The Ghost War (19 page)

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Authors: Alex Berenson

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: The Ghost War
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Two guys against five, maybe more, Wells thought. Not great odds. But he saw Hughley’s problem. B Company was already down two men, since Gonzalez, the medic, would have to take care of Hackett. That left the squad at nine soldiers, including Wells. A Company had ten more. Facing at least thirty guerrillas to the south, Hughley couldn’t spare a third guy on the flank.
“Sure,” Wells said. Through his tactical radio, Hughley ordered Gaffan and Gonzalez to their position. As the men reached Hughley and Wells, another RPG flared out from the boulders.
“Shit!”
Gaffan and Gonzalez threw themselves down as the grenade exploded behind them.
Hughley pointed toward the rocks. “Gaffan, you and Wells are taking out that position. Danny, you’re staying with Hackett. I’ll link the rest of the squad up with Alpha.”
“Yessir.”
Hughley sprinted off. They had a long night ahead, Wells thought. Instead of fifty guerrillas, the camp had held a hundred or more before the attack. Even now the bad guys outnumbered the Special Forces two to one. They should have had at least one more squad to even up the odds. But second-guessing the plan now would be a waste of time, and they couldn’t afford to waste time. They had to move fast, get control of the battlespace. The Talibs surely knew of trails that led up the mountain and would give them angles to shoot down on the plateau. If they put snipers above the battlefield, the SF soldiers would be exposed, sitting ducks. Before that happened, Hughley had to drive the guerrillas off the southern end of the plateau and into the valley.
Meanwhile Wells had his own problems to solve. Hackett lay on his back, breathing in fluttery bursts. He would be lucky to get through the night, Wells thought. “Gaffan.” Wells pointed to the rock seventy-five feet away where the guerrilla in the white robe lay. “Let’s move.”
Wells laid out a covering burst as Gaffan sprinted for the rock and slid in. Five seconds later they switched roles, Gaffan firing as Wells ran to the rock. Up close, Wells saw that the wounded guerrilla was in terrible shape, the left side of his face gone. His right eye opened wide as he registered their presence. He twisted away, his hands scratching at the dirt.
“I’ll do it,” Wells said. “Watch the cave.”
“But—”
“Watch the cave, Sergeant.”
Wells leaned close to the man and said in Arabic,
“Dear Lord, pour patience upon us and make us die as Muslims.”
The Quran, verse 7, line 126. He unholstered his Makarov, shoved it into the man’s mouth, and pulled the trigger. The single shot echoed into the darkness. The guerrilla’s skull exploded, spewing a devil’s volcano of blood and brains. Another thousand sleepless nights, Wells thought. He pushed the corpse away, furious that the man hadn’t had the decency to die on his own. The body flopped over, arms askew. No one who died tonight would get a proper burial.
“Maybe I’m just projecting, but I swear he looked relieved,” Gaffan said.
You’re just projecting, Wells didn’t say. Warned you not to watch. He put the man’s cracked skull out of his mind. He’d save the nightmares for later. “Let’s do this, get close enough to lay a forty in that cave.” A high-explosive 40-millimeter grenade, fired from the M203 launchers attached to the carbines he and Gaffan carried.
Wells pulled open the barrel of his 203, popped in the grenade—a cylinder that looked like a shotgun shell—and cocked the barrel. He pointed to a stunted tree a hundred feet to their right. “Ready?”
Gaffan nodded.
Wells popped up, fired, and dropped down. His grenade blasted into the mountainside, a red-white explosion that faded fast. He’d missed, but not by much. Now let them fire back. The Talibs were loose with their ammo. Let them shoot until their magazines ran dry. Then Wells and Gaffan would break for the tree, where they’d be close enough to do some damage.
But the Talibs refused to play along. Instead of random AK-47 fire, they fired only a few well-aimed shots. Two rounds hit the dead Talib, making the corpse jump, a caricature of resurrection. Gaffan had no chance to move from the shelter of the rock.
“Somebody’s been teaching these guys to shoot,” Wells said.
“I’m thinking that too, sir.”
Now Wells and Gaffan were pinned. The guerrillas had them targeted and would cut them down the next time they poked their heads up. They watched helplessly as two guerrillas emerged from the boulders by the cave and ran left, diving behind a mound of dirt kicked up by a Hellfire missile. From their new position, the Talibs had an angle on Gonzalez and Hackett, who were stuck because of Hackett’s leg. Sure enough, rounds began smashing into the low, flat rocks that sheltered Gonzalez and Hackett.
“Pinned here, sir,” Gonzalez yelled through the night. Then:
“
¡
Maricón!
¡
Puta!
Bitch got my Kevlar.” He fired back ineffectually.
Not good.
 
