Read Online Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) by Stan R. Mitchell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stan R. Mitchell
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old, he stood atop the Taliban and would soon lead the
culminating victory of a decades-long movement for supremacy in Afghanistan. He
felt completely unworthy in this role, but it was fate that had put him here,
and he would do his best to honor and serve Allah as long as it was willed.
Chapter 20
Mushahid
Zubaida and Rasool Deraz worked their way up the steep hill. The two hundred
fighters in their elite guard had spread out in a wide line of men, pushing up
the mountain range on different angles.
They
targeted rock outcroppings or depressions where possible fighters might hide.
Mushahid carried an AK-74 and wore web gear loaded to capacity with magazines
and grenades. He was Rasool’s final line of defense, and no one would get
through him.
Rasool
himself carried a walking stick and string of worn prayer beads. A small
satchel hung across his chest by a singular strap. In it, he kept his Quran, a
couple of religious texts, his prayer mat, some paper, and a pen.
Far before they reached
the site of the fallen villagers, Rasool and Mushahid could make out the sound
of women wailing. Their anguished cries echoed up and down the mountains,
sending chills up Rasool’s spine. He didn’t want to imagine the horror they
were about to walk upon.
“Mushahid,”
he said, “a moment please.”
Mushahid,
the bravest warrior Rasool had ever known, was several feet ahead, searching
intently for snipers or any other signs of danger. Mushahid bowed slightly and
stopped.
Rasool
lowered his head, closed his eyes, and asked for the right words to say and the
wisdom to know what actions to take.
He tried to
calm himself. This was always the worst part, but his people needed him. So he
finished his prayer quickly and with calm resolution, he moved up the hill.
They crested the hill and
looked down to find an eruption of frantic activity. Mushahid winced and
quickly turned his head away to look at his mentor and friend.
Rasool was a
thin, frail man with a scraggly, gray beard. His turban and loose white shirt
were tattered and frayed. His loose, black pants were ragged as the leather
sandals he wore, whose soles were worn almost through in places.
Mushahid and
others had insisted Rasool wear the newer, more suitable clothing they had
bought him, but Rasool always insisted the clothes be given to younger
fighters.
“The nights
get cold in the mountains of Afghanistan,” he had once said. “There are still
nights I can’t forget in my dreams. The cold cut me so deep when we were
fighting the Russians.” Rasool had smiled that warm, elder-like, all-knowing
smile and placed his hand on Mushahid’s shoulder. “Our men on the front lines
deserve what resources we can spare. Not old men such as me living under the
protection of a roof.”
Mushahid
didn’t doubt that Rasool had suffered some cold nights. The Soviet invasion was
before Mushahid’s time, but stories abounded of Rasool’s devotion and courage.
Mushahid and
Rasool stood atop the high ground from which the villagers had begun their
attack. Bodies were piled below them both down the slope and up the next one.
The two experienced warfighters gazed upon the battlefield and examined what
the villagers must have seen across from them.
“Let’s go on
down now,” Rasool said. “I am ready.”
They
traversed down the slope toward the first wounded and dead fighters. Rasool
moved slowly, using his walking stick and slipping on gravel as his shaky legs
tried to keep him vertical.
Mushahid,
tall and strong, marched down the slope sure-footed and alert, his weapon ready
and his fierce, beady eyes scanning odd-looking shapes and rock piles well
within sniper range. He
kept no more than three steps from Rasool, close enough to catch the older man
if he fell, but far enough to allow the man to feel independent.
It took the
two of them several minutes to descend down the draw, but they could now
clearly see -- even with Rasool’s poor eyesight -- that it was
culminating victory of a decades-long movement for supremacy in Afghanistan. He
felt completely unworthy in this role, but it was fate that had put him here,
and he would do his best to honor and serve Allah as long as it was willed.
Chapter 20
Mushahid
Zubaida and Rasool Deraz worked their way up the steep hill. The two hundred
fighters in their elite guard had spread out in a wide line of men, pushing up
the mountain range on different angles.
They
targeted rock outcroppings or depressions where possible fighters might hide.
Mushahid carried an AK-74 and wore web gear loaded to capacity with magazines
and grenades. He was Rasool’s final line of defense, and no one would get
through him.
Rasool
himself carried a walking stick and string of worn prayer beads. A small
satchel hung across his chest by a singular strap. In it, he kept his Quran, a
couple of religious texts, his prayer mat, some paper, and a pen.
Far before they reached
the site of the fallen villagers, Rasool and Mushahid could make out the sound
of women wailing. Their anguished cries echoed up and down the mountains,
sending chills up Rasool’s spine. He didn’t want to imagine the horror they
were about to walk upon.
“Mushahid,”
he said, “a moment please.”
Mushahid,
the bravest warrior Rasool had ever known, was several feet ahead, searching
intently for snipers or any other signs of danger. Mushahid bowed slightly and
stopped.
Rasool
lowered his head, closed his eyes, and asked for the right words to say and the
wisdom to know what actions to take.
He tried to
calm himself. This was always the worst part, but his people needed him. So he
finished his prayer quickly and with calm resolution, he moved up the hill.
They crested the hill and
looked down to find an eruption of frantic activity. Mushahid winced and
quickly turned his head away to look at his mentor and friend.
Rasool was a
thin, frail man with a scraggly, gray beard. His turban and loose white shirt
were tattered and frayed. His loose, black pants were ragged as the leather
sandals he wore, whose soles were worn almost through in places.
Mushahid and
others had insisted Rasool wear the newer, more suitable clothing they had
bought him, but Rasool always insisted the clothes be given to younger
fighters.
“The nights
get cold in the mountains of Afghanistan,” he had once said. “There are still
nights I can’t forget in my dreams. The cold cut me so deep when we were
fighting the Russians.” Rasool had smiled that warm, elder-like, all-knowing
smile and placed his hand on Mushahid’s shoulder. “Our men on the front lines
deserve what resources we can spare. Not old men such as me living under the
protection of a roof.”
Mushahid
didn’t doubt that Rasool had suffered some cold nights. The Soviet invasion was
before Mushahid’s time, but stories abounded of Rasool’s devotion and courage.
Mushahid and
Rasool stood atop the high ground from which the villagers had begun their
attack. Bodies were piled below them both down the slope and up the next one.
The two experienced warfighters gazed upon the battlefield and examined what
the villagers must have seen across from them.
“Let’s go on
down now,” Rasool said. “I am ready.”
They
traversed down the slope toward the first wounded and dead fighters. Rasool
moved slowly, using his walking stick and slipping on gravel as his shaky legs
tried to keep him vertical.
Mushahid,
tall and strong, marched down the slope sure-footed and alert, his weapon ready
and his fierce, beady eyes scanning odd-looking shapes and rock piles well
within sniper range. He
kept no more than three steps from Rasool, close enough to catch the older man
if he fell, but far enough to allow the man to feel independent.
It took the
two of them several minutes to descend down the draw, but they could now
clearly see -- even with Rasool’s poor eyesight -- that it was
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