Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (5 page)

Chapter 13

Tariq Hijazi
and his men slowed. They had to be getting close. And at some point, the trail
would end with a man waiting for them. And that man would be armed.

Tariq had
more than thirty men with him, and besides being armed with AKs, his men had
brought machine guns and RPGs to strengthen their power. At forty-four, Tariq
was more than an elder. He was the enclave’s military leader. And this hunt
presented a great opportunity for fame.

He was
willing to sacrifice them all, including himself, to earn the respect and honor
he had spent his life pursuing.

The group
pushed to the top of another finger of the mountain range, scanning ahead.

“There!” one
of his men yelled, pointing to the next finger.

And
squinting, Tariq saw it. Off in the distance, on the next piece of high ground,
a small, almost-imperceptible hump. Some kind of netting barely flapping in the
wind, with what appeared to be several men hiding in its shadows.

Nick Woods
and his team had given up the idea of concealment and were no longer lying
motionless. They had been spotted, and now it was time to fight. Red, Marcus,
and Truck now faced the same direction, watching their backtrail from under the
net.

They had
shoved packs in front of them for cover, as well as cushioned rifle rests, and
pulled ammo out from the pockets of their packs.

Truck yanked
out a big piece of beef jerky and threw it into his mouth, then while prone,
pushed himself forward into his RPK machine gun, using his toes to press
forward and apply pressure against the bipod legs.

Red popped a
cigarette in his mouth and lit it. It was his first cigarette in nearly two
weeks, and he relished the nicotine rush. Besides, he’d always believed that he
shot better when he smoked.

Marcus
checked their rear and stuck his head out from the net, looking up and down the
hill. He wanted to find the best egress route in case they couldn’t stop the
villagers.

And Nick
went into his own world.
Despite
his role as the leader, Nick was, at his core, a sniper first. And in
situations like this, it was not possible to focus on sniping individual
targets, while at the same time monitor the overall situation as necessary when
in command. Thankfully with the vast expertise of each individual and the
cohesion they had as a team, there wasn’t really much to command. And whatever
leadership was needed when Nick was otherwise engaged, was instinctively picked
up by Nick’s more than capable second-in-command, Marcus.

Nick had
laid six, ten-round magazines to his left and eased behind the Dragunov weapon
he carried. He was the only man on the team toting a sniper rifle, and now he
felt glad that he’d made the choice to bring it.

Marcus was
watching the group of villagers through his binoculars when he said, “Mark the
older one with the white turban and scraggly beard as the leader.”

Nick smiled
to himself, grateful to have a man like Marcus in S3 assisting him. Nick moved
his scope toward the man in question.

Marcus
scanned the group of villagers topping the crest of a hill. “I count at least
thirty, maybe more. Hard to tell with them all moving around.”

“Distance?”
Red asked.

“Maybe
twelve or fifteen hundred yards?” Marcus said, some doubt in his voice. “Nick?
What do you say?”

Nick tried
to use the Dragunov’s scope to measure the height of the men and assess the
range better, but the targets weren’t being cooperative. And he hadn’t drawn a
range card as he would have had he been in a true sniper capacity. Range cards
had notable landmarks and pieces of cover with the correct distance to within
mere yards. When the fighting began, the cards could make all the difference in
the world, since thinking that boulder was 500 yards away instead of 700 was a
big deal and enough to cause you to miss.

“Nick?”
Marcus asked again.

“Sounds like
a good guess,” he replied. “Definitely too far to shoot right now. But once
they start down the draw, they’ll be in range pretty quickly.”

Chapter 14

None of the
tribes around Tariq recognized the government of Pakistan. And they certainly
didn’t follow its laws.

In fact, even
as far back as 1999, unhappy tribal fighters from this area had attacked
government offices in the capital city of Islamabad. The insurgent reputation
of the tribal regions was well-founded, and the anger was constantly stoked by
the numerous madrassas that dotted the area. These religious schools created
many of the devout believers from which the Taliban drew many of its recruits.

