terminated in a big wooden gate. “We’ll get out that
way,” I hollered, pointing.
We reached the first house, sprinted to the next, and
then had to cross a much wider road, on the side of
which stood a donkey cart with the donkey still attached
but pulling at his straps. The moment I peered around
the corner, a salvo ripped into the wall just above my
head. I stole another quick glance and saw a guy duck-
ing back inside his house, using his open window and
the thick brick walls as cover. We could fire all day at
those walls, but our conventional rounds wouldn’t pen
etrate.
Another glance showed a second gunman in the win-
dow next door. Two for one. Double your pleasure.
Wonderful. We were pinned down.
I turned back to the group and gave Beasley a hand
signaclass="underline" We can’t get across. Got two. You’re up.
Over the years I’ve come to appreciate advances in
weapons technology for two reasons: One, as a member
of an elite gun club called the Ghosts, I couldn’t help
but be fascinated by the instruments that kept me alive,
and two, like everyone else in the Army, I enjoyed things
that went BOOM!
The XM-25 launcher that Beasley was about to present
to the enemy made one hell of a twenty-five-thousand-
dollar boom, which was the CPU or cost per unit.
CO MB AT O P S
79
“Hey, wait, before he fires, maybe we can call Har-
ruck and ask for mortar support,” said Ramirez, making
a very bad joke.
I snorted and gave Beasley the all clear.
The team sergeant lifted the launcher, which was much
thicker than a conventional rifle and came equipped with
a pyramid-shaped scope.
With smooth, graceful movement, Beasley laser-des-
ignated his target, used the scope to set range, and then
without ceremony fired.
Each twenty-five-millimeter round packed two war-
heads that were more powerful than the conventional
forty-millimeter grenade launchers. Next came the moment
when gun freaks like me got our jollies: The round didn’t
have to burrow through the wall and kill the guy on the
other side, no. The round passed through the open win-
dow and detonated in midair, sending a cloud of fragmen-
tation inside that would shred anyone, most particularly
Taliban fighters attempting to play Whac-A-Mole with
Ghost units.
The moment his first round detonated, Beasley turned
his attention to window number two, got his laser on
target, set his distance for detonation, and boom, by the
time the echo struck the back wall, we were already en
route toward the wooden gate, even as that donkey broke
his straps and clattered past us.
“This one’s a keeper,” Beasley told me, patting the
XM-25 like a puppy.
Before Ramirez could try the lock, Jenkins put his
size thirteen boot to the wooden gate panel and smashed
80
GH OS T RE C O N
it open. We rushed through and ran to the right, work-
ing back along the wall while Treehorn lingered behind,
throwing smoke grenades into the street to create a little
chaos and diversion.
The choppers were still whomping somewhere over
the mountains, out of range now, as we charged toward
the foothills, only drawing fire once we reached the first
ravine. There, we dove for cover, rolled and came back
up, on our bellies, ready to return fire—
But I told everyone to hold. Wait. Keep low. And
watch. Treehorn’s smoke grenades kept hissing and cast-
ing thick clouds over the village.
Many of the Taliban were running from the front gate,
and two went over to the jingle trucks and fired them up.
“They’re going to chase us in those?” Ramirez asked.
“Looks like it,” I said. “Let’s fall back. Up the moun-
tain, back to the pickup trucks.”
We broke from cover and ran, working our way along
the mountainside and keeping as many of the jagged
outcroppings between us and the village as possible. I
wish I could say it was a highly planned and skillful
withdrawal performed by some of the most elite soldiers
in the world.
But all I can really say is . . . we got the hell out of
there.
Up near the mountaintop road, we climbed breath-
lessly into the pickup trucks as down below, headlights
shone across the dirt road. My binoculars showed the pair
of jingle trucks and two more pickups with fifty-caliber
guns mounted on their flatbeds. I breathed a curse.
CO MB AT O P S
81
Since Harruck had already sabotaged my mission, I
decided not to throw any more gasoline on the fire. We
wouldn’t engage those guys unless absolutely necessary.
Treehorn took us down the mountain road at a
breakneck pace, and I was more frightened by his driv-
ing than by the Taliban on our tails. The pickup literally
came up on two wheels as we cut around a narrow cliff
side turn, and that drew swearing from everyone as the
road seemed to give way in at least two spots.
“This thing’s got some power,” Treehorn said evenly.
We came down the last few slopes and turned onto
the dirt road leading up to the bridge. With our head-
lights out, Smith and Brown were watching us with
their NVGs and gave us a flash signal. We found them at
the foot of the bridge, and Brown climbed in the back of
our truck.
“Good to go, Captain,” he said. “Just give me the
word.”
“Soon as we cross,” I told him.
“You don’t want to wait and take them out, too?” he
asked, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.
“Nah, it’s okay. This’ll be enough.”
A double thud worked its way up into the seats, and
we left the bridge and crossed back onto the sand.
“All right,” I cried back to Brown. “Blow that son of
a bitch!”
He worked his remote, and the C-4 that he and Smith
had expertly planted along the bridge’s pylons detonated in
a rapid sequence of thunderclaps that shook both the
ground and the pickups themselves. Magnesium-bright
82
GH OS T RE C O N
flashes came from beneath all that concrete, and just as the
smoke clouds began to rise, the center section of the bridge
simply broke off and belly flopped into the ink-black water,
sending waves rushing toward both shorelines.
The drivers of the jingle trucks must have seen the
explosions and bridge collapse, but the guy in the lead
truck braked too hard, and the truck behind him plowed
into his rear bumper, sending him over the edge where
the concrete had sheared off. He did a swan dive toward
the river, while the second guy attempted to turn away,
but he rolled onto his side and slid off the edge. Three,
two, boom, he hit the water.
Behind them, the two pickups with machine gunners
came to brake-squealing halts and paused at the edge so
that the drivers and gunners could stare down in awe at
the sinking trucks—
As we raced off toward Senjaray in the distance.
EIGHT
While I was blowing up bridges and trying to hunt