Brad Thor - The Apostle

No matter how things went down, Harvath had seen the air support as the world’s best insurance policy. If he swept the camp and Julia Gallo wasn’t there, he could decide whether to call for a strike. If Julia was there and he could pinpoint her location, he could designate it with a strobe and have the AC-130 rake everything else. And, if they were lucky enough to take positive control of Julia and needed somebody to kick the back door shut for them, there wasn’t anything the Taliban had that could compete with heavily armed aircraft.

Fontaine kept one hand on the steering wheel and lifted up his radio in the other. “I’m not getting anything,” he said.

“Nothing?” replied Harvath, looking back out the window, knowing the Taliban were going to be on their tails any second. “Not on any of the channels?”

Flash 22 had promised to be on station, ready to shower steel at 5:00 A.M., thirteen minutes before sunrise.

“Nothing,” responded Fontaine. “We’re surrounded by solid rock. The radio isn’t powerful enough to get out.”

“How about a phone?” said Harvath as he pulled his Afghan cell phone from his pocket. “Do you have a direct number for J3 Air?”

Fontaine rattled off the digits and Harvath punched them into his phone. He hit send, but the call failed to connect. The signal strength wasn’t strong enough.

“No joy,” said Harvath as he punched the end button on his cell phone and tucked it back in his pocket.

“What’s going on?” asked Julia from the floor behind them.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“You picked a great night not to bring a sat phone,” said Fontaine.

Harvath was about to tell the Canadian he had brought one, but that it had been barbecued along with Gallagher’s Land Cruiser, when two trucks came up on their three-vehicle column from behind and begin firing. The results were instantaneous.

“We’ve lost the rear vehicle!” yelled Harvath as he watched the truck one of Reshteen’s cousins was driving slide to the side of the road and come to a stop.

“We can’t do anything for him now,” said Fontaine as he kept his foot on the gas. “We’re almost at the first checkpoint. Get ready.”

As the MP5 was an easier weapon to shoot one-handed, Harvath traded it to Fontaine for Gallagher’s LaRue. Positioning the sniper rifle out the window, Harvath looked once more into his side mirror. “Damn it!” he cursed. “Reshteen’s going back for his cousins.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that,” replied the Canadian. “We’re going to have that checkpoint in sight in less than a minute.”

Underneath them, their bald tires were skidding and slipping over the icy road. “Go back,” said Harvath.

“Are you fucking crazy?” replied Fontaine. “There are at least forty Taliban back there.”

“Who are going to execute three men who risked everything to help us if we don’t help them.”

“Goddamn Afghans,” Fontaine growled, as he stepped on the brakes and the truck fishtailed back and forth. “How the hell am I supposed to turn around?”

They had just left the valley area of the pasture and entered the narrow canyon with its single-lane road that led down to the village.

“Reverse it,” ordered Harvath.

The Canadian shook his head and slammed the truck into reverse. Its tires spun until they finally caught and they went hurtling backward in the direction they had just come.

Harvath jumped into the backseat, opened the rear window, and pushed the barrel of his rifle through. Pulling his Afghan cell phone from his pocket, he dropped it to Julia Gallo and said, “Keep redialing the number on there and don’t stop until you get through.”

Fontaine continued to speed backward. Thirty meters out, Harvath could see Reshteen’s vehicle, as well as that of his cousins. He could also see the two Taliban trucks just beyond, which were closing fast and firing at them with everything they had.

“What are we doing here, Scot?” yelled the Canadian as errant rounds began pinging off their truck.

Harvath took several shots at the approaching Taliban vehicles as he quickly studied the situation.

Although Reshteen’s cousins wouldn’t be happy about losing their trucks, the way they were now parked, side by side, made them a perfect roadblock. There was only one thing that could make them better.

“Stop!” yelled Harvath.

As Fontaine brought the vehicle to a halt, Harvath leaped out, raised his weapon to engage their attackers, and yelled for Reshteen and his cousins to come to him.

The men ran right toward him, and as Harvath examined their vehicles, he could see that both trucks had flat tires and were inoperable.

“Get in the truck!” he yelled as he pointed over his shoulder. Despite their inability to speak English, they had no problem understanding him.

Harvath continued to return fire, until he got within a few meters of the trucks. As he dropped to a knee, he could see beyond the two Taliban trucks rapidly approaching, to an armada of headlights right behind them.

Breaking off his assault, Harvath fished two fragmentation grenades from his coat pocket. He pulled the pins, pitched one underneath each of the disabled vehicles, and yelled, “Frag out!” as he ran back to his pickup.

Leaping into the bed, he slammed his fist against its side and yelled, “Go, go, go!”

Immediately, Fontaine stepped on the gas and Harvath ducked down. When the frags detonated, they lifted both of the disabled vehicles off the ground and sent a bright orange plume of flame into the air. Shrapnel pockmarked their tailgate and skipped across the roof of the cab.

They had been driving for only a few hundred feet when Fontaine saw something up ahead and stepped on the brakes yet again. Before Harvath could ask what it was, the Canadian yelled, “RPG!”

He managed to grind the vehicle into reverse but ended up spinning the tires so fast that he couldn’t get any traction.

Harvath jumped from the bed yelling, “Everyone out!” as he scrambled to make it to the passenger side door in time. With no choice but to abandon ship, Fontaine did the same.

As the Afghans and Dr. Gallo poured out of the vehicle, there was an ear-splitting pop as the RPG was fired and hissed toward them.

Grabbing Julia Gallo by the shoulder, Harvath pulled her behind a narrow outcropping of rock and yelled for everyone to take cover.

No sooner had he said the words than the RPG hit their truck and detonated, sending another towering fireball into the sky.

Harvath pressed Gallo into the rock, covering her body with his as the charred remains of the vehicle rained down around them.

It took what felt like a lifetime for the ringing in his ears to subside. When it did, he could hear Fontaine calling out his name.

“Over here!” Harvath yelled back, and soon they were joined by the Canadian and the three Afghans.

Fontaine was just about to speak, when they all heard a tremendous crash from up the road.

“They’re trying to ram their way through the trucks I fragged,” said Harvath.

“What are we going to do?”

“Fight,” replied Harvath, who was suddenly interrupted by Julia Gallo.

“It’s ringing!” she cried as she held the phone out.

Fontaine took it from her as Harvath leaned out toward the road and took aim.

After three attempts at ramming into the wreckage, the men above them broke through. At the same moment, the sentries from the checkpoint below them pinpointed their position, and they immediately began taking fire from both directions.

Harvath very quickly burned through his magazine and yelled for Fontaine to hand him another. As he did, the Canadian relayed their situation to J3 Air at Bagram, which patched him in to Flash 22.