The Apostle

by Brad Thor

  The boy studied it in relation to the other mud brick structures nearby and then whispered, “Hoo.”

  Before putting his plan together, Harvath had quizzed Asadoulah repeatedly not only on what Dr. Gallo looked like, but also on what circumstances she was being held under.

  He found it hard to believe that Massoud’s mentally challenged brother had been put in charge of guarding her, but Gallagher, Fontaine, and even Daoud explained that if the structure and lock on the door were considered secure enough, the Taliban often left their prisoners unguarded.

  The village was quiet. After passing the second checkpoint, they hadn’t seen any more armed men. Harvath’s premise that Massoud had called in the NATO troops on the neighboring village so he could slip away with Gallo unimpeded was looking more and more like a reality. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to move too quickly.

  The team lay in their concealed location and studied the small mud brick structure Dr. Gallo had been kept in. Nothing moved and no one appeared to be about.

  Finally, Harvath gave the signal to get ready. Gallagher had already slid his NODs back on, and he continued to scan the area. He was responsible for staying back with Asadoulah and Daoud and providing sniper overwatch. Though he would have preferred being further up the mountain with better cover and concealment, the team had no choice. Gallagher would have to make do with conditions as they were.

  As Harvath and Fontaine gave their weapons one last check, Harvath whispered, “In and out. Then we regroup and head for the secondary target.”

  Fontaine nodded, and after scanning the area once more for any signs of life, Harvath signaled that it was time to move.

  With their silenced MP5s grasped beneath their patoos, the two men slipped soundlessly onto the road. They walked in the slow, shambling Afghan fashion, fully aware that from a distance they might look like the real deal, but anyone who got close enough to see their NODs would immediately raise the alarm.

  They stayed close to cover, hugging walls and the sides of the few houses they passed, all the while making sure to avoid windows. Harvath could feel his heart pumping in his chest and the adrenaline coursing through his body. Even with Gallagher manning a rifle, they could be outgunned and overwhelmed very quickly. Harvath reminded himself to scan and breathe, scan and breathe.

  When they reached the mud brick structure, Harvath flipped up his NODs and studied the door, while Fontaine kept watch. It was secured by a simple sliding bolt. After pressing his ear up against the door, he flipped his goggles back down and signaled the former JTF2 operator what he wanted him to do.

  Both men then pulled their MP5s from underneath their patoos, and when Harvath nodded, Fontaine drew back the bolt and swung open the door.

  Harvath entered first, followed by Fontaine. There was a small bed in the corner, but nothing else; no Julia Gallo. Harvath flipped up his NODs and motioned for Fontaine to close the door.

  The tiny mud brick room was pitch-dark and smelled like damp earth and sweat. There was only one window, which had been covered with a cloth or a tarp of some kind from outside. Harvath removed the extra Streamlight he had grabbed from the “Golden Conex” and switched it on. Now came the moment of truth.

  If Julia had remembered the security training CARE International provided its volunteers before they arrived in Afghanistan, Harvath would be able to tell very quickly if she had in fact been held in this makeshift cell.

  While Fontaine kept guard, Harvath moved the bed and looked along the walls and floors behind it. Nothing. Next came the area above the door frame. Still nothing. Harvath examined both sides of each timber that ran across the mud ceiling and helped support the roof. Once again, he came up empty. It was the same story near the hole cut into the floor to be used as a toilet. Harvath was starting to lose hope. Maybe Gallo hadn’t been here at all. Maybe it had been some other Western NGO worker the boy had seen. Or maybe Asadoulah was full of shit and leading them on a wild goose chase.

  Harvath played his light along the base of the last wall until he came to a small ventilation hole about the diameter of a Coke can. Bending down, he focused his beam just to the left of it and found what he was looking for. Carved into the wall, about an inch above the floor, were the initials JLG, Julia Louise Gallo. She had done exactly what she had been taught to do. It was one of the key things taught to people operating in areas with a high likelihood of kidnappings: Whenever possible, wherever possible, always leave a trail.

  Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, Harvath snapped a picture of Julia’s initials and then stood.

  “Our package was definitely here,” Harvath said via his bone mic. “We’ve got confirmation.”

  “We’ve also got a problem,” replied Gallagher from his position back with Daoud and Asadoulah. “You’ve got a truck full of bad guys headed right for you.”

  CHAPTER 42

  “How many?” asked Harvath as he turned off his flashlight and flipped his night vision goggles back down.

  “Four,” said Gallagher. “Two in the bed and two in the cab.”

  “How far out?”

  “A hundred twenty-five meters and closing.”

  “We’re sure these are bad guys?” asked Fontaine over his mic.

  “Unless the local 4H Club has started issuing RPGs, these are definitely bad guys. What do you want me to do?”

  Harvath knew these were not simple villagers. Not with RPGs they weren’t. These were Massoud’s men, and he didn’t need to think twice about what to do. “Take them out.”

  “Roger that,” said Gallagher. “Hold your position.”

  It was a clear night with enough starlight for a marksman like Gallagher to be able to engage his targets with the optics he had on his weapon. Flipping up his NODs, he settled his shoulder into the stock of his LaRue sniper rifle and calculated the lead on his moving target.

  As the truck closed to within a hundred meters, Gallagher slowed his breathing and prepared to fire. Exhaling, he focused on his sight picture and gently applied pressure to the trigger.

  There was a muffled pop as the round spat from the suppressed rifle and blistered through the air toward its target. Gallagher’s lead had been perfect and the bullet took out the truck’s right front tire.

  The effect was instantaneous, and the driver immediately slowed the vehicle to a full stop. With no clue to what they could have hit to cause such a dramatic blowout, all of the men climbed out of the truck to survey the damage. Short of painting targets on themselves, the small party of Taliban soldiers could hardly have made it easier on Gallagher.

  As they squatted in unison to investigate the shredded tire, Baba G whispered, “Cleanup in aisle five,” and began applying pressure to his trigger.

  The bullets ripped from the weapon, filling the night air with a fine red mist as they tore into heads, throats, and even chests. There was a faint tock, tock, tock like the stamping of sheet metal as a handful of rounds either went slightly wide or passed directly through their victim’s flesh and pinged into the body of the truck.

  Gallagher had definitely oversaturated his targets, but it was one of those cases where if a little was good, a lot was better. He had absolutely no doubt that those four had climbed aboard the Seventy-two-Virgin Express and weren’t going to pose a problem to anyone, anymore.

  Flipping his NODs back down, Gallagher scanned the area as he inserted a fresh magazine into his weapon. “Convoy 1, you’re all clear,” said Gallagher over the radio. “Don’t trip over the bodies on your way out.”

  “How close are they?” asked Harvath.

  “Outside, up the road to your left. Within a hundred meters. And, by the way, you’re welcome.”

  Turning to Fontaine, Harvath said, “If those are Massoud’s men, there could be some worthwhile intel on them.”

  The former JTF2 operative illuminated his Suunto and checked the time. “I’ll go,” he said. “You need to get to that jirga, because as soon as those bodies are found, their buddies are goin
g turn this village upside down.”

  “That’s assuming there are more of them,” said Harvath.

  “Trust me. They’re like roaches. For every four Taliban you see, there are forty more hiding somewhere nearby.”

  “Unless Massoud took the rest with him.”

  “For all we know,” cautioned Fontaine, “Massoud is still here. That’s the mind-set we need to operate under.”

  “Agreed,” said Harvath. “Are you sure you’re okay with checking out that truck?”

  Fontaine nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Thank you,” replied Harvath as he made his way to the door. Hailing Gallagher, he said, “Convoy 2 is going to investigate the four downed tangos. Convoy 1 is returning to your position.”

  “Roger that,” replied Gallagher. “Two out with a split. I’ll cover you both as best as I can.”

  “Negative,” said Harvath, who wanted to afford Fontaine as much protection as possible. “Keep your eyes on Convoy 2. Convoy 1 will come back on his own.”

  “Roger that.”

