[...]... grenades The ANA finally hit the ground and begin crawling toward their machine gun, but Grohl and Spitz beat them to it We begin returning fire while enemy bullets rake up the Hescos all around us There are others taking up position beside me Most of them are in gym shorts and flip-flops: they must have come pelting out from their cots Someone detonates the Claymores, and they engulf the man in the turban... glimpse the whites of his eyes flash behind his bandana I can tell he’s worried We begin running toward the ANA position The dog paces alongside, then darts out ahead of us into the maw of the storm We hear him barking wildly The ANA turn and watch us approach They don’t move until we’re standing right before them See anything? Whalen says jerkily, pantomiming the question as he gestures toward the perimeter... down the stretcher Connolly darts over He’s talking to me, but I can’t hear him above the din of the rotors He waves and backs out, and another stretcher slides in beside me A while later, the Black Hawk’s filled We take off with a lurch Bhat_9780307955890_7p_01_r2.indd 55 4/11/12 3:37 PM 56 th e watch and bank away from the ground The rising sun spools through the windows of the bird and slathers the. .. the darkness The enemy’s aim is so precise, they have us pinned down They must have started moving into position as soon as the storm began Ahead of me, Grohl and Spitz are working away methodically with the 50, spitting rounds I can hear them swearing The two ANA flank them, firing away with M-4s until one of the guns jams The man spits into the breech of the gun, trying to clear it, but it’s no use... loping up I empty my last magazine to give him cover, then catch the 9 mil that Doc throws at me I’ve lost sight of the other militant, but a fire team sets up beside us and starts blazing away with an LMG All around, every man in the company is emptying magazines into the darkness The noise is deafening, the crack of guns somehow amplified by the howl of the storm Red tracer ribbons stream back and forth,... men give them a wide berth The base is shaped like an oblong, and Whalen and I circle around the entire perimeter one more time, past the sandbagged mortar pits, the burn-shitters, the plywood B-huts, stopping to check each guard position until we return to where we began And all the while, the banshee wind scourges the base I glance back at the plastic shitter screens billowing crazily in the storm... claimed by a Claymore, but the other seems to float right through the sandstorm while coolly firing an AK-47 with one hand A jagged line of bullets rips up the Hescos Dirt smacks me in the face Then Mitchell clutches his elbow and yanks back from the M-240 He’s hit Another bullet slams into his chest but his body armor saves him Even so, he spins around Blood belches down his arm He squats on the ground... attempt to prop him back up—then let go of him abruptly His helmet slaps off his head with a neat hole drilled through the back Bits and pieces of brain slop down the collar of his tunic The other two ANA swivel in tandem and gawk in the direction of the wire Initially all I see in the brown darkness is a single muzzle flash Then a fan of red tracers begins arcing through the haze Grohl and Spitz come... it, I yell, then begin to cough There’s sand between my scarf and my mouth A thick coating of dust sheathes my face I’m having difficulty breathing I clear my throat and spit I’m slathered in Folsom’s blood Two more ghostly apparitions cross the wire The M-240 stutters, then jams again Mitchell struggles with the breech of the gun It’s coated with sand and grit I snatch up my M-4 and aim at the enemy... taking fire from the north and the west and now someone else begins firing RPG rounds from the east I replay Whalen’s nightmare scenario in my head: we’re surrounded And we can’t retaliate effectively We’re all firing blind Shorty zips past, heading for the B-huts GET AWAY, DOG! someone shouts The dog’s howling like crazy but the sound merges with the storm Tracers light up the darkness The enemy’s aim . First  Sarn’t? I ask him. Should I let them go? He squints through his bandana. The Hadjis would be crazy to  attack in these conditions—but then again, the Hadjis are crazy! So:  no. They better stay. My thoughts exactly, I say. Closer to the ANA, we walk backwards to be able to breathe.  Already my lips are chapped, my face encased in dusty mold. I gri- mace and my skin hurts. We’ve had no letup from the storm these past  two days. Now we’re feeling its full impact, and we’ll have to find  ways to deal with the situation without letting the enemy catch us  off guard. My men know it, but the ANA troops are a different story  altogether. There  are  three  of  them  by the Hescos  and  they  run  forward  even before we reach them. I wave them back, but Fazal Ahmed, the smallest of the three, signals to his companions authoritatively, and  they attempt to slip past us. I bar them with outstretched arms, while  Bhat_9780307955890_7p_01_r2.indd. There’s  sand streaming off it, and Staff Sergeant Brandon Espinosa, who’s on  watch,  bends down and hauls me up. He’s put up a canvas screen with  the help of the two ANA who’re there with him. The guard tower  sways like a ship in the storm. Espinosa looks exhausted, and I don’t  blame him. He shouts: I’m going to send my ANA crew down and stay up  here by myself. Less trouble that way. I lean toward him and shout back: Suit yourself. The relieved ANA slither down. I watch them go and shake my head: You’d think they weren’t in  their own country. Espinosa says: They aren’t. They’re Uzbek. This is Pashtun land. I say: No point telling you to keep a look out, but still . . .  He cracks a smile and shoves a wad of chew into his mouth. He’s  a veteran of Iraq, a man of few words, capable, efficient. I’m not wor- ried about leaving him in the tower by himself. Back on the ground, I run with Whalen past the brick-and-mor- tar command post, then follow the Hescos back toward the ECP. We  slow down by the shelter of the mortar pit where Manny Ramirez  and Pratt have secured the gun with canvas. Pratt has his M-4 tucked  Bhat_9780307955890_7p_01_r2.indd