Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Ramirez spotted the tunnel exit before I saw it, and we

both came across the top of the next outcropping and

headed toward a narrow seam in the rock. We got within

ten meters when a Taliban fighter appeared.

Again, Ramirez put his lightning-fast reflexes to work

and gunned down the guy before I could blink. We

rushed forward now, coming around him, and came up

on both sides of the entrance. I looked at him, raised

three fingers. On three, two, one—

We rolled away from the wall and rushed inside, him

164 GH OS T RE CON

dropping to one knee to shoot low, me on my feet,

standing tall to strike high.

And there, standing before us, like a lost puppy, was

Warris’s private, the kid who’d driven him up to the

mountain. He clutched his pistol and just looked at us,

trembling. He had to be just eighteen, and thinking

about buying his first shaving kit . . .

“Dude, what the hell are you doing here?” asked

Ramirez.

He lowered his weapon. “I heard the shooting. I

came up to help.”

“You had orders to stay there,” I said.

“Didn’t seem like anybody was obeying orders.”

I snickered. “What’s your name?”

“It’s right here on my uniform.”

I ripped off the Velcro-attached name patch and read

the word: Hendrickson, then shoved the patch back at

him. “All right, junior, you just got promoted to Special

Forces. Did you see Captain Warris on your way in here?”

“No, sir.”

I cursed. “But this tunnel cuts through the moun-

tain?”

“It does, sir.”

“Any bad guys in there?”

He almost laughed. “Not when I came through, sir.”

“All right.” I was about to turn back to Ramirez

when a series of explosions rocked the mountain, and

just a few seconds later the rest of the team came sprint-

ing up toward the entrance.

A breathless Nolan reported, “RPGs. They’re moving

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165

in fast. We need to move now! Got twenty or thirty

coming up. It’s going to get hairy, boss.”

“Gotcha. Everybody? This is Private Hendrickson. He’s

in charge. Where do we go to get out of here, Private?”

The kid looked around and nearly passed out from

the weight I’d just dumped on his shoulders. After

blinking hard he finally said, “Follow me.”

We dropped in behind him, as the shouts of the Tal-

iban rose behind us. Ramirez set two more CS canisters

just outside the entrance to delay them, while Brown

and Smith hung back to plant a small amount of C-4 on

a remote detonator, which they confirmed still worked.

Once they rejoined us about fifty meters down the

tunnel, they detonated the charges. Twin thunderclaps

shook the walls around us, and I imagined a cave-in that

would help in our escape.

We came around another long curve and reached an

intersecting tunnel. “You go down there?” I asked Ghost

Leader Hendrickson.

“No, sir.”

“Ramirez?” I called. “The rest of you hold here.”

We hustled down the intersecting tunnel, which grew

so narrow at one point that we had to turn sideways just

to pass through. Then it opened back up and filtered

into a broad chamber. To our left was a pile of rocks and

dirt—the cave-in where Warris had been. We were on

the other side now. No sign of him. My light played over

the floor. Nothing. No evidence.

“Well, he ain’t here,” groaned Ramirez.

I tried calling Warris on the radio again. No answer.

166 GH OS T RE CON

Consequently, I stood there, wiping dirt off my nose

and cheeks. “How am I going to explain this shit?”

“When we get out, we need to get on the same page,”

Ramirez said. “And we need to buy the kid.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“He overheard everything. He’s a problem.”

“Whoa, Joey.”

“Scott, Harruck wants to burn you. Warris is MIA.

This is way out of control.”

“I know. Let’s just get out of here, then we’ll talk to

the kid.”

“All right, but what happens if he decides to burn

us, too?”

“We’re not going to do anything to him. Don’t even

imply that, all right?”

“If you say so . . .”

We returned to the intersection, where Treehorn told

me he’d heard voices from the tunnel behind us. The

C-4 had not sealed up the tunnel, damn it. The Taliban

were climbing over the debris and coming.

