Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, and oh, yeah, Warris tells me he’s in com-

mand.”

Gordon’s expression turned guilty. “Not exactly.”

“Good, then I’m exactlyin command. Does that

make sense to you, sir? Two officers, one in command,

the other not exactly in command?”

“Mitchell, we knew how difficult this job could

become. That’s why we picked you for it. And you’re the

last guy on earth I thought would be bothered by the

politics. Everyone’s a bad guy there.”

“Even me?”

He nearly smiled. “Even you.”

“And you still believe that Zahed is the target and I

need to capture or kill him?”

“Absolutely. Without any doubt.”

“And what will that change?”

“Say again?”

He’d heard me. He couldn’t believe I was asking. I

sharpened my tone. “Sir, I asked what will capturing or

killing Zahed change?”

“Yours is not to question why but to do or die, sol-

dier.”

“Well, if we get him, then that’s one less terrorist

here, right? Oh, I forgot, we don’t have confirmation

that he’s actually a terrorist.”

140 GH OS T RE CON

“He’s scum. You said so yourself.”

“I did. But frankly, sir, there are too many people

attempting to undermine my mission. I’m losing confi

dence in my ability to complete it and I’m concerned

about our contribution to the overall effort here.”

“What the hell is that?” he cried. “The Ghosts fear no

one! Don’t throw that crap at me. You will complete your

mission—but if you’re telling me right now you want

out, I’ll relieve you on the spot and give it to Warris.”

“He’s a yes man for Harruck, so you won’t get jack if

you give it to him. He’s not playing for us anymore, sir.

Somebody got to him.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack, sir. And now I’m supposed to go

through him before making a move. I’m letting you

know right now that I can’t do that.”

“I understand. Unless your OPORDER changes, you

stay on target, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any more news about your dad?”

I told him about my conversation with my sister. We

were waiting to hear more.

Most of my guys picked up minor wounds, as I did, and

the doctor was able to remove the pieces of shrapnel

from my legs and stitch me up. He’d asked about the

scar on my chest, as I suspected he would.

All I said was that I’d been serving in the Philippines

and been stabbed with a very interesting sword shaped

CO MB AT O P S

141

like a Chinese character. The weapon was now resting

comfortably in a glass case at an old friend’s house.

After all these years, the scar still itched. And I could

still see Fang Zhi’s eyes as he’d thrust the blade into me.

I was just a kid back then. And the missions seemed

crystal clear. Ironically, Fang Zhi had questioned his

own commanders’ orders and become torn over his duty

versus the lives of the men in his charge. Though I don’t

regret killing him, I better understood his position after

spending time in Afghanistan.

Back in our billet, most of the guys were sitting on their

bunks, staring blankly or rubbing the corners of their

eyes and trying not to lose it. We’d been a closely knit

team for the past two years. We’d lost a family member.

“We need to get out there tonight and get some,”

said Ramirez, just after I entered. “They need to pay for

killing Matt.”

The response was natural, rudimentary, entirely

human, and I felt the same—despite its sounding like a

knee-jerk reaction of less experienced soldiers.

Hume, Nolan, and Brown began nodding. Treehorn

joined them. Jenkins, the biggest, most intimidating

guy on the team, started crying. Smith, who was near

him, offered a few words of encouragement.

Master Sergeant Matt Beasley had hailed from

Detroit, had tooled around the ’hood in a Harley Sport-

ster, and was a latchkey kid who’d made a name for him-

self in the Army. I don’t expect my words to do him

142 GH OS T RE CON

justice, and you’ll never know him the way we did, but

you need to understand how important he was to us.

In recent months Ramirez had become more of my

right-hand man, but Beasley had been the first guy to

help out, had treated me with respect and had welcomed

me into his fold. NCOs could make or break you, and

much of my success was due to his experience and guid-

ance. We always had Alpha and Bravo teams, with Charlie

team being our “one-man” sniper operation, and Beasley

always led Bravo for me. I never once doubted his abilities

and knew that if I was ever injured or incapacitated, my

guys were in his more-than-capable hands.

