“It’s all right. Thanks.”
“You should have told us. You need to go home. You need to pay your respects.”
“Would that make it easier for you?”
He tensed, glanced away a moment, then faced me. “Forget all this bullshit. I’m talking to you as a friend.”
“I thought our friendship was over.”
“I’m trying to keep this professional. Not personal.”
I couldn’t repress my sigh of disgust. “Good luck with that. Well, thanks for coming out, then.”
“So, you’re not taking a leave?”
I snorted. “I e-mailed my brother. I’ve already told him I can’t come.”
“You’re putting this in front of your father’s funeral? Are you sure? Are you sure you won’t regret this for the rest of your life?”
“Simon, I lost a guy here. I’ve got another guy who was captured. One of your men got killed while up there with me. I’ve got a young captain trying to help a village. I just can’t walk away now. I won’t regret it. My family understands. My dad would understand.”
He took a deep breath, gave a curt nod. “All right.
Good luck, then.”
I’d missed more births, birthdays, anniversaries, holi days, and even funerals than I could remember. It didn’t get any easier. In fact, it got harder, and every time I spoke to my brothers or my sister on the phone, I had to reassure myself that the life I’d chosen was the right one because the distance between me and “the real world” grew larger every year.
And yes, I’d lied to Harruck. My brothers and sister would not understand. They would never tell me, but I could see it in their eyes, quite clearly. My sister once told me that I never did anything for myself. That wasn’t
true. But as I stood there, watching Harruck go, I couldn’t help but resent some of the sacrifices, and I sur rendered to the guilt of not attending my father’s funeral because yes, I’d put my job first. I’d given a lot to the Army, to the Ghosts, but missing Dad’s funeral . . . maybe that was too much.
We hitched a ride aboard one of the supply Chinooks, and we had that pilot drop us off about a kilometer east of the mountains. We set down in a well-protected valley not far from our FARP (Forward Arming and Resupply Point), used by gunships, Blackhawks, and Chinooks alike, so our bird was not a curious sight in that zone. We would hike in with less chance of being detected by Taliban fighters posted along cliffs that overlooked the village. Their gazes would be trained on the more obvi ous lines of approach, and we’d be coming up on their flank.
Ramirez and I wore the two Cross-Coms so we could easily detect friend from foe, but the others were blind because of the last HERF gun blast, so our Alpha and Bravo teams would need to stick together. Treehorn, our one-man Charlie “team” and sniper, would be posted outside the main exit tunnel we’d chosen, ready to pick off anyone who pursued us. We chose not to wear body armor to move more swiftly through the tunnels. Again, my plan was to avoid all enemy contact.
Yes, that was the plan. Would it survive the first enemy contact? Of course not.
A remarkably cool breeze tugged at our turbans and
shemaghs
, and if you spotted us hiking along the ridges, you would swear we were drug smugglers or Taliban.
Ramirez was more quiet than usual, but I think he appreciated my business-as-usual attitude, even if it was a disguise. The mission took priority. We both knew that.
But I would still keep a sharp eye on him. He led Jen kins, Hume, and Brown, and I’d told Brown in private that because Joey wasn’t feeling good I wanted him to look after the sergeant. He said he would.
I kept Smith and Nolan close, and as we approached the first cave entrance after about sixty minutes of rug ged and slow climbing, I sent off Bravo team to the sec ond entrance, about a quarter kilometer west of ours and located about two hundred meters higher up the mountain. The caves and adjoining tunnels were roughly shaped like two letter Ys attached at their bases, with pairs of entrances on either side of the mountain. When my team got into the first tunnel and reached the cave area where Warris had been cut off, our lights revealed a fresh passage dug through the debris.
“Ghost Lead, this is Treehorn. I’m in position, over.” “Roger that. What do you got out there?” “Nothing. Not even any guards. Weird.”
“All right, hang on.”
I gestured for Smith and Nolan to start planting the first set of charges, while I crept off farther down the tunnel, toward the starlight at the end of the jagged seam in the rock. I paused at the edge and stole a look
into the valley below. Sangsar lay in the distance, a few lights flickering, the majority of the homes blanketed in deep shadows.
