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  Gordon said the network was making more than a million a week by supplying protection. There was a symbiotic relationship between the network and the Taliban, who were being paid not to cause trouble and were also being employed as guards. Many of the firefights, Gordon said, were the result of protection fees being docked or paid late. The gunfire had nothing to do with purging the “foreign invaders” from their country. Hell, the invaders were paying their salaries.

  So this was the lovely oasis that Zahed had nurtured. And there wasn’t a single piece of high-tech weaponry—no laser-guided bullet, radar, super bomb, nothing—that would change that. One Ghost unit had taken out a man. We couldn’t reinvent an entire country.

  And then, the final kicker: Gordon had learned that the CIA was already negotiating with Zahed’s number two man, Sayid Ulla, who had taken up residence in that opium palace in Kabul. Pretty much everything Bronco had told me about the agency’s intentions and desires had been a lie. And I felt certain that they had supplied the HERF guns to Zahed’s men and attempted to use the Chinese as fall guys.

  So nothing would change. I’d taken out a thug, but in a country with very little, thugs were not in short supply.

  As I wrote a letter to Joey’s parents, I once again tried to convince myself that my life, my job, everything . . . was still worth it, even as murder charges loomed.

  I’m sorry to inform you that your son died for nothing and that this war messed him up so much that he killed an innocent American solider in order to protect our unit.

  I typed that twice before I got so mad I slammed shut the laptop.

  If the plane seat could have swallowed me, I would’ve allowed it. All I could do was throw my head back and think about how badly they were going to burn me. And when my mind wasn’t fixated on that, I’d see Shilmani crying . . . and think about Hila being thrown in a rank cell . . . and see some yellow-toothed scumbag count cash handed to him by Bronco.

  I reached down under my seat, dug into my carry-on bag, and produced a letter that had been part of a care package sent to me by the volunteers of Operation Shoebox, a remarkable organization that sent personal care items, snacks, books, and dozens of other items we all needed so desperately. The folks even included toys we could hand out to children during our missions. I’d never met a soldier who wasn’t smiling as he opened up one of those packages.

  The handwritten letter I’d received was from a thirteen-year-old boy from Huntsville, Alabama.

  Dear Soldier:

  My name is James McNurty, Jr., and I want to thank you very much for serving our country. I know it must be hard out there for you, but if you take good care of yourself and eat good, you will have a good day of fighting.

  I want to tell you about my dad, who was also a soldier. He died in Iraq while trying to protect us. He was a very great man and he told me that whenever I see a soldier I should thank him or her. So while I cannot see you, I still want to thank you for helping us and for believing in our country. My dad always said that no matter what happens, he loved us and the United States of America. My dad said being a soldier is a great honor, so maybe I will be one someday, too. I hope you can stay happy. I know it is hard.

  Thanks very much.

  Your friend, James McNurty, Jr.

  “See this?” I tell Blaisdell, pulling the letter from my breast pocket. “This is the only thing keeping me sane right now. Some kid in Huntsville actually believes in what we’re doing.”

  She sighs. “That’s nice. But they’re going to argue that you should have answered your phone, that you ignored incoming communication and killed Zahed, an unarmed man.”

  “My mission was to kill him. I carried out my orders. The abort came too late. I was the commander on the ground, I saw the opportunity, I made the decision, and I completed the mission. That’s what you’re going to argue. If higher can’t make up their minds about what to do, then it’s my job to make that decision.”

  “They’re not going to see it like that. You’re asking them to take responsibility for their broken system, and as you’ve implied, even General Keating can’t save you now.”

  I snort. “Is there anything else you need? Did you get it all? Because I’m going to be very busy for the rest of the day, trying to get drunk.”

  She rises and pushes her glasses farther up her nose. “Off the record, Captain, I’m very sorry about what’s happened to you. In some respects you’re a victim of the system, but you had a choice. You could have at least tried to take Zahed into custody. And they’re going to argue that, too. You simply shot him. They’ll argue that you wanted to kill him.”

  “You’re damned right I did.”