I could tell myself that if I hadn’t sent the mine-

sweepers out there, then Matt would still be alive. But I

wouldn’t have made that decision. I would have sent

them no matter the risk. Of course, I’d seen a lot of guys

die in combat—and a lot of guys die just getting blown

up while they were on their way to the latrine. Some-

times I took the blame and just buried it. But I’d been

working with Matt for a long time, and though I

couldn’t help but feel the guilt, I could already hear him

telling me not to worry about it. Sorry, Matt, that’s eas-

ier said than done.

The guys, no doubt, wanted payback. So did I. And

not just against the Taliban.

Before I could speak, a big Chinook rumbled over-

head, shaking the hut with its twin rotors.

“That was fast,” said Ramirez, his gaze shooting up

to the ceiling.

“Well, that might not be our bird,” I said. He was

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143

referring to our having Beasley’s body shipped back to

Kandahar.

He nodded. “So, are we game on for tonight?”

I raised a palm. “Take it easy. I’ve got no actionable

intel.”

“They’ve been poking around, trying to feel out our

new defenses in the defile,” said Treehorn. “There are

some foothills in the back with a couple of tunnel

entrances—or at least they looked like entrances from

where I was at.”

The door swung open, and in walked Captain Warris.

No one spoke.

“Guys, I’m deeply sorry about the death of Master

Sergeant Beasley. I just wanted you to know that. I

wanted you to know that I’m a Ghost, too. I’m on this

team. Not anyone else’s . . .”

Ramirez raised his hand. “Sir, can we talk off the

record?”

Warris showed his palm. “Let me stop you there. I

already know where this is going.”

I glanced sidelong at him. “So do I.” There was no

mistaking the threat in my tone.

“What’s going on here, people, is a philosophical dif-

ference between commanders that’s playing out in the

ditches, and we got stuck with the raw deal. I need to be

in the loop on everything because I’m supposed to

smooth things over between us and the CO. I don’t

blame your captain for being upset over what’s trans-

pired here, but for now, we just make the best of it until

higher gets its head out of its ass.”

144 GH OS T RE CON

Oh, he was a clever bastard, all right, I thought. He’d

let me have it, then had softened his tone to try to win

over the hearts and minds of my guys. He had no idea

who he was dealing with . . .

“That’s right, everyone,” I said, widening my gaze on

them. “And as I just told you, we have no actionable

intelligence at this time, so we’ll continue in our holding

pattern. Meanwhile, I’ll be in close touch with the colo-

nel to see if they can get us something.”

“Very well,” said Warris.

We all stood there. You could cut the awkwardness

with a bowie knife.

“Uh, yeah, one other thing,” I said. “I always bunk

with my team, and this billet is full. I’m sure Harruck

has room with the other officers.”

He snorted. “Right. I’ll work that out. And one more

thing. Captain Harruck has decided to turn over that

weapons cache to the local police chief. Kundi has

agreed. They’ll use those weapons to begin arming a

new police force.”

“Interesting,” I said. “And where are they recruiting

this new police force?”

“From the local villages,” Warris answered.

“Which includes Sangsar,” I pointed out. “Zahed’s

hometown.”

“I think it’s a good compromise, rather than simply

confiscating the weapons.”

“Before these COIN ops, this wouldn’t have hap-

pened,” I said. “The weapons would be gone. No chance

of them falling back into the enemy’s hands.”

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145

He sighed. “It is what it is.” And with that, he hur-

ried out, the door slamming after him.

Not three seconds after he was gone, Treehorn looked

at me and said, “All right, Captain. Let’s plan this out.

Time to rock ’n’ roll. And that fool there? He ain’t

invited to this party.”

FOURTEEN

That night after dinner I agonized over an e-mail to

Matt Beasley’s parents. I would send the message once

the Army notified them of his death. He’d never married

and was an only child, but he stayed in close contact

with his mom and dad, who still lived in Detroit. I’d

written letters like that before, but this one was particu-

larly hard because of the admiration and respect I’d had

for the man and because of the growing futility—and

anger—I felt about the mission.