 
 
“NOW WHAT, SIR?”
Wells thought for a few seconds. Could he aim a grenade well enough to drop it over the boulders that hid the guerrillas? Doubtful. But—
“Load up with CS.” CS was a powerful chemical irritant that left its victims temporarily blind and gasping for breath. All SF soldiers carried CS grenades in addition to the traditional high-explosive variety. Wells popped a gray-and-green aluminum CS grenade in the 203.
“But sir—” Gaffan said.
“Sergeant. Stop calling me sir. Call me John, Wells, dogface, whatever. Not sir. Makes me feel like I’m two hundred years old.”
“Yes, Mr. Wells.”
“
Mr.
Wells? All right, it’ll do. Now stop arguing and load up.” Lying on his stomach, Wells crooked his arms at the elbow so that the barrel of his carbine pointed up like a mortar. He imagined the gas grenade arcing out of the M4 and landing behind the rocks like a perfectly thrown football. He squeezed the trigger. The carbine jerked back as the grenade soared out.
A few seconds later, white smoke drifted down the side of the mountain, a hundred yards above the entrance to the cave. Not close enough. Wells stayed on his stomach, keeping his arms still.
“Gimme your M4 and reload mine,” Wells said. Gaffan put his own carbine in Wells’s hands. Wells tilted his arms back slightly, calculating, again imagining the gas canister landing behind the boulders. He fired. The grenade landed thirty yards short. Better, but not good enough.
AK fire rattled at Wells and Gaffan as the white CS smoke dispersed across the plateau. A rocket-propelled grenade flared out from a gap in the boulders, sailing over their heads. Good. The men behind the boulder were getting anxious.
“Again,” Wells said. Again Gaffan traded carbines with him. Wells lowered the barrel slightly and squeezed the trigger.
Pop!
This time the canister landed on the rocks where the guerrillas had hidden. Smoke poured out in all directions, as Wells had hoped. He had chosen to use the CS grenades instead of standard high-explosive grenades because with the CS he didn’t have to have perfect aim. If he could get reasonably close, the gas would disperse over the boulders, doing his work for him.
Men yelled in Arabic. Seconds later the coughing began, a vicious hacking as if the men behind the boulder were trying to spit up their poisoned lungs.
“Again.” Again Gaffan handed him a reloaded carbine. Wells adjusted his aim infinitesimally and fired again. This time the shot went slightly long, landing on the mountainside a few yards above the cave. But the smoke seeped down into the area where the guerrillas were hiding. The coughing grew louder.
“Get your mask on,” Wells said. “One more, then we go in.”
Wells fired the fifth canister, then pulled on a gas mask. The mask made breathing a conscious decision rather than an automatic fact. Inhale. Fill your lungs. Exhale. Hear air rattle through the activated charcoal filters. Inhale again.
Wells pulled his helmet back on and popped a fresh grenade—standard high-explosive, not CS—into the 203. Two men in brown robes crawled from behind the boulders, their bodies shaking, clots of white phlegm dripping down their faces.
Gaffan took aim. “Wait,” Wells said. But no more men joined the two.
“Okay. Drop ’em.”
Gaffan squeezed the trigger of his carbine. The first guerrilla twitched spasmodically and collapsed face-first. The second man stood and turned toward them, raising his arms blindly, in defiance, or surrender. Gaffan didn’t wait to find out. He fired again. The man pressed a hand to his robe, twisted, and fell.
“Looks like we got the dumb ones,” Gaffan said. Behind the boulder, the desperate coughing continued. At least two men left back there, Wells thought. No point in waiting any longer. CS was nasty, but its effects wore off fast. “Cover me,” he said to Gaffan. “On three.”
“I’ll go, John.” Gaffan started to stand.
Wells shoved him down. “You cover.” Wells crouched in the shadow of the rock. It was 250 feet to the boulders in a straight line, though he would be zigzagging to keep the guerrillas from getting a clean shot. He wasn’t as fast as he’d once been, but he was fast enough. He held up three fingers to Gaffan, two, one. He took off.
And as his legs pumped over the plateau’s broken rocks, the mania of hand-to-hand combat filled him. He knew he would survive. God, Allah—whatever He was called, whatever He
was
—wouldn’t let him die out here. He was invincible. Indestructible.
Wells sprinted, the M4 cradled across his chest, hurdling a low rock, always moving, cutting over the field like a running back who’d made the safety miss and knew the end zone wasn’t far off. When he was a hundred feet away, a man stepped from the shadows of the boulders, white, holding an AK in both hands, wearing a jean jacket—
And a gas mask like Wells.
A gas mask.
Choose now or never choose anything again. No point in trying to shoot. He was running too fast to have a chance of hitting the guy. Instead Wells pulled the second trigger on the carbine, launching his high-explosive grenade. Maybe he’d be close enough at least to rattle the man in the mask—
Thata-thata-thata.
The guerrilla’s AK exploded with a staccato burst.
Wells dove to his right. He landed hard on his shoulder and rolled, reaching for his carbine.
The grenade blew in an enormous white flash. Wells ducked his head as shrapnel rained around him. When he looked up, the man in the jean jacket no longer existed.
Wells sat up. He didn’t think he’d been hit, but his right arm hung out of its socket and his shoulder felt as though it were on fire. Wells reached across his body and cradled the shoulder in his left hand. He grabbed his right biceps and tugged his arm forward, trying to pop the joint into place. The pain was the worst he’d ever felt. A river of agony flooded through his chest. Tears flooded his eyes and filled his gas mask. Wells dropped his arm.
He caught his breath and again wrapped his left hand around the top of his right biceps. In one convulsive movement he jerked his arm forward. The world spun. He pulled even harder. He could feel the joint give. The stars merged and the sky glowed a chunky white. Wells didn’t stop pulling. Then the joint popped back into place and the pain lessened. Wells tried to lift his arm and was amazed to find he could. Then he picked himself up and ran for the rocks, to see if anyone else was still back there.
 
