The Apostle

When he had once again exhausted his ammo, he rolled back behind the tire, ejected the spent magazine, and inserted a fresh one. It didn’t take a military strategist to realize that even with very carefully placed shots, they were still going to need more ammo.

After checking to make sure Fontaine and Daoud had made it safely, Harvath moved to the Land Cruiser’s rear passenger door and flung it open. Even on this side, it was riddled with the holes of bullets that had passed straight through from the other side.

The seats were shredded, their springs visible in many spots. Harvath pulled the release and tried to flip down the seat nearest him, but it wouldn’t budge. Leaping back from the truck as another barrage of fire literally made it rock back and forth, Harvath hid behind the tire and questioned how much he was willing to risk to get that extra ammunition.

It wasn’t a tough decision. Gallagher’s truck was a bullet magnet. If he climbed in there again to reach over the seats to get what he needed, he’d be cut to ribbons.

And if the threat of another RPG hit wasn’t bad enough, Harvath had just been given another very compelling reason to get the hell away from the Land Cruiser. The gas tank had been ruptured and he could now smell gasoline.

Moving up to the front tire, Harvath motioned to Gallagher and Fontaine that he was ready to roll.

With his MP5 slung over his shoulder, he waited for their signal, and when it came, Harvath sprinted out from behind the cover of Gallagher’s SUV and ran faster than he had ever run before in his life.

Despite the cover fire being laid down for him, the dusty road exploded in a hail of enemy gunfire, throwing rock chips and clumps of dirt high into the air. As the bullets snapped and whistled around him, Harvath could almost feel the heat from the tracer rounds chasing him like a lit fuse.

As he skidded to a stop behind Fayaz’s SUV, it sounded like the world’s largest hornets’ nest had been stirred. All of the enemy gunfire was now being focused on this one rapidly deteriorating piece of cover. Though Harvath was out of breath, he knew they needed to move, now.

He looked at Fayaz, Daoud, and Asadoulah and saw that they had stripped the dead security men in the SUV of their weapons and were now all armed. Three more guns in the fight. He hoped they were good shooters. With their limited supply of ammo, now was not the time to spray and pray. They were going to have to be dead-on tack-drivers.

Looking at Gallagher, Harvath said, “You and Fontaine take the Afghans and get moving for that hut.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Gallagher said.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to create a diversion,” replied Harvath as he nodded toward Gallagher’s chewed-up Land Cruiser. “I hope your insurance is all paid up.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” said Gallagher, pointing at his leg. “I think you’re going to have to leave me here.”

Harvath flipped up his NODs and looked down. A bullet had torn through Gallagher’s upper thigh and blood was pumping out of the wound. “I need a tourniquet!” Harvath yelled. “Now!”

“There’s no time,” said Gallagher.

“Bullshit there isn’t,” he replied. “Fontaine!”

“Right here,” replied the Canadian, as he appeared with a length of seatbelt he had cut out of the SUV.

As they positioned Gallagher’s leg to get the makeshift device in position, he leaned forward and Harvath noticed that he had also taken a round through the top of his left shoulder.

Gallagher must have seen the look on Harvath’s face as he leaned him back against the truck’s rear tire. “What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing. We need to get out of here.”

Harvath pulled out a spent magazine, slid it through the seatbelt knot, and used it to tighten down the tourniquet. The old Marine grimaced in pain, but didn’t make a sound. Within seconds the bleeding had stopped.

Harvath helped Gallagher lie down on his stomach for a superman carry. He placed Daoud between Baba G’s legs to carry them like a wheel-barrow and then motioned Asadoulah and Fontaine to each of his outstretched arms. Fontaine took Gallagher’s right arm because, as he would be required to hook his left arm under it to help carry the man, it would leave his right hand free for shooting.

Shouldering his MP5 so he could use Gallagher’s LaRue, Harvath positioned himself against the SUV’s back bumper and gave the go command.

In unison, the three men bent and picked up Gallagher, while Harvath began firing at Massoud’s men on the hillside. With Fayaz in the lead, they began ru

As they did, Harvath turned his attention away from their attackers and onto the leaking Land Cruiser.

When the lucky round finally found its mark, the SUV exploded, sending a brilliant flash and a towering pillar of fire into the night.

CHAPTER 48

Whether Massoud’s soldiers knew where they were headed or not, Harvath and his team were dogged the entire way by wildly fired shots, many of which came incredibly close. Winston Churchill’s famous line notwithstanding, there was absolutely nothing exhilarating about being shot at, even if your enemy was missing.

The run-down mud brick hut the team finally took shelter in only had three pockmarked walls and was missing its roof, but it was definitely a step up in the cover it afforded. Next to a stack of water-filled jerry cans there was nothing better at blast attenuation in the middle of nowhere than a thick mud wall.

Making Gallagher as comfortable as possible, Harvath checked his wounds again. So far the tourniquet on his leg was working. It was the bullet through his shoulder he was most worried about. Gallagher’s breathing had become labored and Harvath was concerned that he had dropped a lung. Even so, he sought to reassure his friend. “You’re going to be okay,” he said.

“In that case, why don’t you get me a beer?”

“As soon as the waitress comes back with my onion rings.”

Gallagher laughed and coughed up blood, confirming Harvath’s worst fears. If the man didn’t get medical attention soon, he wasn’t going to make it.

Leaving him in the care of the Afghans, Harvath stepped over to Fontaine, who was keeping watch out of one of the crumbling windows. “They’re going to be on us any minute,” said the Canadian.

“I know,” replied Harvath. “Let’s get hold of West and have his combat controller call in some close air support.”

“How are we going to mark our position?”

“I’ve got a couple of fireflies,” said Harvath, removing an infrared marking beacon from his pocket. It was made by the same Cejay company as his fingerlight and looked like a small plastic ice cube. When snapped onto a nine-volt battery, it emitted an infrared strobe so bright it could be picked up by overhead aircraft and even certain U.S. government satellites.

Everyone in the Spec Ops community used combat ID marking beacons. It didn’t matter if you were American, Canadian, British, or whomever. The goal was to help ID your position so that you weren’t mistaken for the enemy. They also allowed downed pilots and operators caught in unfriendly territory to be more easily located and rescued. They were a great way to mark a structure you might want to come back to, you could also use them to track a vehicle, and Harvath even had a small spool of trip wire he could use to set one off if someone crept inside his perimeter. The fireflies were the Swiss Army Knife of night operations, and Harvath was glad to have snatched a couple from the Golden Conex.

Clicking the cubes onto their nine-volt batteries, Harvath placed one on top of the wall at each corner. Then he took up the watch while Fontaine turned on his radio, switched to the Canadian’s frequency, and tried to reach Captain West.