On the way to Jalalabad, Walton’s relief morphed into anger.
He wanted to kill Fletcher.
The major hadn’t listened to a single suggestion. Walton knew every mission was dangerous. It’s the nature of the job. That’s what Special Forces soldiers do. Go on impossible missions. But they always take measures to minimize the risk and casualties. They calculate the best tactics so the mission will be a success. They always ask: What’s the best way in? How can they surprise the enemy? What’s the best way out?
Then they plan and prepare. Then they practice over and over and over until they get it right.
That was something Walton had learned early in his military career. After he was cut from the football team at West Point, he learned that football was all about learning the plays. Learning about the nuances of the game. That comes by studying and preparing.
His team had prepared hard for this mission. They knew all about the HIG and Haji Ghafour. They knew about the terrain—just how dangerous it was, and how the Soviets—who used brutal battlefield tactics—stayed away from the valley. It just wasn’t worth the risk.
But Ghafour was a high-value target, and it seemed that the military believed the benefits outweighed the risks. That’s why the team was sent there. Walton understood that. But what he didn’t understand was why they didn’t let them fast-rope to a position above the village. Why they didn’t let them conduct the mission at night, under the cover of darkness. Or why, if they knew the enemy was so strong and entrenched, they allowed a relatively untested commando unit to take part in the mission. Would they have done the same if they’d known where Osama bin Laden was hiding?
The answer was clear: No.
But all throughout the training, the commanders had put so much emphasis on showing off the commandos as this elite fighting force. The commanders thought: Wouldn’t it be great if this force helped capture one of the world’s top terrorists? But the reality was, the Afghan commandos weren’t ready. While some performed well under fire, most didn’t have a clue. As a result, a Special Forces team came close to being massacred. It was a miracle they had managed to escape.
Now Walton’s men were seriously injured. And that image was burned into his memory.
Ford’s arm being ripped apart by a bullet and blood spurting everywhere just like in the movies. Walding’s leg hanging by a thread after being tagged by a round. His leg was just flopping as he tried to move and fight. The hole in Morales thigh and in his ankle, and Behr’s deep pelvic wound. The bullets bouncing off Shurer’s helmet. Rhyner’s wound. And Wallen’s. And of course, CK, who’d felt honored to be wearing a Special Forces uniform, was dead. His head smashed. The final indignity: his body being rolled off the mountain. Everyone was hit. This was hell. Walton had seen a lot of casualties in Fallujah—one of the most vicious battles in Iraq. And he had seen other casualties in his career. But nothing like this.
And that’s what was so upsetting. It didn’t have to be this way. Defending people who can’t help themselves was one of the things that made Walton tick. In this war of shadows, that usually extended to villagers. But today—on this shithole of a mission—it meant protecting his friends.
When the helicopter landed, Fletcher was there waiting for them. If Walton was angry during the helicopter ride, he was now steaming. Look at him? Everyone else in Afghanistan heard the firefight over the radio. They were dressed and ready to help. But Fletcher? Look at him. He was out of uniform and looked like he was ready to work out. Like he didn’t give a fuck. A perfect ending to a perfect day. The motherfucker.
Walton bounded off the Chinook. Fletcher started to say something, but Walton cut him off.
“Where the fuck are my men at?” he snapped at the major.
Fletcher was stunned. But Walton didn’t care. He knew the wounded were being treated by doctors. He didn’t know their conditions. But at that moment he wanted to gather up the remaining members of his team.
When he did, they huddled near the flight lines. He looked at them: Williams, Rhyner, Howard, and the rest. They were all covered in dirt and blood. Their uniforms were torn and there were scratches on their faces. They looked battered and beaten. Walton started to speak, but could hardly get the words out.
“I am sorry I let that happen to you,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “It’s fucked up. Fucked up.”