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

CO MB AT O P S

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.”

CO MB AT O P S

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.

CO MB AT O P S

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