it guides you through a piece of furniture. There was

great beauty in solitude, and I sometimes wondered

whether I should’ve become a sniper instead of a team

leader. The exquisite artistry of making a perfect shot

from a mile out deeply intrigued me.

Oddly enough, I was pondering that idea while Tree-

horn and I stood in that tunnel, completely cut off. I

wished I’d had the luxury of only worrying about myself

instead of feeling wholly responsible for him. When I

was a sergeant, my CO would tell me that I’d get used to

leadership but it would never get any easier. I doubted

him. I assumed I’d find a comfort zone. But there isn’t

one. Not for me. There’s a happy place of denial that I

go to when things go south, but I can only visit there for

short periods before they kick me out.

Thus, the big sniper was at my shoulder, in my charge,

and I swore to myself I would not get him killed.

A figure materialized from the darkness.

I shifted reflexively in front of Treehorn as the figure’s

232 GH OS T RE CON

light came up and a second person shifted up behind the

first. I was blinded for a second, about to pull the trigger,

when the shout came:

“Captain! Hold fire!”

I recognized the voice. Ramirez. His light came

down.

I sighed. My beating heart threatened to crack a rib.

“Joey, how the hell did you get in here?”

“We saw you get pinned down. So we came back up,

pushed through a couple of rocks. It looks a lot worse

than it is. It caved in, but up near the top of the pile we

found a way in.”

“You all right?” Brown asked, moving up behind

Ramirez.

“We’re good. I want C-4 at the intersection. What’s

going on outside?”

“Rest of the team’s at the rally point,” Ramirez said.

“A couple more Bradleys came up. They put some seri-

ous fire on the mountains, so those bastards have fallen

back. I think we’re clear to exit.”

I looked hard at Ramirez. “Thanks for coming back.”

He averted his gaze.

That reaction made me wonder if he’d come back

only because Brown had spotted us and left him no

choice. Or maybe he was trying to get past what had

happened and show me he still had my back; I just didn’t

know.

I shook off the thought, and we got to work. Within

two minutes we had the charges ready.

“You sure about this?” Treehorn asked. “Still got that

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233

other tunnel down there where they had the ladder . . .

who knows what’s up there . . .”

“We can’t leave this open. We need to make it harder

for them to cross over without being seen.”

“You’re the boss,” he said. “Bet there’s another exit

we haven’t found, anyway. If we get back up here, we

can search for that one, too.”

I nodded. “I bet we’ll get our chance.”

We left the intersection and reached the towering

wall of dirt and rock, noting the fresh exit created by

Ramirez and Brown, just a narrow, two-meter-long tun-

nel near the ceiling. We’d crawl on our hands and knees

to exit. I was concerned about all the rock and dirt

between us and the charges, so I gave Brown the order

to detonate before we left. He clicked his remote. Noth-

ing. I knew it. We’d gone too far off for the signal to

reach through the rock.

But then I wondered if maybe his remote detonator

had been damaged by the HER F guns. I’d forgotten

about that. We all had.

“I’ll do it,” said Ramirez, removing the detonator

from Brown’s hand.

“And I’ll come with you,” said Brown, hardening his

tone. “Could go with a regular fuse.”

“I’ll be right back.” Ramirez took off running.

“Go after him,” I ordered Brown. I had visions of

Ramirez blowing himself up. “The detonator might not

work.”

“Like I said, I’ve got some old-school fuses. We’ll

light it up.”

234 GH OS T RE CON

Treehorn began pushing his way through the exit hole.

It was just wide enough for the big guy, and he moaned

and groaned till he reached the other side.

Then he called back to me, “Hey, boss, why don’t

you come out? We’ll wait for them on the other side.”

“You watch the entrance,” I told him. “We’ll all be

out in a minute. You scared to be alone?”

He snorted. “Not me . . .”

From far off down the tunnel came the shuffling of

boots, a shout of “Hey!” from Brown. Aw, hell, I needed

to know what was happening. “Treehorn, if we’re not

back in five, you go! You hear me?”

“Roger that, sir! What’s going on?”

I let his question hang and charged back down the

tunnel. When I reached the intersection, I found Ramirez

shoving one of the Chinese guys toward me. The guy’s

wrists were zipper-cuffed behind his back, and Brown

was shouldering the guy’s backpack while he lit the fuse

on the C-4.

“Look what we found,” Ramirez quipped. “They

dropped a ladder over there, and he came down here for

something.”

The Chinese guy suddenly tore free from Ramirez

and bolted past us, back into the dead-end tunnel.

Ramirez started after him.

“Fuse is lit,” shouted Brown.

“It’s a dead end, Joey!” I told him.

“Good! He’s a valuable prisoner,” Ramirez screamed

back.

Brown cursed, removed his knife, and hacked off the

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235

sparking fuse. “I want to blow something up,” he said.

“I haven’t got all night.”

I made a face. No kidding.

The unexpected report of Treehorn’s rifle stole my

attention. He screamed from the other side of the cave-

in: “Got a few stragglers coming up! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

I ran after Ramirez, and I found him at the dead end.

The Chinese guy was lying on his back, straddled by

Ramirez, and my colleague was pummeling the prisoner

relentlessly in the face.

Although the image was shocking, I understood very

well where Ramirez was coming from. He needed a

punching bag, and unfortunately he’d found one. I won-

dered if he’d kill the guy if I didn’t intervene. I gasped,

grabbed Ramirez’s wrist, and held back his next blow.

The prisoner’s face was already swollen hamburger, his

nose bleeding.

“What’re you doing?” I yelled.

Ramirez just looked at me, eyes ablaze, drool spilling

from his lips. “He wouldn’t come. Now he will.”

I cursed under my breath. “Let’s get out of here.”

We dragged the prisoner to his feet and shifted him

forward, and then suddenly the Chinese guy spat blood,

looked at me, and said, “I’m an American, you assholes!”

The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing.

My father used to say that all the time when referring to

middle and upper management and to Washington and

politicians. I was no stranger to decentralization, to being

236 GH OS T RE CON

on a mission and realizing only after the fact that hey,

someone else has the same mission. That my commanders