Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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intent on filling our drinks to the brim.

I took mine and sucked it down like a man who’d

found an oasis. The burn nearly made my eyes roll back.

After a long exhale, I said, “I’m so over this.”

“You and me both.”

“It’s tearing us up. All of us.”

“It is. You ever think it’d be like this? I mean when

you first joined up?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. I was totally stoked about the

futility of war.”

He snorted. “Me, too.”

“But maybe now we’ve caught a break.”

That drew his frown. “Really? You know they’ve

gone back on the TV. They’re going to kill Warris if we

don’t meet their demands in twenty-four hours. Keating

has stepped up plans for the offensive.”

“And you know what’s going to happen,” I said. “If I

don’t get out there, they’re going to kill Warris, they’ll

launch that offensive, and the media will report on all the

innocents who were killed. W’ell be the bad guys all over

again.”

The XO knocked, then entered. “Sir, the governor’s

back. He’s screaming again.”

“Tell him to fuck off,” snapped Harruck.

262 GH OS T RE CON

I laughed under my breath.

“Tell him I’m in a meeting,” Harruck corrected.

“Okay, and Dr. Anderson is outside, too. She says all

the workers just walked off the job. They just . . . left . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know what’s going on, sir, but I’m willing to

bet it all goes back to Kundi.”

“That’s a safe bet,” I told the XO. I stood. “I’m gearing

up. I’m taking the team out tonight. We’ve got actionable

intel on Warris’s location. We’ll find him. And maybe we’ll

find Zahed.”

Harruck was already shaking his head. “There’s noth-

ing to talk about here. Like you said, they’ll kill Warris,

the offensive will happen, and all my work here was for

nothing. Actionable intel is just an excuse for C-4 and

gunfire.”

I raised my brows. “I’m taking one more shot, and all

I need is a little evac if it all hits the fan.”

“You’re dreaming, Scott.”

“I’m not. If I can find Warris—if I can do that, they

won’t have to launch the offensive. If I can take out

Zahed, that’s icing on the cake.”

“We’ve got more enemies than the Taliban here.

Bronco wants Zahed rich and alive and feeding the

agency information. Kundi wants the status quo. Even

the people here would rather deal with Zahed. We’re the

only idiots that want him dead. If you kill him, the Tal-

iban will retaliate.”

“We’ll dismantle and demoralize them. By the time

I’m done, they won’t know what hit them.”

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263

“I don’t believe you anymore, Scott. And I can’t sup-

port you.”

“I know when it comes down to it, you’ll do the right

thing. You won’t leave me hanging out there.”

He took a deep breath. “Just get out.”

I returned a lopsided grin. “Thanks for the drink.”

T WENTY-FIVE

The satellite images that Gordon had provided were both

excellent and disconcerting. The tunnel entrance where

Warris’s signal had last been detected overlooked the north-

east side of Sangsar, so we’d need to hike through one of

the mountain passes off the main road, then hike another

half kilometer to reach the top and descend down to the

tunnel, all the while making sure we were not spotted.

With the men gathered inside our billet, I went over

the hardcopy images, indicated our route, and asked for

suggestions about our evac.

“Any word on CAS?” asked Brown.

I gave him the usual look.

“Not even a Predator?” asked Hume. “I mean, Jesus

God, we’ve lost men up there. Not even a friggin’ drone?”

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265

“I’m working on it,” I said. I had sent Gordon the

request. Even if we couldn’t get fire support, the Predator

guys could pick up the thermal images of guards posi-

tioned near and around the tunnel entrance. I’d said we

were willing to take any kind of intel via sensor because

anything that’s a sensor has to talk to everybody else.

“Before we leave, I want to put something on the

table,” said Ramirez, his voice growing uneven.

My heart might have skipped a beat. I cautioned him

with my gaze, which he met for only a second.

“What’s up?” asked Brown.

“Look, nobody’s said anything about it, but we need

to talk.”

“Joey, I know where this is going,” said Treehorn.

“We’re all in this together. We don’t need to do that.”

“I think we do,” Ramirez said, raising his voice.

