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What mattered was where they were headed, regardless of where it fell on the map. They'd be angry enough that their quarry hadn't been here, but that wasn't Driscoll's fault.

The local population knew little about borders, and didn't especially care. Pre-mission intelligence, bad or good or otherwise, was beyond a soldier's control. Might as well finish the job they should have done." Tait trotted off.

No, wait, they weren't called that anymore, were they? Driscoll's beard was fully four inches long, with enough flecks of white in it that his men had taken to calling him Santa--rather annoying to a man hardly thirty-six years old, but when most of your compatriots were an average of ten years younger than you . He knew how to sleep like a dog on a granite block with only a rifle stock for a pillow, knew how to stay alert when his brain and body were screaming at him to lie down. Clearly he'd heard the flashbang and knew the shit was coming down, so was he making a break for it? Still tracking him with the M4's sights, Driscoll led him, looking for an exit ... He scanned back and now saw the gomer had a grenade in his right hand. Back at Kabul they had a couple of Saudis, senior military officers who were backing up the Special Operations people and the Army spooks. Code it up and call it in," Driscoll radioed to his communications specialist. Nine tangos down for the count, two prisoners taken alive. He didn't yet understand that it could have been worse. Then again, once the interrogators got ahold of him . That's the way it worked, though Driscoll didn't dwell on that stuff much.

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He'd learned to largely block out pain, which was a handy skill when you were leading much younger men whose packs undoubtedly felt much lighter on their shoulders than Driscoll's did on his own. They'd been in the hills for two days, all of it on the move, sleeping two to three hours a night. Close, but not close enough to reach in a real emergency, which the guy was about to have on his hands. He eased to the edge of the turn and very carefully looked around the corner. There was an AK-47 close by, complete with a preloaded plastic magazine, within easy reach. Driscoll's 5.56-millimeter slug entered just above the man's ear and just behind his eye. Driscoll took off his PVS-17s and took out his flashlight. Most Afghans they'd met were only semiliterate, but there were books and magazines in evidence, some of the latter in English, in fact. It was about the size of a walk-in closet, he now saw, maybe a little bigger, with a low-hanging ceiling. "Sand table and a wooden ammo crate." A flat piece of three-fourths-inch-thick plywood, about two meters square to each side, covered in glued-on sand and papier-mache mountains and ridges, scatterings of boxlike buildings here and there. "And check every inch for markings." Never could tell what was important.That was the central truth of the moment, the reason he was in these goddamned mountains. As he'd expected, there was the sentry, right where he should be. It was just too obvious a spot for a sentry, though this particular one was doing a piss-poor job of it, sitting there, looking backward mostly, probably bored and half asleep and counting the minutes until his relief arrived. In the night vision Driscoll could see an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, barrel down. They were excited but under control, ready to get down to business. Whatever the guy had been dreaming about was now as real as hell. Thirty years or older--then maybe he would have been better advised to spare their lives and have an intel guy talk to them. Noise woke people up, especially in a place like this. The aircraft eased up to a true altitude of 6,100 feet as they passed over the lizard-back spine of the Grand Teton Range.One more ridge was the other central truth, especially here, it seemed. Well, boredom could kill you, and it was about to kill this guy in less than a minute, though he'd never even realize it. Most of the team was spread out behind him and to his right. Driscoll gestured: Collins nodded and crab-walked backward out of sight. Twenty feet away, Driscoll estimated, around the bend. He could see it in their postures, the economy of movement that separated real shooters from wannabees and in-and-outers who were just waiting to return to civilian life. The guys sleeping on the lower bunk went the same way. Behind him, two more Rangers were following, not too close but close enough, pistol up in one case, M4 carbine in the other for overwatch, just like it said in The Book. But they'd all been too young, and they were all now dead. Somewhere down there was Yellowstone National Park.For them reality was which tribe you were in, which family you were a part of, and which flavor of Muslim you were. Still, the old saying in the military, "Shit runs downhill," was as true as ever, and in this business there was always someone uphill from you, ready to give the shit ball a shove. Driscoll turned his attention to the ammo box, picking it up and carrying it into the entrance tunnel.

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Here memories lasted a hundred years, and the stories even longer. The locals still boasted that their ancestors had driven Alexander the Great out of the country, and some of them still remembered the names of the warriors who had bested the Macedonian spearmen who had up until then conquered every other place they'd wandered into. Inside was a stack of paper about three inches thick--some lined notebook paper covered in Arabic script, some random numbers and doodles--and a large two-sided foldout map.

They'd legged it fifteen klicks, almost all of it uphill and over sharp rock and scree, since they'd hopped off the CH-47 Chinook helicopter, a Delta variant, the only one at their disposal that could handle the altitude here. He was walking point, leading the patrol as the senior NCO present, with his men stretched out a hundred meters to his rear, alert, eyes sweeping left and right, up and down, M4 carbines at ready-low and trained at their sectors. A few more steps, looking left and right, his noise-suppressed carbine cradled to his chest at ready-low, finger resting lightly on the trigger, just enough to know it was there. Just six months earlier he'd finished third in the Best Ranger Competition, the Super Bowl of special operations troops. He settled down, tucked the carbine to his right shoulder and centered the sights on the guy's right ear, controlled his breathing-- To his right, down a narrow trail, came the rasp of leather on rock. He did a quick mental recheck, placing the rest of the team in his mind's eye. Moving with exaggerated slowness, Driscoll rotated his head in the direction of the sound. He lowered his carbine, laying it diagonally across his chest. Driscoll did the same, then laid himself flat between a pair of scrub bushes. Their real target might be less than a hundred meters away now, and they'd worked hard over the previous three months to bag this bastard. Plain old untreated two-by-fours, and those didn't grow out of the ground. It occurred briefly to Driscoll that in the civilian world this would be considered pure murder, but that wasn't his worry. In daylight he could have seen it, but it was a cloudless and moonless night. The pilot and copilot both wondered who the passengers were but asked no questions.