were often not made privy to CIA and NSA operations in

the area was a given; that spook operations would interfere

with our ability to complete our mission was also a given.

That a Chinese guy we captured in the tunnel would

give up his identity was damned surprising.

“I’m CIA!” he added, spitting out more blood. “I

needed to bail on my mission.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because I know who you are. I can smell you a mile

away. Special Forces meatheads. I’m not at liberty to

speak to you monkeys.”

I snickered. “Then why are you talking now?”

“Look at my face, asshole!”

“Why’d you run?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smirked. “What’re you doing here?”

I looked at Ramirez. “Cut him loose and help him

get outside, then cuff him again.”

“Hey, spooky,” I said, breathing in the guy’s ear. “If

you resist, we monkeys will do some more surgery on

your face. Got it?”

He turned back and glared.

Ramirez shoved him away. I regarded Brown. “You

ready to blow this mother?”

He grinned. “I think this mother is ready to be blown.”

“Indeed.”

The glowing fuse was, for just a few seconds, hypnotic,

CO MB AT O P S

237

holding me there, a deer in the headlights. I thought back

to those moments when I was the last kid on the play-

ground, swinging as high as I could, hitting that place

in the sky between pure joy and pure terror. The teacher

would be shouting my name and I’d swing just a few

more seconds, flirting with the combined danger of fall-

ing off and getting in trouble.

With a slight hiss and even brighter glow, the fuse

burned down even more. I wondered, how long could

we remain in the tunnel without blowing ourselves up?

“Okay, boss, let’s go!” cried Brown.

I blinked hard and looked at him.

“Scott, you okay?”

I stared through him. Then . . . “Yeah, yeah, come

on, let’s go!”

Brown and I had just cleared the other side of the pas-

sage when the explosion reverberated through the

ground like a freight train beneath our boots.

Treehorn was still near the tunnel’s edge, the stars

beyond him. He was crouched down, his rifle raised high.

“Still out there,” he said. “Just waiting to take some pot-

shots at us.”

“We need to get those Bradley gunners to help sup-

press that fire so we can make a break,” I said.

“How?” asked Treehorn. “No comm.”

“What’re you talking about?” I said. “We’re the

Ghosts. If we were slaves to technology we’d never get

anything done. Watch this, buddy . . .”

238 GH OS T RE CON

I fished out my penlight and began flashing SOS.

“Are you serious?” he asked me.

“As a heart attack, bro.”

Whether the Taliban to our flank and above us could

see the tiny light, I wasn’t sure, but I continued for a full

minute, then turned back to the guys.

And then it came: a flashing from one of the Bradleys.

“What’re they saying?” asked Treehorn.

“I have no clue. I don’t remember my Morse code.

But we are good to go. So listen up. I’m going to make

a break. I’ll draw the first few rounds. You guys hold off

a second or two, then get in behind me and we’ll take

the path to the east. Those Bradley gunners are ready,

I’m sure. Got it?”

“Why don’t we send out the spook to make a break?”

asked Brown. “He wants to run away so badly.”

“Hey, that’s a good idea,” I said. “You want to go,

spooky?”

“I like your plan better,” he said, licking the blood

from his lips.

“I figured you would. Hey, you don’t happen to know

a guy named Bronco?” I wriggled my brows.

“Yeah, he’s my daddy.”

“Well, let’s get you home to Papa.” With that, I

bolted from the cave, drawing immediate fire from the

Taliban behind our right flank. I had no intention of

getting hit and practically dove for the next section

of boulders that would screen me.

Once the Taliban had revealed themselves by firing at

me, the Bradley gunners drilled them with so many

CO MB AT O P S

239

salvos and tracers that the valley looked like a space com-

bat scene from a science fiction movie, flickering red trac-

ers arcing between the valley and the mountainside.

Brown hollered to go. Treehorn, Ramirez, and the

prisoner came charging down toward my position.

Brown brought up the rear.

Once they linked up with me, I led them farther

down while the Bradley gunners continued to cover us.

We were clearly identified as friendlies now.

My mouth had gone dry by the time we reached the

rally point five minutes later, and I asked if anyone had a

canteen. Ramirez pushed one into my hands and said,

“Our boy’s got some explaining, eh?” He cocked a

thumb at the prisoner.

“Should be interesting . . .”

The Bradley gunners broke fire, and for a few long

moments, an utter silence fell over the mountains . . .

I glanced back at Hume, who was still sitting near

Nolan’s body. A sobering moment to be sure. If I stared

any longer, I feared my lungs would collapse.

Out of the silence, in an almost surreal cry, a lone

Taliban fighter cut loose a combination of curse words

he’d probably memorized from a hip-hop song. Once his

shout had echoed away, roars of laughter came from the

crews and dismounted troops around the Bradleys.

We’d never heard anything like that. The Taliban were

usually yelling how great God was—not swearing at us

in our own language. And I didn’t want them polluted

240 GH OS T RE CON

by America. I wanted them maniacal and religious and

steadfast. They seemed a more worthy adversary that

way. To believe they could be influenced by us was, in a

word, disconcerting.

Harruck had a small planning room, and we all filed in,

unfolded the metal chairs, and took seats around a rick-

ety card table. The spook’s face had been cleaned up by

one of Harruck’s medics, and he was demanding to

make a phone call.

“What do you think this is?” I asked him. “County

lockup?”

“We’ll get to your phone call,” Harruck told the

spook in a softer tone than I’d used. He faced me. “What

the hell is going on? Did you destroy the caves?”

“Most of them.”

“And him?”

I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly for effect.

“He’s CIA and posing as a Chinese opium buyer or

smuggler. His cover got blown. He ran into us before he

could skip town.”

“I demand to be released.”

“Those are good demands,” said Harruck. “We like

them. Just give me a couple of minutes.”

“No, right now.”

Harruck’s expression darkened. “What the hell are

you people doing on my mountain? Why is your back-

pack full of opium? What the hell is your mission here?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my face?”