  She starts to say something, thinks better of it. “I’m going to review all of this with my colleagues, and I’ll contact you tomorrow.”

  I shrug and lead her to the door. She looks back at me, a deep sadness filling her eyes, as though she’s glimpsing a man at the gallows.

  Then she just leaves. I get another drink, plop into the recliner, and turn on ESPN, where I learn that even the Reds lost their game, 9-4, damn it.

  I must’ve dozed off and the knocking at my door continues for a while until I suddenly rush up and answer it.

  “Holy shit.” The curse escapes my mouth before I can censor it.

  It’s General Keating himself, out of uniform, wearing a golf shirt and Dockers. He pushes past me, slams shut the door, then lifts his voice. “What the hell are you doing here? Feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “I’m confined to quarters.”

  He goes over to my window and snaps open the blinds, letting in the late-afternoon sun. “I flew in this morning. Then I spent the whole day in a videoconference with those assholes in Langley.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I upset your day.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, son. Some of your tactics might give me heartburn, but you ain’t got enough horsepower to put a dent in my day. I think you underestimated Harruck. That boy went to bat for you big-time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He used his friend, the humanitarian worker, to do some digging. Turns out that little girl you saved witnessed Bronco and Mike on the scene of Warris’s torture, and they failed to report any of it.”

  I frown. “Then Warris can burn them, maybe get me off?”

  He shakes his head. “We called in Warris. He made a deal with the CIA to keep his mouth shut, so long as they helped him burn you.”

  “He admitted that?”

  “No, Bronco and Mike did. I can’t get to those two, but I’m kicking Warris out of the Army for conduct unbecoming.”

  “So Warris wanted to bring me down with the CIA’s help. His plan backfires, and he gets burned himself.”

  “Enough justice for today.”

  “Ramirez might disagree. Doesn’t he count?”

  “An Article 118 murder charge is out of the question. However, integrity’s what you do when nobody’s looking. You won’t find that in the UCMJ. That’s why Warris is history.”

  “What about me? Am I free?”

  “You’re going on temporary duty to Walter Reed for evaluation.”

  “What? You think I’m crazy?”

  “Nah. I might if you’d answered that phone. Scott, you bivouacked a long time in that fucking valley of woe. Let’s placate them for now, okay?”

  I sigh deeply.

  “Look, son, this has been tough for all of us.”

  “Tough? A hangover is tough. This has been a goddamned nightmare, and yeah, maybe I should sit my ass in a psych ward so I can decide whether I want to do this anymore . . .”

  “Are you kidding me? When you get out of the hospital, I’m promoting you to major. You’ll be general by the time I get through with you. I told you the Army’s changing, and we old-school boys need to adapt.”

  I couldn’t hide my twisted grin. “One minute I’m going to Leavenworth, the next I’m being promoted. I’m crazy. The system’s crazy . . .”

&n
bsp; Keating crosses to the kitchen, lifts my empty scotch bottle. “You’re crazy drinking this crap. We only drink Glenfiddich single malt. Didn’t I teach you that?”

  “You did, sir.”

  “All right, then, pack your bags, soldier.”

  “I will. But first I want you to read something.”

  I hand him the note written by James McNurty, Jr.

  He reads it, then looks up, a sheen now in his eyes.

  “Being a soldier is a great honor,” I remind him. “But are we honoring the profession? Or maybe, just maybe, they’re asking too much of us. Just a little too much.”

  He takes a deep breath, returns the letter, then says, “Hurry up and pack. Then we’ll get some real scotch.”

  Readers thought they knew the whole story in

  Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell®:Conviction. . .

  They were wrong.

  TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL® ENDGAME

  WRITTEN BY DAVID MICHAELS

  Third Echelon operative Sam Fisher knows that several disastrous missions have depleted the ranks of the Splinter Cells. What he doesn’t know is that a stunning piece of evidence has been uncovered–pointing to a traitor within their ranks. . .

  Convicted without a trial, hunted without mercy . . . Sam is that man.

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