And it all unfolded in a weird slow motion that peo-
ple 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
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131
men, and I found them all except for Beasley, who was
lying near one of the other Hummers. I rose and stag-
gered 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 Har-
ruck would, too—it’d all be over, so whatever the villag-
ers 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
132 GH OS T RE CON
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 Hum-
mer 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 mus-
tache, and wore a green uniform with red insignia on
the shoulders: AFGHAN NATIONAL POLICE.
“It’s all American,” I said, my voice cracking. “Probably
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133
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.”
“I agree,” said the man in uniform. He looked at me.
“I am Shafiq, the new police chief here in Senjaray.”
Harruck spun around, his eyes now glassy, his cheeks
turning red. “Mitchell, get your people back to the base.
We’ll take over from here. I’ll work this out with Cap-
tain Warris.”
“Yes, sir.”
He blinked hard, coughed, then looked at me, as
though to say, No argument?
But then, as I ascended the ladder, he threw a verbal
punch that I could not ignore: “I’ll find out why the
minesweepers were here, Mitchell.”
“Look around. Kundi’s been letting the Taliban store
weapons. They figured we wouldn’t look here, right out
in the open—unless of course we wanted to drill a well.
And that’s why the old man got so bent out of shape. He
was protecting his little cache here.”
“He is right,” said Shafiq.
I gave Harruck a final look and climbed out, where I
shouted for my men to rally back on our Hummer.
Nolan had already removed a body bag from the truck,
and he and Ramirez had just finished zipping up Beas-
ley. They carried his body to the flatbed and eased it
onboard.
The fires were still whipping in the breeze behind us,
the scene now like an anthill that had been disturbed.
Kundi was out near the hole, throwing his hands in the
134 GH OS T RE CON
air, along with Burki, as Warris, Harruck, and the new
police chief faced them.
Warris turned away from the group and looked at me,
and for just a moment, I thought he longed to be in my
boots, not having to deal with any of the crap.
But then, suddenly, he waved me over.
I looked over my shoulder, then back to him. Me?
He nodded.
Harruck turned around and cried, “Mitchell? We
need you over here right now!”
I liked how he called me Mitchell around everyone
else.
“You wanna just take off?” Ramirez asked me. “Screw
them all. Screw all these assholes.”
“No. You guys take Beasley back. Then get to the
hospital and get everybody else checked out. If these
idiots want to talk to me, then they’d better strap in and
get ready for the ride . . .”
I took a deep breath, winced over a shooting pain in
my leg, and marched toward them.
THIRTEEN
I wanted to beat down at least three of the four men in
front of me. I already saw them lying unconscious and
bloody.
You have to give me some credit for my honesty.