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I opened the door and waited for the punk I had

trained, the punk who thought he was replacing me, to

head outside, where we could talk away from my boys.

So I’d just learned that my father was in a coma, that

my chances of capturing my target were next to nil, and

that some kid with barely two combat tours under his

belt was going to “oversee” my operation. I guess I’m

trying to rationalize or justify what I did next.

Sure, my hand itched with the desire to reach for my

pistol and put it to Warris’s head—just to teach the

cocky bastard a lesson. And my other hand shook with

the desire to strangle him until he was blue and his eyes

rolled back in his head.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was standing there with

Warris as his evaluator during the training exercise we’d

just completed?

I’d been playing the role of a tribal chief and he’d

misjudged my character and how I might behave in the

heat of battle. Sure, I threw him a few surprises, but he

should have been ready for them, and he was not.

Indeed, he’d screwed up big-time and I’d chewed

him out, but he’d been humble and had never ques-

tioned my authority. I hadn’t known his true feelings

about that experience and the aftermath . . . until now.

“Mitchell, don’t think you can throw your weight

around like you did back at the school. Those days are

over,” he began. “You were the wise old man back there,

but over here, it’s a whole different ball of wax. Old

school doesn’t work anymore. We might be Ghosts, but

we still have to learn, adapt, and overcome.”

128 GH OS T RE CON

I smiled. “So you’re an asshole, too?”

His eyes widened. “I could write you up for that.”

My grin darkened. “Listen, kid, if you think I’m

going to ask your permission for anything I do here—”

The explosion came from the other side of the wall,

and I knew in the next breath who was involved: the

mine-sweeping team. Had they found a mine? Were they

under attack?

My imagination raced through fragmented images of

blood-filled sand fountaining into the air and human

appendages tumbling end over end . . .

I pointed a finger at Warris, about to say something,

then just sprinted away toward the rear wall, where a

ladder would take me up to the machine gun nest. From

there I’d have a clear view of the field.

The report of automatic weapons echoed the first

boom immediately, and it sounded like an all-out gun

battle by the time I mounted the ladder.

By the time I neared the gunner’s nest, the two guys

there were already firing, one on the fifty, the other on

his rifle. Two trucks had driven out to the field to join

the minesweepers’ Hummer, and about twenty Taliban

thugs had jumped out and were firing from behind their

vehicles.

Still more guys were firing from the foothills, at least

six more strung out along a broad reef of stone, muzzles

flashing.

There were only five guys out there, huddled around

their Hummer and being surrounded by four times as

many Taliban.

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129

An RPG whooshed from behind one of the Taliban

trucks and struck the Hummer, exploding inside the cab

and sending the fireball skyward.

“Get off that gun,” I screamed to the kid manning the

fifty. I shoved him out of the way and began directing fire

myself, first on one Taliban truck, then on the other. My

bead drove the Taliban away toward a ditch behind their

trucks, tracers gleaming, big rounds thumping hard into

steel, glass, plastic, and sending sparks and then gasoline

pouring onto the sand.

Within another two heartbeats, both trucks caught fire,

and the Taliban now ran toward the foothills. Between me

and the guy on his rifle, we cut down five guys making

their break.

Someone was shouting my name, and when I glanced

below, I saw Ramirez in a Hummer with the rest of the

team, including Warris, whose expression seemed neu-

tral. I came back down the ladder and hopped in the

flatbed. Ramirez floored it, and we rushed past the open

main gate and hightailed it toward the field, along with

two other Hummers carrying a pair of rifle squads.

We took sporadic small-arms fire from the hills for a

minute, but the rifle squads returned fire and suppressed

those guys. We parked behind the burning trucks for

cover, then charged out and raced toward the mine-

sweeping team.

Six guys were there, every one of them on the ground.

I rushed over to the lieutenant I’d spoken to at the gate.

He’d been shot in the neck and the arm and was bleed-

ing badly. “Nolan!” I screamed.

130 GH OS T RE CON

The medic rushed over while guys from the rifle

squads went to assist the other fallen sweepers.

“It’s right next to our truck.” The lieutenant gasped.

“Right there.”

“GET BACK! GET BACK!” Ramirez screamed.

I turned my head.

And it all unfolded in a weird slow motion that peo-

ple describe during traumatic events. Sometimes they

say they felt “outside themselves,” as though swimming

in an ether while watching the event from far, far away.

Ramirez pointed to the ground, where an insurgent

had just rolled over. He’d been shot up badly but was

wearing a vest of explosives with a detonator clutched in

his right hand.

He’d been waiting for us to get close.

I’ve always wondered what would’ve happened if

Warris had been within the blast radius. How might the

rest of the story have played out?

But Warris was back near our truck, calling it all in,

probably talking to Harruck, when I turned and lunged

away, toward him, along with the rest of our group.

I hit the ground near the Hummer’s right front tire,

crawled once on my elbows, and the deafening burst

sounded behind me, followed a half second later by

blasting sand and shrapnel pinging all over the truck.

Ears ringing, pulse racing, drool spilling out of my

mouth, I rolled, then pushed up on my hands and knees

as the fire and smoke mushroomed above us.

Guys were screaming, but no noise came from their

mouths. I took a few seconds to search out each of my

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131

men, and I found them all except for Beasley, who was

lying near one of the other Hummers. I rose and stag-

gered over to him.

He was missing a leg, an arm . . . the side of his face.

I turned away and gagged.

A few of the others gathered around me, and Nolan

and Brown dropped to their knees.

Two more pickup trucks were racing across the desert

now, heading toward us from the village. I shielded my

eyes from the glare and saw Kundi in the passenger seat

of one vehicle and the water man, Burki, at the wheel.

My arms and legs were stinging because I’d taken

some minor hits, but I was still too shocked to even look

for the wounds. With the fires raging all around us, I