“Mitchell, don’t think you can throw your weight around like you did back at the school. Those days are over,” he began. “You were the wise old man back there, but over here, it’s a whole different ball of wax. Old school doesn’t work anymore. We might be Ghosts, but we still have to learn, adapt, and overcome.”
I smiled. “So you’re an asshole, too?”
His eyes widened. “I could write you up for that.”
My grin darkened. “Listen, kid, if you think I’m going to ask your permission for anything I do here—”
The explosion came from the other side of the wall, and I knew in the next breath who was involved: the mine-sweeping team. Had they found a mine? Were they under attack?
My imagination raced through fragmented images of blood-filled sand fountaining into the air and human appendages tumbling end over end…
I pointed a finger at Warris, about to say something, then just sprinted away toward the rear wall, where a ladder would take me up to the machine gun nest. From there I’d have a clear view of the field.
The report of automatic weapons echoed the first boom immediately, and it sounded like an all-out gun battle by the time I mounted the ladder.
By the time I neared the gunner’s nest, the two guys there were already firing, one on the fifty, the other on his rifle. Two trucks had driven out to the field to join the minesweepers’ Hummer, and about twenty Taliban thugs had jumped out and were firing from behind their vehicles.
Still more guys were firing from the foothills, at least six more strung out along a broad reef of stone, muzzles flashing.
There were only five guys out there, huddled around their Hummer and being surrounded by four times as many Taliban.
An RPG whooshed from behind one of the Taliban trucks and struck the Hummer, exploding inside the cab and sending the fireball skyward.
“Get off that gun,” I screamed to the kid manning the fifty. I shoved him out of the way and began directing fire myself, first on one Taliban truck, then on the other. My bead drove the Taliban away toward a ditch behind their trucks, tracers gleaming, big rounds thumping hard into steel, glass, plastic, and sending sparks and then gasoline pouring onto the sand.
Within another two heartbeats, both trucks caught fire, and the Taliban now ran toward the foothills. Between me and the guy on his rifle, we cut down five guys making their break.
Someone was shouting my name, and when I glanced below, I saw Ramirez in a Hummer with the rest of the team, including Warris, whose expression seemed neutral. I came back down the ladder and hopped in the flatbed. Ramirez floored it, and we rushed past the open main gate and hightailed it toward the field, along with two other Hummers carrying a pair of rifle squads.
We took sporadic small-arms fire from the hills for a minute, but the rifle squads returned fire and suppressed those guys. We parked behind the burning trucks for cover, then charged out and raced toward the mine-sweeping team.
Six guys were there, every one of them on the ground. I rushed over to the lieutenant I’d spoken to at the gate. He’d been shot in the neck and the arm and was bleeding badly. “Nolan!” I screamed.
The medic rushed over while guys from the rifle squads went to assist the other fallen sweepers.
“It’s right next to our truck.” The lieutenant gasped. “Right there.”
“GET BACK! GET BACK!” Ramirez screamed.
I turned my head.
And it all unfolded in a weird slow motion that people describe during traumatic events. Sometimes they say they felt “outside themselves,” as though swimming in an ether while watching the event from far, far away.
Ramirez pointed to the ground, where an insurgent had just rolled over. He’d been shot up badly but was wearing a vest of explosives with a detonator clutched in his right hand.
He’d been waiting for us to get close.
I’ve always wondered what would’ve happened if Warris had been within the blast radius. How might the rest of the story have played out?
But Warris was back near our truck, calling it all in, probably talking to Harruck, when I turned and lunged away, toward him, along with the rest of our group.
I hit the ground near the Hummer’s right front tire, crawled once on my elbows, and the deafening burst sounded behind me, followed a half second later by blasting sand and shrapnel pinging all over the truck.
Ears ringing, pulse racing, drool spilling out of my mouth, I rolled, then pushed up on my hands and knees as the fire and smoke mushroomed above us.
Guys were screaming, but no noise came from their mouths. I took a few seconds to search out each of my men, and I found them all except for Beasley, who was lying near one of the other Hummers. I rose and staggered over to him.
He was missing a leg, an arm… the side of his face. I turned away and gagged.
A few of the others gathered around me, and Nolan and Brown dropped to their knees.
Two more pickup trucks were racing across the desert now, heading toward us from the village. I shielded my eyes from the glare and saw Kundi in the passenger seat of one vehicle and the water man, Burki, at the wheel.
My arms and legs were stinging because I’d taken some minor hits, but I was still too shocked to even look for the wounds. With the fires raging all around us, I shifted around the trucks to where I spotted a shovel stuck in the sand. The lieutenant had found something all right, and one of his guys had begun digging.
I knew that once Kundi arrived — and no doubt Harruck would, too — it’d all be over, so whatever the villagers or the Taliban had buried out there needed to be uncovered — immediately.
I’d just lost a guy, and I’d be damned if it was for nothing. I seized the shovel and began digging like a maniac, sand arcing through the air, while Ramirez came over to me, wanted to know what I was doing.
“Grab the other shovel! Dig now! Dig!”
“Matt’s gone! He’s dead!”
“I know. Dig!” I cursed at him, kept digging, going down another two feet when my shovel hit something. I dropped to my hands and knees, dug around with my hands, found wood. Maybe a hatch. “Got something! Help me out!”
My gaze was torn between clearing away more dirt and the approaching vehicles.
And now came the heavily armed and armored Hummer carrying Harruck himself, streaking across the sand.
I found the edge of the hatch, a rope pull, and tugged on it. Nothing. Just a creak. Still too much sand holding it down.
Ramirez leaned over and began clearing sand with his hands, and within thirty seconds we began to pull free the wood. It finally gave and we came up with it: a rectangular piece of plywood about three feet by four.
As dirt poured down into the hole, sunlight revealed a wooden ladder and a chamber at least two meters deep. I stole one more look at the pickup trucks and Harruck’s ride, then descended the ladder. I turned around and in the shadows saw that the chamber extended another two or three meters to my left and was filled with cardboard boxes and crates.
No, it wasn’t some Afghan wine cellar, that was for sure, and what I’d uncovered was both significant and alarming. A creak from the ladder drew my gaze, and Harruck reached the bottom, turned, and let his gaze drift past me.
Another man I didn’t recognize reached the bottom of the ladder. He was middle-aged, had a thick mustache, and wore a green uniform with red insignia on the shoulders: AFGHAN NATIONAL POLICE.
“It’s all American,” I said, my voice cracking. “Probably a hundred rifles or more. Thousands of rounds of ammo. Grenades, gas masks… all stuff that was meant for the national army and the police.”