  Once they were ready, Harvath nodded and Fontaine pulled back the door. It was still quiet at their side of the village as the two men crept outside.

  Harvath gave Fontaine the thumbs-up and the Canadian took off toward the four dead Taliban with the flat while Harvath retreated several feet, risked a flash photo of the structure with his camera phone, and then carefully made his way back to where Gallagher and the two Afghans were waiting.

  Baba G didn’t bother looking up at Harvath when he rejoined them. His eyes were focused on Fontaine. “We ready for phase two?” he asked.

  “Yup,” replied Harvath, who removed his Afghan cell phone and, handing it to Daoud, said, “It’s time to make the call.”

  The interpreter took the phone and dialed Fayaz’s cell phone. He spoke briefly to the elder, then disconnected the call and returned the phone to Harvath. “They are ready for us,” he said.

  Harvath nodded and, tucking the phone into his pocket, got on his radio and said, “Convoy 2, we’re ready to roll to our next location.”

  “Copy that, Convoy 1. I’ll meet you there. Convoy 2, out.”

  Using a tiny Cejay fingerlight to illuminate Fayaz’s hand-drawn map of the village, Harvath and Gallagher went over the route they were about to take to the jirga one last time, but Asadoulah shook his head and suggested another route.

  Harvath didn’t like it. It was too direct and went straight through the center of the village. “Na,” he insisted, using the Pashtu word for no, and then retraced the route he intended them to take.

  Grabbing Harvath’s left index finger with the small aviator’s light secured to it with Velcro, Asadoulah illuminated Harvath’s proposed route once more and pointed to specific structures along the way. “Taliban, Taliban, Taliban, Massoud,” he whispered with his broken jaw as he pointed to house after house after house.

  Harvath looked at Gallagher. “What do you think?”

  “Well, out of all of us,” he replied, “this kid’s the only one who’s been to this village before. And I may not be crazy about walking right up Main Street, but he sure seems adamant about it.”

  “Fine,” said Harvath as he turned off his fingerlight and tucked the map back into his pocket. “We’ll do it his way, but that means no NODs. If even one person sees us and gets suspicious, we’ll be blown before we ever make the jirga.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Though the moon wasn’t full, it was entirely too bright for Harvath’s liking, as were the stars. As the group moved deeper into the village, they threw long shadows across the ground and were silhouetted against every mud brick and stone building they passed.

  They slipped from one property to the next, staying low and seeking out as many places of concealment as possible. There was no sound except for the wind, which had begun to pick up, and the river of snowmelt that rushed past the village as it made its way further down into the valley. The cold mountain air enveloping them was filled with the scent of wood smoke and roasting meats.

  With his back against one of the many walled village compounds, Harvath was about to peek around the corner to make sure it was safe for them to proceed when he heard a noise. Immediately, he signaled for everyone to get down.

  Straining his ears against the sound of the river, he tried to make out what he was hearing. As the noise got closer, he figured out what it was. Footsteps.

  Contrary to what people saw in the movies, suppressed weapons were not completely silenced. Gallagher’s taking shots from his suppressed weapon on the outskirts of the village was one thing, Harvath’s trying to do so here among the densely packed houses was something else entirely. They couldn’t risk it.

  Waving everyone back, Harvath pulled his knife from its sheath. Letting his MP5 hang from its sling beneath his patoo, he readied himself to take out whoever was coming around the corner. With one hand poised to clamp down and cover the person’s mouth so he couldn’t scream out, and the other wielding the knife, which measured over a foot in length, Harvath prepared to attack.

  The footsteps grew closer and as they did Harvath adjusted his grip on the weapon’s notched handle. Slowing his breathing, he focused on the sound of the approaching figure. The person was less than a meter away at this point. Harvath inched closer to the edge of the building and got ready.

  Closer the footsteps came. As they did, Harvath took in a deep breath of air. Like a statue he stood perfectly still. As had been true in the raid on the interrogation facility beneath the Soviet military base in Kabul, and as was true in all such scenarios, the keys to success were speed, surprise, and overwhelming violence of action.

