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

minds the compound and its layout from
staring at hundreds of satellite images and high-resolution photos provided
from drones.
    The compound
featured only one opening, and it was at the front. The gated entrance faced
down the hill, which made sense as the complex was far up the hill. In fact, it
was by far the highest on either mountain range, and its occupants certainly
didn’t want any visitors.
    Inside the
compound, three mud huts stood. All big enough to have maybe two or three
rooms.
    Besides the
three huts, there was a huge satellite dish, which was powered by a generator.
And the compound usually had one or two four-wheel-drive trucks. That was
likely a necessity, given how steep the path was up to the compound.
    The compound in itself
wasn’t too intimidating. Not being able to confirm the number of possible
Taliban troops currently present, however, made the simple-looking compound all
the more dangerous. A simple compound made for an enclosed space with little
cover, and a number of clear sightlines for bullets to find you in a
multi-directional capacity.
    But that was what they had
to work with, and the time to back out or come up with a new plan had come and
gone. The time to be scared and imagine bad things happening was back when you
were planning and deciding what you needed to pack. There was no going back.
Only moving forward remained. And the men of S3 were ready. Ready to charge
forward and unleash unholy hell.
     

 
     
    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