“Get some more ready,” I told him. “We’ll blow

the exit.”

The group charged forward, with the kid leading the

way. He burst through the exit and quickly turned left,

coming along a very steep ridge, where he almost lost his

balance and tumbled down the mountainside. For a

dark moment, I wished he had.

Treehorn and Brown planted the charges. We rushed

along the ridge and ducked behind a jagged section of

rock that shielded us up to our shoulders.

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167

“Just wait for the first guy because you know the rest

are right behind him,” I said.

Too late. Three guys came bursting out of the entrance,

and while Ramirez and Nolan took them out, Brown trig-

gered the explosives. A chute of rock-filled smoke lifted as

the deep boom resounded, the vibration working its way

into my boots.

“Aw, hell,” said Smith, pointing up at the ridge lines

high above the cave.

At least twenty or more fighters had already cleared

the summit and were coming down. They obviously

knew a shortcut to get up there, and as they ascended

they opened fire on us, the incoming dropping like hail

and forcing us tight against the rocks.

About fifteen meters to my left were Ramirez and the

kid, huddled against the rock. And I’ll never forget how

it all looked—

The silhouettes of my two men as Ramirez popped

up from behind cover and cut loose with two salvos

from his own AK-47 . . .

The lightning-bug flashes of muzzles drawing a jag-

ged line across the mountain . . .

And the next moment, as I blinked and looked again

at Ramirez, who pulled back from the rock, fired up at

the Taliban again, then turned his rifle on Private Hen-

drickson.

My mouth opened.

I thought for a second that Ramirez had seen me.

Everyone else was engaging the enemy now, complete

chaos all around us, with only me, the conscience of our

168 GH OS T RE CON

team, shouldering the stone and watching as Ramirez

pulled the trigger and put three rounds in the private’s

back, dropping him instantly.

He immediately huddled to the rock and screamed,

“He’s hit! Hendrickson is down! Nolan! I need a medic!

Medic right now!”

I dodged over to Ramirez’s position and rolled the

kid onto his side. He didn’t move. I checked for a carotid

pulse. No, he was dead.

“I’m sorry. I tried to cover him.”

I was beginning to lose my breath.

My men were fiercely loyal, all right.

Agonizingly loyal.

Another spate of incoming drove both of us to the

rock, and Ramirez faced me with a blank stare.

SIX TEEN

I thought I knew everything about Master Sergeant Joe

Ramirez. His parents had emigrated from Mexico and

had held fast to the old ways. They’d raised him in North

Hollywood, California, and had kept him on the straight

and narrow path. He was a devout Catholic, an altar boy,

a Boy Scout.

In his teenaged years he’d become a computer hacker

and had almost gotten busted for identity theft, but he’d

been taken under the wing of a detective who’d per-

suaded him to join the Army. His older brother Enrique

had enlisted, and I’d met him—nice guy, quiet

demeanor, and a good soldier, as reported by many of

his superiors. Ramirez followed in his footsteps.

It wasn’t long before he was tapped for Special Forces,

170 GH OS T RE CON

and he now had more experience in Afghanistan than

any of us. Two tours as an Army Ranger plus some shorter

ops. Old man Gordon had handpicked the kid himself to

become a member of the Ghosts, and Ramirez had done

a great job when I’d taken him to Waziristan and, later

on, into China. He was one of the most levelheaded

guys I’d ever served with and the last person on earth I’d

thought capable of murder. He was the epitome of an

outstanding soldier.

And he’d become my good friend.

“Joey.” I gasped.

“I’ll get him out of here,” he said. “Just have them

cover me. I can see the Hummer down there!”

Before I could do anything, he scooped up Hen-

drickson’s body and started shakily down the mountain.

Nolan came running up and cried, “Wait!” He was already

sloughing off his medic’s pack.

“Too late,” I said. Then I raised my voice. “Every-

body, fall back! Fall back! Let’s go!”

We started a serpentine descent, following the ridge

lines and those areas where the outcroppings provided

some slight cover from the Taliban behind us.

