"Hooyah," he whispered into his PRC mike.

  A squelch in his earbud. Chili.

  Two squelches. Woody.

  Come on, cocksuckers. We know you're here.

  The White Ghost of the Kush was down from the mountain.

  Charborz Ilyas Muhammed himself led a squad of five men, his best. They moved from cover to cover into the smoke-enshrouded tumble of ruins. The Ghost led from behind, in any case.

  The first attack on the village was a disaster. Almost half of the locals he sent in after the foreign Satans did not return. Those who staggered from the smoke were too shaken to make a second assault. Many of them had already melted away into the hills. The harder mujahideen that he'd positioned on the hillsides were openly defying his orders to return. He knew from experience that the wisest strategy now was withdrawal. The Americans would be here soon in their planes and helicopters. He should retreat now and regroup to strike another day.

  But his own men had shamed him. The unknown force waiting somewhere in the village revealed them to be cowards. These Afghans were worthless. Lazy. Frightened. All their talk of courage and fanaticism was just so much charas smoke.

  He would show them. The White Ghost would demonstrate to them what a tiger of Allah looked like. His own legend demanded it. He had survived the war in Chechnya. He had walked away from the opera house massacre in Moscow. He kidnapped infidels from their own fortified residences in Iraq and Yemen. His plans had led to the death of hundreds of the enemies of the True Faith. By his own hands he had ended the lives of a dozen devils. He eluded capture and death even though his name and face were known. Even though he appeared on the kill lists of over ten coalition countries including the Great Satan -- the United States of America. He was still alive in spite of defying the gangster Putin and the corrupt Russian oligarchy.

  Now the Americans had drawn him into the light. They created distractions that caused him to spend his forces across the northern part of the province. He left his lair open to attack. His grandfather back in Grozny would be disappointed in him. The old man taught Charborz the science of chess and the boy was an apt student. They would play in the afternoons after school in Grandpa's state-assigned apartment that stank of tobacco and cabbage. By eight years old he was beating the old man one time in ten. By twelve they were evenly matched. Grandpa affectionately called him Capablanca, after a Cuban chess master famous when the old man was a boy. The old man died when he was fourteen. It was just as well, as there was no need for him to see Charborz' current shame; pawns spread across the board in disarray, and the king in check.

  Most of the pieces were off the board. The Ghost suspected that the infidels he hunted were few - deadly, but few. The fifty move rule was dispensed with. It was time for a deliberate and calculated endgame strategy such as Ponziani might have performed. It was all small moves and positioning.

  That is why he was here, eyes tearing in the chemical haze, crawling on hands and knees over broken rubble. He was here as a chess master, not a warrior. His most trusted men stalked the village ahead of him and he directed their movement over radio sets stolen from the Americans.

  Charborz stepped over the legs of a body blocking his path in a narrow lane. The dead man sat with his back to a wall, holding loops of his own intestines in his lap. Flies swarmed over him. His face was frozen mask of deep regret.

  A cooling wind was parting the veil of smoke to let Charborz see more men lying, unmoving, in the tangle underfoot. He grasped the pistol grip of his Kalashnikov tighter. A chirp of noise from his radio. He fished it from the pocket of his coat to hold it close to his ear.

  "Borz? Can you hear me, Borz?" It was what his men called him. It was a shortened version of the name his father gave him. It meant ‘wolf'.

  "I am here," he said softly.

  "We are at the toll house. It is a slaughterhouse, as the others told us."

  "Go around it, Lecha. Move cautiously but with courage."

  "God is good."

  "God is good," Charborz answered and moved through a doorway into the shelter of a stone-walled hovel. He crouched down in the dark in a main room where he could see through windows in three directions. Sounds from the surrounding ruins could reach him.

  He had no illusions that his enemy was unaware of their presence in the village. The infidel was playing his own endgame; holding back, not projecting his next moves. That is fine. That is good. Charborz' men played this game often. As children, they hunted Russians in the wreckage of their own markets and schools and homes. Charborz himself was in his first year at university when the Russians came.