The tribes’
hostility for the Pakistani government was only surpassed by their hatred for
America.

It was
America who continually supported and propped up Israel. It was America that
had led the effort to place sanctions against Iraq in the ’90s, which had
greatly reduced imports and exports, leaving thousands of men, women, and
children starving and malnourished.

It was the same
America that later invaded Iraq, unprovoked, and it was this same irreverent
country that had stationed troops near the two holy cities of Mecca and Medina.
Some Muslims
hated Americans simply because they believed that they were a godless, greedy
people, but Tariq saw them as being much worse. In Tariq’s mind, America was a
meddlesome, power-hungry country bent on the annihilation of Islam and its
people.

Claims of
freedom and democracy were mere excuses to bomb and slaughter other Muslim
countries, whether they be Afghanistan, Libya, Syria, or perhaps Iran next.

And for
Tariq, the government of Pakistan was as guilty as America. It practically did
America’s bidding, and for all Tariq knew, he was currently tracking some
American advisors (or CIA troops) embedded alongside the Pakistani army.

But whoever
it was, Tariq planned to show them exactly why not even the Pakistani army
dared to mess with the tribes of the Federally Administered Tribal Areas.

Tariq’s
younger brother passed him a handful of magazines.

“What do you
think?” he asked Tariq.

Tariq had
been studying the netting and had come to his conclusion.

“I think
it’s Americans,” Tariq answered. “They are certainly not Pakistani army. No
uniforms and they are dressed like us. No tribesman would be hiding out here or
under something like that.”

“Agreed,” his
brother said, nodding slowly, “Only foreigners who didn’t know the language or
our ways would be forced to hide near of the top of these hills like wild
goats.”

“Precisely,”
Tariq responded.

None of
Tariq’s tribe had fought the Americans before, but all of his men had seen
combat. They had battled the tribe of ul-Chuk three different times in the past
ten years, and many of their fighters had spent several seasons sparring
alongside the Taliban operating within Afghanistan.

His men had
also fought the Pakistani army. It was just last year when the Pakistani army
had stupidly decided it would push in the tribal areas and attempt to assert
control.

What a
ridiculous idea. No army or country had been able to control the tribal areas
of Pakistan -- not even an army of battle-tested, British-led troops in the
World War II era. Tariq’s great-grandfather had fought in that campaign, and
his family shared a proud history of fighting skill.

These Americans,
without their air support or tanks, would be no match for Tariq and his men.

A confident
smirk spread across the man’s face. Tariq was certainly glad his men had
brought along their RPGs and medium machine guns. They were going to come in
handy.

And so he
and the men of his tribe spread out, ready to attack.

Nick and the
S3 team waited. The villagers were still out of range, so Nick moved his head
from the scope and looked over the ground the enemy had left to cover.

As he
studied the terrain up and down,
Nick realized they would need to do more than just
survive or simply stop the attackers. The steep hills lying between S3 and the
pursuing villagers would make it all too easy for a stray target to slip out of
view and make a run for help.

Nick and his shooters were
going to have to be sure and drop every single one of them
.

“Listen up,
men,” Nick said, no longer bothering to lower his voice. “We can’t let any of
these guys get away, so we’re going to avoid engaging them at max effective
range. Let’s allow them in closer before we open fire.”

The finger
across from them sloped approximately forty percent and Nick scanned it to
determine where the correct engagement range should begin. The team’s longest
range weapon was his Dragunov, and under combat conditions, he felt comfortable
dropping foes at eight hundred yards. But he wanted to wait until they were at
six hundred yards.

And he felt
like their next longest range weapon -- Truck’s RPK machine gun -- could hit at
that range, as well, with a good spotter. The AK-47s carried by Marcus and Red
would be far more limited on their range. Despite the fact that they were
souped up and topped with ACOG scopes, they would have to wait to engage until
the targets arrived at three hundred yards. Nick picked out terrain features
for each of the distances.