Treehorn and Brown covered our withdrawal, retreat-

ing only when they spotted a guy shouldering an RPG.

They vacated their position only seconds before the

rocket struck, heaving fiery flashes and pulverized rock.

At the foot of the hills we were met with a curious

sight: About a half dozen Afghan National Army troops

had driven up in a truck, and beside them was Bronco.

He waved me over and cried, “Let’s go, Joe!”

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171

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“We’re the cavalry. We’ll cover you.”

“How’d you know we were out here?”

He rolled his eyes, then climbed back into the truck

as the Army troops dropped to the ditches and began

firing on the advancing Taliban.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“I like it when people owe me,” he said.

The rest of my guys came darting over and, using Bron-

co’s truck for cover, returned a few more salvos before

breaking off to make one last run for the Hummer.

Two more vehicles pulled up, a big Bradley and

another Hummer, and rifle squads bolted out: the secu-

rity team from the construction site.

I talked to the sergeant there, handed over the fight,

and jogged back to the Hummer. The earlier wounds in

my leg began throbbing again.

Harruck confronted me before I could climb out of the

Hummer.

I barely heard what he was barking about. I just spoke

over him: “Warris was cut off from us during a cave-in and

he’s missing. He might’ve been captured by the Taliban.”

“Say again?”

I did. His jaw fell open, then: “Well, isn’t that god-

damned convenient for you!”

“My mission is to capture Zahed. I can and will do

that without interference. Our mission tonight was com-

pletely within my rights.”

172 GH OS T RE CON

“I sent him up there to relieve you of command.”

“I know. But we got attacked.” Not exactly a lie. Not

the full truth, either. “His driver was also killed on the

way out of there.”

“And what did you gain?”

I looked back to the Hummer, and Nolan got out,

carrying one of the HER F guns.

“This is how they’ve been knocking out our Cross-

Coms. Also, I’ll be sending you a rough map of the tun-

nel complex they’ve got up there. We need a team to

blow it up, otherwise they’ll plan their offensive against

your school and police station.”

He studied the HER F gun, then faced me. “Are you

really trying to help me?”

“Simon, I understand where you’re coming from. I

don’t have to like it. With the all crap going down in

Helmand, I bet Gordon can’t spare another guy to come

out to relieve me. If they got Warris, you need to let me

work on that, work on taking out Zahed.”

“And we’re back to square one, with you stirring up

the nest and me crying foul.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I’ll be filing my report.

You can read it. You can suggest I’m relieved of com-

mand all you want. But I’ll fight you all the way. Keating

knows I get results. Hard to argue with that.”

I turned around and walked back toward the truck

before he could reply.

At the comm center, Colonel Gordon told me that

they’d received a good signal from Warris’s GFTC. Every

Ghost operator had a Green Force Tracker Chip embedded

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173

beneath his arm. The GFTCs were part of the Identifica-

tion, Friend or Foe (IFF) system so we knew who was

who on the battlefield. Warris was being moved, but the

colonel said that Warris’s chip suddenly went dead. Either

they’d taken him to a deep cave where the signal was

blocked, or they’d cut the chip out of his arm and found

a way to deactivate it. If they knew about our Cross-

Coms, they might’ve known about our chips . . .

Back in our billet, I collapsed onto my rack and just lay

there a moment, staring at the curved metal ceiling. The

guys were removing gear, groaning about aches and

pains, and recounting moments from the battle. I glanced

over at Ramirez, who was sitting on his bunk, shirtless,

with his face buried in his palms.

We both knew the talk was coming.

But all I wanted to do at that moment was sleep. So I

draped an arm over my eyes and found myself back in

the tunnels, as Warris confronted me with a band of

Taliban at his shoulders.

“See, Scott, you never know who’s working for who.

I work for the Taliban. And so does Harruck. In fact,

the whole Army’s in bed with them, everyone except

you. You’re the only idiot who didn’t get the memo.”

