hit me
with it, man,” said Nick, still uncharacteristically pleasant and unconcerned.

“We have
selected a physician to join your team, starting immediately.”

“You did
what?” Nick asked, the long-lost edge returning to his voice.

“Well, it
just so happens that we received an application from a highly qualified
candidate,” Mr. Smith replied, either missing the threat in Nick’s voice or
quite possibly choosing to ignore it. “And considering the needs, or more
specifically, the hazards of S3’s collective skill set, we have determined that
a full-time physician would not only be more convenient, but efficient as
well.”

“Listen
here, you,” Nick said as the embers of his temper began steadily flaring back
to life. “S3 is my company. I decide who or what we hire.”

“That as
it may be, Nick, your company is still under contract.”

“Well,
‘that as it may be,’ asshole,” Nick growled, “it was my understanding that I
have the authority to decide who works for me.”

Mr. Smith
sighed. “What do you want me to say, Nick? You’ve been overruled.”

“Again, I
don’t see how that’s possible,” Nick shot back, the timbre of his voice rising.
“It seems to me that someone needs to remember who’s in charge of S3.”

“Well, I
agree with you there,” Mr. Smith fired back.

“You…”
Nick started to argue.

“The
reasons are clear. First, considering the conditions you and your three men
recently returned in,” Mr. Smith stated dryly, interrupting the incoming
name-calling, “it seems necessary. Secondly, the unending physical harm that
you and your men seem unable to prevent yourselves from inflicting on one
another during training. Because, correct me if I’m wrong,” Mr. Smith
continued, his tone becoming antagonistic, “did you not require additional
medical attention only…” Nick could just make out the sound of a file folder
being briskly flipped open, “... ah, yes. Two days ago?”

Nick
wanted to throw the phone, but Mr. Smith continued before he could get a word
in edge-wise.

“And
let’s see here, it says that in addition to reopening a gunshot wound, ‘the
patient also presented a patterning of bruises, a swollen left eye,’ and ‘a
split lower lip.”

“I
tripped,” Nick hissed through clenched teeth.

“Of
course you did,” Mr. Smith replied sardonically. “Even without such
consideration, the CIA has decided that continual and easily accessible medical
support is not only in S3’s best interest but in ours as well.”

“And how
the hell do you figure that?”

“It will
be much easier to maintain secrecy in such matters if medical assistance can be
done in house,” Mr. Smith asserted. “Also ensuring the continual health of
active S3 members reduces our liability.”

“Pfft.”
Nick scoffed. “I’m pretty sure you guaranteed me that ‘you and the powers that
be’ wouldn’t shoulder any liabilities, anyway.”

“That’s
true, but let’s face it, a dead American is still a dead American.”

Nick
started to speak, but Mr. Smith quickly jumped in to explain. “Think of it this
way, Nick. If our enemies were to stumble upon a dead American, then the United
States will, without question, fall under immediate and harsh scrutiny.
America’s innocence will be compromised to some degree, no matter what the
resulting verdict may be. But if we are able to verify the satisfactory health
of our team members, theoretically, employed to venture into enemy territory,
then we have also, in fact, increased the probability of survival and,
therefore, the continued indemnity of our great country.”

“So,
basically,” Nick said, “you’re looking to cover your ass.”

“Well,
your ass as well. But yes. That’s the idea.”

Nick
hated how much sense this made, but he’d be damned if he’d relinquish any more
ground or authority. Yet still, the health of his men was a priority, even by
his standards, so he decided to let this one go.

“Who’s
the doctor?” Nick relented.

“Oh
well,” Nick could see the smug smile on the bastard’s face, “I think you’ll be
very impressed. I’ve gotten some excellent recommendations on Dr. Clayton. Even
one from a member of S3’s leadership.”

Nick had
no idea who Dr. Clayton was, but he was pissed he had been kept out of the
loop. “You should have conferred with me, not Marcus.”

“Oh, come
on, Nick. I’d thought you’d appreciate knowing that a member of your team
showed such great confidence in Dr. Clayton’s ability to do the job.”

“You know
you should have come to me.”

“Well, I
would have,” replied Mr. Smith, restraining the anger in voice, “but you had
gone and gotten yourself shot recently. And as you were incapacitated,” his
voice now rising, “I assumed you were unavailable for consultation!”

Nick
silently fumed, hearing Mr. Smith steady his breathing in an attempt to calm
himself.

“Now,”
the CIA officer said, “Dr. Clayton has already received official orders and has
been immediately transferred to S3’s employment directly from the Army. And it
just so happens she’s already in Afghanistan. If you should desire to meet with
her yourself, then you will have to schedule that yourself. Now do you have any
other questions?”

“No,”
growled Nick.

“Good,”
Mr. Smith responded and briskly hung up.

“Bastard,”
Nick said, throwing the phone against the wall.

He stood
staring at the carnage. Then suddenly his eyes went wide, and he nervously asked
the remains of what used to be a phone, “Did he just say ‘her’?”