“Because if we rescue Warris, then he’ll start squealing

like a freaking pig—and we’re all going to pay for that.”

He looked at me. “Warris is not loyal to the Ghosts. Not

the way we are. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

I just shook my head. Was he threatening me now?

“I am not having this conversation,” said Brown,

raising a palm. “I am not going there.”

“YOU HAVE TO GO THERE!” Ramirez shouted

at the top of his lungs—

We all froze, shocked by the outburst.

Brown whirled back, leaned over, and got squarely in

Ramirez’s face. “No, I do not. So you’d best shut up

now, Joey. Just shut up.”

Ramirez began to lose his breath. “He tried to relieve the

266 GH OS T RE CON

captain of his command. The captain refused. We refused to

acknowledge him. We’re all going down if Warris talks. All

of us! It’s like we’re going out to save the guy who’s going to

chop off your heads! What’s wrong with that picture?”

“Why are you so worried?” asked Treehorn. “I don’t

give a rat’s ass what that punk says. It’s his word against

ours. Screw him.”

“Harruck will back him up,” said Ramirez. “I’m tell-

ing you, if we rescue his ass, we’re done, busted down to

regular Army, maybe even discharged.”

“I’ll take all the heat for that,” I said, my tone in

sharp juxtaposition to his. “No worries, guys.”

“You can try to take the heat, but that won’t matter,”

said Ramirez. “He’ll try to hang us all. And I’m not

going to let that happen. Not for a second.”

“Then what’re you saying, Joey?” asked Brown.

“You knowwhat I’m saying.”

Treehorn threw up his hands. “Aw, no way. I’m not

listening to this.”

“Look, we do everything in our power to rescue him,

but unfortunately, he doesn’t make it back—”

“Oh my God,” said Hume with a gasp. “Joey, are you

insane? Do you know what the hell you’re saying?”

“THIS AIN’T A GODDAMNED WAR! IT’S NOT!”

he shouted.

I looked at Ramirez. “Maybe you’re going to stay

behind.”

“No, sir.”

“Then you’re done talking. You’re just going to shut

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267

up and do your job—and our job is to rescue one of our

brothers and bring him back. And that’s what we’re

going to do. Do you all read me—loud and clear?”

They boomed their acknowledgment.

I pointed a finger at the door and glowered at Ramirez.

“Outside.”

We shifted out together, with the heat of the team’s

gazes on our shoulders.

He paced and shuddered like a rabid dog.

“I need you tonight. You’re one of the best guys I’ve

got,” I began.

“We can’t rescue Warris.”

“You’re getting all bent out of shape for nothing.

Who knows if we’ll even find him? Worry about him

barking later. Not now.”

“We can’t trust anybody, can we?”

“What’re you talking about?”

He shrugged, then squinted toward the setting sun.

“This place . . . it’s driving me crazy.”

I nodded. “It’s the sand. Just gets everywhere.

Shower doesn’t even help . . .”

He sighed. “No way to get clean. Not here.”

“Look, bro, I can’t do this without you. I need my

Bravo team leader sharp and ready. We’re good. You

should know that. We’re good.”

“Okay. But Warris . . . I just don’t know.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“No. It’s an order.”

268 GH OS T RE CON

He took a long breath, cursed, then started back toward

the billet.

I echoed his curse.

At about two A.M. local time, we borrowed a civilian

pickup truck and drove out past the bridge we’d blown,

working our way parallel along the riverbank till I found

the shallowest-looking spot. We parked there and

waited.

What I didn’t tell the guys was that after I’d had my

talk with Harruck and he’d been reluctant to promise

any help, I’d gone outside and met with the XO, who

was more than happy to take a break from the screaming

governor and irate humanitarian lady (although we both

once more agreed that she was a looker). I’d called the

XO Marty, which made him wince, but I was trying to

gain his trust.

“I’m wondering if you guys could move up a couple

of Bradleys, put them way into the defile. Do it about oh

two hundred.”

“Why?”

“I want the Taliban in the mountains to focus on you

guys to the west and not us.”