He died for something.I must’ve told myself that a mil-

lion times. He died while protecting his comrades. I was

citing him for a Silver Star for distinguished gallantry in

action against an enemy. That had to be enough. But it

wasn’t. My bitterness only made me feel more guilty.

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147

I wanted to get drunk. I knew Harruck had some

booze, but I wouldn’t go to him now. I even entertained

the idea of paying Bronco a visit to see if he had any-

thing stashed.

The boys were going over our gear with a fine-toothed

comb. We were heading out for the big show. Guns would

boom. Grenades would burst apart. Blood would spill.

That first chopper that’d come in had brought medi-

cal supplies and was not scheduled to pick up Beasley’s

body. A second Chinook finally landed at sundown, and

the transfer went off with a very brief prayer service.

Warris was there. He never met my gaze.

Now, while we prepared to saddle up, Brown came

over as I was packing magazines. “Maybe this isn’t such

a good idea, sir.”

“Second thoughts?”

“Not about the mission or being short one man. It’s

just . . . we were talking while you were on the com-

puter. No one wants to see you take any more heat.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s part of my job descrip-

tion. They create officers so they know who to hang

when the mission goes down the toilet. I live in the fire.

We all do. If Zahed’s got some tunnels he’s using to

move troops forward so they can attack our defenses,

then it’s our job to find them and destroy them. It’s a no-

brainer. We’re not just out here to get payback for Matt.”

“I know. And I don’t want to piss you off, but you

keep saying this could all be pretty straightforward, and

they keep telling us it ain’t that simple.”

I hardened my gaze. “Maybe we just have to open

148 GH OS T RE CON

our eyes a little more and stop convincing ourselves that

this is so complex. What if it’s not? What if these people

are just playing us all for fools? Turning us against each

other, so they can get what they want? Maybe . . . it’s as

simple as that.”

He shrugged.

Yes, I was trying to convince myself more than him.

He didn’t buy it, and really, neither did I. But we needed

to trick ourselves into thinking it was good guys versus

bad guys, especially in the hours before we committed.

If we started thinking about the millions of dominoes

we might kick over with every move, we’d become para-

lyzed.

I slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for having

my back. You always do.”

He gave a slight nod. “What’s the plan to get off the

base?”

I beamed at him. “We’re Ghosts. I think we can come

up with something.”

“Yeah, we’ll figure it out.”

At about two A.M. we piled into a Hummer and drove

straight for the main gate. I had no clever plan. I just

told the sentries we were relieving a security detail at the

construction site. I showed him the fake credentials that

identified us as regular Army personnel. We weren’t on

the guy’s list. I argued. At the sound of my first four-

letter word, we got ushered through. It wasn’t as glam-

orous as sneaking off the base, but it did work.

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149

Or at least I’d thought it had.

After we left, the son-of-a-bitch guard called the XO,

who in turn woke up Harruck.

We left the truck and driver at the edge of the con-

struction site and talked to the rifle squad posted there.

I told them we were on a classified operation but if they

heard gunfire and explosions, they were welcome to join

us. The sergeant in charge grinned and said, “Is it bring

your own beer?”

“Hell, no. We supply everything.”

He smiled. “I like the way you guys roll.”

We hustled off into the desert, the sand billowing into

our eyes, the sky a deep blue-black sweeping out over a

moonless night.

The foothills lay directly ahead, cast in deep silhou-

ette, and I strained to see the tunnel entrances that

Treehorn so fervently believed were there.

At the base of the first hill, with our boots digging

deeply into the soft, dry earth, Ramirez called for a sud-

den halt, and then we dropped to our bellies, tucking in

tightly along a meandering depression. Someone was

approaching.

Actually two figures.

I whispered into my boom mike to activate my Cross-

Com. The hills lit up a phosphorescent green as the

HUD appeared and the unit made contact with our sat-

ellite. Within the next two seconds my entire team was

identified by green diamonds and blood types via their

Green Force Tracker chips.

