Choke Point

accepted it with deep reservation born of a private conviction that in another place, at another time, they might just as easily have disgraced themselves. And now Freeman had heard that Brentwood was here at Tora Bora.

David Brentwood lay in the MASH’s post-op recovery tent, his right arm wrapped in virgin-white bandages, his bloodshot blue eyes squinting out through the triangle of his tent door up into the hard blue of the Afghan sky and the distant Hindu Kush. Brentwood had already court-martialed himself. He was too intelligent to wallow in the charge of cowardice — he knew he’d done his best. But he was guilty of something. Any mission leader who takes in six of the most highly trained men on earth and loses every one of them, plus the helicopter medic … Yes, he knew the medic probably would have survived if he’d been wearing his Kevlar helmet, which undoubtedly would have protected his head from the impact of the falling rocks. David dragged himself up higher against the pillows, his pajamas soaked through with perspiration. They’d given him a couple of Oxycodone pills three hours before, but the pain that even military physicians, who should have known better, insisted on calling “discomfort” because it made them feel better, was so intense, he felt on the verge of passing out.

Normally, he would have been delighted to see his old commander among the visiting morale-boosting USO party. But this day, as he saw a Humvee approaching along the Afghan plain then coming to a stop in a rush of gritty dust that swept in front of the vehicle, enveloping his tent, the pain of his wound assailed the Medal of Honor winner and temporarily rendered him speechless when he spotted the unmistakable figure of Douglas Freeman emerging ghostlike from the cloud. By way of compensating, he gave the general an awkward left-handed salute.

Freeman, wearing his Afrika Korps cap, returned the salute with the familiar swagger stick he’d been given as a token of appreciation by members of the British Special Air Services. He had known the renowned but publicity- shy elite British commandos long before they’d unwittingly burst upon the world’s consciousness in London on May 5, 1980, executing the perfect and dramatically televised takedown of hostage-holding terrorists in the Iranian embassy. Following the example of U.S. Colonel Beckwith, Freeman had always insisted his Special Forces teams be involved in joint Delta/SAS exercises in the grueling terrain of Wales’s Brecon Beacons, as well as in Fort Benning, Georgia.

“To the bone, I hear?” said Freeman, indicating David’s bandaged right arm as he took off his Afrika Korps cap. Putting it down on the end of the bed, he remained standing and unsmiling.

Given his pain, David found talking difficult, and his tone was uncharacteristically apologetic. “One or two places—” he told the general. “Splinters. It’ll mend.”

“Witch doctors tell me you’re finished for combat.”

“That’s what they think. I need to get my hands on an—” He winced with the effort. “—on an F2000.”

Freeman merely nodded, his manner affirming nothing more than that he was familiar with the revolutionary Belgian assault rifle. Designed for the new world disorder in which a soldier one minute might be a U.N. policeman helping to maintain enough order to distribute food in some drought-ravaged third world country, and in the next be engaged in a vicious firefight with rebels, the 5.56mm weapon had been designed to accommodate snap-on, snap- off modules for different situations and to accommodate these modules quickly and easily. In this way, the F2000 avoided having many of the fixed add-ons that gave so many other modern weapons a “Christmas tree” look. There were other snap-on, snap-off assault weapons, but Freeman knew immediately why David was hoping for the ergonomically designed Belgian piece. The F2000 was not only well-balanced and easy to carry, but was “ambidextrous amenable” in both firing and carrying mode, the cocking handle being on the left of the receiver. The relatively light — less than eight pounds — twenty-seven-inch-long rifle was especially suited for combat in Central Asia. In this vast region, where weapons themselves were under constant assault by the fine grit of dust storms sweeping out of the Gobi and other deserts, the F2000, whose access points, including its cocking slot, were sealed, was the natural choice.

“It doesn’t look pretty,” said Freeman. David thought the general meant his bandaged arm, until he continued, “But it’s compact and does the job. Clip-on grenade launcher. Thirty-round M16 pattern mag.”

