Rising Tiger: A Thriller (10)

Placing the cap back on, he did a quick scan around the shed for any extra gas. He didn’t find any and guessed that whatever reserve stock they’d had had been used for the burn barrels and destroying sensitive documents up on the roof.

He hailed Nicholas as he wheeled the bike out of the shed. They had an insider at one of the entrances to Kabul Airport—a man who helped facilitate the ingress and egress of aid organizations.

Crippled by a shortage of food, fuel, and medical supplies, Afghanistan was staying alive only thanks to international assistance. As the SEALs had used aid flights as a ruse in the past, it had been Harvath’s idea to employ the same tactic for this operation.

They based out of Tajikistan and chartered an old Antonov An-26 from Tajik Air. The flight crew were highly experienced and had run multiple operations into Afghanistan for the CIA.

Because of instability under the Taliban, it wasn’t unusual for aid organizations to have to stage outside the country and bring in supplies via smaller, regional aircraft.

For their part, the Afghan government didn’t care where the flights were coming from as long as the critical aid kept flowing.

The facilitator at the airport was named Hamza. He had quite the side hustle going. While aid organizations enjoyed a special, somewhat “protected” status, the treatment aid workers saw could be dialed up or dialed down. This was still Afghanistan, it was still corrupt, and baksheesh still ruled the day. Hamza had been prepaid a healthy amount of it.

He was responsible for getting the rest of Harvath’s team into the airport and out to their plane unmolested. At that point, he would receive an additional envelope filled with cash.

Hamza, however, wouldn’t be at the airport all night. When his shift ended, he would be gone. What’s more, the Tajik flight crew had already filed a flight plan and were expected to return home. That’s why a hard time frame had been placed on the mission.

The dreaded Plan B of having to make it all the way up north, linking up with the smugglers, and traveling through the dangerous mountain passes into Tajikistan was beyond unappealing. Harvath was praying he could catch the plane.

Nicholas wasn’t so sure. “Dalton,” as Hamza had been code-named—after the bouncer in the movie Road House—“has already delivered the team. I don’t know how much longer he’ll be on-site.”

Before Harvath could reply, Haney’s voice came over the radio. “Just get here,” he said. “We’ll take care of everything else.”

“Not if it means jeopardizing the exfil,” Harvath replied.

“You’re breaking up, Norseman,” the man responded. “Say again.”

Harvath didn’t believe for a second that Haney was having issues with his radio. “You have your orders,” he said to the man. “Follow them.”

“Roger that,” Haney replied, before handing communications back to Nicholas.

Out of time, Harvath explained what he was about to do and what he needed from Nicholas.

When the little man confirmed, Harvath prepped the bike, propped open the front gate, and counted down.

Three. Two. One.





CHAPTER 7


There had been nothing in the main house, or in the shed, that Harvath could have used to cobble together some sort of a distraction device. He had only one thing going for him, and that was the element of surprise.

The moment he fired up the dirt bike, however, his element of surprise would be gone. At that point, his only chance for escape would be to outrun his pursuers. It was a serious gamble considering how low on fuel he was. Nevertheless, it was a gamble he was going to have to take.

With the gate propped open, he was about to start the motorcycle when he heard voices approaching and, simultaneously, Nicholas radioed him a warning.

“Two tangos, just south of your location, fifteen yards and closing,” the little man said.

There was no time to close the gate. There was no time to hide the bike. The only thing he could do was to hide himself.

Flipping down the kickstand, he got off the bike. He moved as quietly as he could to the shed, crouched down, and readied his rifle.

It wasn’t optimal. Unlike in the movies, suppressed weapons weren’t totally silent. They still emitted a crack when a round was fired; it was just at a partially reduced decibel level.

But maybe the courtyard’s high walls would help dampen the sound. Maybe the rest of the Taliban down the street wouldn’t hear anything. With the gate wide open, however, it wasn’t a wager Harvath would have been willing to put a lot of money on.

He would have much preferred using his knife. Cutting throats was a lot quieter. The only problem was that it wasn’t scalable. You couldn’t slice two throats at once. That meant he was going to have to use his rifle.

Thankfully, the EOTech holographic sight mounted atop it was compatible with his night-vision goggles. That would allow him the advantage of hanging back in the darkness and attacking from there. It took only moments for the men to arrive.

He watched as the pair entered the courtyard and did a terrible job of “slicing the pie.” They seemed more interested in the abandoned motorcycle than clearing all the angles a threat might be coming from.

Applying pressure to his trigger, he fired at both Taliban in rapid succession. One shot apiece, each in the face.

The first man received his round right between the eyes and it tumbled out the back of his skull. The second took his just underneath the nose and it exited out the top of his head.