“Did you ask the CO?”

“I’m asking you.”

He thought a moment. “I see. And what do I get in

return?”

I ticked them off with my fingers: “Money, power,

fame, hookers, and booze.”

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269

He grinned. “You prima donnas in SF are clever bas-

tards. But I’m serious—what’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“How about a healthy dose of respect?”

“Marty, you got to earn that on your own, but two

Bradleys would make one hell of a down payment in my

eyes.”

“Okay, but I can swallow this much easier with a lot

of beer.”

“You got it.”

“Two Bradleys,” he said.

“Yeah, and can you have them put up a flare when

they’re in place?”

“Wow, you really want a party.”

“You know it.”

“Well, Harruck’s been hitting the bottle a lot. I’m

sure he’ll be drunk and asleep by then . . .”

Wouldn’t you know it, lo and behold, the flare arced

high in the sky.

I whispered a thank-you to the XO.

The guys freaked out. “Relax, that’s our cue,” I told

them. “Let’s move.”

We waded through the hip-high water, holding our

AKs above our heads. The water felt thick and warm,

like motor oil, and I imagined snakes and piranhas and

other assorted demons coiling around my legs as we

made the crossing.

For the hell of it, we brought along our last two

270 GH OS T RE CON

Cross-Coms that hadn’t been fried. Again, I wore one,

Ramirez the other. The mountain pass looked clear as

we neared the bottom. In fact, several combatants had

shifted over to where the flare had gone up. I counted at

least fifteen enemy fighters on that side of the mountain,

keeping a close watch on the Bradleys, the red diamonds

floating over each of their positions in my HUD.

We began our ascent, the path rock-strewn and as

rugged as I’d expected. Though we’d dressed like Tal-

iban, the one exception was our boots. We wouldn’t give

up our combat boots for a pair of sandals, not in those

mountains. And when it came time to boogie, we sure

as hell shouldn’t worry about stubbing our toes.

But our heavy boots, now filled with water, squished

and slogged as we climbed, and I grew annoyed that we

couldn’t move more quietly.

A data bar opened in my HUD, showing an image of

a Predator drone flying high above the mountain range.

The image switched to an officer in his cockpit, which

was—quite remarkably—on the other side of the world

inside a trailer at Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas.

“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control, over.”

“Go ahead, Predator.”

“We have visual confirmation of your target tunnel.

Count two tangos outside the entrance, two more

approximately ten meters above. We also see a heavy gun

emplacement approximately twenty meters east of the

entrance with two tangos manning that position, over.”

“Roger that, Predator, can you send me the stream?”

“En route. Recording looks clean.”

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271

“Can I call on you for fires?”

“Standby, Ghost Lead.”

I signaled for a halt and crouched down behind two

long rafts of stone, like fallen pillars from an ancient

palace. “Got a Predator up there,” I told the team in a

whisper, widening my eyes on Hume, who nodded and

shook a fist. “Waiting to hear if he can drop some Hell-

fires if we need ’em.”

“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control. We are not

authorized to provide fire support. However, I’ve per-

sonally sent your request up the pipe to see if we can’t

get authorization. Do call again, over.”

“Roger that,” I told him, understanding his mean-

ing. The controller wanted nothing more than to drop

his bombs and help us out. His finger was poised over

the trigger. All he needed was an officer with the guts to

give the word.

“They might help us,” I told the guys after a long

breath. I signaled once more to move out.

We were coming in from the east side of the tunnel

entrance, so I told Treehorn to move ahead. His job

would be to take out the gunners in the machine gun

nest. He’d do that with the silenced sniper rifle he’d

brought along. Ramirez and his team would focus on

the two guys up top, bringing them down with knives

or with their silenced pistols. I’d take Smith and Jenkins

to a southerly approach of the main entrance.

We spent another thirty minutes moving into posi-

tion, the night growing more cool and calm, the wind

dying. In the distance, across the vast stretch of sand, a

272 GH OS T RE CON

Bedouin caravan trekked slowly toward Senjaray, the

group traveling in the more tolerable temperatures of

the night. A long line of camels laden with heavy bun-

dles wound off into the shadows.

