“It is now. Let ’em think nothing’s wrong. Brown?
Hume? You guys are with me. Let’s go.”
I left Ramirez standing there, dumbfounded. No, he
wouldn’t get his chance to get near Warris, and I’d just
told him in so many words, No, I don’t trust you.
Brown took point with a penlight fixed to the end
of his silenced rifle. I forgot to mention earlier that none
of us liked the limited peripheral vision offered by
276 GH OS T RE CON
night-vision goggles—especially in closed quarters—so
we’d long since abandoned them during tunnel and cave
ops. Moreover, if we were spotted, the bad guys wouldn’t
think twice about shooting a guy wearing NVGs because
he was obviously not one of them. It was pretty rare for
the Taliban to get their hands on a pair of expensive
goggles, though not completely unheard of. As it was,
we’d offer them at least a moment’s pause—a moment
we’d use to kill them.
The tunnel was similar to all the others we’d encoun-
tered, about a meter wide and two meters tall, part of it
naturally formed, but as we ventured deeper we saw it’d
been dug or blasted out in various sections, the walls
clearly scarred by shovels and pickaxes. Soon, we shifted
along a curving wall to the left, and Brown called for a
halt. He placed a small beacon about the size of a quarter
on the floor near his boot. My Cross-Com immediately
picked up the signal, but even if we lost our Cross-Coms,
dropping bread crumbs was a good idea in this particular
network. We all had a sense that these tunnels were some
of the most extensive and vast in the entire country, and
finding our way back out would pose a serious challenge.
Brown looked back at me, gave a hand signal. We
started up again.
In less than thirty seconds we reached a fork in the
tunnel, with a broader one branching off to our right.
Brown placed another beacon on the floor. I took a deep
breath, the air cooler and damper.
“Man, I got the willies,” whispered Hume.
“You and me both,” Brown said.
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277
After aiming his penlight down the more narrow
tunnel, Brown studied the footprints in the sand and
rock. Both paths were well-worn. No clues there.
I pointed to the right.
Brown looked at me, as if to say, Are you sure?
I wasn’t. But I was emphatic. I wouldn’t split us up,
not three guys.
Dark stains appeared on the floor as we crossed
deeper into the broader tunnel. Brown slowed and
aimed his penlight at one wider stain. Dried blood.
And then, just a little farther down the hall, shell cas-
ings that’d been booted off to the sides of the path
gleamed in Brown’s light.
We shifted another twenty meters or so, when Brown
called for another halt and switched off his light. If you
want to experience utter darkness, then go spelunking.
There is nothing darker. I’d lost the satellite signal for
the Cross-Com, so I just blinked hard and let my eyes
adjust. Brown moved a few steps farther and then a pale
yellow glow appeared on the ceiling about five meters
ahead, the light flickering slightly. My eyes further
adjusted, and Brown led us another ten or so steps and
stopped. He pointed.
A huge section of the floor looked as though it’d col-
lapsed, and the rough-hewn top of a homemade ladder
jutted from the hole. The light came from kerosene lan-
terns, I guessed, and suddenly the ladder shifted and
creaked.
My pulse raced.
We crouched tight to the wall as the Taliban fighter
278 GH OS T RE CON
reached the top. He was wearing only a loose shirt and
pants, his hair closely cropped, his beard short. He was
eighteen, if that. Tall. Gangly. Big Adam’s apple.
Brown signaled that he had this guy. I wouldn’t
argue. Brown was in fact our resident knife guy and had
saved his own ass more than once with his trusted Night-
wing blade.
I winced over the crunch and crack, the scream muf-
fled by Brown’s gloved hand, and the slight frump and
final exhale as the kid spread across the tunnel floor and
began to bleed out. The diamond black knife now dripped
with blood, which Brown wiped off on his hip.
We examined the kid for any clues, but all he had was
a rifle and the clothes on his back. Brown edged forward
toward the ladder and glowing lanterns below. Then we
all got down on our hands and knees and crawled for-
ward. Once we neared the lip of the hole and the ladder,
we lowered ourselves onto our bellies, and I chanced a
look down.
The chamber was circular and about five meters in
diameter, with piles of rock and dirt along one wall
where, indeed, the collapse had occurred. The opposite
wall was stacked from floor to ceiling with more opium
bricks wrapped in brown paper, and beside those stacks
were cardboard boxes whose labels read MEAL, READY-TO-
EAT, INDIVIDUAL. DO NOT ROUGH HANDLE WHEN FRO-
ZEN. U.S. GOVER NMENT PROPERTY. COMMERCIAL RESALE IS
UNLAWFUL. There had to be fifty or more boxes. We’d
seen MRE trash littering the tunnels earlier, but I’d had
no idea they were smuggling in so much of the high-carb
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279
GI food. I wondered if Bronco was helping these guys
get their hands on this “government” property.
Before we could shift any closer and even descend the
ladder, someone rushed up behind us. We all rolled to
the tunnel walls. Then, just as I was bringing my rifle
around and Brown was switching on his penlight, a Tal-
iban fighter rounded the corner and held up his palm.
“Hold fire!” he stage-whispered.
He pulled down his shemagh. Ramirez.
Brown cursed.
Hume swore.
I’m not sure how many curses I used through my
whisper, but more than four.
We spoke in whispers:
“You didn’t answer my calls,” Ramirez said.
“We’re cut off down here,” I answered, slowly sitting
up as he crossed to me. I put a finger to my lips. “What?”
“The two Bradleys are pulling out of the defile.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t answer my calls, either.”
“Aw, Simon must’ve woke up,” I said. “Damn it.”
“I contacted the Predator. He’s still got a way better
sat image than we do. He said the guys are moving back
over here. I left Treehorn on the machine gun, but I
figured I’d come down to warn you.”
“Where are Smith and Jenkins?”
“Still outside the entrance.”
“All right, get back out there.”
“Any luck here?”
“Joey, go . . .”
280 GH OS T RE CON
He hesitated, pursed his lips. “Yes, sir.”
Brown looked at me and shook his head. Was this
some kind of lame excuse to get himself back in the
action? We didn’t know. But if he was telling the truth
and the Taliban were shifting back across the mountain,
then the clock was ticking more loudly now.
Hume edged up to me. “I’ll take the ladder.”