  This was his brand of war. Men hunting men.

  The radio in his pocket chirped again and he held it to his ear expecting to hear the voice of Lecha or Yurim.

  Instead, the drawl of an American voice, speaking in English, came low through the speaker.

  "Marmal Flight one-one-zero. Spectre inbound for Broke Gopher two. Respond."

  Charborz felt a chill on the back of his neck.

  "Broke Gopher for one-one-zero. Go ahead."

  These were air-to-ground/ground-to-air transmissions.

  "We want to make your day better down there. How can we help?"

  He could not understand all of the words; they were the slow nasal mewlings he knew to be sounds of the Great Satan.

  "Our twenty is in the ville below you. You see that, Spectre?"

  "We see some buildings along the bend of the roadway. Can you pop smoke for us?"

  "I got orange."

  "Roger that. Orange it is, Gopher."

  Orange smoke. The men they hunted would betray themselves. He pressed the radio tight to his ear as he moved to one of the windows.

  "You see that, Marmal?"

  "Roger on the orange smoke."

  A mist of brightly-tinged smoke drifted over the rooftops toward him from the direction of the tollhouse.

  "Stay clear of the ville, Marmal. Everything along the road is open season."

  "Roger, Gopher. Coming around. Listen to the fireworks."

  Charborz Ilyas Muhammed raised the radio to his lips to order his men toward the source of the orange-colored smoke. Only a squeak emerged from his mouth as a powerful arm encircled his throat from behind and pressed the sides of his neck together. His vision swam as the bloodflow to his brain was choked off. He barely felt the sudden spear of pain at the back of his skull before all sensation ceased forever.

  Pig dropped the limp form of the BDU-clad man to the dusty floor. He crouched to wipe the blade of his combat knife on the man's tunic. Pig kicked the man over on his back and studied his face. He keyed his PRC mike.

  "The Dude no longer abides."

  Squelch.

  Two squelches.

  "Stay off the air. These fuckers are wired."

  Squelch.

  Two squelches.

  Pig retrieved his SAW from where he gently placed it outside the door. He just was moving into the orange haze when he heard an extended ripping sound from the sky above.

  Spectre was overhead and working the valley.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THE LIGHT AT THE END

  Kambiz Wahidi sat inside the ovenlike heat of the Buffalo and gasped for breath.

  When he'd taken refuge in the cargo compartment of the big truck, the interior was chilled by the night air. Now the sunlight was peeping through the gun slits in brilliant beams. The interior was heating up and Kambiz sat on the bench, his uniform drenched with sweat. His hands were slippery on the AK he held across his knees. His mouth was so dry he felt that the flesh of his throat might crack.

  Hours before, when night still blanketed Iron Man, he thought to return to his own bunk.

  He would disappear into the ranks of his fellow soldiers. He would strike again from within, like a wolf hiding among dogs. But the moonlight revealed the black stains down the front of his t-shirt and pants. He wiped a hand on his face and it came away smeared with Colonel Basir's blood. His close-cropped hair was matted with gobbets of tissue and gore. His glasses were dotted with blood. He threw them aside. He hated them. They were a gift from theferangi and therefore something to be despised.

  He found the bunkered Buffalo standing empty and climbed in through the rear hatch to think over what he must do. Only he knew what he must do. He knew the promise that he made. He had inflicted pain on the apostate and the infidel but he was not finished.

  He still lived.

  As the glow from the gun ports grew brighter he could hear the voices of men calling across

  the grounds of the base. The voices grew in volume. He could hear them clearly. American-accented sounds, the lazy whining of decadent men. He could hear their words. They had done a count and found him missing.

  They were calling his name.

  Not the name given him by his father. They gave him the name of some stupid child in some stupid American movie.

  "Harry! Yo, Harry!" they called.

  The indecision Kambiz felt in the dawn hours parted before him like a veil opening in front of his eyes. He was infused with a power; the power of a man with nothing left to lose and only one thing left to give.

  The voices drew closer.