“Okay,
here’s the plan,” he said, and he quickly described to them how he hoped it
would go down.

Chapter 15

Tariq and
his warriors attacked. They jogged down the hill, fully aware that they’d have
to cross the gully below before starting up the steep terrain to reach the
Americans.

But their
confidence remained strong. Even the steep hill they’d have to assault
shouldn’t be a problem with heavy suppression. They might take some losses, but
they’d eventually swarm over their targets. Tariq and his fighters were certain
of this.

Nick used
his sniper scope to scan the crowd of villagers as they started down the hill.
He was looking for clues, tendencies, and really anything that might help his
men get out of this jam alive.

The fighters
jogged down the hill, unrushed and unhurried. Smart move, Nick thought.

“These boys
are smart for not tearing off toward us,” Marcus said, clearly thinking the
same thing.

“They look
confident,” Red added, “as if they expect us to just raise our weapons and fire
some bursts toward them with our heads down.”

“That’s just what they’re
used to,” Truck laughed. “These dipshits are untrained, and they ain’t ever
been in an actual military situation.”

“He’s right,” Marcus
admitted. “There are plenty of Taliban troops that have faced off with American
forces, but these guys are pretty much farmers with guns. We should feel lucky
that they haven’t picked up any tricks from their Afghan neighbors. Those
suckers have learned to use the terrain as a weapon, planting IEDs everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Truck replied.
“But these poor bastards are out of the loop. And they’re about to learn one
damn hard lesson.”

Nick tried
to block out the banter, mentally going over every angle. He wanted to kick
himself when he suddenly realized that fighting beneath the net would be
confining them too tightly together.

But it was
too late to make that adjustment now. Each of their flanks had AKs protecting
them, and they had their machine gun and sniper rifle in the middle.

Marcus lay
at the far end of the group with his AK, then Truck waited behind his RPK,
followed by Nick with the sniper rifle, and finally Red at the bottom with his
AK.

Their enemy
advanced like a hungry pack of wolves, eagerly hunting their dinner. They’d be
smarter to be spread out wide instead of running so close together, Nick
thought, but clearly they underestimated their “prey.”

They were
nearing the six hundred meter mark when Nick slowed his breathing, dialing
himself in. To his left, Truck pushed harder into his bipods and let loose a
deep breath of his own.

Well, that’s our cue,
thought Nick. After all, no can of whoop-ass had ever been opened without a
good ole exhale to start.

Chapter 16

Although the
advancing villagers were still out of effective small-arms range, they paused
here and there to fire off bursts from their hips. Their bullets raked the
hillside on which S3 waited, but only a few even came close.

A man with
an RPG knelt and fired, as well. His shot arced toward the hill and slammed
into it with a roar. The shot was fifty yards short, but it sent gooseflesh
ripping up Nick’s arms. RPGs were no joke.

Nick quickly
set his crosshairs on the man with the RPG. Nick eased the trigger back. A shot
roared from his rifle and hit the kneeling man low, blasting through his groin,
pelvis, and hips. He wouldn’t be running up the hill any time soon. Or
breathing once he bled out or gave into shock, which should be in a matter of
seconds.

Nick rotated
his rifle as Truck’s RPK let loose a burst into a clump of running men.

“Up some,”
he heard Marcus shout from Truck’s left, and the machine gun let loose again.

Through his
limited view in the scope, Nick couldn’t locate the leader in the white turban.
So he randomly selected another man running break-neck speed toward them and
fired. The man stumbled then dropped.

Tariq saw
bodies strewn along the path before him. The Americans seemed to have a sniper
rifle and machine gun on the hill, and the rounds from them were cutting
straight through his men.

He’d heard
the anguished cries all around him and stoically rushed by the bodies; some
twitched erratically as the life drained out of them. They were getting into
range now, and soon his remaining men would suppress the enemy’s fire, swarm
over the hill, and exterminate these infidels.

The losses
were unfortunate but necessary.