  When the figure suddenly appeared, Harvath sprang.

  Grabbing the person by the throat, Harvath yanked him off his feet, spun him around the edge of the building he was hiding behind, and slammed him up against the wall. The blackened-steel blade was up against the soft flesh of the person’s throat in a fraction of a second. Harvath looked into the face of his victim and saw abject terror in his eyes. He also saw that his victim was a boy no older than fourteen.

  Suddenly, Asadoulah had broken away from Gallagher and was at Harvath’s arm imploring him in Pashtu, “Na, na.” Then he spoke the first word Harvath had heard him say in English, “Friend.”

  Harvath looked at Asadoulah and then back at the teen he had pinned to the wall. Slowly, he lowered the boy back down to the ground.

  He left the blade in place, just underneath the teen’s chin, but removed his hand from around the boy’s throat. As he did, Harvath raised his finger to his lips and instructed the teen to remain quiet.

  The boy looked at Asadoulah and then back at Harvath and nodded. Harvath lowered the blade. The second he did, the boy tried to rabbit on him. Harvath, though, was ready. Grabbing hold of him, he once again lifted the teen off his feet by his throat and pinned him against the wall.

  Harvath hissed for Gallagher and Daoud to come over, while Asadoulah tried to calm his friend down.

  Daoud was at Harvath’s side in a flash and Harvath instructed the interpreter about what he wanted to say to the boy. “Tell him we’re not here to hurt him, but if he doesn’t calm down I will.”

  Frightened by Harvath’s intensity, Daoud hesitated. “Tell him,” Harvath snapped.

  The interpreter relayed Harvath’s orders to the boy. “Now ask him how many Taliban are in the village right now.”

  Daoud obeyed, and despite Harvath’s hand wrapped around his throat the boy was able to croak out an answer.

  “At least twenty,” the interpreter replied.

  “Where?” asked Harvath.

  The boy had no idea.

  “What about Massoud?”

  “Gone,” Daoud translated.

  “And the American woman?” Harvath asked.

  Daoud listened and then said, “The boy says they took her with them.”

  Harvath lowered the teen back down to his feet, pointed at the ground, and told him to sit. D
aoud was about to translate, but as the boy sat right down, he saw that Harvath had made himself perfectly clear.

  “What are we going to do about him?” asked Gallagher. “We’re not going to kill him.”

  “Of course we’re not,” said Harvath.

  “We also can’t let him go. If we do, he’s going to raise the alarm and we’re as good as dead. We’ll not only have Massoud’s men on us, we’ll have every other member of this village gunning for us.”

  Gallagher was right. He remembered the story of a four-man SEAL team in Afghanistan that had been dispatched to capture or kill a high-ranking Taliban leader only to be discovered while doing their reconnaissance by a small group of goatherds. Hamstrung by politically correct rules of engagement and fearful of what their own government might do to them if they pursued the most logical option, the SEALs reluctantly and against their better judgment let the goatherds go. Within an hour, the team was engaged in a firefight with over 150 Taliban. Three of the SEALs, as well as the sixteen-man rescue force sent in via a Chinook helicopter that was shot down, were killed. Only one of the SEALs survived, and even then just barely, to recount the horrific tale. It was a situation Harvath was not interested in repeating.

  Looking at Asadoulah, Harvath said to Daoud, “Ask Asadoulah if this boy is one of the friends who accosted Dr. Gallo with him.”

  The interpreter put the question to Asadoulah, and the boy turned his face away in shame. That was answer enough for Harvath.

  Staring back down at the teen he’d told to sit, Harvath said, “I want to know this boy’s name.”

  The interpreter posed the question and the teen replied, “Usman.”

  “Repeat my promise to Usman that as long as he cooperates, no harm will come to him.”

  As the interpreter spoke to the boy, Harvath withdrew his map of the village and illuminated it with his fingerlight for the boy to see. “Tell him where we’re going and ask him if he knows if there are any Taliban or any other villagers that he has seen out. In fact, I also want you to ask him why he is out.”