“I want the Taliban in the mountains to focus on you guys to the west and not us.”
“Did you ask the CO?”
“I’m asking you.”
He thought a moment. “I see. And what do I get in return?”
I ticked them off with my fingers: “Money, power, fame, hookers, and booze.”
He grinned. “You prima donnas in SF are clever bastards. But I’m serious — what’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“How about a healthy dose of respect?”
“Marty, you got to earn that on your own, but two Bradleys would make one hell of a down payment in my eyes.”
“Okay, but I can swallow this much easier with a lot of beer.”
“You got it.”
“Two Bradleys,” he said.
“Yeah, and can you have them put up a flare when they’re in place?”
“Wow, you really want a party.”
“You know it.”
“Well, Harruck’s been hitting the bottle a lot. I’m sure he’ll be drunk and asleep by then…”
Wouldn’t you know it, lo and behold, the flare arced high in the sky.
I whispered a thank-you to the XO.
The guys freaked out. “Relax, that’s our cue,” I told them. “Let’s move.”
We waded through the hip-high water, holding our AKs above our heads. The water felt thick and warm, like motor oil, and I imagined snakes and piranhas and other assorted demons coiling around my legs as we made the crossing.
For the hell of it, we brought along our last two Cross-Coms that hadn’t been fried. Again, I wore one, Ramirez the other. The mountain pass looked clear as we neared the bottom. In fact, several combatants had shifted over to where the flare had gone up. I counted at least fifteen enemy fighters on that side of the mountain, keeping a close watch on the Bradleys, the red diamonds floating over each of their positions in my HUD.
We began our ascent, the path rock-strewn and as rugged as I’d expected. Though we’d dressed like Taliban, the one exception was our boots. We wouldn’t give up our combat boots for a pair of sandals, not in those mountains. And when it came time to boogie, we sure as hell shouldn’t worry about stubbing our toes.
But our heavy boots, now filled with water, squished and slogged as we climbed, and I grew annoyed that we couldn’t move more quietly.
A data bar opened in my HUD, showing an image of a Predator drone flying high above the mountain range. The image switched to an officer in his cockpit, which was — quite remarkably — on the other side of the world inside a trailer at Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas.
“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control, over.”
“Go ahead, Predator.”
“We have visual confirmation of your target tunnel. Count two tangos outside the entrance, two more approximately ten meters above. We also see a heavy gun emplacement approximately twenty meters east of the entrance with two tangos manning that position, over.”
“Roger that, Predator, can you send me the stream?”
“En route. Recording looks clean.”
“Can I call on you for fires?”
“Standby, Ghost Lead.”
I signaled for a halt and crouched down behind two long rafts of stone, like fallen pillars from an ancient palace. “Got a Predator up there,” I told the team in a whisper, widening my eyes on Hume, who nodded and shook a fist. “Waiting to hear if he can drop some Hellfires if we need ’em.”
“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control. We are not authorized to provide fire support. However, I’ve personally sent your request up the pipe to see if we can’t get authorization. Do call again, over.”
“Roger that,” I told him, understanding his meaning. The controller wanted nothing more than to drop his bombs and help us out. His finger was poised over the trigger. All he needed was an officer with the guts to give the word.
“They might help us,” I told the guys after a long breath. I signaled once more to move out.
We were coming in from the east side of the tunnel entrance, so I told Treehorn to move ahead. His job would be to take out the gunners in the machine gun nest. He’d do that with the silenced sniper rifle he’d brought along. Ramirez and his team would focus on the two guys up top, bringing them down with knives or with their silenced pistols. I’d take Smith and Jenkins to a southerly approach of the main entrance.
We spent another thirty minutes moving into position, the night growing more cool and calm, the wind dying. In the distance, across the vast stretch of sand, a Bedouin caravan trekked slowly toward Senjaray, the group traveling in the more tolerable temperatures of the night. A long line of camels laden with heavy bundles wound off into the shadows.
And for a moment, I just watched them, rapt by the image, as though we were living in a different century.
“In position,” said Ramirez.
“Got the gunners in sight,” reported Treehorn, relying on our conventional radio.
I replied to each, then gave the hand signals for Smith and Jenkins to move ahead of me as we made our approach toward the entrance. A crescent moon gave us enough light to see the footprints in the path ahead. We were taking a well-worn path that, despite the risks, would keep us silent. Every rock, smaller stone, and pebble was an enemy as we drew closer.
The path turned sharply to the right, hugging the mountainside, with a sheer dropoff to our left. And there it was, down below: Sangsar, as quiet as ever. A spattering of lights. The slight flap of laundry on the lines. I lifted my binoculars and scanned the walls, spotted a cat milling about, and a man, knees pulled into his chest, sleeping near one gate, his rifle propped at his side.
Smith held up his fist. We stopped, got lower. He had two, just ahead. He slipped back, as did Jenkins.
They looked at me:
I took a deep breath and started forward, testing every footfall, turning myself through sheer willpower into a swift and silent ghost.
TWENTY-SIX
For me anyway, there’s a delayed emotional reaction after killing a man. Like most combatants, I’ve trained myself to go numb during the act and let muscle memory take over. I think only of the moment, of removing the obstacle while reminding myself that this man I’m about to kill wants to kill me just as badly. So, I reason, I’m only defending myself. They are targets, a means to an end, and the fragility of the human body helps expedite the process.
That all sounds very clinical, and it should. It helps to think about it in terms of cold hard numbers.
I once had a guy at the JFK School ask me how many people I’d killed. I lied to him. I told him if you kept count you’d go insane. But I had a pretty good approximation of the number. I once got on a city bus, glanced at all the people, and thought,
Strangely enough, months after a mission, without any obvious trigger, the moment would return to me in a dream or at the most bizarre or mundane time, and I would suddenly hate myself for killing a father, a husband, a brother, an uncle… I think about all the families who’ve suffered because of me. And then I just force myself to go on, to forget about that, to just say I was doing my job and that the guys I’d killed had made their choices and had paid for them with their lives.
I would be just fine.