“Yes.”

There was an awkward pause, David ending it with, “Has a fire control system they say is foolproof.”

Freeman grunted. “Whenever they say a thing’s foolproof, you’d better start looking for the fool.”

David laughed, but it was forced, both men veteran comrades in arms using their natter about the F2000’s specifications as a stand-in for the subject they were both avoiding. It was distinctly un-Freeman-like to step around painful questions. Indeed, it was his unflinching willingness to confront unpleasant situations head on that had contributed in no small measure to his legend in both the military and Washington, D.C. The wounded Medal of Honor winner wondered how long the general could hold his fire.

“Started exercising?” asked Freeman.

“Yes. Trying to cut down on the pain pills.”

“Don’t, if they help you get through exercises. Knew a guy once — would never take pills. Rambo type. Thought he was going to win the game all by himself. But couldn’t fit into the team. Wouldn’t pass the ball.”

“Uh-huh. Know the type. Remember—”

“Wouldn’t take pain pills,” cut in Freeman. “Not even a damn aspirin. Thought it was wimpy. Being a sissy. Out on an exercise one night up at Fort Lewis, he got a goddamn headache from the howitzer batteries uprange. Must’ve been a migraine. Wouldn’t take a pill. Got so damn disoriented by this migraine, saw the steps, made so much noise going through the brush, couldn’t concentrate, and gave the whole squad away. Reds nailed us before we could hit the kill house.”

“Steps?” asked David.

“What? Oh, yes. Steps going up in front of you like a serrated castle wall. It’s called the ’castle’—an aura a lot of migraine sufferers see before an attack, distorts their vision. Usually the steps come with a background of green — most beautiful damn green you’ve ever seen. You take the pills then, you’ve got a chance of beating the headache or at least reducing the severity—”

The general stopped, the abruptness confirming what Brentwood had already realized. “You suffer from them, General.”

Freeman, the soldat extraordinaire, or what his enemies called “soldier eccentric- aire,” nodded. “Never told anyone that before. Strictly between you, me, and the gate post. Understood?”

“Of course.” It had been the best the general could do in approaching the as yet hidden subject of his visit, delaying the unasked question by dredging up the story of the man who wouldn’t take medication and of how he himself was a secret migraine sufferer. It was a kind of “I understand pain too” quid pro quo. So now he could ask the question, soldier-to-soldier. Seven commandos in. Six commandos dead.

“So what went wrong, David? You fuck up?”

David moved awkwardly in the bed and, pulling out his bedside table drawer with his good left hand, unscrewed a smoke-grenade-size vial and lifted it to his mouth, swallowing two more Oxycodone.

“That bad, eh?” said Freeman, taking the vial from him, screwing the top back on, dropping it into the drawer.

“It was a shoelace,” said David cryptically.

“Shoelace? You starting a quiz program? What the hell does that mean? You tripped, fired your weapon, is that what happened?” He paused. “Blue on blue? That what we’re talking about, David?”

“No, sir, I didn’t shoot my own men. Though I might as well have.”

“Hey!” snapped the general. “I don’t want any sniveling cry-baby, mea culpa, poor-me, self-pitying shit. What’d I tell you boys — all my boys? Look at it square on. You’ve always stood up. Taken full responsibility. Goddammit, I wrote you up for the gong. Saw the President pin it on your chest, remember? But taking responsibility isn’t the same as making a clear analysis. I haven’t read the goddamn AAR.” He meant the After Action report. “I’m retired, remember? Bastards don’t let me see anything ’cept the damn USO schedule — when some blond big tits is going to work up the boys so they spend the next week beating their meat ’stead of keeping their mind on the job. All I know is that seven of my boys went out and six didn’t come back. What went wrong? What’re the AAR’s ’Lessons Learned’? We’re gonna be in this godforsaken place for years, no matter what the White House says. Stuck here and in the other six Stans. Same in Iraq. What can we learn from your experience, Captain?”