Wynocki backed toward the door. The boy threw the case at him, striking the sergeant in the chest. He spilled to the floor and the boy was on top of him. He twisted and turned to throw the kid off. Harry Potter threw a forearm into his throat with a blow that bounced the back of Wynocki's head off the steel deck. He was dazed and his throat was on fire. The kid was leaning on the forearm; cutting off Wynocki's air. He gripped the boy's arm feebly; trying to claw it away. The boy pulled a Ka-Bar knife from the sheath on his belt with his free hand. He hammered the blade home again and again into the sergeant's exposed armpit above the armored vest.

  The sergeant's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He was trying to speak as he felt the blood pool beneath him grow and grow. He wanted to reach out to this boy -- what was his real name? He want to ask him, why? Why?

  Why not, Wynocki? Why not?

  The Colonel sat sulking in his air conditioned CONEX hut.

  Somewhere deep inside Daddy Basir lay a conscience. Somewhere inside his brain, or maybe even his heart, there was a sense that he should talk to his men. He should give them a rousing speech like in the movies. They were defeated. They were scared. They were hurt. And they needed a leader to lift their spirits and stiffen their spines for the fight ahead.

  Only, the Colonel felt defeated and scared and hurt himself. And much more than that, he was angry. His men were cowards! From the first shots fired at them in anger they became like sheep startled by sudden lightning. They rushed around without any direction or any purpose other than to hide.

  His anger masked his own shame. And each time his shame rose to the surface it only served to recharge his rage again. He was not a bad officer! They sent him weak men, that is all! If he had better men, real men, he knew he would lead them well! With strong, brave soldiers he would have led them into the fight and come back to the base victorious rather than whimpering. He pictured himself charging into the face of the gunfire waving a sword in his fist and bawling orders to ranks of stern-faced brutes keeping pace behind him.

  I will need to buy a sword, he thought.

  He knew that if he began a speech to buck up the men, it would only devolve into a raging tirade at them for turning to frightened women the first time they came under direct fire.

  Instead, he lay back on his bunk and mourned his lovely tunic. It was ruined. Covered in filth and blood. He had a second tunic but it was not as nice. He felt it made him look fat. He took a fresh pull from the pint of Jack Daniels he'd taken from the earlier roadblock. The burning sensation it made in his throat felt comforting. The glow in his belly even more so. It did the job even though it was a knock-off of the famous Tennessee sipping whisky, and actually bottled in a former laundry outside of Beirut.

  There was a noise at his door and he made the effort to sit up, instantly regretting it. His vision swam before him and the glow in his belly turned to a bubbling cauldron rising up his throat.

  The Colonel was down on his hands and knees in his underwear and vomiting a vile mix of third-rate booze and bile onto the poured concrete floor when Kambiz Wahidi stepped in through the door carrying a fire ax.

  Daddy Basir wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at the bespectacled boy holding an ax high in the air.

  "For Azizabad," the boy said, before bringing the ax down for the first of what would be many times.

  At a UAS piloting center at Bagram, data was just coming in from a Predator B flying high recon over a tightly proscribed area in northern Samangan. The request came from someplace called FOB Iron Man and was marked ‘general use,' which meant it was an agency pull.

  The P-B's awesome array of surveillance tools stripped away the dark and the dust to send back hi-res images of a pocket deep in the mountains where several ravines converged around a mesa shaped like a slice of pie with a bite taken from a corner at the crust end. Thermal and NV lenses picked up clear signatures of human activity. Most of the traffic was moving away from the mountain pocket in a general westerly direction roughly on paths to bring it to an unpaved road designated R-135. Most of the signatures were on foot, moving single-file, following tracks. More were moving in tandem on a dozen or more motorbikes.

  A pullback showed even more signatures moving on bearings west and south for the mountain pocket and pie-slice plateau. Something was up in Spookville and all the UAS operators could do was watch, record and transmit the feast of intel to persons unknown at Iron Man.