So, too, were the two men approaching, and I gave a

150 GH OS T RE CON

deep sigh as I read the names. Warris had come along

with a private, probably his driver.

“Ghost Team, this is Ghost Lead. Friendlies approach-

ing. Hold fire.”

“Roger that,” said Ramirez. “But are you sure about

that?”

I grimaced over the remark, but yeah, I understood

how he felt.

Warris, unbeknownst to me, was wearing a Cross-

Com and had linked to our channel. He’d been clever

enough to research the access codes. He’d heard Ramirez’s

remark and suddenly said, “Ghost Team, this is Captain

Warris. I’m coming up. And if I were you, I’d be sure

about holding fire.”

Ramirez shifted over to me, covered his boom mike,

and issued a curse.

I saw his curse and raised him two.

Warris, crouched over, slipped up to the depression

and dropped down beside us, with his private doing

likewise.

“Ghost Team, this is Ghost Lead. Turn off your Cross-

Coms and huddle up.”

They immediately complied. I didn’t want anything

recorded at this point.

“How you doing, Scott?” my former trainee began, as

though he were about to offer me a beer. I sensed, though,

that he was speaking through clenched teeth.

“What’s up, Fred?”

“Harruck sent me out here to relieve you of com-

mand and bring the team home.”

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151

I pretended I didn’t hear him. “Maybe we shouldn’t’ve

slipped off the base, but you know what? I’m just too

lazy and just don’t care anymore. We’re heading up to

find, fix, and destroy the enemy. We’ve got enough

actionable intel to justify this raid. If we let ’em keep

moving in and doing overwatch of our construction site,

they’ll set up their offensive, and all of Harruck’s work

will go to hell. So you need to go back now and tell him

that. Tell him we’re out here to save his ass.”

“You can tell him yourself. We’ll contact him right

now.”

“I don’t have time for this—”

“Captain, I’m here to relieve you of command.”

“Okay, but can you give me about an hour?”

Warris’s voice came in a stage whisper, but he would’ve

shouted if he could: “This is serious shit, asshole! I’m

relieving you of command!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Ramirez, butting in and ignor-

ing my glare. “But we don’t recognize your authority

here, nor will we obey your orders.”

“You think you speak for the rest of them?” Warris

asked.

Ramirez looked at the others. “Oh, yes, sir. I know I

do. We won’t follow you. Trust me.”

I shook my head. “Freddy, the problem is you’re try-

ing to play by the book with people that don’t exist.”

He looked lost for a second, then said, “I’m not going

anywhere.”

“That’s fine. You can wait for us.”

“No, I’m coming on this mission.”

152 GH OS T RE CON

“Negative. I need you to return to the FOB, and

bring your driver along.”

“Excuse me? I’m here to relieve you.”

“I am notrelieved.”

“You’ve got no authority to refuse me.” He glanced

around at my team. “Captain Mitchell has been relieved

of command and will be returning to the base with my

driver.”

“Guys, just ignore him. I’m in command. Prepare to

move out.”

“Scott—”

Now Iwas talking through my teeth. “You listen to

me, and you listen good. Each one of my guys has got

two rifles. One’s their favorite toy. The other’s an AK

confiscated from the Taliban. Do you understand what

I’m saying?”

“That I could accidentally get shot? You gotta be kid-

ding me. You don’t threaten me with that. We’re on the

same team, and you just need to suck it up. I’m in.

You’re out.”

He told the private to hold his position and wait for us.

Ramirez whispered to me, “The hell with it. Let him

come. We can babysit. He could get hurt . . .”

I lay there, panting. If I abandoned the mission, I’d

still go home to be hung. So the hell with it. We were

going.

Biting back a curse, I got to my feet. “Guys, you will

ignore any and all commands from Captain Warris.

Moving up. Let’s roll.”

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153

I looked at Warris. “What’re you going to do now,

Freddy? Phone a friend?”

“No, I’m still coming along. I’ll document all this

insubordination, and by the time I’m done, you and this

entire teamwill go down.”