  He drew back the cocking arm on the Kalashnikov's action with a sharp clack. He depressed the safety to the ‘off' position. He stood reaching out with his hand and gripped the release lever on the hatch.

  "God is great," he told himself.

  Kambiz threw open the hatch and leapt out. After the gloom of the Buffalo's interior the sudden sunlight blinded him. He raised the AK toward wavering shadows backlit by the glare off the gravel. The shadows were shouting orders. The bark of dogs.

  A punch to his chest sent him spinning back toward the truck and his head struck the edge of the open hatch door. Two more rounds knocked him to his knees. He leaned on the AK and tried to rise. More barking filled his ears as the pack drew closer all around. He was on one knee and turning with the rifle held shaking before him. His near-blind eyes sought the shadows of the men. He raised his arm to line the barrel on them and their barks grew sharper.

  And he died under the sudden fire of five men whose only crime was that they liked him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  HAMMER MEET NAIL

  The same C-130 that lit up Highway One the night before was over the mountain roadway south and east and raining down a shitstorm of lead at multiple targets.

  The big prop plane rolled around in a broad lazy circle two thousand feet over the cleft in the hills. The glow of tracers streaming from the GenDyn Gatling gun mounted in an opening in its port fuselage described a giant hourglass in the sky. Below, everything within the arc of its fire was pelted with an inescapable torrent of rounds. Men and machines were shredded and the bits tossed about as if by an invisible killer wind. The only sounds were a patter of flat pops as the thousands of bullets impacted on targets animate and inanimate and the distant buzz of the big electrically-driven gun high, high in the sky.

  Its load of ordnance spent, the deadly bird banked away, back to Marmal, sending promises via radio to the SEALs on the ground that evac was on its way.

  Twenty minutes later a pair of Apache helicopters passed over the silent roadway at one thousand feet. They spotted targets on the move away from their assigned destination but let them be. They were not cleared for fire beyond their designated area.

  "Another day," muttered the gunner in the nose of the lead Apache.

  The pilot of Texarkana Oh-Nine, the call sign of the Apaches' current flight, requested fresh smoke. A plume of bright yellow smoke rose from the village along the road.

  "Yellow smoke."

  "Texarkana On-Nine to Broke Gopher. Yellow smoke acknowledged."

  "Go for Gopher."

  "Be advised you have a helo inbound for exfil. Is the LZ running hot or cold? Out."

  "Cold, Tex. Cold as the grave. That Spooky knocked their dicks into the dirt."

  "Ackowledged. Stand by for dust off."

  The Apaches circled high cover as a heavier NH-90 chopper dropped down from the cloudless sky. It touched wheels on the broadest section of road surface across from the village. The dust on the road was beat to violent life under the prop blast. Tatters flew from what looked like piles of bloody rags littered here and there on and around the road surface. The transport copter bore the German army markings of the Maltese cross on its tail and nose. The bay doors slammed open as it came to rest on its landing gear. Armed and armored men exploded out of it to form a perimeter beyond the tips of the whirling props.

  The Germans waved in the three figures who emerged from the village at a dead run and threw themselves aboard. The Germans followed. The helo was buttoned up and aloft within seconds. It climbed into the sky, bearing west and north for Marmal with the twin Apaches following like loyal hounds.

  "What about Iron Man?" Pig shouted over the roar, gesturing until one of the Germans handed him a headset.

  "What about Iron Man?" he repeated, after tossing his sweat-soaked helmet to the deck and fixing the set in place over his ears. The chopper's roar was muffled to a low hum outside the sonic cushion of the noise-reducing headphones.

  "Not secure," said a crewman. He was wearing the diving eagle patch of the KSK, the Kommando Spezialkräfte. German special forces. The man had the light blue eyes and a weightlifter's build; one of those throwback Aryan supermen.

  "Are they under attack?" Pig said.

  "I am not certain," the German said in British-accented English. "They have been out of communication since late last night. Your army is reinforcing them by air."

  "So who sent you guys?" Pig said.