And for a moment, I just watched them, rapt by the

image, as though we were living in a different century.

“In position,” said Ramirez.

“Got the gunners in sight,” reported Treehorn, rely-

ing on our conventional radio.

I replied to each, then gave the hand signals for Smith

and Jenkins to move ahead of me as we made our approach

toward the entrance. A crescent moon gave us enough

light to see the footprints in the path ahead. We were

taking a well-worn path that, despite the risks, would

keep us silent. Every rock, smaller stone, and pebble was

an enemy as we drew closer.

The path turned sharply to the right, hugging the

mountainside, with a sheer dropoff to our left. And there

it was, down below: Sangsar, as quiet as ever. A spatter-

ing of lights. The slight flap of laundry on the lines. I

lifted my binoculars and scanned the walls, spotted a cat

milling about, and a man, knees pulled into his chest,

sleeping near one gate, his rifle propped at his side.

Smith held up his fist. We stopped, got lower. He had

two, just ahead. He slipped back, as did Jenkins.

They looked at me: Okay, Captain, you’re up.

I took a deep breath and started forward, testing

every footfall, turning myself through sheer willpower

into a swift and silent ghost.

T WENTY-SIX

For me anyway, there’s a delayed emotional reaction

after killing a man. Like most combatants, I’ve trained

myself to go numb during the act and let muscle mem-

ory take over. I think only of the moment, of removing

the obstacle while reminding myself that this man I’m

about to kill wants to kill me just as badly. So, I reason,

I’m only defending myself. They are targets, a means to

an end, and the fragility of the human body helps expe-

dite the process.

That all sounds very clinical, and it should. It helps to

think about it in terms of cold hard numbers.

I once had a guy at the JFK School ask me how many

people I’d killed. I lied to him. I told him if you kept count

you’d go insane. But I had a pretty good approximation of

274 GH OS T RE CON

the number. I once got on a city bus, glanced at all the

people, and thought, I’ve killed all of you. And all the rest

who are going to get on and get off . . . all day . . .

Strangely enough, months after a mission, without

any obvious trigger, the moment would return to me in

a dream or at the most bizarre or mundane time, and I

would suddenly hate myself for killing a father, a hus-

band, a brother, an uncle . . . I think about all the fami-

lies who’ve suffered because of me. And then I just force

myself to go on, to forget about that, to just say I was

doing my job and that the guys I’d killed had made their

choices and had paid for them with their lives.

I would be just fine.

Until the next kill. The next nightmare. The next

guilt trip. And the cycle would repeat.

The all-American hero has dirt under his nails and

blood splattered across his face . . .

And so it was with that thought—the thought that I

would suffer the guilt later—that I raised my silenced

pistol and shot the first guard in the head.

A perfect shot, as assisted by my Cross-Com.

I had but another second to take out the other guy,

who, of course reacted to his buddy falling to the ground

and to the blood now spraying over his face.

He swung his rifle toward me, opened his mouth,

and I put two bullets in his forehead before he could

scream. His head snapped back and he dropped heavily

to his rump, then rolled onto his side, twitching invol-

untarily.

A slight thumping resounded behind us. One. Two.

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275

Treehorn reported in. Guards at the heavy gun were

dead. “Roger that. You man that gun now, got it?”

“I’m on it,” he answered. “Big bad bullets at your

command!”

I waited outside the entrance while Smith and Jen-

kins dragged the bodies back up the path and tucked

them into a depression in the mountainside.

By the time they returned, Ramirez and his group

were coming down to join us. I held up an index finger:

Wait.

“Predator Control, this is Ghost Lead, over.”

“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control, go ahead.”

“Do you see any other tangos near our position, over?”

“We do see some, Ghost Lead, but they’re on the

other side of the mountain, moving toward the Brad-

leys. You look clear right now, over.”

“Roger that. Ghost Lead, out.”

Now I would piss off Ramirez. I looked at him. “You,

Jenkins, and Smith head back up. Man the same posi-

tions as the guards you killed.”

