head jutted out. I was facing the mountainside, muzzle
flashes dancing across the ridgelines. I turned around to
face the village and saw at least forty Taliban fighters
racing directly toward me running behind a pair of
pickup trucks with fifty-calibers mounted on the back,
the guns spewing rounds.
But then, from somewhere behind me came the hiss
of rockets, and just as I turned my head, I saw an Apache
roar overhead and the pickup trucks explode in great
fireballs not thirty meters from my head.
I ducked back into the hole. The Predator controller
was about to drop his bombs. I hustled down and
grabbed Hila. I moved her higher across the dirt mound
and toward our escape hole. I shifted around to try to
shield her from the blast, then took two long breaths
and listened for the first impact.
THIRT Y
I tucked in as tightly as I could, and the next few sec-
onds felt like a lifetime.
For a moment, I thought the controller had changed
his mind or been ordered to abort.
But then, just as my doubts were beginning to take
root, twin detonations, somewhat muffled at first, origi-
nated from behind us, well off into the basement. Not
three heartbeats later came a roar unlike anything I’d
ever heard, followed by a massive tremor ripping through
the ground.
As the earthquake continued, a wave of intense heat
pushed through the tunnel behind me, and I gasped and
started dragging Hila higher toward the hole, fearing
that all the air would be consumed before we escaped.
CO MB AT O P S
317
That I moved farther up was the only thing that saved us
from a wave of fire that rushed through the pipe. I kept
groaning and dragging her higher, my boots slipping on
the dirt, as dozens of smaller explosions began to boom,
and I knew that was all the ammunition beginning to
cook off. Then came a horrible stench as the opium
began to burn. My eyes filled with tears, and for a few
seconds I thought I’d pass out before someone grabbed
my arm and began pulling me up.
There was screaming, but I couldn’t identify anyone
above the cracking and booming from below, as well as
more booming from the village as I was suddenly hoisted
out of the hole and plopped down in the sand.
I blinked hard, saw Brown and Smith there, with
Brown digging back into the hole and pulling out Hila.
He was wearing the Cross-Com I’d given to Ramirez.
Behind us, the helicopters were still engaging the
Taliban fighters on the ground, but most of them were
retreating back toward the walls.
However, at least one machine gunner set up behind
a jingle truck opened fire, and we all hit the deck a
moment before the Apache gunship whirled around and
directed a massive barrage of fire that not only tore
through the gunner but began to shred the truck itself.
“I’ve got her,” yelled Smith, scooping up Hila and
gesturing toward the mountainside. “The tunnel’s up
there! Let’s go!”
Brown pulled me back up. “We locked onto your chip
as soon as you got close to the top. You okay?”
“More than okay. I got Zahed.”
318 GH OS T RE CON
Brown was all pearly whites. “Hoo-ah! Mission com-
plete, baby. Let’s roll!”
The three of us ran back toward the hills, with the
choppers covering our exit. Brown was in direct contact
with them, and he said that he’d sent the others off
toward two rifle squads that had come up through the
defile. They were bringing back one Bradley to pick up
the girls. We took a tunnel I hadn’t seen before, which
Brown said led up to one of the mountain passes.
As we neared the exit and emerged onto the dirt road,
we looked down toward Senjaray and saw the Bradley
pulling away. The girls we’d rescued were, I later learned,
safely onboard.
We were almost home.
“Hold up,” I said, as we crossed around some boul-
ders. We squatted down. “We need to get her out of here
faster than this.” I looked to Brown. “Can we get a
Blackhawk to pick her up?”
“I’m on it. But we’ll still have to get down to the val-
ley over there.”
“All right.” I dug into my pocket, switched on my
satellite phone, and saw there was a message from Gen-
eral Keating. I took a deep breath, dialed, and listened.
And my heart sank.
“I repeat, son, we need to pull you off this mission.
Abort. Abort. Stand down . . .”
He’d said a lot more than that, but those were the
only words that meant anything. Bronco hadn’t been
bluffing.
CO MB AT O P S
319
At that moment, though, I was glad I hadn’t heard
the message, but I wondered whether I would’ve shot
Zahed anyway, despite the order to stand down.
I wondered.
I’d like to think that my experience and honor
would’ve led me to make the right decision. But the
politics and grim reality were far too powerful to ignore.
“Captain, you don’t look so good,” said Smith.
“The order to stand down came in, but I, uh, I guess
I missed it. Zahed’s dead anyway.”
“Good work,” said Brown.
“Ghost Lead, this is Hume, over.”
“Go ahead, John.”
“Jenkins and I got on the Bradley, but we got cut off
from Warris and Ramirez in the tunnels. We figured
they’d link up with us down here, but they didn’t show
up, over.”
“Roger that, we’ll find them.”
“Paul, you get her down there to link up with the
chopper?” Brown asked Smith.
“I’m on it.”
“Then I’m with you, Captain, let’s go!”
We rose and jogged off, back into the tunnel, while
Smith carried Hila toward the valley.
“I’m afraid of what we’ll find,” said Brown.
We linked up with another section of tunnels, ones
we’d already marked with beacons, and we stepped over
four or five bodies of Taliban fighters.
Brown and I spent nearly an hour combing the tunnels.
320 GH OS T RE CON
No tracker chips were detected during those moments
when I’d slip outside to search for a signal, so we had to
assume both men were still underground.
Sighing in disgust, I told Brown we needed to get
back and see if we couldn’t get a search team in the tun-
nels by morning.
“You think they got captured?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I told him. “But we
can’t stay up here all night.”
We hiked down from the mountains and toward the vil-
lage. The firing had all but stopped, and the gunships had
already pulled out and were heading toward Kandahar.
As Brown and I reached the defile, we were met by a
horrible sight:
Anderson and Harruck were standing in the smoking
ruins of the school, shattered by Taliban mortar fire.
The once tall walls of the police station, whose roof was
about to be constructed, looked like jagged teeth now,
with more smoke coiling up into the night sky.
Anderson was crying. Harruck glared and cried,