Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (8 page)

Chapter 22

As the night
progressed, the team remained in their position. They set a watch and took
turns napping until 0215 when they awoke and made final gear prep.

The men
loosened up, bending their knees and swinging their upper bodies from
side-to-side. They were beyond sore and aching from the forty-plus miles of
trekking, but now it was “go” time and soon the adrenaline would ease all their
aches and pains.

Marcus used
a red-beam flashlight under a poncho liner to fill a syringe from a bottle.
Once they grabbed Ahmud al-Habshi, he’d be drugged to knock him out. Marcus
finished filling the syringe, tapped the air bubbles out, and placed a cap on
the needle. He stowed it in a pouch on his web harness.

Red
rehearsed, extending his silenced .45 and looking over its sights. In his
supporting hand, he’d be holding a blindingly powerful LED flashlight. Across
from him, Truck kneeled with his RPK across his knees and checked the 75-round
drum on his machine gun.

Marcus came
out from under his poncho liner and placed it back into his pack. Finished, he
moved to join the rest, who were already huddled and ready to move.

With the
entire team together, Nick whispered, “All right, men. You know what to do.
Remember, only Red shoots with his silenced pistol until there’s return fire
breaking the silence. Once they open up, don’t hold back. Don’t forget to find
cover and concealment when possible and yell when you’re reloading. You’re all
pros, so I got nothing more I need to say. Let’s go bag this guy and get the
hell back home. I’m due for a shower.”

The men
hefted their behemoth packs and followed Red down the hill toward the compound.
As Nick followed second in line -- his usual position -- he hoped they’d be
able to figure out which one was Ahmud al-Habshi.

Each man
carried a photo of him, but it was low-resolution and had been taken several
years ago. Apparently there weren’t many photos to be found of al-Habshi, and
the CIA had told Nick that they had struggled to pull up any information on the
man at all. And they hadn’t meant that in a good way for poor, young Ahmud.
Because information on Ahmud al-Habshi hadn’t been redacted or covered up like
he was being protected. No. Information on him simply didn’t exist, because he
wasn’t worth creating information on. Non-warrior, non-leader, therefore,
non-important as far as the Taliban was concerned.

Nick
thought it was all too ironic that the man largely responsible for promoting
the Taliban into infamy managed to garner so little fame for himself. “Pay no
attention to that man behind the curtain,” should have been his high school
yearbook quote, thought Nick.

The
little information Nick had been given on al-Habshi was that he had been a
young university student studying computer programming when he was converted to
the cause of righteousness. He had left the university, infuriated his moderate
parents, and entered the fringes of the Taliban movement.

Ahmud had
planned on becoming a foot soldier, but his computer skills had won out over
his soft hands, lack of strength, and inability to fire a weapon in the right
direction.

So
although the men of S3 had joked about it, Plan B, for if they weren’t able to
recognize al-Habshi, was to literally check hands and see whose were the
cleanest and baby-softest.

The man
would almost have to have soft hands. Al-Habshi spent nearly eighteen hours a
day uploading propaganda videos and messages promoting jihad to chat rooms. He
could type, and type fast, but no one expected him to have callouses from
regular physical labor.

Still, if he
was half as brainwashed as the rest of his terror group, he might not come
quietly. And if that were the case, they’d have to put him down, and pray the
seized computers would provide the intel they needed to locate
Deraz.

But even
if the intel wasn’t there, the raid would provide at least one long-term
benefit for the struggling government of Afghanistan. Such a breach into
Pakistan should force the Taliban to pull dozens -- if not hundreds -- of
fighters out of Afghanistan to better protect their so-called “sanctuary” in
the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. In other words, the raid could effectively
thin the Taliban’s herds and give Afghanistan’s government a fighting chance.

The team
worked their way down the steep ridge and didn’t stop moving until they were
less than a yard outside the compound walls. They formed a tight circle and
dropped their packs, laying them down as quietly as you can lay down a
hundred-pound piece of gear.

They took
prone positions after stashing their packs, and Nick allowed the team members
to catch their breath after the exertion of the descent. Plus, it provided time
for them to grow accustomed to the sounds of the compound and surrounding area.

