I thought. Works better in close quarters. They must’ve
been very close when they zapped us the first time.”
“But look at this thing. Seems homemade,” said
Ramirez, lifting the gun up to his penlight.
“They didn’t make ’em up here, or even in the town,”
I said. “Somebody’s supplying them—somebody who
156 GH OS T RE CON
knows they’d need them. Like the CIA. Pack up that
gun. Let’s go!”
Ramirez shoved the gun in his backpack, and we
began to work our way along a curve that dropped
sharply. I had to hang on to the wall to prevent sliding
forward for a few meters.
Ramirez was pulling up the rear now, keeping his rifle
pointed back while shuffling to keep up with us, the thin
beams of our penlights playing like lasers over the walls.
Treehorn remained up front, ready to blast the hell
out of anyone who tried to confront us. He stole a quick
glance back at me, and I’d never seen his eyes as wide.
The sergeant was wired to the moment, and I had every
confidence in him.
“Mitchell, this is Warris. We dropped two tangos.
Picked up a gun of some sort. EMP, over.”
“Same here,” I answered. “Keep moving in, but call
out if you see our lights.”
“Roger that.”
I noticed how Warris wouldn’t refer to me as “Ghost
Lead.” What a fool . . . I wondered why he hadn’t called
Harruck to “tell on me” yet. Then I thought, he’s just a
kid and wants a little action, that’s why he’s delaying the
call. What a bigger fool!
And then, before he could say contemplate anything
else, Ramirez opened fire behind us. We hit the dirt, and I
whirled back, along with Nolan, to add our fire and drive
back a pair of fighters who vanished behind the curve.
“Keep moving!” I ordered.
“They’re still back there,” warned Ramirez.
CO MB AT O P S
157
“That’s why you keep watching,” I said.
The air grew dank as we descended even farther.
Trash appeared along the walls—discarded wrappers,
even some bottles of soda, along with MREs, which had
obviously been stolen from U.S. and coalition forces.
“Looks like an intersection coming up,” said Tree-
horn. “Two tunnels.”
“Warris, do you see us?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you see an intersection?”
“Yeah, we do.”
“All right, we’re coming at you. Hold fire.”
I think we got another ten meters, maybe fifteen
before it all went to hell.
The two guys dogging us from behind attacked again,
and Nolan and Ramirez were on their bellies, cutting
loose with salvos that ricocheted off the back walls. I
dove forward, just behind Treehorn, who in turn spotted
two guys rounding a corner from the intersection.
Before they could open fire, he blasted them with his
first shot, just as Warris and Brown were coming up
behind them.
Warris clutched his leg, having caught some of the
buckshot, then looked to his right and saw something. I
lost him for a second in the shadows as his gun rattled
and then Brown appeared for a second in my light and
was as quickly lost.
But then his shout came loudly up the tunneclass="underline" “Gre
nade!”
The Taliban were suicidal fools to drop a grenade
158 GH OS T RE CON
inside the tunnel, and as Brown dove back from where
he came, the blinding flash made me blink and drop my
head. I gasped as the explosion tore through the tunnel
ahead, my ears ringing loudly, the shattering rock and
streaming sand barely discernible as debris pelted us and
Ramirez and Hume kept firing to the rear.
I lifted my head, my face already covered in dust, the
beam of the penlight thick with more dust as the ground
reverberated a second time . . . and then Brown once
more hollered, “Cave-in! Get back! Cave-in!”
FIFTEEN
I’d read some accounts of Marines and other Special
Forces operators who’d dropped into Afghanistan just
after 9/11. They’d discussed how difficult it was to flush
the enemy out of the labyrinth of caves and tunnels that
lay along the border with Pakistan. One Special Forces
operator from the storied group known as “Triple
Nickel” had described the tunnels as “great intestines of
stone” that were, in fact, “part of the innards of some
ancient warrior who’d died millennia ago.”
That was damned poetic. I would describe them as
damp, dark holes that made perfect burial grounds, like
the catacombs of Europe. They smelled and foretold of
death and were the setting of many of my nightmares.
160 GH OS T RE CON
Ramirez ceased fire, reached out, grabbed some-
thing, threw it. I realized those fools behind us had
tossed in another grenade. I didn’t know where Ramirez
got his reflexes, but I wasn’t complaining.
“Get down!” I screamed, but my order was lost in the
second explosion, this one much louder, the debris strik-
ing more fiercely as up ahead, a flurry of gunfire also vied
for my attention. Smith, Brown, and Hume were advanc-
ing toward the intersecting tunnel where the explosion
had occurred, and they were engaging more troops.
The air grew thicker as the ceiling collapsed and heavy
rocks and earth poured in from above. Ramirez rose and
began running back as pieces of the ceiling the size of
truck tires came down and split apart across the floor.
The stench of the explosives and the choking dust had
me coughing, along with the others, and my eyes burned
as I turned forward and called, “Brown? Brown?”
I couldn’t hear myself screaming through the echo of
the explosion. I finally staggered to my feet, and, drag-
ging a gloved hand along the wall for balance, I moved
forward to find Brown, Hume, and Smith about four
meters down the intersecting tunnel to my right. A wall
of rocks and sand blocked the entire path, and the guys
were covering their faces and letting their penlights play
over the obstruction.
“Where the hell’s Warris?” I asked, swinging around.
Brown shook his head.
“What?” I cried, growing even more tense. “Is he
dead?”
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161
“I don’t know. He was on the other side when the
grenade went off.”
I got on the radio, tried to call him, nothing. “Wait,”
called Smith, pressing his ear against the rock while
Ramirez and Nolan approached to cover us.
“I hear something,” Smith added. “Sounds like him!
He’s calling for help.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“All right, start digging,” I said.
“We’ll cover the back tunnel,” said Ramirez, waving
Nolan after him.
“Do it,” I said.
“Bad night,” said Brown, grabbing the first large
rock he could find and groaning as he lifted and threw it
aside. “Very bad night.”
“We’ll be here for hours,” said Smith. “And they’re
probably massing for us outside.”