Read Online Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) by Stan R. Mitchell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stan R. Mitchell
Ads: Link
worse than they
could have ever imagined.
Bodies lay
busted and broken all along the slope. All around, people worked frantically to save the
wounded, while others clung to one another sobbing or prostrating over lifeless
forms while screaming with savage grief. Rasool noted that all of the people
were women or elderly men. A few older children were employed as gophers,
running back and forth, fetching bandages and water, but there was not a single
man of fighting age among them.
Rasool
walked toward the nearest body, who lay unattended. He dug his walking stick
firmly into the ground and leaned hard on it for support as he slowly kneeled.
The man was dead, his face marked by an entry wound just left of his nose.
Blood and yellow brain matter had trickled down the hill from behind the man’s
head, and ants had already discovered the feast and were carrying off pieces in
a heavily trafficked path.
Rasool put
his fingers over the man’s open eyes and pulled down the eyelids. Mushahid
watched Rasool from where he stood. How many times had he seen Rasool pull a
fighter's eyes shut with his frail, veiny hands? How many men had he seen
Rasool pray over a final time?
Mushahid
turned from him and kept alert. His men were still moving all about, scouting
on this finger, the next one, and the one after that. The elite guard of the
Taliban leadership moved quickly without the burden of packs or heavy weapons.
In addition, they had legs accustomed to steep terrain and lungs acclimatized
to thin air.
Rasool Deraz
and Mushahid Zubaida spent more than two hours on the side of the hill. For
Rasool, it was the same process over and over. The wounds changed, but never
the solution.
If the
fighter was dead, he simply closed their eyes and prayed a final prayer for
them. If they were wounded, he calmed their fears and tried to stop the
bleeding. Then, Rasool would wave down any of his available guards to carry the
man back to a home to be cared for. Many would die despite the effort, but a
surprising number would make it.
Rasool knew
the best thing to give to a wounded man was the same thing he tried to give the
movement: hope. Calm down the men going into shock, or already in shock, and
get them breathing normally again. Inform them that you’d seen worse wounds on
men who had survived, even if it wasn’t true. Maybe tell them a joke about when
you had fought the Soviets back in the ’80s.
Give each
man hope, just as you gave the movement hope. Even when territory was lost to
the enemy, even when buildings had been flattened and brave leaders had been
killed, give the survivors hope. In all things, give hope.
Over the course of the
gruesome ordeal, Rasool had managed to piece together some of the story. Years
of battlefield experience along with what little he could learn from the few
coherent survivors had told him that they were looking at a small number of
highly skilled shooters. According to his estimations, the charging villagers
had been taken down swiftly and efficiently, and probably in less than two
minutes time.
However, the accomplished
veteran was surprised when he noticed that a few of the fallen men’s clothing
had been neatly cut and used to bandage wounds, an act that considering the
state of these men would have been almost impossible for them to have managed
themselves. He had also learned from the people first on the scene that a
couple of the least wounded had been lightly bound with paracord.
It was strange to think
but given the evidence, Rasool could only conclude that the shooters themselves
had attempted to aid their targets while at the same time ensuring that no one
was capable of leaving the site. This conclusion stirred up a tangle of
thoughts and emotions that Rasool decided was best to tuck away for now and
think over later if he had the chance.
As more and more information
was collected, Rasool’s earlier suspicions were no longer simply holding true.
No, his suspicions had grown arms and
could have ever imagined.
Bodies lay
busted and broken all along the slope. All around, people worked frantically to save the
wounded, while others clung to one another sobbing or prostrating over lifeless
forms while screaming with savage grief. Rasool noted that all of the people
were women or elderly men. A few older children were employed as gophers,
running back and forth, fetching bandages and water, but there was not a single
man of fighting age among them.
Rasool
walked toward the nearest body, who lay unattended. He dug his walking stick
firmly into the ground and leaned hard on it for support as he slowly kneeled.
The man was dead, his face marked by an entry wound just left of his nose.
Blood and yellow brain matter had trickled down the hill from behind the man’s
head, and ants had already discovered the feast and were carrying off pieces in
a heavily trafficked path.
Rasool put
his fingers over the man’s open eyes and pulled down the eyelids. Mushahid
watched Rasool from where he stood. How many times had he seen Rasool pull a
fighter's eyes shut with his frail, veiny hands? How many men had he seen
Rasool pray over a final time?
Mushahid
turned from him and kept alert. His men were still moving all about, scouting
on this finger, the next one, and the one after that. The elite guard of the
Taliban leadership moved quickly without the burden of packs or heavy weapons.
In addition, they had legs accustomed to steep terrain and lungs acclimatized
to thin air.
Rasool Deraz
and Mushahid Zubaida spent more than two hours on the side of the hill. For
Rasool, it was the same process over and over. The wounds changed, but never
the solution.
If the
fighter was dead, he simply closed their eyes and prayed a final prayer for
them. If they were wounded, he calmed their fears and tried to stop the
bleeding. Then, Rasool would wave down any of his available guards to carry the
man back to a home to be cared for. Many would die despite the effort, but a
surprising number would make it.
Rasool knew
the best thing to give to a wounded man was the same thing he tried to give the
movement: hope. Calm down the men going into shock, or already in shock, and
get them breathing normally again. Inform them that you’d seen worse wounds on
men who had survived, even if it wasn’t true. Maybe tell them a joke about when
you had fought the Soviets back in the ’80s.
Give each
man hope, just as you gave the movement hope. Even when territory was lost to
the enemy, even when buildings had been flattened and brave leaders had been
killed, give the survivors hope. In all things, give hope.
Over the course of the
gruesome ordeal, Rasool had managed to piece together some of the story. Years
of battlefield experience along with what little he could learn from the few
coherent survivors had told him that they were looking at a small number of
highly skilled shooters. According to his estimations, the charging villagers
had been taken down swiftly and efficiently, and probably in less than two
minutes time.
However, the accomplished
veteran was surprised when he noticed that a few of the fallen men’s clothing
had been neatly cut and used to bandage wounds, an act that considering the
state of these men would have been almost impossible for them to have managed
themselves. He had also learned from the people first on the scene that a
couple of the least wounded had been lightly bound with paracord.
It was strange to think
but given the evidence, Rasool could only conclude that the shooters themselves
had attempted to aid their targets while at the same time ensuring that no one
was capable of leaving the site. This conclusion stirred up a tangle of
thoughts and emotions that Rasool decided was best to tuck away for now and
think over later if he had the chance.
As more and more information
was collected, Rasool’s earlier suspicions were no longer simply holding true.
No, his suspicions had grown arms and
Similar Books
