Heroes of Afghanistan: Onslaught

By Eric Meyer

Former Navy Seal Rafe Stoner is about to hit rock bottom as he mourns the death of his fiancée to a roadside bomb. Descending into a gambling and alcohol fueled oblivion, he is about to lose it all. When a woman arrives seeking her husband, a doctor kidnapped by insurgents, she calls on him to use his unique skills to rescue him from a Taliban stronghold. He refuses to take it on, until he learns of a rumor that his former fiancée, Madeleine Charpentier, may still be alive. A prisoner with that name lives in the same insurgent hellhole where they are holding the doctor. It could be her, and now things have changed. Once again he picks up his guns to venture into bandit country.

Ranged against him is the might of the Taliban, allied to a corrupt and vicious senior Afghan cop. But Stoner is not a man to duck a challenge, and besides, he must find Madeleine. From the start he becomes embroiled in a maelstrom of vicious, brutal battles. Outnumbered, outgunned, wounded and badly beaten, life or death ceases to have any meaning. His sole objective is to find out the truth about his former fiancée. A truth that is more than worth dying for.

Heroes of Afghanistan: Resurrection is an incredible story of tough, violent men in a tough, violent land. This is the latest title by the bestselling author of many SpecOps series. These include the popular SEAL Team Bravo stories, Heroes of Afghanistan, Raider, Echo Six, and Devil's Guard titles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Oct 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463489550

Eric Meyer

An internationally recognized expert on the subjects of HTML, CSS, and Web standards, Eric has been working on the web since late 1993. He is the founder of Complex Spiral Consulting, a co-founder of the microformats movement, and co-founder (with Jeffrey Zeldman) of An Event Apart, the design conference series for people who make web sites. Beginning in early 1994, Eric was the campus Web coordinator for Case Western Reserve University, where he authored a widely acclaimed series of three HTML tutorials and was project lead for the online version of the Encyclopedia of Cleveland History combined with the Dictionary of Cleveland Biography, the first example of an encyclopedia of urban history being fully and freely published on the Web.

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HEROES OF AFGHANISTAN

ONSLAUGHT

By Eric Meyer

Copyright 2018 by Eric Meyer

Published by Swordworks Books

www.facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Prologue

Eight years before

The robed and turbaned insurgent rose up from the ground fifty meters ahead of them. He clutched an RPG rocket launcher balanced on his shoulder. Thirty meters from his position a robed and turbaned machine gunner was waiting in support. Waiting for the rocket to explode so he could tear the survivors apart. Further up the slope the U.S. Navy SEAL lieutenant concentrated on the launcher, the immediate threat. Through the optical sight of his rifle he could make out the man’s satisfied smile. He could also make out his crooked and blackened teeth.

Enjoy it before I blast your ass, pal.

The Talib tensed, about to launch the rocket that would snuff out their lives. The SEALs had other ideas. The Lieutenant squeezed the trigger of his M4A1 and emptied the magazine into the distant target. Too late, the missileer fell, but he’d launched his rocket. The explosion set off a blast wave that tossed the lieutenant into the air like a rag doll. He hit the hard, rocky ground like an unwanted FedEx parcel. The breath whooshed out of his body, and he saw stars. His Chief Petty Officer was leaning over him with an anxious expression.

You okay, Lt? That rocket was mighty close.

Too damn close. Ask me after I've checked my skin for holes. How about the machine gunner?

We got him, and the other two guys who were with him. Boss, this shouldn't have happened. Another few seconds and they’d have had us. We should have had recon out, like a drone overhead. Or they could have given us something heavier like a Stryker. They left us out to dry.

Yeah, well, the Navy gives us what they have, and we have to make it work. Is our transport still in one piece?

I told him to keep it out of sight until we’d put them down. Walking back to base doesn’t appeal to me.

