He stepped over the thick stream of blood oozing from the tarp-covered bodies, said a quick prayer for his neighbor Neal Stafford, and ducked through the low door as if leaving one chamber of hell and entering another. Outside, the fresh air smelled good and revived him. On higher ground behind him and to his right, the men at Station D were firing at Taliban targets on the rocks in front of the cliff. Tracers wove through the darkening mist like angry, lethal insects. The top of the mountain and the main structures of the post remained shrouded in white.
A thick, freckle-faced soldier from Alpha Company was taking a piss against the back wall. Crocker took one, too, and in the brief moment of calm thought about snowboarding in similar weather in Vermont.
For a second he remembered Neal standing on a slope beside him. He started to compose the expletive-filled tirade he planned to direct at Captain Battier and stopped. He had to focus. Hearing footsteps crunch the snow, he turned and saw Ritchie walking with a bearded soldier who was pointing out fissures in the rock.
“Ritchie?” he called. “What the hell’s going on?”
“This is Corporal Henne. In real life, he’s a geological something or other,” Ritchie said enthusiastically, seemingly oblivious to the danger around them.
“I’m a geological engineer, sir,” the serious-looking Henne explained. “I should be working for a big oil company.”
“You will be someday, if we get out of here alive,” Crocker said.
“Maybe.”
“You find what you need?” Crocker asked Ritchie.
“More than enough. We’re planning something extra special, aren’t we, corporal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Crocker said, blowing into his gloved hands. “You need to move fast.”
Crocker returned to Station C to get Akil, and the four of them spent the next forty minutes placing explosive charges and running fuse wire. His back was complaining and his face was burning from the cold and wind when he returned to C and spoke to Perez.
“Here’s the plan,” he said. “Me and my men are gonna take over the big guns while you and your guys in Stations C and D go up to Wolf and King. Take as many weapons and bodies as you can. When you arrive on the next plateau, call me and let me know.”
“I will.”
“How much time you think you’ll need?”
“Fifteen minutes max.”
“Good. Get going.”
Perez immediately started shouting orders, and the grim-faced, exhausted collection of Alpha Company soldiers, national guardsmen, and marines packed their gear, collected their weapons, and rigged the bodies in makeshift plastic stretchers. After wishing the SEALs good luck, they took off.
The light was fading fast, so the SEALs donned their PS-15 night-vision goggles and laid down as intense and relentless a volley of fire as they could squeeze out of the big weapons. Crocker manned the GAU-17/A minigun, which spit out a bolt of white tracers that obliterated targets. He raked fire right to left, left to right, until his arms were almost completely numb, then reloaded.
He was so focused on what he was doing that he didn’t hear the voice over his helmet headset. Davis reached over and slapped him on the back.
“What?”
“It’s Perez! He’s trying to tell you something.”
His hearing was messed up. He shouted, “What’s he saying?”
“They’ve arrived!”
“Already? They’re up on the higher plateau?” Crocker asked, looking at his watch and realizing that almost twenty minutes had passed.
“Yeah. They’re up at Wolf and on their way to Presley.”
“Good.” He carefully straightened his back, cracked his neck, then shouted, “Grab what you can and pull back to Station D. Akil and I will meet you there in five.”
“Roger.”
Crocker blew through the last three belts of 7.62x51mm shells, pulled the gun from its mount, and screamed at Akil, “Let’s go!”
“You sure, boss? I’m having too much fun!”
“It ain’t over yet. Follow me!”
They ran out the back door, scrambling and slipping up the path to Station D. The SEALs had pretty much cleaned the place out, except for the twin mounted M2HG machine guns, which were currently being fired by Davis and Yale. “Where’re the others?” Crocker asked, excitedly and out of breath.
“They’re waiting by the chain ladder up to the next plateau,” Davis answered, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose.
“Grab the radio and come with me. Akil, you and Yale lay down three more minutes of fire and join us.”
“We can’t do four?”
“Three, baby, three!”
They ran out through the falling snow, up a steep incline to the dark wall of the cliff. Ritchie stood there clutching an MP7. “Twelve more minutes,” he shouted to Crocker, “before the shit blows!”
“The rest of the men are already up the ladder?”
“Roger!”
Crocker pushed him and said, “You go. You and Davis. I’ll wait for Akil and Yale.”
“Chief-”
He took Davis by the shoulders. “Listen, this is important. Before you go, I want you to call Battier. Tell him we ran out of ammunition and are abandoning Stations C and D. Tell him we’re sorry, but we didn’t have time to rig any booby traps. And tell him to make sure to repeat all this to that ANA guy he calls Weed.”
“Okay.”
“The last part is the most important.”
Davis was already readying the radio. “Okay, boss. I’m calling him now.”
“Remember Weed.”
“Yeah. I got it.”
Ritchie had started up the chain ladder. Crocker checked his watch. Two minutes had passed since he had arrived at the base of the cliff. That meant there were roughly ten minutes left.
Davis said, “Message delivered, loud and clear, boss.”
Crocker pointed to the ladder. “Good. You’re next.”
Another minute had passed. He heard the Taliban hoot and cheer as they reached Station C. Thirty seconds later he made out the sound of footsteps approaching. Past the trees, he saw Yale and Akil lugging one of the big M2HG guns.
“Drop that mother. Leave it! Let’s go,” he shouted.
He helped Yale onto the ladder, then Akil, then started up himself, wondering how much weight the ladder could hold. He climbed and looked at his watch. Six more minutes until the charges went off!
The chain creaked and twisted with the weight, and visibility was bad. He continued blindly, the muscles in his calves, arms, and back burning. Three minutes. Two.
He clung tightly to the ladder and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, a huge ball of light lit up the sky, then he heard the explosion and felt the force push him forward into the rock wall, smashing his hands. He struggled to hold on.
The ladder bucked. Secondary explosions rocked the mountain. Something hit him hard in the upper back near his right shoulder. Good thing he was wearing Dragon Skin silicon carbide ceramic body armor under his uniform, otherwise whatever it was might have gone right through him.
Hot air churned around him. He heard screams from below. His lungs wanted oxygen but could find little in the mountain air. Feeling light-headed, and with debris raining down around him, he kept climbing as well as he could and somehow neared the top, where arms reached out and helped him up.
“Thanks.”
He sat on a rock, caught his breath, and checked to see if his shoulder was still working. It was. To his left he saw the barracks King and Wolf behind him. The snow continued to fall in a steady hiss in the otherwise quiet valley.
Davis handed him a bottle of water. “Boss, you okay?” he asked.
He nodded. “Everybody good? They all make it up?”
“Yeah.”
The sounds of combat were gone. “The enemy’s stopped firing,” he said, looking up at Davis.
“That’s correct. Ritchie thinks a good part of the land Stations C and D were sitting on slid down the hill.”
“No shit.”
“Talk to Ritchie.”
He did, as they climbed together up to Presley. Ritchie and Corporal Henne-the guardsman from Reading, Pennsylvania-explained how the charges they had strategically placed had opened enough fissures in the rock that it could no longer support the weight of the plateau, thus causing the whole damn thing to tumble down the mountain.