Brown and I had just cleared the other side of the passage when the explosion reverberated through the ground like a freight train beneath our boots.
Treehorn was still near the tunnel’s edge, the stars beyond him. He was crouched down, his rifle raised high. “Still out there,” he said. “Just waiting to take some potshots at us.”
“We need to get those Bradley gunners to help suppress that fire so we can make a break,” I said.
“How?” asked Treehorn. “No comm.”
“What’re you talking about?” I said. “We’re the Ghosts. If we were slaves to technology we’d never get anything done. Watch this, buddy…”
I fished out my penlight and began flashing SOS.
“Are you serious?” he asked me.
“As a heart attack, bro.”
Whether the Taliban to our flank and above us could see the tiny light, I wasn’t sure, but I continued for a full minute, then turned back to the guys.
And then it came: a flashing from one of the Bradleys.
“What’re they saying?” asked Treehorn.
“I have no clue. I don’t remember my Morse code. But we are good to go. So listen up. I’m going to make a break. I’ll draw the first few rounds. You guys hold off a second or two, then get in behind me and we’ll take the path to the east. Those Bradley gunners are ready, I’m sure. Got it?”
“Why don’t we send out the spook to make a break?” asked Brown. “He wants to run away so badly.”
“Hey, that’s a good idea,” I said. “You want to go, spooky?”
“I like your plan better,” he said, licking the blood from his lips.
“I figured you would. Hey, you don’t happen to know a guy named Bronco?” I wriggled my brows.
“Yeah, he’s my daddy.”
“Well, let’s get you home to Papa.” With that, I bolted from the cave, drawing immediate fire from the Taliban behind our right flank. I had no intention of getting hit and practically dove for the next section of boulders that would screen me.
Once the Taliban had revealed themselves by firing at me, the Bradley gunners drilled them with so many salvos and tracers that the valley looked like a space combat scene from a science fiction movie, flickering red tracers arcing between the valley and the mountainside.
Brown hollered to go. Treehorn, Ramirez, and the prisoner came charging down toward my position. Brown brought up the rear.
Once they linked up with me, I led them farther down while the Bradley gunners continued to cover us. We were clearly identified as friendlies now.
My mouth had gone dry by the time we reached the rally point five minutes later, and I asked if anyone had a canteen. Ramirez pushed one into my hands and said, “Our boy’s got some explaining, eh?” He cocked a thumb at the prisoner.
“Should be interesting…”
The Bradley gunners broke fire, and for a few long moments, an utter silence fell over the mountains…
I glanced back at Hume, who was still sitting near Nolan’s body. A sobering moment to be sure. If I stared any longer, I feared my lungs would collapse.
Out of the silence, in an almost surreal cry, a lone Taliban fighter cut loose a combination of curse words he’d probably memorized from a hip-hop song. Once his shout had echoed away, roars of laughter came from the crews and dismounted troops around the Bradleys.
We’d never heard anything like that. The Taliban were usually yelling how great God was — not swearing at us in our own language. And I didn’t want them polluted by America. I wanted them maniacal and religious and steadfast. They seemed a more worthy adversary that way. To believe they could be influenced by us was, in a word, disconcerting.
Harruck had a small planning room, and we all filed in, unfolded the metal chairs, and took seats around a rickety card table. The spook’s face had been cleaned up by one of Harruck’s medics, and he was demanding to make a phone call.
“What do you think this is?” I asked him. “County lockup?”
“We’ll get to your phone call,” Harruck told the spook in a softer tone than I’d used. He faced me. “What the hell is going on? Did you destroy the caves?”
“Most of them.”
“And him?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly for effect. “He’s CIA and posing as a Chinese opium buyer or smuggler. His cover got blown. He ran into us before he could skip town.”
“I demand to be released.”
“Those are good demands,” said Harruck. “We like them. Just give me a couple of minutes.”
“No, right now.”
Harruck’s expression darkened. “What the hell are you people doing on my mountain? Why is your backpack full of opium? What the hell is your mission here?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me about my face?”
Harruck looked at me. “No, I’m not.”
The door suddenly opened and in walked Bronco, escorted by one of Harruck’s lieutenants.
Bronco spoke rapidly. “Captain, we appreciate your help and assistance here, and if there’s nothing else, I’d like to escort my colleague off the base.”
Harruck eyed an empty chair. “Sit down, Bronco.”
“Whoa, take it easy there, Joe. You got no idea what you’re dealing with here.”
I smote a fist on the card table, and it nearly collapsed. “I just lost another man. And I’m not walking out of here until you tell us what’s going on, what your mission is here, and how it might affect what we’re trying to do. As a matter of fact, XO, do us a favor and lock that door. Armed guard outside. No one’s leaving until you two spooks cough up the truth.”
“You can’t do that, buddy. We have the right to walk out of here.”
“Yes, you do. But we’re way out here in the middle of nowhere,” I said. “And we’re all going to get along nicely, otherwise bad things will happen. Bad things.”
Bronco shifted up to me. “Don’t threaten me, soldier boy. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you. And as far as we’re concerned, you know all you need to.”
“Do you know the location of our captured soldier?” Harruck asked the prisoner point-blank.
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
He thought a moment. “Mike.”
“Okay, Mikey,” I began. “You guys are working on some Chinese connection with HERF guns and opium. I get that. I’m just a jarhead, a monkey, but I get that. Does your operation tie directly to Zahed? I just need a yes or a no.”
Bronco, sighed, frowned, then sighed again. “Does our operation link to Zahed? Well… not exactly.”
I closed my eyes and thought of murder.
TWENTY-THREE
The “opium palaces,” as they were called by the media, were mansions constructed by rich drug lords on the outskirts of Kabul, and a few were beginning to sprout up in Kandahar. One I’d visited in Kabul was on Street 6 in a neighborhood called Sherpur. That place was a four-story monstrosity with eleven bedrooms and had been constructed with the heavy use of pink granite and lime marble. The media referred to these mansions as “narcotecture” in reference to Afghanistan’s corrupt government. There were massage showers, a rooftop fountain, and even an Asian-themed nightclub in the basement. The pig that owned it was finally busted by the police, but his brotherin-law was allowed to buy it from him and was renting it out for twelve thousand bucks a week. What a bargain.
Ironically, it was that very house, a somewhat infamous landmark now, that Bronco began to talk about.
“So basically what we’d like to do is move Zahed over there and dismantle his operation here. He’s got a nice smuggling operation going on with the Chinese and the Pakistanis, so it’s been difficult.”
“We just want to kill or capture him. You want to play Let’s Make a Deal,” I said. “No go. We’ve got a ticking clock, and no time for this.”