“What? That wasn’t part of the plan,” Ramirez said,

drawing his brows together.

“It is now. Let ’em think nothing’s wrong. Brown?

Hume? You guys are with me. Let’s go.”

I left Ramirez standing there, dumbfounded. No, he

wouldn’t get his chance to get near Warris, and I’d just

told him in so many words, No, I don’t trust you.

Brown took point with a penlight fixed to the end

of his silenced rifle. I forgot to mention earlier that none

of us liked the limited peripheral vision offered by

276 GH OS T RE CON

night-vision goggles—especially in closed quarters—so

we’d long since abandoned them during tunnel and cave

ops. Moreover, if we were spotted, the bad guys wouldn’t

think twice about shooting a guy wearing NVGs because

he was obviously not one of them. It was pretty rare for

the Taliban to get their hands on a pair of expensive

goggles, though not completely unheard of. As it was,

we’d offer them at least a moment’s pause—a moment

we’d use to kill them.

The tunnel was similar to all the others we’d encoun-

tered, about a meter wide and two meters tall, part of it

naturally formed, but as we ventured deeper we saw it’d

been dug or blasted out in various sections, the walls

clearly scarred by shovels and pickaxes. Soon, we shifted

along a curving wall to the left, and Brown called for a

halt. He placed a small beacon about the size of a quarter

on the floor near his boot. My Cross-Com immediately

picked up the signal, but even if we lost our Cross-Coms,

dropping bread crumbs was a good idea in this particular

network. We all had a sense that these tunnels were some

of the most extensive and vast in the entire country, and

finding our way back out would pose a serious challenge.

Brown looked back at me, gave a hand signal. We

started up again.

In less than thirty seconds we reached a fork in the

tunnel, with a broader one branching off to our right.

Brown placed another beacon on the floor. I took a deep

breath, the air cooler and damper.

“Man, I got the willies,” whispered Hume.

“You and me both,” Brown said.

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277

After aiming his penlight down the more narrow

tunnel, Brown studied the footprints in the sand and

rock. Both paths were well-worn. No clues there.

I pointed to the right.

Brown looked at me, as if to say, Are you sure?

I wasn’t. But I was emphatic. I wouldn’t split us up,

not three guys.

Dark stains appeared on the floor as we crossed

deeper into the broader tunnel. Brown slowed and

aimed his penlight at one wider stain. Dried blood.

And then, just a little farther down the hall, shell cas-

ings that’d been booted off to the sides of the path

gleamed in Brown’s light.

We shifted another twenty meters or so, when Brown

called for another halt and switched off his light. If you

want to experience utter darkness, then go spelunking.

There is nothing darker. I’d lost the satellite signal for

the Cross-Com, so I just blinked hard and let my eyes

adjust. Brown moved a few steps farther and then a pale

yellow glow appeared on the ceiling about five meters

ahead, the light flickering slightly. My eyes further

adjusted, and Brown led us another ten or so steps and

stopped. He pointed.

A huge section of the floor looked as though it’d col-

lapsed, and the rough-hewn top of a homemade ladder

jutted from the hole. The light came from kerosene lan-

terns, I guessed, and suddenly the ladder shifted and

creaked.

My pulse raced.

We crouched tight to the wall as the Taliban fighter

278 GH OS T RE CON

reached the top. He was wearing only a loose shirt and

pants, his hair closely cropped, his beard short. He was

eighteen, if that. Tall. Gangly. Big Adam’s apple.

Brown signaled that he had this guy. I wouldn’t

argue. Brown was in fact our resident knife guy and had

saved his own ass more than once with his trusted Night-

wing blade.

I winced over the crunch and crack, the scream muf-

fled by Brown’s gloved hand, and the slight frump and

final exhale as the kid spread across the tunnel floor and

began to bleed out. The diamond black knife now dripped

with blood, which Brown wiped off on his hip.

We examined the kid for any clues, but all he had was

a rifle and the clothes on his back. Brown edged forward

toward the ladder and glowing lanterns below. Then we

all got down on our hands and knees and crawled for-

ward. Once we neared the lip of the hole and the ladder,

we lowered ourselves onto our bellies, and I chanced a

look down.

