They said it was nothing, a routine rescue op at a facility known as the tantalist site.

But that quickly proved untrue, terribly, horrifically untrue.

The report said we'd be flying into the bog lawn profits of northern Afghanistan, where

rugged mountains cut through a remote and arid wilderness.

According to the dossier, we were responding to fragmented reports of a fallout of some

sort of biological toxin that made siren and mustard gas look like helium.

Its official name was HN211.

The last contact was a month ago.

Worlds of air whipped at my face as I looked at the dossier.

The report flapped in my hand as our chopper tilted over the craggy hills which were rapidly

turning into soaring snow-touched mountains.

The Hindu Kush had been the perfect place for our military to build the testing facility.

Incredibly difficult terrain to navigate on land, a tiny population, thousands of valleys,

cliffs and caves to conceal themselves in.

It seemed ideal.

I worked with an aeromedical evacuation unit.

We specialized in getting our wounded out of tight spots and treating life-threatening

injuries under the worst conditions.

Blood, bile, bullets, brains, bodies.

It was fair to say I could hold my own in high-pressure scenarios, but something about this

op unnerved me.

The photos of the facility we were heading to were ten years out of date and they showed

...