“Nothing. Just flying around. If they’re here, they’re

not taking the bait. Not yet, anyway.”

“All right, just keep flying over the town. Maybe get

in close to the mosque.”

“I see it. I’ll get near the dome and towers.”

“Ghost Lead, this is Treehorn, I have my target.”

“I know you do. Hang tight for now. Still want to see

if they take the bait, over.”

“Roger that. Say the word.”

I continued scanning the village, which stretched out

for about a quarter kilometer, swelling to the south with

dozens more brick homes that had open windows and

rickety wooden ladders leading up to storage areas on

the roofs. Most windows were dark, with only a faint

flickering here and there from either candles or perhaps

kerosene or gas lanterns. I imagined that somewhere

down there, sprawled across a bed whose legs were buck-

ling under his girth, was the fat man who wielded all the

power in this region.

“Still no takers on the drone,” reported Hume.

I listened to the wind. Glanced around once more.

Scanned. Saw the shooter still sitting there in the truck.

Time to move in.

“Treehorn, clear to fire,” I said.

“Clear to fire, roger that, stand by . . .”

I held my breath, anticipated the faint click and pop,

no louder than the sound of a BB gun, and watched

CO MB AT O P S

75

through the binoculars as the gunman in the jingle

truck slumped.

“Good hit, target down,” reported Treehorn.

“Ghost Team, this is Ghost Lead. Advance to the

wall. Hume, get that drone in deeper, and feel ’em out.

Two teams. Alpha right, Bravo left. Move out!”

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was an adrenaline

junkie and that this part of the job quickened my pulse

and was entirely addictive. You stayed up nights think-

ing about moments like this. And there was no better

ego-stroking in the world than to play God, to decide

who lives and who dies. There was nothing better than

the hunting of men, Ernest Hemingway had once said,

and the old man was right.

But I always stressed to my people that they had to

live with their decisions, a simple fact that would become

terribly ironic for me.

“Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez. Radar’s picking up

something big behind us.”

“Ghost Lead, this is Brown. Paul and I are all set

here, but FYI, two Blackhawks inbound, your position,

over.”

Even as he finished his report, the telltale whomping

began to echo off the mountains, like an arena full of

people clapping off the beat, and abruptly the two heli-

copters appeared, both switching on searchlights that

panned across the desert floor like pearlescent lasers.

“Ghost Team, take cover now!” I cried, dodging

across the sand toward the jingle trucks.

Ramirez, Jenkins, and Hume rushed up behind me,

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GH OS T RE C O N

while Nolan, Beasley, and Treehorn darted for a large

section of fallen wall, the crumbling bricks forming a

U-shaped bunker to shield them.

“Hume, bring back the drone,” I added. Then I

switched channels to the command net. “Liberty Base,

this is Ghost Lead, over.”

“Go ahead, Ghost Lead,” came the radio operator

back at FOB Eisenhower.

“I want to talk to Liberty Six right now!” I could

already see myself grabbing Harruck by the throat.

“I’m sorry, Ghost Lead, but Liberty Six is unavailable

right now.”

I cursed and added, “I don’t care! Get him on the

line!”

Meanwhile, Ramirez, who like all of us had received

Air Force combat controller training, gave me the hand

signal that he’d made contact with one of the chopper

pilots, as both helicopters wheeled overhead, waking up

the entire village. I listened to him speak with that guy

while I waited.

“Repeat, we are the friendly team on the ground.

What is your mission, over?”

I leaned in closer to hear his radio. “Ground team, we

were ordered to pick you up at these coordinates, over.”

Ramirez’s eyes bulged.

“Tell him to evac immediately,” I said. “We do not

need the goddamned pickup.”

Ramirez opened his mouth as a flurry of gunfire cut

across the jingle truck, and even more fire was directed

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77

up at the two Blackhawks, rounds sparking off the fuse-

lages.

With a gasp, I realized there had to be twenty, maybe

thirty combatants laying down fire now.

I knew the choppers’ door gunners wouldn’t return

fire. Close Air Support had become as rare as indoor

plumbing in Afghanistan because of both friendly fire

and civilian casualty incidents, so those pilots would just

bug out. Which they did.

Leaving us to contend with the hornet’s nest they had

stirred up.

“What do you think happened?” Ramirez cried over

the booms and pops of AK-47s.

“Harruck figured out a way to abort our mission,” I

said through my teeth. “He’ll call it a miscommunica-

tion, and he’ll remind me that I needed company sup-

port. But those birds had to come all the way from

Kandahar—what a waste!”

“Well, he didn’t screw up our entire mission,” said

Ramirez, then he flashed a reassuring grin. “Not yet!”

A breath-robbing whistle came from the right, and I

couldn’t get the letters out of my mouth fast enough:

“RPG!”

The rocket-propelled grenade lit up the night as it

streaked across the wall and exploded at the foot of the

concrete bricks near the rest of my team.

As the debris flew and the smoke and flames slowly

dissipated, I led my group along the wall and back

toward the brick pile, where we linked up with the

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GH OS T RE C O N

others, who were stunned but all right. Nolan had found

a hole in the wall, and we all passed through, reaching

the first row of houses and rushing back toward them,

where to our right the wall continued onward until it

terminated in a big wooden gate. “We’ll get out that

way,” I hollered, pointing.

We reached the first house, sprinted to the next, and

then had to cross a much wider road, on the side of

which stood a donkey cart with the donkey still attached

but pulling at his straps. The moment I peered around

the corner, a salvo ripped into the wall just above my

head. I stole another quick glance and saw a guy duck-

ing back inside his house, using his open window and

the thick brick walls as cover. We could fire all day at

those walls, but our conventional rounds wouldn’t pen­

etrate.

Another glance showed a second gunman in the win-

dow next door. Two for one. Double your pleasure.

Wonderful. We were pinned down.

I turned back to the group and gave Beasley a hand

signal: We can’t get across. Got two. You’re up.

Over the years I’ve come to appreciate advances in

weapons technology for two reasons: One, as a member

of an elite gun club called the Ghosts, I couldn’t help

but be fascinated by the instruments that kept me alive,

and two, like everyone else in the Army, I enjoyed things