The chamber was circular and about five meters in

diameter, with piles of rock and dirt along one wall

where, indeed, the collapse had occurred. The opposite

wall was stacked from floor to ceiling with more opium

bricks wrapped in brown paper, and beside those stacks

were cardboard boxes whose labels read MEAL, READY-TO-

EAT, INDIVIDUAL. DO NOT ROUGH HANDLE WHEN FRO-

ZEN. U.S. GOVER NMENT PROPERTY. COMMERCIAL RESALE IS

UNLAWFUL. There had to be fifty or more boxes. We’d

seen MRE trash littering the tunnels earlier, but I’d had

no idea they were smuggling in so much of the high-carb

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279

GI food. I wondered if Bronco was helping these guys

get their hands on this “government” property.

Before we could shift any closer and even descend the

ladder, someone rushed up behind us. We all rolled to

the tunnel walls. Then, just as I was bringing my rifle

around and Brown was switching on his penlight, a Tal-

iban fighter rounded the corner and held up his palm.

“Hold fire!” he stage-whispered.

He pulled down his shemagh. Ramirez.

Brown cursed.

Hume swore.

I’m not sure how many curses I used through my

whisper, but more than four.

We spoke in whispers:

“You didn’t answer my calls,” Ramirez said.

“We’re cut off down here,” I answered, slowly sitting

up as he crossed to me. I put a finger to my lips. “What?”

“The two Bradleys are pulling out of the defile.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They wouldn’t answer my calls, either.”

“Aw, Simon must’ve woke up,” I said. “Damn it.”

“I contacted the Predator. He’s still got a way better

sat image than we do. He said the guys are moving back

over here. I left Treehorn on the machine gun, but I

figured I’d come down to warn you.”

“Where are Smith and Jenkins?”

“Still outside the entrance.”

“All right, get back out there.”

“Any luck here?”

“Joey, go . . .”

280 GH OS T RE CON

He hesitated, pursed his lips. “Yes, sir.”

Brown looked at me and shook his head. Was this

some kind of lame excuse to get himself back in the

action? We didn’t know. But if he was telling the truth

and the Taliban were shifting back across the mountain,

then the clock was ticking more loudly now.

Hume edged up to me. “I’ll take the ladder.”

I gave him a nod. He descended, then gave us the sig-

nal: All clear for now.

We followed him down to find another tunnel head-

ing straight off then turning sharply to the right.

“Damn, this place is huge,” whispered Hume.

Several small wheelbarrows were lined up near the

stacks of opium, and I got an idea. We piled a few stacks

into one barrow, and then Brown led the way, pushing

the wheelbarrow with Hume and me at his shoulders.

We were happy drug smugglers now, and we’d shout

that we had orders to move the opium.

We reached the turn and nearly ran straight into a

guy heading our way. He started shouting at Brown in

Pashto: “What are you guys doing?”

Well, I thought we’d have time to explain. But I just

shot him in the head. He fell, and Brown got the wheel-

barrow around him while Hume grabbed the guy’s arms

and I took the legs. We carried him quickly back to the

chamber and left him there. Then we hustled back after

Brown and found the tunnel sweeping downward at

about a twenty-degree angle. Brown nearly lost control

of the wheelbarrow until we finally reached the bottom

and began to hear voices. Faint. Pashto.

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281

Maybe it was the adrenaline or the thought that out-

side our guys would soon be confronted, but I shifted

around Brown and ran forward, farther down the tun-

nel, rushing right into another chamber with about ten

sleeping areas arranged on the floor: carpets and heavy

blankets all lined up like a barracks.

I took it all in.

A single lantern burned atop a small wooden crate,

and two Taliban were sitting up in bed and talking

while six or seven others were sleeping.

I shot the first two guys almost immediately, with

Hume and Brown rushing in behind me and opening

fire, the rounds silenced, the killing point-blank, brutal,

and instantaneous.