Then he told me to fuck myself and broke off with Jen-

kins, Hume, and Brown, our Bravo team. I took Ramirez,

Nolan, Smith, and Treehorn. I put Treehorn on point.

Bravo shifted off to the north side. I told them to activate

their Cross-Coms and to watch what they said—we were

being recorded.

Ramirez looked back at me, as if to say: Oh my God,

what’s happening now . . .

I just steeled my gaze and got back on the horn.

“Brown, this is Ghost Lead, over.”

“Here, Ghost Lead,” he said, as I patched into his

Cross-Com’s camera and watched them scurrying along

the foothill, climbing higher along a lip of gravel and dirt.

“Stay in touch.”

“Roger that.”

Warris didn’t know it, but Brown was in command of

that team. He would be reporting to me, and I knew

that Hume and Smith would fall in line.

Ramirez hadn’t lied. The military might have been

full of backstabbers and ass-kissers, but my men were

fiercely loyal—every last one of them. They would do

anything for me. I mean anything.

I kept close to Treehorn as we ascended, hunched over,

our computers scanning the mountainside for enemies.

154 GH OS T RE CON

Clear so far. We climbed for another fifteen minutes, mak-

ing good progress, when Treehorn called for a halt, and I

zoomed in with my camera to see the ragged depression in

the mountain, like a bruise against the stone.

“Cave entrance, right there,” reported Treehorn.

“We got one, too,” said Brown.

“I’ll report that,” cried Warris. “We’ve got a tunnel

entrance. Can’t get a good read on it, but I’m guessing

it runs deep. Could connect to your entrance, over.”

“Roger that. If we get in too deep, we might lose

contact with the satellite.”

“Understood. Recording. Let’s do it.”

I hadn’t mentioned anything to Warris about our

Cross-Coms’ being knocked out during our first night

raid, but I’d assumed he’d read it in my report. I won-

dered if being inside the tunnel would protect the gear

from whatever the Taliban was using against us.

The answer would come shortly.

As in the second we entered the caves.

It all went dead. Again. Everything. High-tech gear

reduced to crap.

We’d taken along some old MBITR radios, standard-

issue stuff as backup, and strangely enough they still

worked. Maybe they had thicker casings and were better

shielded from EMP waves or other countermeasures.

We had penlights taped to our rifles. Even as I turned

mine on, the first wave of gunfire stitched across the

mountain. They were coming at us from outside, from

above the entrance.

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155

“Move, move, move!” I screamed, driving the group

into the tunnel.

Treehorn rushed forward. He hadn’t taken along his

sniper’s rifle; instead he had a terrifically loud shotgun,

and when it boomed, sending pellets into the face of the

Taliban guy rushing toward us, I dropped to one knee

and crouched tight to the dusty rock wall at my shoulder.

“Ghost Lead, this is Brown! We are taking fire inside

and out, over!”

“Roger that,” I said. “Move in. Flush them out!”

“He’s right,” said Warris. “Let’s move in!”

Like I needed his confirmation.

The tunnel was barely two meters high, about three

meters wide, but it grew more narrow as we stepped over

the guy Treehorn had shot.

Pops and booms echoed from somewhere deep in the

tunnel, telling me that yes, Bravo team’s tunnel was, in

fact, connected to ours.

“Look at this,” said Ramirez, crouching down beside

the dead guy. In the dirt lay an odd-looking rifle with a

funnel-like barrel.

“I know what that is,” said Nolan. “HER F gun for

sure. Like EMP. High-energy radio frequency. Just what

I thought. Works better in close quarters. They must’ve

been very close when they zapped us the first time.”

“But look at this thing. Seems homemade,” said

Ramirez, lifting the gun up to his penlight.

“They didn’t make ’em up here, or even in the town,”

I said. “Somebody’s supplying them—somebody who

156 GH OS T RE CON

knows they’d need them. Like the CIA. Pack up that

gun. Let’s go!”

Ramirez shoved the gun in his backpack, and we

began to work our way along a curve that dropped

sharply. I had to hang on to the wall to prevent sliding

forward for a few meters.

