team, shouldering the stone and watching as Ramirez

pulled the trigger and put three rounds in the private’s

back, dropping him instantly.

He immediately huddled to the rock and screamed,

“He’s hit! Hendrickson is down! Nolan! I need a medic!

Medic right now!”

I dodged over to Ramirez’s position and rolled the

kid onto his side. He didn’t move. I checked for a carotid

pulse. No, he was dead.

“I’m sorry. I tried to cover him.”

I was beginning to lose my breath.

My men were fiercely loyal, all right.

Agonizingly loyal.

Another spate of incoming drove both of us to the

rock, and Ramirez faced me with a blank stare.

SIX TEEN

I thought I knew everything about Master Sergeant Joe

Ramirez. His parents had emigrated from Mexico and

had held fast to the old ways. They’d raised him in North

Hollywood, California, and had kept him on the straight

and narrow path. He was a devout Catholic, an altar boy,

a Boy Scout.

In his teenaged years he’d become a computer hacker

and had almost gotten busted for identity theft, but he’d

been taken under the wing of a detective who’d per-

suaded him to join the Army. His older brother Enrique

had enlisted, and I’d met him—nice guy, quiet

demeanor, and a good soldier, as reported by many of

his superiors. Ramirez followed in his footsteps.

It wasn’t long before he was tapped for Special Forces,

170 GH OS T RE CON

and he now had more experience in Afghanistan than

any of us. Two tours as an Army Ranger plus some shorter

ops. Old man Gordon had handpicked the kid himself to

become a member of the Ghosts, and Ramirez had done

a great job when I’d taken him to Waziristan and, later

on, into China. He was one of the most levelheaded

guys I’d ever served with and the last person on earth I’d

thought capable of murder. He was the epitome of an

outstanding soldier.

And he’d become my good friend.

“Joey.” I gasped.

“I’ll get him out of here,” he said. “Just have them

cover me. I can see the Hummer down there!”

Before I could do anything, he scooped up Hen-

drickson’s body and started shakily down the mountain.

Nolan came running up and cried, “Wait!” He was already

sloughing off his medic’s pack.

“Too late,” I said. Then I raised my voice. “Every-

body, fall back! Fall back! Let’s go!”

We started a serpentine descent, following the ridge

lines and those areas where the outcroppings provided

some slight cover from the Taliban behind us.

Treehorn and Brown covered our withdrawal, retreat-

ing only when they spotted a guy shouldering an RPG.

They vacated their position only seconds before the

rocket struck, heaving fiery flashes and pulverized rock.

At the foot of the hills we were met with a curious

sight: About a half dozen Afghan National Army troops

had driven up in a truck, and beside them was Bronco.

He waved me over and cried, “Let’s go, Joe!”

CO MB AT O P S

171

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“We’re the cavalry. We’ll cover you.”

“How’d you know we were out here?”

He rolled his eyes, then climbed back into the truck

as the Army troops dropped to the ditches and began

firing on the advancing Taliban.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“I like it when people owe me,” he said.

The rest of my guys came darting over and, using Bron-

co’s truck for cover, returned a few more salvos before

breaking off to make one last run for the Hummer.

Two more vehicles pulled up, a big Bradley and

another Hummer, and rifle squads bolted out: the secu-

rity team from the construction site.

I talked to the sergeant there, handed over the fight,

and jogged back to the Hummer. The earlier wounds in

my leg began throbbing again.

Harruck confronted me before I could climb out of the

Hummer.

I barely heard what he was barking about. I just spoke

over him: “Warris was cut off from us during a cave-in and

he’s missing. He might’ve been captured by the Taliban.”

“Say again?”

I did. His jaw fell open, then: “Well, isn’t that god-

damned convenient for you!”

“My mission is to capture Zahed. I can and will do

that without interference. Our mission tonight was com-

pletely within my rights.”

172 GH OS T RE CON

“I sent him up there to relieve you of command.”

“I know. But we got attacked.” Not exactly a lie. Not

the full truth, either. “His driver was also killed on the

way out of there.”

“And what did you gain?”

I looked back to the Hummer, and Nolan got out,

carrying one of the HER F guns.

“This is how they’ve been knocking out our Cross-

Coms. Also, I’ll be sending you a rough map of the tun-

nel complex they’ve got up there. We need a team to

blow it up, otherwise they’ll plan their offensive against

your school and police station.”

He studied the HER F gun, then faced me. “Are you

really trying to help me?”

“Simon, I understand where you’re coming from. I

don’t have to like it. With the all crap going down in

Helmand, I bet Gordon can’t spare another guy to come

out to relieve me. If they got Warris, you need to let me

work on that, work on taking out Zahed.”

“And we’re back to square one, with you stirring up

the nest and me crying foul.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I’ll be filing my report.

You can read it. You can suggest I’m relieved of com-

mand all you want. But I’ll fight you all the way. Keating

knows I get results. Hard to argue with that.”

I turned around and walked back toward the truck

before he could reply.

At the comm center, Colonel Gordon told me that

they’d received a good signal from Warris’s GFTC. Every

Ghost operator had a Green Force Tracker Chip embedded

CO MB AT O P S

173

beneath his arm. The GFTCs were part of the Identifica-

tion, Friend or Foe (IFF) system so we knew who was

who on the battlefield. Warris was being moved, but the

colonel said that Warris’s chip suddenly went dead. Either

they’d taken him to a deep cave where the signal was

blocked, or they’d cut the chip out of his arm and found

a way to deactivate it. If they knew about our Cross-

Coms, they might’ve known about our chips . . .

Back in our billet, I collapsed onto my rack and just lay

there a moment, staring at the curved metal ceiling. The

guys were removing gear, groaning about aches and

pains, and recounting moments from the battle. I glanced

over at Ramirez, who was sitting on his bunk, shirtless,

with his face buried in his palms.

We both knew the talk was coming.

But all I wanted to do at that moment was sleep. So I

draped an arm over my eyes and found myself back in

the tunnels, as Warris confronted me with a band of