I wrote my report in the morning, hating myself with

every word I typed. I lied about the time of the attack and

about me resisting Warris’s attempts to take my command.

174 GH OS T RE CON

But more important, I lied about Private Thomas Hen-

drickson’s death. He’d been shot point-blank in the back,

but no one would question that. An AK-47 had been

used, and seasoned Special Forces operators were vowing

that the kid had been in the wrong place at the wrong

time. Hendrickson was a private, a cherry, with barely any

experience. That he’d gotten killed would hardly raise a

brow. I couldn’t help but do some morbid research on the

kid. And what I’d learned just broke my heart.

After a few conversations with the others, I felt cer-

tain that no one else had seen Ramirez shoot the kid.

At breakfast, Ramirez avoided me like the plague,

and then, afterward, I asked him to join me on a ride up

to see the construction site.

Oh, he knew it was coming.

“Maybe we should talk about this elephant in the

desert,” he said.

I couldn’t help but snort. “The elephant? You mean

the one being ridden by a murderer?”

He slammed the door on the Hummer, and I drove.

We left the main gate and headed about halfway down

the desert road, and then I pulled off to the side, and we

just sat there in the growing heat. I was reminded of the

times when my dad was mad at me and would take me

out for a drive and a talk. In fact, it dawned on me only

then that I was doing the same thing . . .

After breakfast, I’d put in a call to my sister and

brothers and was still waiting to hear back on Dad’s con-

dition. I could only pray for an improvement.

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175

“Scott, before you say anything, can I talk?” Ramirez’s

voice was already cracking.

“Go ahead.”

“As soon as you started having problems with Har-

ruck, he came to me and Matt, set up a conference call

between us and the battalion commander. Basically,

they were trying to recruit us as spies and allies. They

were trying to convince us that our mission was going to

do more harm than good here.”

I chuckled darkly. “I’m not surprised.”

“You know what we told them to do with that

offer . . .”

“Good.”

“But still, they put a lot pressure on us. I don’t think

Matt ever caved in, but I know they’re gunning for you

and gunning hard. Not sure if you’ve made an enemy

upstairs or what, but I started thinking that maybe this

whole mission to get Zahed is just a way for them to get

rid of you.”

“Whoa, now you’re getting paranoid.”

“Scott, I don’t think I could do this without you. If

you’re gone, I’d just drop out of the Ghosts. I would. I

wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

“That’s crazy. But Joey, listen. None of this is justify-

ing what you did—and do you really understand what

you did?”

He lowered his head. And my God, he began to cry.

Special Forces operators never say quit. And we cer-

tainly do our best NOT to cry.

176 GH OS T RE CON

“He was going to burn us,” he said. “I could tell. I

just snapped. And I did it.”

“Did you know anything about him? About how his

dad fought in the first Gulf War, about how he’d come

from a long line of military guys? Did you know he had

a girlfriend who’s pregnant?”

Ramirez shook his head, turning away from me to

sink his head deeper into his hands.

“You know, being in Special Forces is one thing. But

we were chosen to be in the Ghosts because we don’t

just talk about the tenets of being a great soldier, we live

by them. We live by the creed. And I quote, ‘I will not

fail those with whom I serve. I will not bring shame

upon myself or the forces.’ ”

I guess hearing myself say those words was a little

too much to bear. I screamed at the top of my lungs,

“JESUS CHRIST, JOEY! JESUS CHRIST! WHAT

THE HELL DID YOU DO?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! Please don’t turn me in.

I got nothing else. You know that. This is my entire life.

Scott, please . . .”

“I lied in my report. Do you realize the position

you’ve put me in? I need to call Gordon and tell him you

killed that kid to protect me.”

He backhanded tears from his eyes, then looked at me,

trying to catch his breath. “Why do you need to do that?”

“Because I swore an oath. Because you swore an oath.”

“If you go to them, they’ll make me talk. They’ll

make me tell everything. You refused to be relieved.

