Ghost.Recon.02.CombatOps.2011 by Clancy Tom

Author:Clancy, Tom [Clancy, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

I thought I knew everything about Master Sergeant Joe Ramirez. His parents had emigrated from Mexico and had held fast to the old ways. They’d raised him in North Hollywood, California, and had kept him on the straight and narrow path. He was a devout Catholic, an altar boy, a Boy Scout.

In his teenaged years he’d become a computer hacker and had almost gotten busted for identity theft, but he’d been taken under the wing of a detective who’d persuaded him to join the Army. His older brother Enrique had enlisted, and I’d met him—nice guy, quiet demeanor, and a good soldier, as reported by many of his superiors. Ramirez followed in his footsteps.

It wasn’t long before he was tapped for Special Forces, and he now had more experience in Afghanistan than any of us. Two tours as an Army Ranger plus some shorter ops. Old man Gordon had handpicked the kid himself to become a member of the Ghosts, and Ramirez had done a great job when I’d taken him to Waziristan and, later on, into China. He was one of the most levelheaded guys I’d ever served with and the last person on earth I’d thought capable of murder. He was the epitome of an outstanding soldier.

And he’d become my good friend.

“Joey.” I gasped.

“I’ll get him out of here,” he said. “Just have them cover me. I can see the Hummer down there!”

Before I could do anything, he scooped up Hendrickson’s body and started shakily down the mountain. Nolan came running up and cried, “Wait!” He was already sloughing off his medic’s pack.

“Too late,” I said. Then I raised my voice. “Everybody, fall back! Fall back! Let’s go!”

We started a serpentine descent, following the ridge lines and those areas where the outcroppings provided some slight cover from the Taliban behind us.

Treehorn and Brown covered our withdrawal, retreating only when they spotted a guy shouldering an RPG. They vacated their position only seconds before the rocket struck, heaving fiery flashes and pulverized rock.

At the foot of the hills we were met with a curious sight: About a half dozen Afghan National Army troops had driven up in a truck, and beside them was Bronco. He waved me over and cried, “Let’s go, Joe!”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“We’re the cavalry. We’ll cover you.”

“How’d you know we were out here?”

He rolled his eyes, then climbed back into the truck as the Army troops dropped to the ditches and began firing on the advancing Taliban.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“I like it when people owe me,” he said.

The rest of my guys came darting over and, using Bronco’s truck for cover, returned a few more salvos before breaking off to make one last run for the Hummer.

Two more vehicles pulled up, a big Bradley and another Hummer, and rifle squads bolted out: the security team from the construction site.

I talked to the sergeant there, handed over the fight, and jogged back to the Hummer. The earlier wounds in my leg began throbbing again.

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