Nick drank
some water from his canteen and wiped the perspiration off his forehead with
the back of his sleeve. The summer night air, the weighted movement downhill, and
the tension had him sweating heavily.

They waited
in the defensive position for ten minutes, listening for movement or anything
else, but the night was quiet.

Nick passed
the word to ready themselves. The men pulled small, powerful flashlights out
and stood silently. With the lack of cloud cover and an almost full moon, the
men could see about thirty yards in the darkness.

Nick looked
at Marcus who smiled and nodded he was ready. Nick couldn’t help but smile
back. Dwayne Marcus was the consummate warrior. The man headed for NFL stardom
before September 11 and an amazing career in the Corps.

Nick turned
and saw Truck with his machine gun, and Truck gave him a thumbs up. Nick
saluted the Army Special Forces warrior, then looked to Red, who was watching the
compound with absolute concentration.

Nick eased
up behind him and squeezed him on the shoulder, the silent signal that the team
was ready. Red nodded in acknowledgement without taking his eyes off the target
and moved toward the compound.

Chapter 23

Red edged up
to the compound wall, and Nick scanned the top of it. It was unlikely anyone
would do a pull up and lift themselves over it, but tactics were tactics. And
tactics called for watching the front, which in this case was the wall.

Nick covered
the wall with his silenced .45 since he had stashed his sniper rifle with the
packs. After all, a scoped sniper rifle was practically worthless for room
clearing. He’d be using his pistol for tonight’s work.

Red and
Marcus had removed their ACOG scopes from their AK-47s since their weapons had
rail systems that would allow them to place them back on later with the scopes
still be sighted in and accurate -- at least if they placed it back correctly
in the right position. Nick’s sniper rifle lacked that capability, so he was
stuck with his .45, which he didn’t see as too much of a disadvantage in close
quarters. Especially with the flashlight in his supporting hand.

Nick scanned
the wall with his pistol -- back and forth -- until he felt a hand tap his shoulder
twice. He knew it was Marcus, and he knew that meant Marcus was now covering
the top of the wall with his AK.

Truck
moved past
Nick and kneeled by the wall, placing his knee in a strong ninety-degree angle.
Nick moved next to him and placed his leg in the same position and up against
Truck’s knee, creating a step with their two legs.

Red
holstered his pistol and put his flashlight in his pocket. He stepped on their
legs and reached up with his hands for the top of the compound wall. He then
executed a slow pull up, trying to limit the sound of his gear and body
dragging up the dirt wall.

At the top,
he held himself in a pull-up position with just his head and eyes above the
wall. He scanned the perimeter while his arms shook from the strain. Seeing nothing,
he raised a leg and hooked it over the wall.

The wall was
a foot wide, and he lowered himself as easily as he could on the inside of it,
performing the “down” portion of a pull up from inside the compound. He dropped
the remaining distance, spun toward the buildings, and withdrew his pistol. He
took a knee and steadied his breathing.

Nick
listened as hard as he could on the other side of the wall. He hoped the noise
from Red’s gear dragging against the wall hadn’t alerted anyone. Nick waited
silently, counting to one hundred and twenty. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
Three Mississippi.

Reaching one
hundred and twenty with no alarm, Nick holstered his pistol and pocketed his
flashlight. He stood, turned toward the wall, and stepped on Truck’s knee to
pull himself over. Nick hooked a leg over the wall and swung himself to the
other side.

Marcus
stopped covering the wall and took a position on the wall next to Truck. Truck
unslung his RPK, extended its bipod legs, and placed it on the ground. He used
Marcus’s leg to clamber to the top of the wall, as well.

Instead of
dropping to the other side, Truck held his position at the top of the wall. He
stayed low, laying on it and remaining balanced on its crown. On the far side,
Marcus picked up the RPK, snapped the bipod legs against the barrel, and hefted
it as high as he could.

