Brad Thor: The Apostle

Theirs was one of three trucks making the supply run up to Massoud’s outpost. The Taliban commander had ordered up enough supplies for two weeks. If they didn’t take advantage of this opportunity, it was unlikely they’d get another chance.

Remembering the evil eye he’d received from the old, black-turbaned man in Surobi, he knew that no matter how authentic their clothing, there was no way he and Fontaine could pass close inspection as villagers from Dagar. Coming in sight unseen was their only bet. Harvath prayed that Massoud’s sentries would be like most soldiers standing post overnight-cold, bored, and hungry.

The security setup along the road was similar to that leading into Massoud’s village and involved two checkpoints.

When Harvath felt the truck coming to a halt at the first stop, his heart began to quicken and his hands tightened around his MP5. Next to him, he knew Fontaine was readying himself as well. Neither dared speak and they both knew what they would have to do if they were discovered.

Their bodies tense, each of the men listened for any indication that suggested the sentries suspected something was wrong. Despite the bitter cold, Harvath could feel the sweat forming on his skin as the adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream.

He heard Reshteen roll down his window and speak to the Taliban sentries. This was the first and one of the most dangerous hurdles.

Harvath listened as the Afghan did exactly what he had been told to do. Showing the sentries the box on the seat next to him, he offered them some of the hot tea, warm nan bread, and kebabs he had prepared before leaving Dagar.

There was a lull that seemed to last an eternity. Harvath couldn’t tell if the sentries suspected a double-cross or were just examining the contents of the box trying to decide what they wanted.

While the optimist in him said the sentries would take the food and allow the trucks to pass without inspection, the pessimist told him to get ready because all hell was about to break loose.

Suddenly the voices resumed and there was laughter. Harvath’s inner optimist had been correct. He felt his tension dissolve, but only by a matter of degrees. While the optimist in him had been right this time, it was by listening to the pessimist and always being ready for the worst to happen that one stayed alive.

One of the sentries pounded on the roof of the cab and the trucks were allowed to pass.

At the next checkpoint the scene was repeated. Hot tea was poured into cups, bread and kebabs were handed out by Reshteen, and the supply trucks from the village were once more allowed to pass uninspected.

While Harvath should have been relieved, at the moment he didn’t have that luxury. They were about to roll into the middle of a snake pit. Harvath had given Fontaine every excuse to stay behind in Dagar with Daoud, but the Canadian had refused. In fact, he had accused Harvath of selfishly trying to hog all the fun for himself. The remark had made Harvath laugh. Forty to one odds was not what he would call fun. Forty to two was only slightly better. The one thing they had on their side was that, at least for now, no one knew they were coming.

The truck bumped and jostled along for another five minutes before the steep road finally leveled off. When it swung to the left, stopped, and then slowly reversed, Harvath once again tightened his grip around his MP5 and made ready. They had arrived.

Reshteen backed his truck up to the door of the small, mud brick building that functioned as the camp’s kitchen. His two cousins parked their trucks on the opposite side to act as a screen and provide Harvath and Fontaine with as much concealment as possible.

Climbing out from behind the wheel, Reshteen stretched and walked casually into the cookhouse to make sure it was empty. Pushing open its heavy wooden door, he removed a box of matches and lit one of the oil lamps that hung inside. The room was just as it had been left following the first heavy snow the year before.

Stepping back outside, Reshteen called his cousins over and they set to work freeing Harvath and Fontaine from the bed of his truck.

When they had moved enough crates, the men slipped out one at a time and disappeared into the cookhouse.

The cousins continued unloading supplies while Reshteen set up two gas cook stoves and quickly warmed up more tea and nan bread. Filling his pockets with cups and wrapping the bread in a heavy cloth, he exited the kitchen and set off to soften the ground for Harvath and Fontaine.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned. Motioning for Harvath to hand him the sketch of the camp he had drawn back in Dagar, he marked on it where the camp’s interior guards were posted and how many of them there were in each group. Harvath counted three groups of three. Nine men. The rest were still asleep.

Harvath pointed at the small storage building that Reshteen had said would be the best place to hold Julia Gallo, and the Afghan man nodded and drew a dark circle around it with his pencil. That was still their primary target. It also, according to Reshteen, did not have a guard posted outside it. Considering the Taliban’s habit of relying solely on a sturdy, lockable door, Harvath wasn’t surprised, but nevertheless he pointed to all the guard positions on the piece of paper and then back at the storage hut and said, “Na?”

“Na, Taliban,” he replied.

That was all Harvath needed to hear. Checking his weapons, he tucked his MP5 beneath his patoo, and with Fontaine right behind him, he stepped out of the cookhouse into the cold mountain air.

The two men walked with their heads down and mimicked the slow, shuffling Afghan gait.

The camp was not that large and all of the guards on duty were aware of the supply truck’s arrival. Being greeted by Reshteen with hot tea and warm nan was an act of hospitality that had not only put them somewhat at ease about the strangers in their midst, but had given Harvath and Fontaine reason to get much closer to them than would normally have been allowed.

Expanding upon the ruse they had used at the checkpoints, Reshteen visited each group of guards, handing out tea and nan and promising to send men back with hot kebabs. The hope was that if Harvath and Fontaine were seen, it would be assumed they represented the kebab wagon making its rounds.

Harvath and Fontaine understood the limits of the ruse all too well. They needed to act as quickly as possible.

Reshteen had shown them on his sketch where the Taliban normally set up their latrine. It was a long trench on the side of the camp away from the buildings. Even though the forty-plus men had not been there long, they didn’t need a map to find it. Their noses led them right to it.

The trench from last year was still filled with ice and snow that had only partially melted. That didn’t seem to bother the Taliban, who simply urinated and defecated right there as if it was a perfectly suitable latrine.

Harvath and Fontaine tried to ignore the smell as they lay down next to it and readied themselves for the next step.

There had been no way to know how many guards Massoud would have posted. Reshteen had said that Massoud normally had men walking the camp, but had never bothered to count how many. He simply had had no reason to.

Though Harvath’s original intent had been to come up and ascertain if Julia Gallo was here, he had also decided that if she was, and he could get her out, that’s what he was going to do. If it meant he had to kill a few more Taliban in the process, he had no problem doing that.

Harvath traded Fontaine his MP5 for Gallagher’s sniper rifle and got comfortable while Fontaine powered up his NODs and slipped them on so he could function as a spotter.

Flipping down the legs of the weapon’s bipod, Harvath then flipped up the scope covers, wrapped his hand around the grip, and got his shoulder comfortable against the stock.