  "I do not know," the German shook his head. "We were only told there were two American units in the area. The other is being CASevaced back to Marmal."

  "You picked up casualties? American casualties?"

  "Ja, American casualties. The hospital at Marmal is a German hospital. Very good."

  Someone over at Pumpkin called in their dustoff. That meant Priest, Manny and Heath made it out. One or more of them got himself fucked up. But they were alive.

  He leaned in close to shout the news to Chili and Woody. They both beamed at him and slapped his shoulders.

  "What's your name?" Pig asked the German.

  "Hans."

  "Of course it is," Pig laughed.

  "And your name?"

  "Call me Pig."

  "Like schwein?" the German wondered, his brows crinkled.

  "Not sure I like it when you say it, man."

  The German laughed.

  "Here, have a Payday," Pig said, and plucked a warm gooey candy bar from a pocket on his Molle.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ISAF CAMP MARMAL

  MAZAR-I-SHARIF

  At first glance, from the air, the place looked like a suburban housing development in Arizona or New Mexico. Tidy rows of houses on neatly laid out streets. Trust the Germans for that. But there were no playgrounds or driveways with bikes left in them. The only cars in sight were up-armored mine-resistant trucks.

  The CASevac helo landed on a broad hardstand in front of a building that looked like any county hospital back in the states. The prop wash set flags from America, Germany, Poland, Turkey, Hungary and Sweden flapping. The rat lines clanged against the empty pole where the Norwegian flag hung until a few months ago.

  Three teams in scrubs rushed from the hospital portico rolling gurneys with them. Pig and Woody waved the eager medicos away while shoving a reluctant Chili before them.

  "Take him! He's all fucked up, ja? Fucked up?" Pig shoved Chili forward and shouted over the flaring engines of the chopper.

  "Danke but no danke, okay?" Woody said, gently turning down the attentions of what looked like the VonTrapp family dressed up as doctors. "Sprechen Sie, leave me the fuck alone?"

  Chili protested, but weakly. The crisp white sheets on that gurney looked so damned good. He allowed himself to be guided to it. Within seconds his wrist was in the hand of a pretty but stern Teutonic beauty counting off his pulse while an equally stern looking stormtrooper type wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

  Pig and Woody followed what looked like a fraternity-prank gurney race to the hospital. They moved at a saunter.

  "The other guys should be inside," Pig said.

  "That guy didn't tell you who got wounded?" Woody said.

  "He didn't have names. Has to be Heath, Manny or Priest. With Iron Man down, no one else knew we were on operation."

  "Think Chili will be okay?"

  "He'll be fine. Just got a bruised brain, is all. Nothing that can hurt that redneck. Besides, he'll be up and out of there when he hears we're at Marmal."

  "Does he know someone here?"

  "No," Pig said. "But the Germans and other Euros get a beer ration here."

  "Real beer?" Woody said credulous.

  "Only base in Halfghanistan with real brews on draft. Good beer, too."

  "You got a challenge coin on you?" Woody asked with a smile.

  "Fuck," Pig said.

  Challenge coins were decorative coins the size of a half dollar and usually embossed with the owner's unit badge or number or even a map of a country in which he was deployed or a camp where he trained. They were carried as a means of identification of membership in the military fraternity and, more importantly, any pogue not carrying his coin had to pay for drinks.

  Woody reached into a pocket on his Molle and held a shiny, laminated coin in front of Pig's nose. In the center was a crosshairs from a sniper scope and the words ‘Camp Pendleton, CA, Sniper School' around the border. Woody turned the coin in his fingers to display inset gold letters reading: One Shot, One Kill.

  "Double fuck," Pig spat.

  They entered the hospital with renewed life in their step and immediately felt as though they were visiting from another planet. The pair of SEALs, fresh from combat, looked entirely out of place against the white walls, shiny tile floors and immaculate reception area lined with padded pleather benches. The staff were in spotless hospital whites, and green scrubs. The only military presence were a few light duty Euro troops, and even their BDUs were pressed and clean.