Warris was down there, somewhere, perhaps in some dank basement, being questioned, having battery cables attached to his genitalia, having insects shoved in his ears. Was he man enough to keep his mouth shut? Was he willing to die for his country? Had I taught him enough?
I grinned over a strange thought. Maybe his hatred for me would help keep him alive. He’d tell himself,
I need to survive this so I can burn the bastard responsible
. I accepted that. And even wondered, were I to rescue him, if he would change his mind, keep quiet, tell me that was his thank you for pulling him out of hell. But no, the world was hardly that simple, and Warris’s moral high ground was pretty damned high. Rescue or not, he’d want to hang me.
“Ghost Lead, this is Blue Six, in position, over.” “Roger that, Blue Six, stand by,” I told the Bradley
commander. Harruck had come through and our ride home was waiting.
I slipped just outside the cave and pulled up the satel lite imagery in my HUD. The monocle covering one of my eyes flashed as the data came through.
Glowing yellow lines that represented the series of caves and tunnels moved through a wireframe image of the mountain chain. The diamonds indicating Bravo team flickered on and off, and the signal grew weaker the deeper they moved. That I even got some signal was surprising. So far, no red diamonds within the moun tain or outside.
Had Zahed just called back all of his guards? Were they all just tired? Why had they left the tunnels com pletely unprotected?
My hackles began to rise, and that smell I detected was not the dampness of the tunnel but an ambush.
“Ghost Team, this is Ghost Lead. I don’t like this. No defenses here. Plant your charges and let’s get the hell out as fast as we can.”
“Roger that,” said Ramirez.
I was beginning to lose my breath. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I ran down the tunnel, back to where Smith and Nolan were working.
“Are we set?”
Nolan looked up at me. “Remotes good to go. Need to finish up at the entrance where you just were.”
“All right, let’s go,” I said.
“Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez! I just got out of my tunnel. Scanning the village now. They got mortar teams setting up just outside the wall. They got tipped off again!”
Just as we reached our exit, a shell hit the mountain just above us, the roar deafening, a landslide of rock and dirt beginning to plummet. “Back inside! Ghost Team! Fall back! Fall back!”
Two more shells struck the mountainside, the ground quaking beneath our feet, the ceiling cracking here and there. The bastards would seal up the caves for us—but their plan was, of course, to bury us alive.
“Ghost Lead, this is Treehorn! The Bradley has come under attack. I don’t know where they came from! They might’ve been buried in the sand the entire time! They got at least twenty guys down there! More in the moun tains coming down. Should I engage?”
“Negative, negative! Don’t give up your position yet!” I cried.
He’d said more were coming down from the moun tains. Why hadn’t the satellite picked them up and fed that data into my Cross-Com? Was it just interference from the terrain?
I gritted my teeth and led Nolan and Smith back to the main tunnel and exit. As we neared the intersection where the cave-in had occurred, shouting echoed, and I threw myself against the side wall, with the guys just behind me, then rolled to the left, my rifle at the ready, as two Taliban fighters came through the newly dug passage through the cave-in. I gunned both of them down before I could finish taking a breath.
They hit the ground—and so did a grenade tossed at us from their comrades on the other side.
As I turned back, I raised my palm, screaming for the guys to hit the deck. We all started toward the floor as the grenade exploded behind us, the concussion echo ing, and what sounded like a million tiny rock fragments pelted my clothes—
Just as I crashed onto my belly.
The terrible and expected ringing in my ears came on suddenly, and when I looked up, I couldn’t see anything. I lost my breath. I thought maybe I’d died, but then I
realized my turban had fallen down across my face. I shoved it up, rose, and found hands pulling me to my feet.
“You okay?” Smith asked, his angular face creased deeply with worry. I couldn’t hear him; I’d just read his lips.
I indicated that my ears were ringing. He nodded and mouthed the same thing. Nolan was next to him, wav ing us onward as he drew a grenade from the web gear hidden beneath his shirt. He tossed the grenade down the intersecting hall, and we all bolted ahead as the sec onds ticked by and the grenade exploded, just as we neared the more narrow exit.
