Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #3

by Brad Thor

  As the CARE International doctor began hungrily eating, Harvath waved the Afghans toward the door. “There’s a 40mm hurricane headed this way and I’d like to beat the traffic. All right by you guys?” he said, though he knew the villagers didn’t understand a word of English.

  Fontaine returned from taping the strobe to the top of Reshteen’s truck and tossed Harvath a heavy black nylon bag. He then stepped back outside with his radio.

  Fishing out Gallagher’s blood-stained armor, Harvath said to Gallo, “You need to put this on.”

  He helped her get ready, and as he did, Reshteen and the Afghans went outside to ready their vehicles. Fontaine remained at the door as a lookout.

  Harvath had finished cinching up Gallo’s armor when Fontaine stuck his head back into the room, said, “Look sharp,” and then went back to peering out the doorway.

  “What’s up?” asked Harvath.

  “Company’s just arrived.”

  “More sentries?”

  “Negative. I’m looking at a big bushy Afghan with four bodyguards, and either Roman Polanski is thinking of shooting his next film in Khogyani, or I’ve got eyes on our Russian.”

  Harvath finished tightening the straps on Gallo’s armor and then pointed to where he wanted her to take cover.

  Joining Fontaine near the door he asked, “What are they doing?”

  “They’re having a discussion with Reshteen and his cousins, but they’re doing most of the talking. I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I,” said Harvath as he tucked the stock of his MP5 up tighter against his shoulder.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Let’s just relax. Maybe they’re only interested in the breakfast menu.”

  “I doubt that,” replied Fontaine.

  The two men held their position for several more moments until Fontaine said, “Okay, the bodyguards just raised their weapons and pointed them at Reshteen and the cousins. They’re now moving them away from the vehicles toward a wall on the other side. I think they’re going to execute them.”

  Harvath swore under his breath. The last thing they needed was another full-on firefight with the Taliban, especially now, as they were in an even poorer position than they had been before.

  “Are you sure?” he asked

  “I could be wrong,” replied Fontaine. “Let’s wait until they pass out the blindfolds and cigarettes.”

  Harvath was in no mood for the Canadian’s sarcasm. “If we open the door far enough for both of us to shoot, can we engage all six targets?”

  Fontaine studied the scene outside for a moment. “Negative,” he replied. “At this point, I can only see the bodyguards.”

  “What happened to Polanski and the bushy Afghan?”

  “They’ve stepped out of my line of sight. Maybe they went for reinforcements,” said the Canadian. “Listen, the bodyguards are seriously getting ready to wax Reshteen and the cousins. We need to take them out.”

  “If we take them out, you know what that means.”

  Fontaine raised his NODs and pressed his rifle against the door frame. “If you’re trying to tell me that my application to the Kandahar Country Club might hit a few bumps with the membership committee, I can live with that.”

  “Just make sure you only hit the bad guys,” replied Harvath as he joined Fontaine in the doorway.

  “I’ll promise if you promise,” retorted the Canadian.

  Harvath ignored him and gently slid the door open a few more inches. “You take the first two guys. I’ve got three and four.”

  “Roger that,” whispered Fontaine.

  “Now,” said Harvath.

  Four suppressed shots snapped through the early-morning air in less than two seconds, dropping all four of Massoud’s bodyguards. Harvath waited for Massoud and the Russian to step out or return fire, but they did neither. Maybe they had gone for reinforcements. Or maybe they knew what was going on and had wisely taken cover. Harvath didn’t care, either way.

  “Let’s go,” he said as he waved for Julia Gallo to join him.

  “What about Mullah Shithead and Roman Polanski?” asked Fontaine.

  “We don’t have the time to wait them out. Go, and I’ll cover you.”

  Reshteen and his cousins were shaken but had enough presence of mind to already be running for the trucks. Harvath admired their courage. Though he didn’t speak Pashtu, he knew what Massoud’s bodyguards had been interrogating them about. And even though they surely must have known Massoud’s men intended to kill them if they didn’t get the answers they wanted, none of the villagers from Dagar had cracked. The dignity and honor of the Afghan people never ceased to amaze Harvath.

