“I will, Alex,” I said, applying more pressure as he
began to shiver violently.
Nolan was referring to John Hume; they’d become
best friends, fighting hard and playing hard. Guys would
tease them about being “too close,” but they were more
like brothers. I knew losing Nolan would crush Hume.
Crush him.
Smith, who was up near the exit, suddenly ducked
back inside as gunfire ripped across the stone where he’d
been standing. “We are so pinned down here.”
I was about to answer when another mortar round
struck far down the tunnel, and the ground shook.
Somewhere back there, another cave-in was happening,
the rocks and dirt streaming and hissing, and not five
seconds later a wall of thick dust rolled through the tun-
nel toward us.
When I looked down again, Nolan was not moving. I
checked his neck for a pulse. That round had, indeed,
CO MB AT O P S
219
struck his heart, and when I checked the side of his
shirt, it was soaked thick with blood.
Footfalls resounded up the tunnel, and suddenly
through the dust came a figure. I snatched up my rifle,
took aim, and held my breath.
“Hold fire!” came a familiar voice. The figure tugged
down his shemagh. Ramirez. He glanced over his shoul-
der. “Come on! We’ve linked up with the Captain!”
As the others rushed up behind him, Hume spotted
Nolan lying at my side and rushed to him.
“Alex!”
“He’s gone,” I said evenly.
“Aw, no,” Hume cried. “No, no, no.”
For just a moment—perhaps only three seconds—we
all stood there, frozen, staring down at Hume and
Nolan, no sound, no movement, just the burning image
of our fallen brother, and then—
“Ghost Lead, this is Treehorn, they got RPGs mov-
ing in on the Bradley. Permission to open fire!”
I shuddered back to reality. “Negative, hold fire! Do
not give up your position.” I switched channels to speak
to the Bradley commander. “Blue Six, this is Ghost
Lead, over.”
I waited, called again, nothing. Couldn’t even warn
the guy and his squad. The vehicle’s big machine gun
was already drumming as several more booms struck
and silenced it.
“They got the gunner!” shouted Treehorn. “They
got the gunner! They’re swarming the Bradley. Swarm-
ing it now!”
220 GH OS T RE CON
Two more shells struck the mountain, and the ceiling
began to crack right near my head.
“I’m taking him out of here,” said Hume, his eyes
already burning.
“You got it,” I answered. “Treehorn? Get set! We’re
coming out!”
T WENTY-ONE
Alex Nolan was a smart-aleck kid from the streets of
Boston who’d become a senior medical sergeant with
the Ghosts. He often looked like a geek, but when he
opened his mouth, wow, he was all attitude fueled by an
insatiable curiosity and great intellect. He was even a
Mensa member. Still, there were times when he could
throw a switch and be the most caring and sympathetic
operator on our team. The last time we were in Afghan-
istan, I’d seen him spend hours with sick villagers. He’d
always ask the same question: “Are your animals sick,
too?” When you operated in third-world countries and
people became ill, you could sometimes trace the prob-
lem back to their livestock.
With the letter to Matt Beasley’s family still fresh on
222 GH OS T RE CON
my mind, I couldn’t believe I had to write another one.
I wasn’t used to losing operators, especially two on a
single mission.
We’d been all over the world, working on operations
far more taxing than this one. And while they kept tell-
ing me this situation was complicated, on the surface it
seemed much safer when compared to the operation I’d
run in China, penetrating deep into the heart of the
country to take out a cabal of rogue generals. Hell, we’d
had a hundred chances to be captured or killed and had
slipped past every one of them.
Now we’d been charged with nabbing one fat-ass ter-
rorist, and I’d already lost two good men, some of the
most valuable personnel in the U.S. Army. I was already
feeling burned out, like a has-been operator who’d got-
ten his men killed.
With my own eyes burning, we rushed outside the
tunnel and I ordered the guys to set off the charges.
Thumbs went down on wireless detonators, and the mul-
tiple booms echoed, as though someone were kicking
over a massive drum set that clattered and crashed off a
giant stage. I could only hope our charges had swallowed
some of the insurgents inside.
I led Alpha team along a rocky path that descended
sharply to our left. Ramirez and his team would take the
path to the right. I didn’t want us together in case the
guys on this side of the mountains had mortars, too.
And to be perfectly honest, it was convenient to have
Ramirez away so I didn’t need to watch my back.
RPG fire arced like fleeing fireflies, and two cone-shaped
CO MB AT O P S
223
denotations rose skyward as though the Taliban had
ignited a massive bonfire to celebrate their victory over
the infidels.
“All right, Treehorn, cut it loose!” I ordered.
The sniper’s gun boomed, and his rounds came down
like God’s hammer, decisive, deadly, dismembering all
in their path.
But the Taliban were quick to answer.
Gunfire cut a line so close to Hume that he tripped
and fell forward with Nolan’s body draped over his back.
We rushed to help him back to his feet, and that was
when muzzles flashed from the ridgeline about fifty
meters above.
I raised my rifle as the red diamonds appeared in my
HUD to help me lock onto the four targets.
The camera automatically zoomed in on one fighter
raising a HER F gun toward me—and that was when my
HUD went dead.
I might’ve cursed. Either way, the HER F blast was
my cue to open fire, and Smith joined me. We drilled
those bastards back toward the wall, while Hume got
Nolan down onto the lower portion of the path. I wasn’t
sure if we’d hit any of them, but we’d bought some time.
Smith ceased fire, tugged free a smoke grenade, then
tossed it up there a second before we both double-timed
after Hume.
Treehorn’s gun spoke again. And then again. He was
the reaper. His words were thunder.
About twenty meters east of the now-burning Brad-
ley, an insurgent lay on his belly, directing machine gun
224 GH OS T RE CON
fire up near Treehorn, who returned fire, hitting the guy.
The gun went silent—but only for a few seconds as that
fighter was replaced by another, who quickly resumed
showering Treehorn.
“Cover Hume. Get down the rocks and hold there,”
I ordered Smith. He nodded and hustled off.
I jogged back up the path toward Treehorn’s perch
much higher along the ridge.
He took one last shot, then bolted up and joined me.