He grunted a reply and dragged himself to his feet as their Humvee pulled up nearby. The driver didn’t look happy, which was odd. They’d made the kill, and a few more bushwhacking bastards had started their journey to hell. His expression should have been relaxed. It wasn’t relaxed. It was grim.

He climbed up and approached the lieutenant. We got them too late, Lt. I was listening to the radio, and they ambushed a target down on the highway. An IED.

Highway One?

Yep.

He grimaced. The Kandahar to Kabul road. The road the brass said they'd keep clear of hostiles.

Like most promises in this shithole country, it didn't mean a damn thing. It looks like they hit a medical convoy this time.

Shit, do we know who it was?

They said it was UNHCR, Boss. He gave the Lieutenant a worried look, knowing the officer’s girl was a UN nurse. Targeting ambulances was the worst crime in the book, regarded as a war crime. Although for the Taliban, they regarded the vehicles marked with large red crosses as fair game.

The Lieutenant nodded. Madeleine’s not on duty today, so I know she's safe. We'd better go down there and take a look at the wreck. There may be survivors.

They swung aboard their vehicle and jolted down the opposite hillside. The wreckage of a white Mercedes G-Wagen painted in the livery of a UNHCR ambulance was still smoking in the center of the road. The vehicle had tilted over at a crazy angle next to the hole where the IED had detonated. A man covered in blood was propped up against a rock at the side of the road, weeping. Always cautious, they checked for secondary IEDs or a further ambush, not unusual after an attack. There was nothing. When they were satisfied they climbed out, although one man stayed behind the machine position in the cupola. There was still the chance the hostiles had staged the hit on the ambulance to lure them into a trap.

The Lieutenant knelt next to the casualty. We're here to help you. Where are you hit?

The man shook his bloody head. You don't understand; it's not my blood. The IED exploded under the nurses riding in back. They didn't stand a chance. I was in the driver’s seat and I was lucky. I banged my head, and it knocked me unconscious. When I came to I tried to help them, but it was too late. Dear God, they were gone. You have to believe me. I couldn't do any more. It's unreal. I don't know...

Sure, sure, he soothed him as he did a quick check. There were no obvious wounds apart from a gash to his head, although if the explosion had knocked him unconscious, he could be facing a dose of concussion. How many nurses inside, was it two?

Yeah, two nurses, two girls. One was dead when I got to her. Greta, she’s German. Madeleine was still alive, but I don't know about now. It's not fair; she only came because another nurse failed to show. This is her blood all over me. I did my best to...

He recoiled. No! It can't be. She's not on duty today! She's at home, preparing our celebratory meal. Please, dear God, let it be someone else. There must be another Madeleine. Yeah, that's it.

He forced his way into the ambulance. The upholstery was still smoking and the air acrid with the stench of burned fabric and roasting flesh. He had to twist his body to crawl into the back where two bodies lay at unnatural angles. One was clearly the German girl, Greta, dead with a massive wound in the chest. A shard of metal the Taliban packed around their bomb had torn her upper body into bloody ruin. Her clothes were still smoking, and parts of her flesh had started to cook.

The other girl was lying on her face, and he could see blood pumping out of her. She was still alive. He turned her over slowly, gently, knowing it had to be another girl, not his Madeleine. He was wrong. It was her. Madeleine Charpentier lying broken and bleeding in a wrecked ambulance at the side of a dusty road in Nowheresville, Afghanistan.

Her eyes flicked open for a second, and her lips tried to form a smile, but then her eyes closed again. He put his ear to her mouth and was shocked to hear her breathing coming in shallow, hoarse rasps. The wound was low in her belly. He could see where the guy outside had tried to apply a dressing, but it was like trying to repair a leak in the Hoover Dam with a Band-Aid.

When he lifted the dressing he almost passed out. Shrapnel had torn her lower body into a bloody mush, and it would have taken a miracle to fix it out here in the middle of the countryside. She needed an emergency room, and fast. He gently lowered her, squeezed out of the ambulance, and caught himself as the shock almost caused him to lose consciousness.

