know right now that I can’t do that.”
“I understand. Unless your OPORDER changes, you
stay on target, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any more news about your dad?”
I told him about my conversation with my sister. We
were waiting to hear more.
Most of my guys picked up minor wounds, as I did, and
the doctor was able to remove the pieces of shrapnel
from my legs and stitch me up. He’d asked about the
scar on my chest, as I suspected he would.
All I said was that I’d been serving in the Philippines
and been stabbed with a very interesting sword shaped
CO MB AT O P S
141
like a Chinese character. The weapon was now resting
comfortably in a glass case at an old friend’s house.
After all these years, the scar still itched. And I could
still see Fang Zhi’s eyes as he’d thrust the blade into me.
I was just a kid back then. And the missions seemed
crystal clear. Ironically, Fang Zhi had questioned his
own commanders’ orders and become torn over his duty
versus the lives of the men in his charge. Though I don’t
regret killing him, I better understood his position after
spending time in Afghanistan.
Back in our billet, most of the guys were sitting on their
bunks, staring blankly or rubbing the corners of their
eyes and trying not to lose it. We’d been a closely knit
team for the past two years. We’d lost a family member.
“We need to get out there tonight and get some,”
said Ramirez, just after I entered. “They need to pay for
killing Matt.”
The response was natural, rudimentary, entirely
human, and I felt the same—despite its sounding like a
knee-jerk reaction of less experienced soldiers.
Hume, Nolan, and Brown began nodding. Treehorn
joined them. Jenkins, the biggest, most intimidating
guy on the team, started crying. Smith, who was near
him, offered a few words of encouragement.
Master Sergeant Matt Beasley had hailed from
Detroit, had tooled around the ’hood in a Harley Sport-
ster, and was a latchkey kid who’d made a name for him-
self in the Army. I don’t expect my words to do him
142 GH OS T RE CON
justice, and you’ll never know him the way we did, but
you need to understand how important he was to us.
In recent months Ramirez had become more of my
right-hand man, but Beasley had been the first guy to
help out, had treated me with respect and had welcomed
me into his fold. NCOs could make or break you, and
much of my success was due to his experience and guid-
ance. We always had Alpha and Bravo teams, with Charlie
team being our “one-man” sniper operation, and Beasley
always led Bravo for me. I never once doubted his abilities
and knew that if I was ever injured or incapacitated, my
guys were in his more-than-capable hands.
I could tell myself that if I hadn’t sent the mine-
sweepers out there, then Matt would still be alive. But I
wouldn’t have made that decision. I would have sent
them no matter the risk. Of course, I’d seen a lot of guys
die in combat—and a lot of guys die just getting blown
up while they were on their way to the latrine. Some-
times I took the blame and just buried it. But I’d been
working with Matt for a long time, and though I
couldn’t help but feel the guilt, I could already hear him
telling me not to worry about it. Sorry, Matt, that’s eas-
ier said than done.
The guys, no doubt, wanted payback. So did I. And
not just against the Taliban.
Before I could speak, a big Chinook rumbled over-
head, shaking the hut with its twin rotors.
“That was fast,” said Ramirez, his gaze shooting up
to the ceiling.
“Well, that might not be our bird,” I said. He was
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143
referring to our having Beasley’s body shipped back to
Kandahar.
He nodded. “So, are we game on for tonight?”
I raised a palm. “Take it easy. I’ve got no actionable
intel.”
“They’ve been poking around, trying to feel out our
new defenses in the defile,” said Treehorn. “There are
some foothills in the back with a couple of tunnel
entrances—or at least they looked like entrances from
where I was at.”
The door swung open, and in walked Captain Warris.
No one spoke.
“Guys, I’m deeply sorry about the death of Master
Sergeant Beasley. I just wanted you to know that. I
wanted you to know that I’m a Ghost, too. I’m on this
team. Not anyone else’s . . .”
Ramirez raised his hand. “Sir, can we talk off the
record?”
Warris showed his palm. “Let me stop you there. I
already know where this is going.”
I glanced sidelong at him. “So do I.” There was no
mistaking the threat in my tone.
“What’s going on here, people, is a philosophical dif-
ference between commanders that’s playing out in the
ditches, and we got stuck with the raw deal. I need to be
in the loop on everything because I’m supposed to
smooth things over between us and the CO. I don’t
blame your captain for being upset over what’s trans-
pired here, but for now, we just make the best of it until
higher gets its head out of its ass.”
144 GH OS T RE CON
Oh, he was a clever bastard, all right, I thought. He’d
let me have it, then had softened his tone to try to win
over the hearts and minds of my guys. He had no idea
who he was dealing with . . .
“That’s right, everyone,” I said, widening my gaze on
them. “And as I just told you, we have no actionable
intelligence at this time, so we’ll continue in our holding
pattern. Meanwhile, I’ll be in close touch with the colo-
nel to see if they can get us something.”
“Very well,” said Warris.
We all stood there. You could cut the awkwardness
with a bowie knife.
“Uh, yeah, one other thing,” I said. “I always bunk
with my team, and this billet is full. I’m sure Harruck
has room with the other officers.”
He snorted. “Right. I’ll work that out. And one more
thing. Captain Harruck has decided to turn over that
weapons cache to the local police chief. Kundi has
agreed. They’ll use those weapons to begin arming a
new police force.”
“Interesting,” I said. “And where are they recruiting
this new police force?”
“From the local villages,” Warris answered.
“Which includes Sangsar,” I pointed out. “Zahed’s
hometown.”
“I think it’s a good compromise, rather than simply
confiscating the weapons.”
“Before these COIN ops, this wouldn’t have hap-
pened,” I said. “The weapons would be gone. No chance
of them falling back into the enemy’s hands.”
CO MB AT O P S
145
He sighed. “It is what it is.” And with that, he hur-
ried out, the door slamming after him.
Not three seconds after he was gone, Treehorn looked