That’ll come out. And we’ll both be burned.”

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177

“I know.”

“Then what the hell, Scott?”

“Joey, I just can’t believe any of this . . .”

“How about I make it easier for you to stay quiet. You

can blame it all on me. I’m telling you right now, that if

you turn me in, you’ll be hanging from the rope next to

me. I’ll make sure of that, not because I want revenge, but

because you’re too damned good of a leader for the Ghosts

to lose. Don’t you get it, Scott? I killed a guy for you! You

can’t just throw your life away now! I killed a guy!”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I really don’t. I

thought I had enough going on already. I didn’t expect

this. Not from you, Joey. Not from you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell that to the kid’s family.”

SEVENTEEN

We returned to the road and reached the construction

site about ten minutes later. A tent village had been

erected behind the half-built school, and there I noted

about twenty or thirty children seated in neat rows on

blankets and listening as two teachers took turns read-

ing to them. The kids were surprisingly attentive, still

wiping their noses and scratching themselves, but their

gazes were fixed on the storytellers. Many of them had

no shoes or simply thick socks. The boys wore short hair

and the girls had scarves draped over their heads. Chalk-

boards stood on easels, and several small tables held

other props like balls, water pitchers, and clay pots. Plas-

tic crates brimmed with dusty, weather-beaten books.

In truth I’d gone to the site in part because I thought I

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179

might run into Anderson again. I needed a pretty face to

help temper all the ugliness around me. She was watching

a group of laborers erect the walls of the school on the

broad concrete foundation. Just behind her stood the

sandbagged machine gun nests my team had helped build.

“I’m glad you’re getting a chance to see them,” said

Anderson, turning toward me and gesturing to the tent

full of children.

“I assume they’ll have desks, once they move inside . . .”

“Yes, they will. These kids need a sense of dignity.

And we’ll give that to them. We’ve made a great deal

here. We train the teachers and provide the educational

materials if the community provides us with those teach-

ers. And we’re trying to recruit more girls to the classes,

at least thirty percent for us to receive full funding from

some of my sources.”

“The Taliban doesn’t want girls educated,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter what they want. It’s what the peo-

ple want. And if the Taliban know what’s good for them,

they’ll follow the example of some of the other villages

up north. This works. I’ve seen it.”

“It works until we leave. And hey, you haven’t called

me about these guys turning over their paychecks to the

Taliban.”

“I know. I think they know I’m watching them, and

they’ve become more discreet. But it’s going on, I know it.”

“All part of the great legacy we’re building here.”

She hoisted a brow and looked me dead in the eye.

“When Harruck told me about trying to build a legacy,

do you know what I told him?”

180 GH OS T RE CON

“That he’s dreaming?” I guessed.

“No, that it’s obvious: This school is the legacy. But

we need to protect it. We need to train the police and

whatever National Army troops we can get here.”

“We’ve already done what we can,” I said, gesturing to

the sandbagged nests and the observation posts beyond. I

lifted the binoculars hanging around my neck and panned

the horizon, coming to a stop on a cluster of Taliban

fighters, at least ten of them, perched on the mountain-

side, watching us. Our machine gunners were watching

them, too.

“No, that’s not enough. We need more police, more

Afghan Army troops. We need a garrison here. We need

police to patrol the town.”

“Talk to Harruck.”

“I already did. I’m talking to you.”

“Why do you think that’ll make a difference? You

don’t even know who I am . . .”

She smiled as if she did. She couldn’t. Unless, there

was much more to her than met the eye.

“I know who heis,” she said, gesturing toward an old

white sedan that was rumbling toward us, its hood caked

in dust, its windshield wipers still working to clear away

more dust. Bronco was behind the wheel. She contin-

ued: “I know you guys talk.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss this any further.”

“I’m just telling you, please . . . help us.” She gave me

a curt nod, and Ramirez and I stepped away as Bronco

parked near the school tent and climbed out.