And two Taliban fighters rolled toward us, rushing in from outside.
Nolan was on point and opened up on them, but they’d started firing as well, their rounds ricocheting off the ceiling just past us. Smith and I, caught in the back, had no choice but to drop away. We couldn’t fire with Nolan in our way.
The gunfire was strangely muffled but growing louder as my hearing began to return.
With arms flailing, the two fighters fell on top of each other.
Nolan turned back to me, his eyes wide. Then he just collapsed himself.
“Cover us!” I shouted to Smith, then rose and rushed to Nolan. I slowly rolled him over onto his back. He looked okay. I began to pull back his shirt, and then I spotted them, one near his shoulder, and one much lower, near his heart. Nolan’s trademark spectacles had been knocked to the side of his head, and he was blink ing hard, trying to see.
The blood was gushing now as he struggled for breath, and I struggled to get past his web gear.
“In my pack, I got some big four-by-four gauze,” he said between gasps.
I ripped off my
shemagh
and shoved it beneath the web gear and applied pressure. My first instinct was to get on the Cross-Com and shout, “Nolan, got a man down!”
“Captain, tell John not to feel bad. Tell ’em we’re buddies forever. Okay?”
“I will, Alex,” I said, applying more pressure as he began to shiver violently.
Nolan was referring to John Hume; they’d become best friends, fighting hard and playing hard. Guys would tease them about being “too close,” but they were more like brothers. I knew losing Nolan would crush Hume. Crush him.
Smith, who was up near the exit, suddenly ducked back inside as gunfire ripped across the stone where he’d been standing. “We are so pinned down here.”
I was about to answer when another mortar round struck far down the tunnel, and the ground shook. Somewhere back there, another cave-in was happening, the rocks and dirt streaming and hissing, and not five seconds later a wall of thick dust rolled through the tun nel toward us.
When I looked down again, Nolan was not moving. I checked his neck for a pulse. That round had, indeed, struck his heart, and when I checked the side of his shirt, it was soaked thick with blood.
Footfalls resounded up the tunnel, and suddenly through the dust came a figure. I snatched up my rifle, took aim, and held my breath.
“Hold fire!” came a familiar voice. The figure tugged down his
shemagh
. Ramirez. He glanced over his shoul der. “Come on! We’ve linked up with the Captain!”
As the others rushed up behind him, Hume spotted Nolan lying at my side and rushed to him.
“Alex!”
“He’s gone,” I said evenly.
“Aw, no,” Hume cried. “No, no, no.”
For just a moment—perhaps only three seconds—we all stood there, frozen, staring down at Hume and Nolan, no sound, no movement, just the burning image of our fallen brother, and then—
“Ghost Lead, this is Treehorn, they got RPGs mov ing in on the Bradley. Permission to open fire!”
I shuddered back to reality. “Negative, hold fire! Do not give up your position.” I switched channels to speak to the Bradley commander. “Blue Six, this is Ghost Lead, over.”
I waited, called again, nothing. Couldn’t even warn the guy and his squad. The vehicle’s big machine gun was already drumming as several more booms struck and silenced it.
“They got the gunner!” shouted Treehorn. “They got the gunner! They’re swarming the Bradley. Swarm ing it now!”
Two more shells struck the mountain, and the ceiling began to crack right near my head.
“I’m taking him out of here,” said Hume, his eyes already burning.
“You got it,” I answered. “Treehorn? Get set! We’re coming out!”
TWENTY-ONE
Alex Nolan was a smart-aleck kid from the streets of Boston who’d become a senior medical sergeant with the Ghosts. He often looked like a geek, but when he opened his mouth, wow, he was all attitude fueled by an insatiable curiosity and great intellect. He was even a Mensa member. Still, there were times when he could throw a switch and be the most caring and sympathetic operator on our team. The last time we were in Afghan istan, I’d seen him spend hours with sick villagers. He’d always ask the same question: “Are your animals sick, too?” When you operated in third-world countries and people became ill, you could sometimes trace the prob lem back to their livestock.