Combat Ops

was the first sign.

My Ghosts were already outside our hut, all wearing pakols and shemaghs on their heads and wrapped around their faces to conceal their identities. I ordered them out to the perimeter to see what the hell was going on.

A roar and thundering collision out near the guard gate stole my attention. A flatbed truck had just plowed through the gatehouse and barreled onward to smash through the galvanized steel gates.

The guards there had backed off and were riddling the truck with rifle fire.

And it took Treehorn all of a second to shoulder his rifle and send two rounds into the head of that driver.

But as if on cue, the truck itself exploded in a swelling fireball that spread over the buildings and quarters beside it, setting fire to the rooftops as more flaming debris came in a hailstorm across the walkway between the huts.

We didn’t realize it then, but a hundred or more Taliban had set up positions along the mountains, and once they saw the truck explode, they set free a vicious wave of fire that had all of us in the dirt and crawling for cover as our machine gunners brought their barrels around… and the rat-tat-tat commenced.

FOUR

Two more pickup trucks raced on past our FOB, cutting across the desert and bouncing up and onto the gravel road leading toward the town and the bazaar. Hundreds of people were milling about that area, setting up shop or making their morning purchases. If the Taliban reached that area and cut loose into the crowds…

I shouted for the Ghosts to follow me, and we commandeered two Hummers from the motor pool on the east side of the base. A couple of mechanics volunteered on the spot to be our drivers. We roared out past the shattered gate, me riding shotgun, the others standing in the flatbeds or leaning out the open windows, weapons at the ready. I quickly wrapped a shemagh around my face.

Behind us, the fires still raged, and the machine guns continued to crack and chatter.

Rounds ripped across the hood of our vehicle, and I began to smell gasoline.

“We should pull over!” shouted the mechanic.

“No, get us behind those trucks!”

“I’ll try!”

About fifty meters ahead, the two pickups made a sharp left and disappeared behind a row of homes.

The mechanic floored it, and my head lurched back as we made the turn.

My imagination ran wild with images of civilians falling under our gunfire as we tried to stop these guys. I could already hear the voices of my superiors shouting about the public relations nightmare we’d created.

The second Hummer fell in behind us, and we charged down the narrow dirt street, walled in on both sides by the mud-brick dwellings and the rusting natural gas tanks plopped out front. The familiar laundry lines spanned the alleys and backyards, with clothes, as always, fluttering like flags. Our tires began kicking up enough dust to obscure the entire street in our wake, even as we pushed through the dust clouds whipped up by the Taliban trucks.

We still didn’t have replacement Cross-Coms, and all I could do was call back to the other truck and tell them we weren’t breaking off; we were going after these guys. And yes, the threat of civilian casualties increased dramatically the farther we drove, but I wanted to believe we could do this cleanly. I’d done it before.

Nolan, Brown, and Treehorn had already opened fire on the rear Taliban truck, knocking out a tire and sending one of the Taliban tumbling over the side with a bullet in his neck. The rear truck suddenly broke off from the first, making a hard left turn down another dirt street.

I told the guys in our rear truck to follow him while we kept up with the lead truck, whose driver steered for the bazaar ahead, the road funneling into an even more narrow passage.

Although I’d never been into the town, Harruck had told me about the bazaar. You could find handmade antique jewelry, oil lamps, Persian rugs, and tsarist-era Russian bank notes displayed next to bootlegged DVDs and knock-off Rolexes. There were also dozens of white-bearded traders selling meat and produce. Some vendors were part of an American-backed program that introduced soldiers to Afghan culture and injected American dollars into the local economy. Although locals bought, sold, and traded there, Harruck’s company actually pumped more money into the place than anyone else because his soldiers purchased food to prepare on the base and souvenirs to ship back home. The Taliban knew that, too, which was why they’d come: maximum casualties and demoralization.

We nearly ran over two kids riding old bikes, and the mechanic was forced to swerve so hard that we took out the awning post of a house on our left. The awning collapsed behind us, and I cursed.

Suddenly, our Hummer coughed and died.

My guys started hollering.

“We’re out of gas,” shouted the driver. “It all leaked out!”

“Dismount! Let’s go!” I shouted to Nolan, Brown, and Treehorn, then eyed the driver. “You stay here with the vehicle. We’ll be back for you.”

The four of us sprinted down the block, reaching the first set of stalls covered by crude awnings. The shopkeepers had seen the pickup fly by and had retreated to the backs of their shops.

The truck screeched to a stop at the next intersection, about fifty meters ahead, and four Taliban jumped out.

I expected them to do one of two things:

Run into the crowd and draw us into a pursuit.

Or… take cover behind their truck and engage us in a gunfight.

Instead, something entirely surreal happened, and all I could do was shout to my men to hold fire.

The citizens of Senjaray rushed into the street, both vendors and shoppers alike, and quickly formed a human barricade around the four men and their truck.

Two of the vendors began shouting and waving their fists at us, and from what I could discern, they were yelling for us to go home.

As we drew closer, the crowd grew, and the four Taliban were grinning smugly at us.

A man who looked liked a village elder, dressed all in army-green robes and with a black turban and matching vest, emerged from one of the shops and ambled toward us, his beard dark but coiled with gray. Most of the locals wore beat-up sandals, but his appeared brand-new.

In Pashto he said his name was Malik Kochai Kundi. “I own most of the land here. I will not allow you to hurt these men. Zahed has treated us well — much better than the governor. You will not shatter that alliance.”

Brown started cursing behind me, and I shushed him, then struggled for the right words. “You heard the fighting. They attacked our base.”

Kundi stroked his beard in thought. “It’s my understanding that you struck first… last night. Now, show me your face, and I will talk to you.”

I glanced over Kundi’s shoulder and noted something going on among the four Taliban. The tallest one, perhaps the leader, was shifting his gaze among the others.

Kundi said something to me, but it was hard to hear him now over the rising voices of the crowd. I heard some folks telling Kundi to leave us alone, while others shouted again for us to leave.

Behind me, John Hume cursed — and I saw why.

The four Taliban turned and dashed back through

the crowd, heading in four different directions.

“Take a guy!” I yelled.

We reacted swiftly, Brown, Hume, and Treehorn each going after a thug while I went for the tallest one.

I wasn’t sure why they’d chosen to run. Maybe they didn’t quite trust the citizenry either.

My guy rushed down a side street, leaving the bazaar for yet another stretch of sad-looking homes. I was gaining on him when he stopped, whirled, and leveled his rifle.

Before he got off a shot I was already diving to the right side, realizing that the cover I’d sought was one of those natural gas tanks. Great.