“You’re not looking for me, are you?” I asked.

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181

“I figured you’d be looking for me. Buy me flowers.

Something for saving your ass,” he said.

I wished I could tell him my ass was far from saved.

“What’re you doing out here?” I asked.

“Saw you. Figured I’d let you know about your

buddy.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“They captured one of your men. I heard about it. I

talked to a few of my contacts in Sangsar. They’ve got

him. I’m sure you’ll hear from them soon.”

I glanced over at Ramirez, who just shook his head

and sighed.

Though I hate to admit it now, when Bronco said he

had news concerning “our buddy,” I’d hoped that Warris

had been killed. That’s a terrible thing to wish on the

man, but that was how I felt.

And I just knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that

Keating would want me to rescue Warris, the very man

who would burn me at the stake when we got back.

“All right, thanks for the info,” I told Bronco. “Always

nice doing business with the friendly neighborhood

spook. And now, what is it you want from us, because I

know you want something.”

He smiled—an unfortunate grin that revealed his

aversion to modern dentistry. “I want HER F guns. You

came back with two of them, didn’t you?”

“Classified,” I said.

“I need one.”

“Too late. Already turned them over to Army intel.”

He looked away. “Damn it.”

182 GH OS T RE CON

“So that’s why you’re here?”

“Among other things. We’ve got some Chinese agents

in Sangsar. They’re supplying the HERF guns.”

“You got proof?”

“I got it. But hard evidence is always better. It allows

me to more definitively make a move. It allows me to

have my three-letter agency call your agency and get the

job done right.”

I nodded. “Assholes or allies. Hard to tell the differ-

ence sometimes . . .”

“That it is.”

“How come you’re willing to play nice all of a sudden?”

“Because now it benefits me. What else you need to

know?”

“Just where my guy is and where I can find Zahed . . .”

“I’ll get back to you on those . . .” He winked and

hobbled back toward his car. Only then did I notice his

limp and the deep scar running across his ankle. What I

didn’t notice, though, were all the lies he’d just told me.

He could’ve won an Oscar for that performance.

I dropped off Ramirez back at the base, then headed over

to Harruck’s office. I was about to open the door to enter

the Quonset hut when I noticed a car parked outside and

an old man, a local from Senjaray I figured, unloading

luggage from the trunk. I opened the door, stepped inside,

and just as the door was closing behind me—

A thundering explosion rattled the walls followed by

the pinging of debris.

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183

Ahead was Harruck, seated at his desk, talking to a

dignified-looking man with gray beard and expensive-

looking Afghan clothes. I assumed he was a government

official of some sort, and I was correct.

As Harruck and the other man shouted behind me, I

took a deep breath, then slipped back outside.

The car had exploded, the man removing the luggage

lying in pieces across the dirt, the flames still pouring up

from the shattered windows. I raised an arm against the

intense heat as Harruck’s security people were scream-

ing and rushing to get fire extinguishers.

Harruck came out behind me and screamed orders to

his people, while the older man hollered in Pashto, then

covered his eyes and began speaking so rapidly that I

barely understood a word.

We watched as Harruck’s teams began putting out

the fire, and the black smoke sent signals to the Taliban

in the mountains and everyone in Senjaray—indeed,

something had happened on the American base.

Harruck ushered the old man back into his office,

and I entered behind them. The old man collapsed into

his chair and tried to catch his breath. His eyes brimmed

with tears.

Harruck glowered at me and said, “Well, Scott, this

is obviously not the time for you and I to talk.”

“I understand.” In Pashto, I said to the old man,

“I’m very sorry about this.”

He answered in English. “They must’ve rigged my

car on a timer. And I guess it went off too late. They are

amateurs, the men who are trying to kill me.”

184 GH OS T RE CON

“Who are they?” I asked.

“The same people you are trying to help.”

I looked at Harruck, who rolled his eyes. “Scott, this

is Naimut Gul, the district governor.”

“Sir, I wish we could have met under different cir-

cumstances.”