It's Madeleine, he shouted, Help me get her out of here. We have to get her to a hospital! She's dying! Help me get her in the vehicle!

The driver shook his head. No can do, Lt. One of those bursts from the machine gun ricocheted and punched holes in our fuel tank. We have enough gas to get us another five klicks if we're lucky.

He felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Use the radio. Tell ‘em we need a medevac helo out here pronto. Whatever it takes, she needs help.

I'm on it, Lt. They'll be here. Don't worry.

I'm going back in there to stay with her. Tell them it's life and death.

I'll do that.

He stayed with her for the forty minutes it took until they heard the sound of rotor blades in the distance. She opened her eyes just once more and spoke a single word. His name. Then she was dead. The girl he loved more than life itself, gone forever. And his life would never be the same.

Chapter One

Present day

She climbed out of the cab and paid the driver. The Mercedes E220, once a quality German automobile sounded like a child shaking a box of marbles as it drove away. It made fifty meters when she heard a clatter. The driver stopped to retrieve a section of tailpipe that had dropped into the street. He tossed it into the trunk, climbed back into the car, and disappeared into the next street with a roar of unsilenced exhaust.

Grace Lindemann was tall and slim, almost statuesque, with the proud, erect posture and creamy skin of a fashion model. Her hair was concealed beneath an artfully tied silk scarf, almost certainly Hermes. A close look at her sunglasses would no doubt show they came from the same place. She was dressed in what an upmarket clothing store would have advised was the only way to go for the badlands of Afghanistan.

Dr. Lindemann was no fashion model. A passport said she was a physician, and she studied the surroundings as if making a diagnosis of some malady. What she saw gave her a twinge of uncertainty. The building was one of the smarter ones in Jalalabad, Afghanistan; unlike most of the squalor and dereliction she’d seen since she arrived earlier that day at Kabul International. She assumed the place was a bar, and she checked the address and walked around back. The door was closed, but when she tried the handle it opened. She climbed the stairs as the instructions told her.

She’d come so far, all the way from Boston, United States. They told her this man was her last hope if she was to find her husband who’d gone missing several weeks before. They’d made efforts to locate him, or so they said. She’d been in daily contact with the State Department who assured her they were in daily contact with the Pentagon. Who also told her they were making efforts. It amounted to a whole heap of nothing. Her husband, Dr. Richard Lindemann, had disappeared. She’d traveled thousands of miles to get to this place and ask this man for his help. They said he was the best, and no one else would stand a chance of locating her husband.

At the top of the staircase she’d found the door to his apartment, but from the outside it looked empty. Abandoned, as if he’d moved away permanently. Layers of dust and dirt had piled up against the door. That told her it had been a long time since anyone was inside. She tried knocking several times, but the empty echo from inside mocked her. In despair she spun on her heel and walked slowly back down the staircase. When she reached the bottom she sat on the lowest step, feeling her frustration mount. This was the end. There was nowhere else to go. After endless phone calls and pointless discussions with American officials, as well as a journey many thousands of miles, she’d failed.

Men walked past and some eyed her with curiosity. All were Afghans, all armed, and they had that look about them. A look of longing any woman would recognize. She had the feeling if she stayed there much longer, one or more of them would decide to take their longing that bit further, and she’d be in serious trouble.

She was still debating moving on when a shadow fell over her, and she glanced up, startled. The man standing in front of her wasn’t Afghan. At least, not entirely. His skin was lighter than that of an Afghan, yet darker than an American. He wore a long, brown leather coat over knee-high brown leather boots. The vivid blue eyes of a Caucasian were a strange contrast with his darker skin. He was of medium height, with a thin beard around his chin. Beneath the unbuttoned coat she saw the bulge of a big automatic tucked into a holster on his belt. His father had been Russian, and if she'd asked him, he'd have told her proudly it was a Stechkin, a product of the now defunct Soviet Union.