  With Harvath covering them, Fontaine positioned Julia Gallo on the floor of the backseat of Reshteen’s truck. “No matter what happens,” he warned, “stay down.”

  Fontaine then got behind the wheel and fired up his truck as Reshteen and his cousins scrambled into the other two vehicles and did the same.

  Harvath’s NODs were back down now, and noticing movement off to the side of one of the buildings, he let a volley of silenced rounds fly from his MP5 and then hopped into the passenger seat next to Fontaine.

  “Hold on,” advised the Canadian as he ground the vehicle into gear and punched the accelerator.

  The vehicle’s tires spun until they were finally able to take a bite out of the frozen road and the truck jerked forward. As they did, the staccato crack, crack, crack of automatic-weapons fire filled the early-morning air.

  CHAPTER 59

  Harvath returned fire through his open window and then, leaning back inside, stated, “We need to call in that CAS right now.”

  After conducting their high-altitude reconnaissance of Massoud’s mountain camp, Flash 22 had marked its location and had returned to Bagram to refuel and ammo-up. Seeing how many Taliban were crawling around down below, the Spectre’s captain had guaranteed Fontaine that they would be back for more.

  No matter how things went down, Harvath had seen the air support as the world’s best insurance policy. If he swept the camp and Julia Gallo wasn’t there, he could decide whether to call for a strike. If Julia was there and he could pinpoint her location, he could designate it with a strobe and have the AC-130 rake everything else. And, if they were lucky enough to take positive control of Julia and needed somebody to kick the back door shut for them, there wasn’t anything the Taliban had that could compete with heavily armed aircraft.

  Fontaine kept one hand on the steering wheel and lifted up his radio in the other. “I’m not getting anything,” he said.

  “Nothing?” replied Harvath, looking back out the window, knowing the Taliban were going to be on their tails any second. “Not on any of the channels?”

  Flash 22 had promised to be on station, ready to shower steel at 5:00 A.M., thirteen minutes before sunrise.

  “Nothing,” responded Fontaine. “We’re surrounded by solid rock. The radio isn’t powerful enough to get out.”

  “How about a phone?” said Harvath as he pulled his Afghan cell phone from his pocket. “Do you have a direct number for J3 Air?”

  Fontaine rattled off the digits and Harvath punched them into his phone. He hit send, but the call failed to connect. The signal strength wasn’t strong enough.

  “No joy,” said Harvath as he punched the end button on his cell phone and tucked it back in his pocket.

  “What’s going on?” asked Julia from the floor behind them.

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “You picked a great night not to bring a sat phone,” said Fontaine.

  Harvath was about to tell the Canadian he had brought one, but that it had been barbecued along with Gallagher’s Land Cruiser, when two trucks came up on their three-vehicle column from behind and begin firing. The results were instantaneous.

  “We’ve lost the rear vehicle!” yelled Harvath as he watched the truck one of Reshteen’s cousins was driving slide to the side of the road
and come to a stop.

  “We can’t do anything for him now,” said Fontaine as he kept his foot on the gas. “We’re almost at the first checkpoint. Get ready.”

  As the MP5 was an easier weapon to shoot one-handed, Harvath traded it to Fontaine for Gallagher’s LaRue. Positioning the sniper rifle out the window, Harvath looked once more into his side mirror. “Damn it!” he cursed. “Reshteen’s going back for his cousins.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about that,” replied the Canadian. “We’re going to have that checkpoint in sight in less than a minute.”

  Underneath them, their bald tires were skidding and slipping over the icy road. “Go back,” said Harvath.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” replied Fontaine. “There are at least forty Taliban back there.”

  “Who are going to execute three men who risked everything to help us if we don’t help them.”