Ramirez was pulling up the rear now, keeping his rifle

pointed back while shuffling to keep up with us, the thin

beams of our penlights playing like lasers over the walls.

Treehorn remained up front, ready to blast the hell

out of anyone who tried to confront us. He stole a quick

glance back at me, and I’d never seen his eyes as wide.

The sergeant was wired to the moment, and I had every

confidence in him.

“Mitchell, this is Warris. We dropped two tangos.

Picked up a gun of some sort. EMP, over.”

“Same here,” I answered. “Keep moving in, but call

out if you see our lights.”

“Roger that.”

I noticed how Warris wouldn’t refer to me as “Ghost

Lead.” What a fool . . . I wondered why he hadn’t called

Harruck to “tell on me” yet. Then I thought, he’s just a

kid and wants a little action, that’s why he’s delaying the

call. What a bigger fool!

And then, before he could say contemplate anything

else, Ramirez opened fire behind us. We hit the dirt, and I

whirled back, along with Nolan, to add our fire and drive

back a pair of fighters who vanished behind the curve.

“Keep moving!” I ordered.

“They’re still back there,” warned Ramirez.

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157

“That’s why you keep watching,” I said.

The air grew dank as we descended even farther.

Trash appeared along the walls—discarded wrappers,

even some bottles of soda, along with MREs, which had

obviously been stolen from U.S. and coalition forces.

“Looks like an intersection coming up,” said Tree-

horn. “Two tunnels.”

“Warris, do you see us?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you see an intersection?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“All right, we’re coming at you. Hold fire.”

I think we got another ten meters, maybe fifteen

before it all went to hell.

The two guys dogging us from behind attacked again,

and Nolan and Ramirez were on their bellies, cutting

loose with salvos that ricocheted off the back walls. I

dove forward, just behind Treehorn, who in turn spotted

two guys rounding a corner from the intersection.

Before they could open fire, he blasted them with his

first shot, just as Warris and Brown were coming up

behind them.

Warris clutched his leg, having caught some of the

buckshot, then looked to his right and saw something. I

lost him for a second in the shadows as his gun rattled

and then Brown appeared for a second in my light and

was as quickly lost.

But then his shout came loudly up the tunnel: “Gre

nade!”

The Taliban were suicidal fools to drop a grenade

158 GH OS T RE CON

inside the tunnel, and as Brown dove back from where

he came, the blinding flash made me blink and drop my

head. I gasped as the explosion tore through the tunnel

ahead, my ears ringing loudly, the shattering rock and

streaming sand barely discernible as debris pelted us and

Ramirez and Hume kept firing to the rear.

I lifted my head, my face already covered in dust, the

beam of the penlight thick with more dust as the ground

reverberated a second time . . . and then Brown once

more hollered, “Cave-in! Get back! Cave-in!”

FIFTEEN

I’d read some accounts of Marines and other Special

Forces operators who’d dropped into Afghanistan just

after 9/11. They’d discussed how difficult it was to flush

the enemy out of the labyrinth of caves and tunnels that

lay along the border with Pakistan. One Special Forces

operator from the storied group known as “Triple

Nickel” had described the tunnels as “great intestines of

stone” that were, in fact, “part of the innards of some

ancient warrior who’d died millennia ago.”

That was damned poetic. I would describe them as

damp, dark holes that made perfect burial grounds, like

the catacombs of Europe. They smelled and foretold of

death and were the setting of many of my nightmares.

160 GH OS T RE CON

Ramirez ceased fire, reached out, grabbed some-

thing, threw it. I realized those fools behind us had

tossed in another grenade. I didn’t know where Ramirez

got his reflexes, but I wasn’t complaining.

“Get down!” I screamed, but my order was lost in the

second explosion, this one much louder, the debris strik-

ing more fiercely as up ahead, a flurry of gunfire also vied

for my attention. Smith, Brown, and Hume were advanc-

ing toward the intersecting tunnel where the explosion

had occurred, and they were engaging more troops.

The air grew thicker as the ceiling collapsed and heavy

rocks and earth poured in from above. Ramirez rose and

began running back as pieces of the ceiling the size of

truck tires came down and split apart across the floor.

