pickup truck and drove out past the bridge we’d blown,

working our way parallel along the riverbank till I found

the shallowest-looking spot. We parked there and

waited.

What I didn’t tell the guys was that after I’d had my

talk with Harruck and he’d been reluctant to promise

any help, I’d gone outside and met with the XO, who

was more than happy to take a break from the screaming

governor and irate humanitarian lady (although we both

once more agreed that she was a looker). I’d called the

XO Marty, which made him wince, but I was trying to

gain his trust.

“I’m wondering if you guys could move up a couple

of Bradleys, put them way into the defile. Do it about oh

two hundred.”

“Why?”

“I want the Taliban in the mountains to focus on you

guys to the west and not us.”

“Did you ask the CO?”

“I’m asking you.”

He thought a moment. “I see. And what do I get in

return?”

I ticked them off with my fingers: “Money, power,

fame, hookers, and booze.”

CO MB AT O P S

269

He grinned. “You prima donnas in SF are clever bas-

tards. But I’m serious—what’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“How about a healthy dose of respect?”

“Marty, you got to earn that on your own, but two

Bradleys would make one hell of a down payment in my

eyes.”

“Okay, but I can swallow this much easier with a lot

of beer.”

“You got it.”

“Two Bradleys,” he said.

“Yeah, and can you have them put up a flare when

they’re in place?”

“Wow, you really want a party.”

“You know it.”

“Well, Harruck’s been hitting the bottle a lot. I’m

sure he’ll be drunk and asleep by then . . .”

Wouldn’t you know it, lo and behold, the flare arced

high in the sky.

I whispered a thank-you to the XO.

The guys freaked out. “Relax, that’s our cue,” I told

them. “Let’s move.”

We waded through the hip-high water, holding our

AKs above our heads. The water felt thick and warm,

like motor oil, and I imagined snakes and piranhas and

other assorted demons coiling around my legs as we

made the crossing.

For the hell of it, we brought along our last two

270 GH OS T RE CON

Cross-Coms that hadn’t been fried. Again, I wore one,

Ramirez the other. The mountain pass looked clear as

we neared the bottom. In fact, several combatants had

shifted over to where the flare had gone up. I counted at

least fifteen enemy fighters on that side of the mountain,

keeping a close watch on the Bradleys, the red diamonds

floating over each of their positions in my HUD.

We began our ascent, the path rock-strewn and as

rugged as I’d expected. Though we’d dressed like Tal-

iban, the one exception was our boots. We wouldn’t give

up our combat boots for a pair of sandals, not in those

mountains. And when it came time to boogie, we sure

as hell shouldn’t worry about stubbing our toes.

But our heavy boots, now filled with water, squished

and slogged as we climbed, and I grew annoyed that we

couldn’t move more quietly.

A data bar opened in my HUD, showing an image of

a Predator drone flying high above the mountain range.

The image switched to an officer in his cockpit, which

was—quite remarkably—on the other side of the world

inside a trailer at Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas.

“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control, over.”

“Go ahead, Predator.”

“We have visual confirmation of your target tunnel.

Count two tangos outside the entrance, two more

approximately ten meters above. We also see a heavy gun

emplacement approximately twenty meters east of the

entrance with two tangos manning that position, over.”

“Roger that, Predator, can you send me the stream?”

“En route. Recording looks clean.”

CO MB AT O P S

271

“Can I call on you for fires?”

“Standby, Ghost Lead.”

I signaled for a halt and crouched down behind two

long rafts of stone, like fallen pillars from an ancient

palace. “Got a Predator up there,” I told the team in a

whisper, widening my eyes on Hume, who nodded and

shook a fist. “Waiting to hear if he can drop some Hell-

fires if we need ’em.”

“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control. We are not

authorized to provide fire support. However, I’ve per-

sonally sent your request up the pipe to see if we can’t

get authorization. Do call again, over.”

“Roger that,” I told him, understanding his mean-

ing. The controller wanted nothing more than to drop

his bombs and help us out. His finger was poised over

the trigger. All he needed was an officer with the guts to

give the word.

“They might help us,” I told the guys after a long

breath. I signaled once more to move out.

We were coming in from the east side of the tunnel

entrance, so I told Treehorn to move ahead. His job

would be to take out the gunners in the machine gun

nest. He’d do that with the silenced sniper rifle he’d

brought along. Ramirez and his team would focus on

the two guys up top, bringing them down with knives

or with their silenced pistols. I’d take Smith and Jenkins

to a southerly approach of the main entrance.

We spent another thirty minutes moving into posi-

tion, the night growing more cool and calm, the wind

dying. In the distance, across the vast stretch of sand, a

272 GH OS T RE CON

Bedouin caravan trekked slowly toward Senjaray, the

group traveling in the more tolerable temperatures of

the night. A long line of camels laden with heavy bun-

dles wound off into the shadows.

And for a moment, I just watched them, rapt by the

image, as though we were living in a different century.

“In position,” said Ramirez.

“Got the gunners in sight,” reported Treehorn, rely-

ing on our conventional radio.

I replied to each, then gave the hand signals for Smith

and Jenkins to move ahead of me as we made our approach

toward the entrance. A crescent moon gave us enough

light to see the footprints in the path ahead. We were

taking a well-worn path that, despite the risks, would

keep us silent. Every rock, smaller stone, and pebble was

an enemy as we drew closer.

The path turned sharply to the right, hugging the

mountainside, with a sheer dropoff to our left. And there

it was, down below: Sangsar, as quiet as ever. A spatter-

ing of lights. The slight flap of laundry on the lines. I

lifted my binoculars and scanned the walls, spotted a cat

milling about, and a man, knees pulled into his chest,

sleeping near one gate, his rifle propped at his side.

Smith held up his fist. We stopped, got lower. He had

two, just ahead. He slipped back, as did Jenkins.

They looked at me: Okay, Captain, you’re up.

I took a deep breath and started forward, testing

every footfall, turning myself through sheer willpower

into a swift and silent ghost.