  “Goddamn Afghans,” Fontaine growled, as he stepped on the brakes and the truck fishtailed back and forth. “How the hell am I supposed to turn around?”

  They had just left the valley area of the pasture and entered the narrow canyon with its single-lane road that led down to the village.

  “Reverse it,” ordered Harvath.

  The Canadian shook his head and slammed the truck into reverse. Its tires spun until they finally caught and they went hurtling backward in the direction they had just come.

  Harvath jumped into the backseat, opened the rear window, and pushed the barrel of his rifle through. Pulling his Afghan cell phone from his pocket, he dropped it to Julia Gallo and said, “Keep redialing the number on there and don’t stop until you get through.”

  Fontaine continued to speed backward. Thirty meters out, Harvath could see Reshteen’s vehicle, as well as that of his cousins. He could also see the two Taliban trucks just beyond, which were closing fast and firing at them with everything they had.

  “What are we doing here, Scot?” yelled the Canadian as errant rounds began pinging off their truck.

  Harvath took several shots at the approaching Taliban vehicles as he quickly studied the situation.

  Although Reshteen’s cousins wouldn’t be happy about losing their trucks, the way they were now parked, side by side, made them a perfect roadblock. There was only one thing that could make them better.

  “Stop!” yelled Harvath.

  As Fontaine brought the vehicle to a halt, Harvath leaped out, raised his weapon to engage their attackers, and yelled for Reshteen and his cousins to come to him.

  The men ran right toward him, and as Harvath examined their vehicles, he could see that both trucks had flat tires and were inoperable.

  “Get in the truck!” he yelled as he pointed over his shoulder. Despite their inability to speak English, they had no problem understanding him.

  Harvath continued to return fire, until he got within a few meters of the trucks. As he dropped to a knee, he could see beyond the two Taliban trucks rapidly approaching, to an armada of headlights right behind them.

  Breaking off his assault, Harvath fished two fragmentation grenades from his coat pocket. He pulled the pins, pitched one underneath each of the disabled vehicles, and yelled, “Frag out!” as he ran back to his pickup.

  Leaping into the bed, he slammed his fist against its side and yelled, “Go, go, go!”

  Immediately, Fontaine stepped on the gas and Harvath ducked down. When the frags detonated, they lifted both of the disabled vehicles off the ground and sent a bright orange plume of flame into the air. Shrapnel pockmarked their tailgate and skipped across the roof of the cab.

  They had been driving for only a few hundred feet when Fontaine saw something up ahead and stepped on the brakes yet again. Before Harvath could ask what it was, the Canadian yelled, “RPG!”

  He managed to grind the vehicle into reverse but ended up spinning the tires so fast that he couldn’t get any traction.

  Harvath jumped from the bed yelling, “Everyone out!” as he scrambled to make it to the passenger side door in time. With no choice but to abandon ship, Fontaine did the same.

  As the Afghans and Dr. Gallo poured out of the vehicle, there was an ear-splitting pop as the RPG was fired and hissed toward them.

  Grabbing Julia Gallo by the shoulder, Harvath pulled her behind a narrow outcropping of rock and yelled for everyone to take cover.

  No sooner had he said the words than the RPG hit their truck and detonated, sending another towering fireball into the sky.

  Harvath pressed Gallo into the rock, covering her body with his as the charred remains of the vehicle rained down around them.

  It took what felt like a lifetime for the ringing in his ears to subside. When it did, he could hear Fontaine calling out his name.

  “Over here!” Harvath yelled back, and soon they were joined by the Canadian and the three Afghans.

  Fontaine was just about to speak, when they all heard a tremendous crash from up the road.

  “They’re trying to ram their way through the trucks I fragged,” said Harvath.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Fight,” replied Harvath, who was suddenly interrupted by Julia Gallo.

  “It’s ringing!” she cried as she held the phone out.

  Fontaine took it from her as Harvath leaned out toward the road and took aim.

  After three attempts at ramming into the wreckage, the men above them broke through. At the same moment, the sentries from the checkpoint below them pinpointed their position, and they immediately began taking fire from both directions.

