Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Combat Ops (26 page)

“You can try to take the heat, but that won’t matter,” said Ramirez. “He’ll try to hang us all. And I’m not going to let that happen. Not for a second.”

“Then what’re you saying, Joey?” asked Brown. “You
know
what I’m saying.”

Treehorn threw up his hands. “Aw, no way. I’m not listening to this.”

“Look, we do everything in our power to rescue him, but unfortunately, he doesn’t make it back—”

“Oh my God,” said Hume with a gasp. “Joey, are you insane? Do you know what the hell you’re saying?”

“THIS AIN’T A GODDAMNED WAR! IT’S NOT!”

he shouted.

I looked at Ramirez. “Maybe you’re going to stay behind.”

“No,
sir
.”

“Then you’re done talking. You’re just going to shut 
up and do your job—and our job is to rescue one of our brothers and bring him back. And that’s what we’re going to do. Do you all read me—loud and clear?”

They boomed their acknowledgment.

I pointed a finger at the door and glowered at Ramirez. “Outside.”

We shifted out together, with the heat of the team’s gazes on our shoulders.

He paced and shuddered like a rabid dog.

“I need you tonight. You’re one of the best guys I’ve got,” I began.

“We can’t rescue Warris.”

“You’re getting all bent out of shape for nothing. Who knows if we’ll even find him? Worry about him barking later. Not now.”

“We can’t trust anybody, can we?” “What’re you talking about?”

He shrugged, then squinted toward the setting sun. “This place . . . it’s driving me crazy.”

I nodded. “It’s the sand. Just gets everywhere.

Shower doesn’t even help . . .”

He sighed. “No way to get clean. Not here.”

“Look, bro, I can’t do this without you. I need my Bravo team leader sharp and ready. We’re good. You should know that. We’re good.”

“Okay. But Warris . . . I just don’t know.” “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“That sounds like a threat.” “No. It’s an order.”

I echoed his curse.

At about two
A.M.
local time, we borrowed a civilian pickup truck and drove out past the bridge we’d blown, working our way parallel along the riverbank till I found the shallowest-looking spot. We parked there and waited.

What I didn’t tell the guys was that after I’d had my talk with Harruck and he’d been reluctant to promise any help, I’d gone outside and met with the XO, who was more than happy to take a break from the screaming governor and irate humanitarian lady (although we both once more agreed that she was a looker). I’d called the XO Marty, which made him wince, but I was trying to gain his trust.

“I’m wondering if you guys could move up a couple of Bradleys, put them way into the defile. Do it about oh two hundred.”

“Why?”

“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.”

“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 Tal iban, 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.”

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 Hell fires if we need ’em.”

“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control. We are not authorized to provide fire support. However, I’ve per sonally 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 mean ing. 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 posi tion, 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 bun dles 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, rely ing 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 spatter ing 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:
Okay, Captain, you’re up.

I took a deep breath and started forward, testing every footfall, turning myself through sheer willpower into a swift and silent ghost.

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 mem ory 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 expe dite 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,
I’ve killed all of you. And all the rest who are going to get on and get off . . . all day . . .

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 hus band, a brother, an uncle . . . I think about all the fami lies 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.

Until the next kill. The next nightmare. The next guilt trip. And the cycle would repeat.

The all-American hero has dirt under his nails and blood splattered across his face . . .

And so it was with that thought—the thought that I would suffer the guilt later—that I raised my silenced pistol and shot the first guard in the head.

A perfect shot, as assisted by my Cross-Com.

I had but another second to take out the other guy, who, of course reacted to his buddy falling to the ground and to the blood now spraying over his face.

He swung his rifle toward me, opened his mouth, and I put two bullets in his forehead before he could scream. His head snapped back and he dropped heavily to his rump, then rolled onto his side, twitching involuntarily.

A slight thumping resounded behind us. One. Two. Treehorn reported in. Guards at the heavy gun were dead. “Roger that. You man that gun now, got it?”

“I’m on it,” he answered. “Big bad bullets at your command!”

I waited outside the entrance while Smith and Jen kins dragged the bodies back up the path and tucked them into a depression in the mountainside.

By the time they returned, Ramirez and his group were coming down to join us. I held up an index finger:
Wait.

“Predator Control, this is Ghost Lead, over.” “Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control, go ahead.”

“Do you see any other tangos near our position, over?” “We do see some, Ghost Lead, but they’re on the other side of the mountain, moving toward the Brad
leys. You look clear right now, over.” “Roger that. Ghost Lead, out.”

Now I would piss off Ramirez. I looked at him. “You, Jenkins, and Smith head back up. Man the same posi tions as the guards you killed.”

“What? That wasn’t part of the plan,” Ramirez said, drawing his brows together.

“It is now. Let ’em think nothing’s wrong. Brown?

Hume? You guys are with me. Let’s go.”

I left Ramirez standing there, dumbfounded. No, he wouldn’t get his chance to get near Warris, and I’d just told him in so many words,
No, I don’t trust you
.

Brown took point with a penlight fixed to the end of his silenced rifle. I forgot to mention earlier that none of us liked the limited peripheral vision offered by 
night-vision goggles—especially in closed quarters—so we’d long since abandoned them during tunnel and cave ops. Moreover, if we were spotted, the bad guys wouldn’t think twice about shooting a guy wearing NVGs because he was obviously not one of them. It was pretty rare for the Taliban to get their hands on a pair of expensive goggles, though not completely unheard of. As it was, we’d offer them at least a moment’s pause—a moment we’d use to kill them.

The tunnel was similar to all the others we’d encoun tered, about a meter wide and two meters tall, part of it naturally formed, but as we ventured deeper we saw it’d been dug or blasted out in various sections, the walls clearly scarred by shovels and pickaxes. Soon, we shifted along a curving wall to the left, and Brown called for a halt. He placed a small beacon about the size of a quarter on the floor near his boot. My Cross-Com immediately picked up the signal, but even if we lost our Cross-Coms, dropping bread crumbs was a good idea in this particular network. We all had a sense that these tunnels were some of the most extensive and vast in the entire country, and finding our way back out would pose a serious challenge.

Brown looked back at me, gave a hand signal. We started up again.

In less than thirty seconds we reached a fork in the tunnel, with a broader one branching off to our right. Brown placed another beacon on the floor. I took a deep breath, the air cooler and damper.