The stench of the explosives and the choking dust had

me coughing, along with the others, and my eyes burned

as I turned forward and called, “Brown? Brown?”

I couldn’t hear myself screaming through the echo of

the explosion. I finally staggered to my feet, and, drag-

ging a gloved hand along the wall for balance, I moved

forward to find Brown, Hume, and Smith about four

meters down the intersecting tunnel to my right. A wall

of rocks and sand blocked the entire path, and the guys

were covering their faces and letting their penlights play

over the obstruction.

“Where the hell’s Warris?” I asked, swinging around.

Brown shook his head.

“What?” I cried, growing even more tense. “Is he

dead?”

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161

“I don’t know. He was on the other side when the

grenade went off.”

I got on the radio, tried to call him, nothing. “Wait,”

called Smith, pressing his ear against the rock while

Ramirez and Nolan approached to cover us.

“I hear something,” Smith added. “Sounds like him!

He’s calling for help.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“All right, start digging,” I said.

“We’ll cover the back tunnel,” said Ramirez, waving

Nolan after him.

“Do it,” I said.

“Bad night,” said Brown, grabbing the first large

rock he could find and groaning as he lifted and threw it

aside. “Very bad night.”

“We’ll be here for hours,” said Smith. “And they’re

probably massing for us outside.”

“We’ll need backup,” Brown said.

“You guys are right,” I said. “Go back down there,

tell that private we need a digging team out here and

two rifle squads. Then get right back.”

As they were about to leave, Ramirez and Nolan

opened fire on the tunnel ahead, and I remembered only

then that all other exits had been blocked by the cave-

ins. There was only one way out.

Brown realized it as well and said, “Guess, we ain’t

going anywhere . . . yet!”

“All right, everybody, mask up!” I said. I didn’t like

162 GH OS T RE CON

it, especially within the confines of the tunnel, but the

Taliban guys were ready for us, so we had no choice. I

fished out a couple of CS gas canisters and let them fly

down the tunnel.

We waited as the gas hissed into a thick fog, and then

we rushed forward, enveloped in the smoke, Brown and

Smith covering our rear, Treehorn and Ramirez up front.

“How deep does this go?” I said aloud, though no one

could hear me. We ventured on at least another hundred

meters, then turned to our left and saw an opening and

the faint stars beyond.

Treehorn and Ramirez moved up front and signaled

to me that they’d check it out.

I gave them a thumbs-up and kept back with the oth-

ers. They reached the opening, a narrow leaf-shaped

break in the stone, and shifted warily forward. Both men

vanished for a second, then Ramirez ducked back inside

and waved us on.

We emerged on the mountainside facing Sangsar, and

all the booming from inside the mountain had not gone

unnoticed. Lights burned from the houses nearest the

wall, and two pickup trucks loaded with Taliban were

already bouncing across the desert, en route to us. I

ripped off my mask, as did the others, and then said,

“There’s got to be another entrance. Warris must be

looking for it, too.”

I whirled around, faced the ridgeline, got my bear-

ings, and waved the rest of the team up, toward a cluster

of outcroppings that looked promising.

CO MB AT O P S

163

We got there in a hurry—because several Taliban had

already reached the ridge just below us and had opened

fire. With dirt popping at our knees and making us gri-

mace, we reached a broad wall of stone and ducked

behind it. I waved my team on, one after another, and

we all huddled behind the rock.

“We got a problem,” said Ramirez. “Even if we find

the other entrance, we already know it’s a dead end. And

if we all go in there, they could pin us down, drop in

some grenades, and that ruins my plans to marry a super-

model.”

“Mine, too,” said Smith with a wink.

“All right, Joey, me and you go up and look for the

entrance,” I told Ramirez. “The rest of you set up here

along the rocks. See if you can hold them for a just a

couple of minutes.”

I rushed forward with Ramirez on my heels. We

ascended through a steep passage that reminded me of a

vacation I’d taken to go hiking in Sedona, Arizona.