  Harvath very quickly burned through his magazine and yelled for Fontaine to hand him another. As he did, the Canadian relayed their situation to J3 Air at Bagram, which patched him in to Flash 22.

  With their strobe gone, all Fontaine could do was give their approximate location in relation to their burning pickup.

  As the string of Taliban trucks came rushing down the road toward them, Harvath alternated trying to slow them down and engaging the sentries from the checkpoint who were now coming up the road.

  There was a distinct clap as the final round in Harvath’s magazine was fired. He had just called for a fresh mag, when Fontaine yelled for everyone to drop and take cover.

  CHAPTER 60

  Mullah Massoud grinned as he and Simonov barreled down on the men who had stolen the American woman from him. Their vehicle had been destroyed, but there were still survivors returning fire. He prayed that he would find the woman there. He didn’t care if she was injured, as long as she was alive. He and the Russian both had too much invested in her to allow her to slip through their hands.

  As they drew closer, the accuracy of the person shooting at them improved. Whoever it was, he was very good with a rifle. Massoud pounded the roof of the truck and yelled at his soldier to make sure he didn’t shoot the woman or their fellow Taliban down below.

  The commander was going to teach whoever this was a very painful lesson. You didn’t steal from a man like Massoud Akhund. All he had to do now was to keep them pinned down until they ran out of ammunition; then he and his men would move in.

  Simonov slowed their truck to a crawl to allow the soldiers from the checkpoint below to move up and apply pressure. Hot shell casings tinkled onto the roof of the cab as Massoud leaned against the roll bar and kept firing in short bursts.

  It was during a break in the shooting, when the soldier ejected his spent magazine and fished for another, that Massoud realized that the marksman near the flaming wreckage below had stopped shooting at them. It was also at that time that he heard an explosion from behind.

  Looking into his side mirror, he saw the trucks behind him erupting in bright yellow flashes. “Move! Move! Move!” he yelled at Simonov.

  The Russian, who had been transfixed by the spectacle behind them, popped the clutch and leaped forward. Though neither of them could see any aircraft, they knew they were under attack from above.

  Simonov pushed the truck as fast as it would go, as the ha
nd of death came racing up behind them.

  Both he and the Taliban commander were so mesmerized by what was happening in their mirrors that they didn’t realize how quickly they had closed with the burning hulk of the truck in front of them that had been RPGed.

  The Russian tried to brake but lost control. The truck bounced against the high rock wall on the right side of the road and then slammed into the flaming wreckage.

  The last thing that went through Sergei Simonov’s mind as he went through the windshield and was killed was his son, Sasha.

  Mullah Massoud was ejected from the passenger window as the vehicle flipped over and rolled several hundred feet down the road.

  He regained consciousness for only a moment. Blood poured from his nose and ears. Though his eyes refused to focus, he thought he could see daylight. Off in the distance he heard his brother calling him to prayer.

  As the sun’s rays grew brighter, his body was beset by cold and grew numb. Zwak’s voice seemed to move farther away as the life drained from his body.

  Standing above him were two shapes. They were men with guns, foreigners; probably Americans. Massoud Akhund opened his mouth to tell them that they would never triumph in Afghanistan.

  The Taliban commander wanted to mock them for their arrogance, but nothing came. Nothing but deep, impenetrable, bottomless darkness.

  CHAPTER 61

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TWO DAYS LATER

  Carolyn Leonard cleared White House security on West Executive Drive and then found a parking space. It was one of those perfect D.C. days—warm with a bright blue sky and barely a trace of humidity.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked as she turned off the car’s engine. “Maybe you should take some more time to think about it.”

  Elise Campbell turned to her, “Carolyn, I didn’t bring you along to talk me out of my decision. I brought you for moral support.”

  Leonard smiled. “I’ll be waiting right here when you come out.”

  “Thanks,” said Campbell as she unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door.