“My driver was a very good man. Highly trusted.”

He shuddered and rubbed the corners of his eyes.

“Governor, if you’ll just give me a moment to speak

with him?” Harruck asked.

Gul nodded. “And now, Captain, I think you fully

understand what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Harruck motioned me back outside, where we walked

around to the pathway between huts. The officers’ bar-

racks lay to our right, and one of the guys had designed

a little putting green in the middle of the desert, an

oasis of sorts that Harruck pointed to and said, “See

that? Crazy right here in the desert, right? Well, that’s

what I got right now, with that fool inside my office.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Everybody in the district hates the guy. He’s former

Taliban, and he’s been extorting these people for years.

He’s a crime lord with ties to the opium trade, but he’s

still in tight with the government, and higher now tells

me it’s my job to protect him. He’s moving his office onto

our base. And you know what? Everybody wants this guy

dead: the Taliban, the people here, even some guys in the

government because they know what a scumbag he is.”

“So you’re not having a good day. Join the club.”

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185

“Scott, I might need your help here.”

I almost laughed. “What?”

“If this guy sets up shop here, we’ll be painting an

even bigger target on our backs.”

“But you got orders to protect him—just like I got

orders to capture or kill Zahed. By the way, I ran into

Bronco. His contacts confirm that the Taliban have War-

ris. I’ll be taking that up to higher in a few minutes.”

“That’s what I thought. And now I’m thinking about

a trade—not one that higher ever knows about.”

“What?”

Harruck lowered his voice even more. “The Taliban

would love to get their hands on Gul. What if we trade

him for Warris? We just make it look like the governor

got kidnapped.”

“Are you serious?”

Harruck spun around, cursed, then whirled back. “I

don’t know what I am anymore, Scott. I really don’t.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this guy?”

“Just do your job.”

“No one makes that easy—especially you. I read your

report.”

“Then you know if we can’t get air support, I’ll be

organizing my team to head back into the mountains

and blow up that tunnel complex. We need to destroy

that in order to better protect the school.”

“Are we really on the same page?”

“I don’t even know if our pages are in the same book,

but those tunnels need to go. And if you got a problem

with that, you’d better let me know right now.”

186 GH OS T RE CON

“That man sitting in my office is my bigger problem.

Blow up the tunnels, Scott. Screw it. Blow ’em all up . . .”

I stood outside the communications hut, just watching

Harruck’s guys deal with the burning car and begin

cleaning up the mess. That the captain’s people had not

done a bomb search of the car before it had passed

through the main gate was odd. I walked over to the

gate and questioned the guys, who told me they had

orders from Harruck to waive the search and not delay

the governor’s arrival—a mistake made by the young

captain. That car should’ve been left on our perimeter,

and the governor should’ve been transferred into a

Hummer and transported to Harruck’s office. Oh, but

that was so inconvenient. I’m sure security would

tighten now that Harruck had his 20/20 hindsight.

After leaving the gate, I found it harder to drag myself

back to the comm hut. I couldn’t get the images of

Ramirez killing the kid out of my mind. And I kept

shuddering as the shots rang out and the kid fell back.

I kept seeing that blank stare on Ramirez’s face.

And I kept wondering what I looked like. What

expression had he seen on my face? I couldn’t remember

how I’d reacted.

And then I began playing over his rationale, hearing

him tell me again and again that he’d killed for me and

that he’d saved our careers. The more I thought about

that, the more the paranoia filled my chest cavity like

blood. I knew Ramirez was worried sick about me

CO MB AT O P S

187

taking what he’d done to higher. Yes, I’d lied in my

report. But that still didn’t mean I wouldn’t bring it up,

fall on my own sword with him, and end both of our

careers because it was the morally correct thing to do.

My own sense of guilt would fuel his paranoia.

And because that doubt had to be in his head, I won-

dered if maybe, just maybe, I might be a target. I was

the only witness to what he’d done, and if I “died in