Can I help you?

He sounded friendly enough, and she decided it was even possible he could be on the level, a rare commodity in this region. I'm looking for a man.

His lips twitched ever so slightly. Anyone in particular, or just any man?

She gave him the benefit of a frosty glare. His name is Stoner. Rafaello Stoner. They told me he lives in the apartment on the top floor. I went up there, but it looks abandoned.

As far as I know, he lives there.

I tried knocking on the door and didn't get a reply.

The man shrugged. He's been away for a couple weeks. I've been trying to find him as well. He held out a hand, My name’s Greg Blum. I'm a friend of Stoner.

You’re a friend of Rafaello?

He flinched. People just call him Stoner. Never Rafaello. Occasionally Rafe, but I'd stick with Stoner if I were you.

She shrugged. Whatever. Do you know where I can find him?

Nope, I don't. He’s been away a while which makes me think things are getting desperate. I reckon it's time to enlist some help. How about we go around front and ask inside.

She followed him along the dusty, unpaved street to the front of the building. A shingle screwed to the front door informed the world this place went by the name of Ma Kelly's.

What is this, a bar?

It's a brothel. Stoner owns a half share.

Oh.

They went inside, and she goggled at the incongruous mixture of rich mahogany woodwork, polished brass fittings, and seedy-looking Afghan men sitting around talking, some with a scantily dressed whore on their knee. Greg made straight for the bar, and the woman standing behind the register gave him a friendly nod.

Hi, Greg, are you here for a drink or something else?

Her figure was what most people would describe as pneumatic. Her head was crowned with curly, bottle blonde hair, and she sported breasts a man could lose himself in. Grace Lindemann knew instinctively this extraordinary-looking woman could only be the owner. Ma Kelly.

I’m looking for Stoner.

She grimaced. Everyone's looking for Stoner. What do you want with him?

Jesus Christ, Ma, I'm his best friend. I'm worried about him. Besides, I found this lady around back. She says she needs to talk to him about something urgent.

Ma Kelly gave Grace Lindemann a long hard stare. What is it, dearie? Are you carrying his baby?

She looked shocked. Not at all. I'm trying to locate my husband. I believe he was kidnapped and is being held against his will. They told me if there was one man in Afghanistan who could get him back, it was this Rafaello Stoner. But it looks like he's moved away.

Ma chuckled. Moved away, not exactly. He didn't want me to tell anyone, but if it's that serious, I guess there's no harm in you knowing. She looked at Greg. He's in Kabul.

Kabul? What the hell for?

He said he was going to do some gambling. He's been in a bad way lately, and I think he’s trying to forget. I tried to talk to him about it, but he said it was none of my business and he had nothing to lose. I told him he had plenty to lose, stuff like a healthy bank balance and a share in this place. He told me he didn't care. He said he could lose it all, and it wouldn’t make a scrap of difference. Greg, I’m very worried.

I guess it’s still the same problem?

She nodded. Still the same. It comes around every year, always on the day she died. December 10.

Grace Lindemann assumed a quizzical expression. What comes around this time of year? Is it something serious, like an illness?

Ma frowned. And illness is one way to describe it. His fiancée Madeleine Charpentier died in a Taliban ambush on December 10, eight years ago. He’s never got over it.

Perhaps he should find himself another girlfriend.

She chuckled. Dearie, he's had plenty of girlfriends. Women are drawn to Stoner like metal filings to a magnet. The problem is they’re not Madeleine. It's been eating him up inside for years, and now it’s even worse. I'm worried he'll do something stupid.

Like what?

A shrug. Like he could decide he doesn't want to live anymore.

The woman turned to Greg. Can you find this place in Kabul? Maybe we can talk him out of it.

Sure I can find it. It's an illegal gambling den, most of it high-stakes. But the question I'm asking myself is whether we’ll get there in time before he could lose.