  "Shit," said Bear under his breath.

  The data dump from Bagram was impressive -- a real time animated battle map. Even a cursory glance told him that the SEALs were in deep and the tide was rising by the moment. He had no communication from them and could only assume, or pray, that they were still active and in the fight. The most likely withdrawal point was the ville on the roadway. The hadjis on the ground sure seem to agree with him.

  "Get me Bagram," Bear said to Cam and Mitch. "We're gonna call Hell down on those fuckers until I can figure out where our team is."

  The door to the comm center banged open and Bear turned to see a twenty-liter fuel can come sailing in from the dark. The plastic can had an armed thermite grenade secured to it by bands of duct tape.

  The entire base was lit by a sudden flare of light from within. Bright spears of flame erupted from every opening of the comm center before the roof collapsed. All the state-of-the-science radio, microwave, satellite and laser communications gear was seared from existence in minutes. By the time fire crews reached the scene, the building was just four blackened walls. Within them was a swirling inferno of blue flame banked with smoldering sandbags. The smell of burning plastic and cooking meat filled the base.

  Iron Man was now blind, deaf and mute.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE NARROW PASSAGE

  The floor of the fissure dipped down at a grade and ended at a shear wall of rock. At the foot of the wall lay a still pool of water formed by thousands of years of condensation run-off.

  Manny and Heath reached the pool to find Priest and the prisoner waiting for them.

  "Well, you said there'd be swimming," Heath said.

  "He said it leads out under this wall," Priest said and nodded toward their prisoner.

  Umalt sat sullen by the water's edge with his face turned from them.

  "You believe him?" Manny rasped. He was leaning with his back to a wall and head lowered.

  "Only one way to find out," Priest said. "I've been waiting for you guys before I swim the channel to see if it leads out like he said."

  "Didn't think we'd get wet this trip," Heath said.

  "If I'm not back in twenty head back the other way," Priest sat on a ledge and removed his Molle vest and armor, along with his boots. He secured the Fairbain scabbard in the waistband of his BDUs.

  "And him?" Heath jerked his chin at the prisoner.

  "You don't need him to find your way back." Priest stripped off his BDU tunic and waded into the water.

  "Don't push it, Priest," Heath said. "Give yourself ninety seconds and turn back."

  Without reply Priest crouched and immersed himself in the water until his head disappeared. Their last sight of him was the splash of his feet kicking as he made his way deeper toward the passage below the rock. The only sound now was the gentle lapping of the water against stone until the ripples of Priest's passage died and the surface became like a pane of glass again.

  Nine minutes and sixteen seconds passed on Heath's Luminox before the water stirred and Priest emerged from the pool.

  "There's a way out?" Heath asked.

  "There's a way out," Priest sat down and sipped air. "A minute, a minute and a half, tops. A channel with low clearance. Stay to the right. It doglegs."

  "What's beyond that?"

  "A passage that leads up to a wide opening. I could see daylight coming in. It's good."

  "Can you do that?" Heath turned to Manny. "Can you do a minute and a half?"

  "I can swim it," Manny replied through clenched teeth. Even in the glare of the Maglites he looked dangerously pale.

  "I don't mean swimming, Manny. I mean can you hold breath for that long? I'm carrying you, bro."

  Manny just nodded in reply.

  "You carrying him adds to your time. Two minutes minimum to the other end," Priest said. "There's a dome in the ceiling just before the turn. There's trapped air there. A couple of lungfuls anyway. I marked it with a glo-stick."

  "We'll make it," Heath said. He began to strip down for the swim.

  Heath would carry Manny through first. Manny would need to keep his armor strapped on, creating an extra load, but there was no helping it. Priest would send the prisoner through next, with a line. Priest would follow. They'd use the line to pull through as much of their gear as they would need for exfil.

  Heath backed into the water guiding Manny in with him. Standing behind him, Heath ran his arms under Manny's armpits. It was the drowning man carry they learned back in BUDs and SEAL training. Heath stepped back toward the wall, drawing Manny with him.

