In fact, higher wanted us to protect our identities by

remaining in quarters when we weren’t conducting

night reconnaissance, so I told my boys we were ghosts

CO MB AT O P S

33

and vampires while in country, but that didn’t last very

long.

I finished up a quick conversation with General Keat-

ing via my satellite phone, and he gave me the usual:

“We need Zahed in custody, and we need him talking to

us about his connections to the north and the opium

trade. It’s up to you, Mitchell.”

It was always up to me, and I had a love-hate relation-

ship with that burden.

Keating’s trust in me was like a drug. Sometimes I

felt like he was grooming me for his own job. I’d already

turned down a promotion only because that would

mean less time in the field, and I thought I was still too

young to rotate to the rear. Scuttlebutt about the mili-

tary restructuring was rampant, with talk of a new Joint

Strike Force, and the general told me I needed to catch

the wave. But I believed I could make a greater differ-

ence in the field.

I guess, even after all these years, I was still pretty

naïve in that regard, probably because most of my mis-

sions had allowed me to turn the tide.

With the sun beating down on my neck with an

almost heavy-metal pulse, I headed toward my quarters.

Up ahead, Harruck was coming into the base, riding

shotgun in a Hummer. He waved to me as the truck

came under sudden and heavy gunfire.

Rounds ricocheted off the Hummer’s hood and

quarter panels as I dove to the dirt, and the two guys on

the fifties on the north side opened up on the foothills

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GH OS T RE C O N

about a quarter kilometer away. But the fire wasn’t com-

ing from there, I realized. It was from inside the FOB.

Three insurgents had somehow gotten past the wall

and concertina wire and were firing from positions along

the south side of one Quonset hut, which I recalled housed

the mess hall.

Harruck and his men were climbing out of the Hum-

mer when one of the insurgents shifted away from the

hut and shouldered an RPG.

“Simon!” I hollered. “RPG! RPG!”

He and the two sergeants who’d been in the vehicle

bolted toward me as behind them the rocket struck the

Hummer and exploded, flames shooting into the sky,

the boom reverberating off the huts and other buildings,

whose doors were now swinging open, soldiers flooding

outside.

I had my sidearm and was already squeezing off

rounds at the RPG guy, but he slipped back behind the

hut. At that point, reflexes took over. I was on my feet,

catapulting across the yard. I rushed along the hut

between the mess hall and the insurgents, reached the

back, rounded the corner, and spotted all three of

them—at exactly the same moment the machine gun-

ners up in the nest did. I shot the closest guy, but only

got him in the shoulder before the machine gunner

shredded all three with one fluid sweep.

At that second, I remembered to breathe.

Up ahead came a faint click. Then the entire rear

third of the mess hall burst apart, pieces of the hut hur-

tling into the sky as though lifted by the smoke and

CO MB AT O P S

35

flames. The explosion knocked me onto my back, and

for a few seconds there was only the muffled screams

and the booming, over and over.

Something thudded onto my chest, and when I sat up,

I saw it was a piece of the roof and accompanying insula-

tion. And then it dawned on me that there’d been per-

sonnel in the mess, still coming out when the bomb had

gone off. Wincing, I got up, staggered forward.

A gaping hole had been torn in the side of the mess,

and at least a half dozen of Harruck’s people were lying

on the ground, torn to pieces by the explosion as they’d

been heading toward the door. Some had no faces, the

blast having shredded cheeks and foreheads, skin peeling

back and leaving only bone in its wake. I began cough-

ing, my eyes burning through the smoke, as Harruck

arrived with his sergeants.

“I’ll get my people out here to help!” I told him.

He nodded, gritted his teeth, and began cursing at

the top of his lungs. I’d never seen him lose it like that.

The facts were clear. We Ghosts had brought this on

the camp; the attack was payback for our raid the night

before. Innocent soldiers had died because of what we’d

done.

I felt the guilt, yes, but I never allowed it to eat at me.

We had orders. We had to deal with the consequences of

those orders. But seeing Harruck so cut up left me feel-

ing much more than I wanted. Maybe that was the first

sign.

My Ghosts were already outside our hut, all wearing

pakols and shemaghs on their heads and wrapped around

36

GH OS T RE C O N

their faces to conceal their identities. I ordered them out

to the perimeter to see what the hell was going on.

A roar and thundering collision out near the guard

gate stole my attention. A flatbed truck had just plowed

through the gatehouse and barreled onward to smash

through the galvanized steel gates.

The guards there had backed off and were riddling

the truck with rifle fire.

And it took Treehorn all of a second to shoulder his

rifle and send two rounds into the head of that driver.

But as if on cue, the truck itself exploded in a swelling

fireball that spread over the buildings and quarters beside

it, setting fire to the rooftops as more flaming debris

came in a hailstorm across the walkway between the huts.

We didn’t realize it then, but a hundred or more Tal-

iban had set up positions along the mountains, and once

they saw the truck explode, they set free a vicious wave

of fire that had all of us in the dirt and crawling for cover

as our machine gunners brought their barrels around . . .

and the rat-tat-tat commenced.

FOUR

Two more pickup trucks raced on past our FOB, cutting

across the desert and bouncing up and onto the gravel

road leading toward the town and the bazaar. Hundreds

of people were milling about that area, setting up shop

or making their morning purchases. If the Taliban

reached that area and cut loose into the crowds . . .

I shouted for the Ghosts to follow me, and we com-

mandeered two Hummers from the motor pool on the

east side of the base. A couple of mechanics volunteered

on the spot to be our drivers. We roared out past the

shattered gate, me riding shotgun, the others standing

in the flatbeds or leaning out the open windows, weap-

ons at the ready. I quickly wrapped a shemagh around

my face.

38

GH OS T RE C O N

Behind us, the fires still raged, and the machine guns