we all huddled behind the rock.

“We got a problem,” said Ramirez. “Even if we find

the other entrance, we already know it’s a dead end. And

if we all go in there, they could pin us down, drop in

some grenades, and that ruins my plans to marry a super-

model.”

“Mine, too,” said Smith with a wink.

“All right, Joey, me and you go up and look for the

entrance,” I told Ramirez. “The rest of you set up here

along the rocks. See if you can hold them for a just a

couple of minutes.”

I rushed forward with Ramirez on my heels. We

ascended through a steep passage that reminded me of a

vacation I’d taken to go hiking in Sedona, Arizona.

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

CO MB AT O P S

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.

CO MB AT O P S

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