  "Cold water feels good," Manny said. And it was cold.

  "We go when you're ready," Heath said. "Take in as much air as you can and tap your armor."

  Manny drew in air as slowly as he could. It hurt like hell but he kept drawing in through his teeth. Then he let the air out slow.

  "Let it all out, bro," Heath said.

  When his lungs were empty Manny inhaled once again. He reached the pain threshold. His side was on fire. But he kept drawing in. He'd need every ounce to make the push to the other side. His vision swam with the agony but he didn't stop until he felt he was at capacity. He slapped fingers on his armor and heard Heath draw in a mighty breath close to his ear and then they were both under.

  The air trapped in their clothing was freed in a skein of bubbles that obscured Manny's vision. They rose toward the glare of the Maglite and Priest's wavery form. The water was clear as glass. This water was dead. No signs of life. Pure water filtered through a mile of rock and pooling far from any light.

  Manny watched their progress in reverse. He felt Heath's powerful legs kicking below him. Close above them was the ceiling of the passage. Their progress was slow. Manny forced himself to relax his body. He was easier to carry as a dead weight.

  His side burned. His fully inflated lungs were pressing on the breaks to his ribs. A sensation bubbled in his chest. He felt the need to cough. It began as a tickle and grew to an urgent spasm fighting its way up his throat to break the seal of his mouth. He fought it down, fought to swallow it.

  There was a greenish glow in the dark water ahead. Manny felt Heath kick hard and draw him up vertically. They broke surface into a clear space between the water and rock above. It was little more than a dimple in the stone ceiling. Four feet across and only enough clearance for their heads from the chin up. Manny was wracked with coughing. Fresh pain lanced through his side. He battled to remain conscious.

  Heath kicked with his legs to tread water for them both. A glo-stick bobbed against them, casting a green tinge over their faces.

  "Last stretch," Heath said in a gust of exhalation. "Suck it up, bro!"

  Manny drew in air that carried a tang of rust. Heath didn't wait for a signal and submerged them both once again.

  A minute that felt like an hour passed as they made it around the slight turn in the passage that Priest told them about. Manny felt sleepy. It was oxygen deprivation. He was fading, fading, as bubbling water rushed past him going slower and slower until he could see each bubble rotating and see himself on its reflective surface.

  He gasped in a lungful of air that was delicious and agonizing all at once. Heath crouched over him slapping his face with an open palm. Manny lay back on a flat slope of rock. He could see nothing beyond the weak range of the Maglite shining from within a sealed plastic bag.

  "Don't move," Heath cautioned.

  "Yeah. I'm good right here," Manny whispered and sank once more into a sea of warm comforting foam that closed in from all around.

  Priest surfaced a few minutes behind Heath and Manny.

  "Manny okay?"

  "He's passed out," Heath said. "His pulse and respiration are steady but weak."

  "We'll whistle up a medevac once we're out of here," Priest said. He pulled the plastic-wrapped SAT phone from his waistband.

  "Where's the prisoner?"

  "He couldn't swim."

  "Really?"

  "They're not taking new guests at Gitmo anyway," Priest said. "Help me with this line."

  They pulled on a length of monofilament line wrapped around the barrel of a Maglite. On the end was secured their rifles, boots, the Camelbaks and a ruck full of MREs. It caught at the dogleg and Priest went into the passage once again to free the line. They re-filled the Camelbaks from the pool and set self-heating MRE packs, chili-mac, inside their boots to help dry them out.

  Priest and Heath sat in the uncertain glare of the remaining Maglite and tore down their rifles to clean and dry them with rags kept waterproof in a plastic baggie.

  Heath recognized the strips of dry cloth.

  They were torn from Umalt's shirt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  MINOTAURS THREE

  The sun was over the top of the ridgelines to the east. The walls of the derelict village shone white in the glare.

