opened his mouth, wow, he was all attitude fueled by an

insatiable curiosity and great intellect. He was even a

Mensa member. Still, there were times when he could

throw a switch and be the most caring and sympathetic

operator on our team. The last time we were in Afghan-

istan, I’d seen him spend hours with sick villagers. He’d

always ask the same question: “Are your animals sick,

too?” When you operated in third-world countries and

people became ill, you could sometimes trace the prob-

lem back to their livestock.

With the letter to Matt Beasley’s family still fresh on

222 GH OS T RE CON

my mind, I couldn’t believe I had to write another one.

I wasn’t used to losing operators, especially two on a

single mission.

We’d been all over the world, working on operations

far more taxing than this one. And while they kept tell-

ing me this situation was complicated, on the surface it

seemed much safer when compared to the operation I’d

run in China, penetrating deep into the heart of the

country to take out a cabal of rogue generals. Hell, we’d

had a hundred chances to be captured or killed and had

slipped past every one of them.

Now we’d been charged with nabbing one fat-ass ter-

rorist, and I’d already lost two good men, some of the

most valuable personnel in the U.S. Army. I was already

feeling burned out, like a has-been operator who’d got-

ten his men killed.

With my own eyes burning, we rushed outside the

tunnel and I ordered the guys to set off the charges.

Thumbs went down on wireless detonators, and the mul-

tiple booms echoed, as though someone were kicking

over a massive drum set that clattered and crashed off a

giant stage. I could only hope our charges had swallowed

some of the insurgents inside.

I led Alpha team along a rocky path that descended

sharply to our left. Ramirez and his team would take the

path to the right. I didn’t want us together in case the

guys on this side of the mountains had mortars, too.

And to be perfectly honest, it was convenient to have

Ramirez away so I didn’t need to watch my back.

RPG fire arced like fleeing fireflies, and two cone-shaped

CO MB AT O P S

223

denotations rose skyward as though the Taliban had

ignited a massive bonfire to celebrate their victory over

the infidels.

“All right, Treehorn, cut it loose!” I ordered.

The sniper’s gun boomed, and his rounds came down

like God’s hammer, decisive, deadly, dismembering all

in their path.

But the Taliban were quick to answer.

Gunfire cut a line so close to Hume that he tripped

and fell forward with Nolan’s body draped over his back.

We rushed to help him back to his feet, and that was

when muzzles flashed from the ridgeline about fifty

meters above.

I raised my rifle as the red diamonds appeared in my

HUD to help me lock onto the four targets.

The camera automatically zoomed in on one fighter

raising a HER F gun toward me—and that was when my

HUD went dead.

I might’ve cursed. Either way, the HER F blast was

my cue to open fire, and Smith joined me. We drilled

those bastards back toward the wall, while Hume got

Nolan down onto the lower portion of the path. I wasn’t

sure if we’d hit any of them, but we’d bought some time.

Smith ceased fire, tugged free a smoke grenade, then

tossed it up there a second before we both double-timed

after Hume.

Treehorn’s gun spoke again. And then again. He was

the reaper. His words were thunder.

About twenty meters east of the now-burning Brad-

ley, an insurgent lay on his belly, directing machine gun

224 GH OS T RE CON

fire up near Treehorn, who returned fire, hitting the guy.

The gun went silent—but only for a few seconds as that

fighter was replaced by another, who quickly resumed

showering Treehorn.

“Cover Hume. Get down the rocks and hold there,”

I ordered Smith. He nodded and hustled off.

I jogged back up the path toward Treehorn’s perch

much higher along the ridge.

He took one last shot, then bolted up and joined me.

I waved him back along the path, and then . . . off to my

left, about twenty meters up . . . a curious sight: another

tunnel entrance. It must’ve been covered up by the Tal-

iban because the rocks nearby appeared freshly shaken

free by the mortars and our C-4 charges.

As we came under a vicious wave of gunfire that

seemed certain to hit us, I rushed up toward the tunnel

and practically threw myself inside.

Treehorn was a second behind me, breathless, curs-

ing, literally foaming at the mouth with exertion.

AK-47 and machine gun fire stitched along the entrance,

daring us to sneak back out and return fire. That was one

dare I would not take. The machine gunner seemed to be

chiseling his initials on the rock face.

I got on the regular radio, found it dead, and realized

that maybe this time the HERF gun had managed to fry it,

too. But then I also noticed the microphone had taken a hit.

I was one lucky man—very close call. That bullet would’ve

caught my side, perhaps even penetrated my spine.

Treehorn directed his light to the tunnel behind us.

“Whoa . . .”

CO MB AT O P S

225

His surprise was not unwarranted.

The uneven intestine of rock swept outward and

curved slowly down. It appeared to go much longer and

deeper than any of the others we’d seen, and I was sud-

denly torn between venturing down to see where it went

and making a break back outside to link up with the

others. The machine gun fire had just died off. The sec-

ond rally point would be just past the Bradley’s position,

along an old dried-up riverbed. Everyone knew it. I

assumed Ramirez would be taking Bravo team there.

But I’d left Smith to look after Hume, who was carry-

ing Nolan on his back, and those guys would need help.

“What do you want to do, Captain?”

I pulled out a brick of C-4 from my pack. “Man, we

need to see where this goes, but we can’t do it right now.

Let’s seal it up behind us and get back outside.”

“Wait a second. Listen,” he said.

Faint cries echoed up toward us.

I pricked up my ears again. “Sounds like . . . a kid . . .”

“I know. What the hell?”

I remembered the girl we’d found during our first

night raid. And though I couldn’t bear the thought of

more children being tortured, we had to leave.

Something flashed behind us, and as I turned, my

arm went up reflexively against the blast. The air whooshed

past us, and only then did I realize I was being cata-

pulted back into the tunnel. The entrance had been

struck dead-on by an RPG. The starlight shining beyond

went black, and I slammed into the floor, shielding my

face from the rocks and dirt dropping all around me.

226 GH OS T RE CON

Then, a strange silence, the sifting of sand, my breath-