Free Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) by Stan R. Mitchell Page A

land around them.
    Unfortunately, they couldn’t see into every corner of their target
compound fifteen hundred yards below them. Its walls were simply too high. That
concerned them a little, but intel consistently revealed that there were
between five to ten men in there. No women. No children.
    The good news was that from what they could make out, the people within
the compound were behaving as if they were completely unaware of any firefight.
But considering that this particular compound served as a center of
communication for the Taliban, it was safer to assume otherwise. It might be
possible that they just didn’t see themselves or the compound as a real target
of interest. Ultimately Nick couldn’t be sure from what he was seeing, so he
would just have to do what he did best: plan for the worst.
    The movement outside the compound all along the valley was very similar.
The people seemed to be moving along at an everyday kind of pace, wrapping up
chores or carrying things up the meandering trails. No one acted as if they had
a clue about the firefight just four miles away. And why should they know?
Despite their close proximity to a communication hub, there were very few means
for the people to get information. There were no news stations around here. No
newspapers. Just radios and word of mouth.
    Whatever the case may be, the S3 team hoped the situation remained as
calm as it appeared for just a little longer. In just a few hours, the first
hurdle of this strenuous mission would be cleared, and they’d be racing back
toward the border and safety.
    But before any of them could anticipate a victory, there were gut checks
to be done. It was part of the warrior process, a mental preparation so
necessary that they treated it as if it were religion. And
although there was never any stated rule, there appeared to be a universal
belief that this ritual was best done in whatever light was available.
    There was no voodoo or superstition about it; it was simply easier to
face your realities when you can physically see your target or the people
around you. Even the bravest of men could tell you that bolstering your courage
is a much greater challenge in the dark. There’s just something about the
pitch-black that invades all your senses and gives strength to your doubts.
    So as the sun descended toward dusk, the S3 team set in for a full,
four-man watch in unified silence.
    This was it.
This was what they’d sacrificed for, crossing endless steep fingers and sleeping in
the dirt each night. This was why they had been forced to slaughter a group of
overly confident villagers. None of the men would ever be proud of that
firefight.
    But the past
was in the past, and tonight they’d climb over a wall and more men would die.
Maybe some of their own wouldn’t make it, as the men in the compound would be
experienced Taliban fighters.
    That was the gut check.
Shutting out echoes of the past. Hunting your doubts and fears, slaying them
into silence. Seeing the realities and the odds then committing yourself to
stand in spite of them. With the situation fully understood, the only thing
left was to prepare the fighter.
    Like a boxer
in their pre-fight routine. Quiet locker room. No distractions. See yourself in
the ring. Moving. Slipping. Hands working. Punches going out. Connecting. See
the fight the way you want it to go. Ignore your fears. Forget past defeats.
    Only victory
could reside in your head now. Only confidence, the belief that the hard
training will pay off. And maybe just a little hope that a lucky break or two
was coming your way.
    Darkness creeped into the hills of Pakistan, and the men of S3 shifted
into a mental rehearsal of the mission, playing through the physical actions
and imagining every possible contingency.
    They had
talked and walked through it all dozens of times. It was all there. In their
heads. Mapped out and memorized until they could do it in their sleep.
    The hit was
simple, and they had etched in their