 
 
BUT WHEN WELLS FINALLY ENDED
his 250-foot marathon and reached the mouth of the cave, he didn’t find anyone. Anyone alive, anyway. The grenade had slammed into the chest of the man in the jean jacket, a one-in-a-million shot that had blown him apart. His headless torso lay in a thick pool of blood. The head, still covered with the gas mask, lay ten feet from his body. Through the clear plastic mask its eyes watched Wells, promising to visit him while he slept. “Asshole,” Wells said aloud, unsure if he was talking to himself or the man he had killed.
And he wasn’t finished yet. There was another one. Somewhere in that cave, there was another one.
14
 
SHAFER WALKED INTO EXLEY’S OFFICE IN LANGLEY,
folder in hand. “Mis-ter Mole. Oh Mis-ter Mole. Where are you?”
Exley looked up from the papers she was pretending to read. “Cute, Ellis.”
“How’s the hunt? We any closer to whack-whack-whacking this mole?” Shafer stood in front of Exley’s desk and battered imaginary moles with an imaginary mallet. “Never was any good at that game.”
“Ellis, are you stupid? Did you forget what’s happening
right now
? While you stand in my office with your tongue hanging out like an escapee from
Sesame Street
?
”
“Of course I know. He’s gonna be fine, Jennifer. You said it yourself. He was born for this.”
“He’s in trouble. I know it.” She did, too. She didn’t believe in extrasensory perception or astrology or any of that voodoo. But she knew Wells was in trouble, bad trouble, at this moment.
“You’re just nervous.”

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