  Men arrived on the roadway by foot, coming down the slope from the direction of their devastated lair. They were reaching company strength as the largest group of mujahideen returned firefight on the highway. The mix of local and foreign-born fighters was in less-than-hot pursuit of the ferangisoldiers they believed to have destroyed their cavern stronghold. They were tired from a long trot-march.

  And if the fire from the unseen gunmen cooled their enthusiasm, the devastating blast of the Claymore all but killed it. They approached the abandoned village with caution. They found boot prints in the sand along the roadway, which the more experienced among them recognized as American issue. These led toward the collection of buildings collapsing under their own weight among tangles of wild berry bushes.

  The old village once served as a way station and toll house for travelers along the road. Over the centuries, it had witnessed the passage of Mongol horsemen and Soviet tanks. Motorized transport made its deep well irrelevant. It was backed into a notch in the hills and unapproachable from any direction but the road surface. Their quarry was trapped with no route of escape.

  This offered the men no comfort. They had no idea how many ferangi lay hidden in the silent cover of the crumbling structures and bramble-choked lanes cutting between them. They guessed it was at least a dozen armed men that they faced. Maybe more. They had a tiger at bay and would proceed at the work of ferreting them out only after devising a strategy that guaranteed success.

  This go-slow strategy was short-lived.

  More fighters arrived on motorbikes and took command of the men milling about behind cover.

  Chief among the new arrivals was Charborz Ilyas Muhammed, the self-named White Ghost of the Kush. He and his ferangi mujahideendismounted and shouted orders in their filthy accents. The men of Samangan al-Sharia deeply resented these intruders. But they feared them even more. The Ghost was ruthless and quick to punish. He was also very successful. Until the night before, the brigade had operated from their lair with total impunity. If anyone could beard the tiger in its cave it would be the Ghost.

  "Who are these men?" Charborz demanded.

  "Americans!" the Afghans shouted back. "Many Americans!"

  "Then we will root them out before they can call down an airstrike," Charborz ordered.

  At the mention of the infidels' air power, many of the fighters reflexively looked to the sky. The cloudless blue expanse was empty of any dark shapes. The more experienced took no comfort from this. They knew that the unseen could kill them as well.

  Men were sent with sniper rifles and grenade launchers to climb the steep slopes that overlooked the village from either side. They waved weapons overhead from their places on ledges and outcroppings and began firing down on village with RPGs and Dragunovs. Anti-tank grenades exploded, throwing clouds of smoke and debris skyward. Whether it was directed fire, suppression or murderous enthusiasm, the men down in the pass had no way of knowing. It served as the signal for the bulk of the unit to move across the road toward the ruins.

  The fire from above petered to nothing and the village was quiet even as the men sprinted forward, and within easy range of any ferangiweapons. This increased the men's unease. The enemy was here. Why did he not fire upon them? Did the grenades and bullets from their brothers on the hills kill them all? As a group, the men slowed to a trot. Some stopped entirely to look longingly back the way they had come.

  The Ghost fired a long burst from his AK-74. The tracers streamed over their heads. They ducked as they renewed their charge toward the waiting walls.

  "They fear you!" the Ghost called out in a voice that reverberated from the surrounding heights. "They are frozen with terror at the justice that is about to be meted out to them!"

  The chill in their bellies turned to white-hot rage as the men picked up their feet and raced toward the village.

  "Allahu Akbar!" the Ghost roared behind them.

  "Allahu Akbar!" The answering howl erupted from a hundred throats.

  God would carry them. God would move their feet and guide their hands. Through them, God would bring holy wrath and terrible justice down on the heads of the invaders.

  A man at the lead of the roughly triangular formation called out as he emptied his weapon at a run.

  "We are the tigers! They are the lambs!"

  He was turning to shout another bit of battlefield wisdom when a rifle barked from somewhere in the village. His head flew to bits like a ripe melon. He sank to his knees in a steaming pool of his own blood and brain matter.