You mean he’ll have lost all his money?

He could lose everything, sure. His money, his share in the brothel, his surplus machinery business, everything, but that's not what I meant. I was talking about his life. He drew the edge of his hand across his throat to make the point.

She shuddered. Would you take me there now? I have to talk to him. It’s a matter of life or death. For my husband, and perhaps for him as well.

He nodded. I’ll drive you there myself. I’m kinda anxious about him. My wife is worried sick as well.

Your wife?

She used to be Stoner’s girl, but she chose me instead. I guess that’s why she’s still alive. Women don’t live long around that guy.

He ignored her shudder, and they walked outside. He waved in direction of the ugliest vehicle she'd ever seen in her life, outside of a junkyard.

He grinned at her reaction. This is my jeep. I filled it up with gas earlier, so we’re ready to go.

She furrowed her brow. You're sure it'll make it?

He gave her a scornful look. Will it make it? Ma’am, this is a GAZ 69, a tough military jeep. They made them in the thousands for the Soviet military. Back in the day, of course.

It doesn't look like it'll make it to the outskirts of Jalalabad, let alone Kabul.

He threw her a hurt expression. Lady, if you don't like it I suggest you call a cab.

No, no, I'd be more than grateful for the ride.

She climbed into the passenger seat, and Greg started the engine. She dumped her carry bag in the back, and he threw the gearlever into low gear. After a brief pause, he stamped on the gas pedal, let out the clutch, and the GAZ leapt forward like a nervous kangaroo. And stopped. He cranked the engine several times and gave up when nothing happened. Muttering curses under his breath, he climbed out and opened the hood. He spent a half hour working on the engine. Eventually, he turned the key, and the motor roared into life.

It must have been damp on the electrics. Afghanistan tends to be humid at this time of year.

I see. But it’s the winter.

I guess it was overnight dew.

She didn't look convinced, but when he drove away the engine kept running. They followed the main Jalalabad to Kabul highway, and she didn’t tell him she'd never experienced such an uncomfortable, rough, and jolting journey. She doubted it was all due to the state of the road surface. The GAZ had to take much of the blame, but when he informed how tough these little vehicles were, and how that blip back in Jalalabad was a rare occurrence, she tactfully smiled and nodded.

They drove into the capital city of Afghanistan, passing the downtown area with its newly built luxury hotels and office high-rises. There was also occasional heaps of rubble where the Taliban had pressed home their frequent attacks. The streets became scruffier, and although they teemed with people, she felt even more uncomfortable. Greg Blum put his hand under his coat several times to check the gun in the holster, and twice he loosened it, as if for a fast draw. She felt she should have been reassured, but she wasn't. He saw the direction of her gaze and grinned.

Just a precaution, nothing much happens around here.

She pointed to a line of stone houses, and in the middle one had almost completely disappeared. It was like a row of teeth where one had been pulled. What about that?

He shrugged carelessly. They get the occasional bombing and a few shootings, but we’ll be fine.

He pulled up outside the casino. At least, that's what he said it was. The building was if anything filthier and even more disreputable looking than those around it. He parked the jeep, gave a young boy money to keep an eye on it, and she followed him into the building.

Wait inside the door. I'll see if I can find him.

He strode past the gaming tables and almost immediately found the man he was looking for. Stoner was playing poker with a stone-faced Afghan. From further back she studied him with interest. What she saw made her feel doubts about the suitability of the man she’d tracked down.

He looked so ordinary. That’s what shocked her. Even seated she could see he was about the same height as the Afghans, around five-six. A strong face, although average looking, with dark hair and dark eyes that appeared to have glazed over, and she concluded he was drunk. But a second glance made her think again. Maybe she’d underestimated him. He wasn’t Mr. Ordinary, not in any way. The face was rugged and filled with character. When he looked around to survey the room, his expression changed, and she realized she was looking at a dangerous man. Wary, cautious, and he held himself as if