Killing men while they slept was ugly business, and I

tried not to look too closely. They’d return in my night-

mares anyway, so I focused my attention on a curious

sight near the crate holding the lantern—a pair of mili-

tary boots, the same ones we wore. I picked them up,

placed them near mine to judge the size.

“Warris’s?” Brown whispered to me.

I shrugged. We checked our magazines, then headed

on, still pushing the wheelbarrow.

The next tunnel grew much more narrow, and we

had to turn sideways to pass through one section. As the

rock wall dragged against my shirt, I imagined the tun-

nel tightening like a fist, the air forced from my collaps-

ing lungs, and I began to panic. A quick look to the

right said relief was just ahead.

Brown had to abandon the wheelbarrow, of course,

282 GH OS T RE CON

and once we made it onto the other side, the passage

grew much wider, as revealed by Brown’s light.

My nose crinkled as a nasty odor began clinging to

the air, like a broken sewer pipe, and the others cringed

as well. Our shemaghsdid nothing to help. I didn’t want

to believe that the Taliban had created an “outhouse”

inside the cave, but judging from the smell, they might

have resorted to that.

I stifled a cough as we shuffled farther, almost reluc-

tantly now. The odor grew worse. We reached a T-shaped

intersection, where the real stench came from the right,

and I thought my eyes were tearing.

Brown shoved down his shemagh, held his nose, and

indicated that he did not want to go down the right tunnel.

And that’s exactly where I signaled for him to go.

He shook his head vigorously.

I widened my eyes. Do it.

And then I began to gag, caught myself, and we

pressed on. I held the shemaghtighter to my nose and

mouth without much relief.

A voice came from behind us, the words in Pashto:

“What’s going on now?”

Hume turned back and Brown raised his light.

It was a young Taliban fighter, his AK hanging from

his shoulder as he raised his palms in confusion.

He squinted at us more deeply until Brown directed

the light into his eyes.

I couldn’t see, but I think Hume shot him. Thump.

Down. The body count was racking up too swiftly for

my taste, but the presence of those boots gave me hope.

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283

We left that guy where he fell and forged on toward

the terrible stink.

“I can barely breathe,” said Hume.

“Just keep going,” I told him.

The ground grew more damp, and up ahead, about

twenty meters, were a pair of broad wooden planks tra-

versing another hole in the ground, the result of yet a

second cave-in, I guessed. Just before the hole another

tunnel jogged off to the left, with faint light shifting at

its far end. At the intersection, I saw that the other tun-

nel to our right curved upward and the night sky shone

beyond—a way out, but on which side of the mountain

range? I was disoriented.

And then from the other side of the hole and the planks

came two Taliban, rifles lowered but still ready to snap up.

They were talking to each other when they spotted me

and Brown, and one looked up, shouted something.

I shot the guy who screamed.

Brown fired at the other one . . . and missed! That

bastard took off running and hollering like a maniac.

And from behind us, down in the hole, where the

stench of human feces and urine rose to an ungodly

level, a muffled cry rose and echoed up across the rock.

T WENT Y-SEVEN

I charged after the guy who’d sprinted away, my heart

drumming in my ears. The tunnel curved abruptly to

the left and then made an abrupt right turn. The guy

reached a ladder at the tunnel’s dead end and started up

it. I shot him before he made it halfway, and he came

down with a heavy thud, shaking and raising his hands

in surrender. Under different circumstances, I might

have taken him prisoner. Instead, I shot him again, then

swung around, saw the lantern lighting the path in one

corner and more stacks of opium, along with crates and

boxes of ammunition.

Someone shouted a name, then asked, “Where are

you?” in Pashto.

I stole a quick breath, glanced up.

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285

There, framed by the hole in the ceiling, was a man

leaning down, his bearded face glowing in the lantern. I

gritted my teeth and shot him, too, in the face. He came

tumbling down and crashed onto the first guy. He was

older, gray beard, his body trembling, nerves misfiring.

Still riding the massive wave of adrenaline, I mounted

the ladder, which I guessed led into another chamber. I

was about to reach the top and turn around when some-

one rushed into the tunnel below, startling the hell out