Truck
reached down for it, grabbed it by the barrel, and carefully pulled it up and
over the wall. He hung it down by the barrel and Nick reached up for its stock.
Nick accepted its weight and brought it down to him. Behind Nick, Red kept
watch with his silenced pistol.

Marcus
repeated the operation, lifting his AK up toward Truck. Truck also nabbed it
and handed it down to Nick.

All weapons
across, Truck slid down the wall to join Nick and Red. On the other side of the
wall, Marcus -- the tallest and most athletic member -- backed up six feet and
ran forward. He jumped, kicked off the wall to gain height, and just managed to
grab the lip of the wall. With complete ease, the exercise junkie pulled
himself up, over, and down the other side as lightly as a ballet dancer.

Chapter 24

Truck
recovered his RPK light machine gun from off the ground, and Nick handed Marcus
his AK. The four men formed a defensive arc covering the three huts, each in
the kneeling position and straining to hear anything that might signal danger.

They could
see the three buildings fairly well in the moonlight though no door or windows
faced their direction. Behind the huts sat a waist-high generator, a satellite
dish, and a Toyota four-wheel-drive truck.

No one moved
as Nick held them in position. He had thought their entry into the compound too
loud until he remembered the mud huts had walls as thick as the one they’d just
come over. Sound couldn’t penetrate such massive barriers, but still, if
someone had been taking a leak or if they had a man roving on patrol inside the
compound...

Nick again
counted to one hundred and twenty. The team needed to catch its breath after
the exertion of getting over the wall. He also wanted them to focus on their
breathing. On relaxing. On accepting that they were in the compound, and the
game was fully on.

Nick
finished his count to one hundred and twenty. It was time. He leaned toward Red
and squeezed his shoulder.

Red stood
and switched to ninja mode, one of the few benefits of being small. He creeped
forward in a smooth, heel-to-toe fashion, his silenced Glock .45 extended in
front of him.

Nick
mimicked his movement and covered him from the number two slot with his own
silenced .45. Behind them, Truck and Marcus followed, with Marcus turned almost
fully around watching their rear.

They passed
the generator and satellite dish. Nick noted with relief that the wires and
power cord from the dish trailed toward the middle hut. Intelligence sources
believed Ahmud al-Habshi lived in the middle hut.

Red reached
the back wall of the middle hut and moved to the left. At the rear corner, he
peeked around and confirmed the alley between the two huts was clear. He took a
deep breath and moved into it.

Red walked
with his weapon up, his eyes watching the wall as he glided deeper into the abyss.
Nick kept his pistol covering the front corner of the hut on the left, in case
someone emerged from it. Truck kept his RPK toward the ground while Marcus
maintained watch to their rear.

At the front
of the column, Red’s eyes strained to see the details of the compound yard in
front of the three mud huts. Even in the darkness, he could see two more
trucks. Both were again four-wheel-drive Toyotas, which seemed so common in the
area. He couldn’t see the front gate, but knew it was about thirty yards beyond
the trucks.

Red stopped
at the front corner of the middle hut. Nick, behind him, covered the left hut
as best he could. The team held up for a moment while Red composed himself.

At this
point, Nick was no longer in charge. It was on the point man, and Nick knew Red
was setting himself before they hit their first hut, where he’d be in the lead.

Up at the
front, Red knew he needed to move, but he struggled to swallow down his fear.
He’d been in some deep shit during his seven tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, but
this was an all-new level of deep shit. They were four men forty-plus miles
behind enemy lines, with no radio or support or back up of any kind.

And once he
cleared this final corner, there was a damn good chance that a non-silenced
weapon would be fired and hundreds -- perhaps more than a thousand -- fiery,
pissed-off Muslim men were going to come running from below in the valley.

In the end,
he moved not because he was ready, but because waiting at the corner of the two
mud huts was more dangerous than going. Someone might walk out for a late night
smoke or a generator might run out of gas, and they’d be caught in a hell of a
quandary.

Red took one
more breath and turned the corner on his right. Nick followed, staying just
behind, and Truck and Marcus completed the tight stack.

Red had
barely turned the corner when he came face-to-face with a man standing outside
the mud hut’s door.