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  “All this is making my brain explode,” said Treehorn. “I need a bullet and a target. I’m easy to please. The rest of it is bullshit.”

  “Captain, I know Harruck’s your friend,” began Ramirez, “but we weren’t sent here to build a school. If this is a good old-fashioned militia training op, I can deal with that, too. But we can’t be tiptoeing around and still get our job done.”

  “I know. And there’s no reason we should get caught up in all this. I want to go back out there tonight, gather more intel, and proceed on mission.”

  “We’ve got the drones but still no way to talk to them,” said Hume. “Waiting on new gear. Could be a few more days.”

  I cursed. “Then we’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Radios, binoculars, NVGs, it’s not like we didn’t train that way,” I said.

  “You going to tell Harruck?” asked Treehorn.

  “No choice. We still need company support. He wanted me to call Keating and delay our mission. I don’t know about you guys, but I’d rather get the job done and get the hell out of here as soon as possible.”

  “So just lie to him,” said Treehorn.

  I thought about that.

  And I wondered if maybe I was just being a selfish bastard, but my guys felt the same way, so I lied and told Harruck no go. Our mission remained unchanged. We needed to find and capture Zahed.

  “Don’t you understand?” he asked me, raising his voice when I returned to his office later in the day. “This is eight months’ worth of work finally coming together, and you want to screw it up just to nail that fat bastard who’ll be replaced by his second in command! If we don’t reach some kind of an agreement, nothing will happen.”

  “They didn’t send me here to debate the politics, Simon. They sent me to get a guy, and you can’t blame me for doing that. I understand your mission here. All I’m asking is that you understand mine. If I can capture Zahed and they get him to talk, he could turn the tide for us.”

  “Okay, yeah, I get it now. I understand how you’re going to incite them and create an even more volatile situation, as evidenced by today’s attack. And at the same time that I’m trying to earn the locals’ trust, you’re pissing them off by hunting down one fool who in the grand scheme of things means nothing. He’s a local yokel. You’re making him sound like Bin Laden.”

  I balled my hands into fists. “You’re assuming that I can’t demoralize them, that I can’t get the whole leadership party, that no matter what I do it’s going to be status quo over there.”

  “That’s right, because that’s the way it’s been here. If we’re going to change anything, it has to be big and swift, and we need to do it together — if we leave them out, we’re doomed to fail.”

  I couldn’t face him any more and looked to the door.

  “Scott—”

  I took a deep breath. “I understand now why you didn’t become a Ghost.”

  “Don’t be this way.”

  “Sorry, I’m not like you, Simon. I’m a soldier.”

  “Wow, what the hell was that?”

  I faced him and spoke slowly… for effect. “What I see here is us building another welfare state, socialism at its finest, but remember what Margaret Thatcher said: ‘Socialism only works until you run out of other people’s money.’ I’m not ready to negotiate with these bastards.”

  “Captain,” he snapped. “I’ll be contacting the general. I’ll take this all the way up. There’s just too much at stake here. Nothing personal.”

  “That’s fine. You won’t like the answer you get. We’re doing a recon tonight. I’ll need company support. I’ll expect you to provide it. Check the registry, Captain.”

  SIX

  Without our Cross-Coms, satellite uplinks and downlinks, and targeting computers, we were, for all intents and purposes, traditional old-school combatants relying on our scopes and skills. We did, however, have one nice toy well suited for Afghanistan: the XM-25, a laser-designated grenade launcher with smart rounds that did not require a link to our Cross-Coms. Matt Beasley had traded in his rifle for the XM-25, saying he predicted that he’d finally get a chance to field-test the weapon for himself. His prediction would come true, all right…

  I couldn’t deny the fact that long-range recon from the mountains would gain us only a small portion of the big picture. We needed HUMINT — human intelligence— which could be gathered only by boots on the ground… spies walking among the enemy.

  The guy I’d captured back in town was worthless. He wouldn’t talk, make a deal, nothing. Harruck handed him off to the CIA and wished him good riddance.

  So at that point it was both necessary and logical that I try to recruit the only local guy I knew who was seemingly on my side.

  I won’t say I fully trusted him — because I never did. But I figured the least I could do was ask. Maybe for the right price he’d be willing to walk into the valley of the shadow of death and bring me back Zahed’s location. The Ghosts gave me an allowance for such cases, and I planned on spending it. I had nothing to lose except the taxpayers’ money, and I worked for the government — so that was par for the course.

  Ramirez and I got a lift into town, and dressed like locals with the shemaghs covering our heads and faces, we had the driver let us off about a block from the house. Ramirez would keep in radio contact with our driver.

  I wouldn’t have remembered the house if I didn’t spot the young girl standing near the front door. She took one look at me, gaped, then ran back into the house, slamming the door after her. Ramirez looked at me, and we shifted forward. I didn’t have to knock. The guy who’d helped me capture the Taliban thug emerged. I lowered my shemagh, and he didn’t look happy to see me. “Hello again.”

  “Hello.”

  I proffered my hand. “My name is Scott. And this is Joe.”

  He sighed and begrudgingly took the hand. “I am Babrak Shilmani.” He shook hands with Ramirez as well.

  “Do you have a moment to talk?”

  He glanced around the street, then lifted his chin and gestured that we go into his house.

  The table I’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by large colorful cushions spread across newly unfurled carpets. I’d learned during my first tour in the country that Afghans ate on the floor and that the cushions were called toshak and that the thin mat in the center was a disterkahn.

  “We didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” I said.

  “Please sit. You are our guests.” He spoke rapidly in Pashto, calling out to the rest of his family down the hall.

  I knew that hospitality was very important in the Afghan code of honor. They routinely prepared the best possible food for their guests, even if the rest of the family did without.

  As his family entered from the hall, heads lowered shyly, Shilmani raised a palm. “This is my wife, Panra; my daughter, Hila; and my son, Hewad.”

  They returned nervous grins, and then the mother and daughter hustled off, while the boy came to us and offered to take our shemaghs and showed us where to sit on the floor. Then he ran off and returned with a special bowl and jug called a haftawa-wa-lagan.

  “You don’t have to feed us,” I told Shilmani, realizing that the boy had brought the bowl to help us wash our hands and prepare for the meal.

  “I insist.”

  I glanced over at Ramirez. “Only use your right hand. Remember?”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  “You’ve been here before,” said Shilmani. “I mean Afghanistan.”

  I nodded. “I love the tea.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Will you tell me now how you learned English?”

  He sighed. “I used to work for your military as a translator, but it got too dangerous, so I gave it up.”

  Ramirez gave me a look. Perhaps we were wasting our time and had received the no already…

  “They taught you?”

  “Yes, a special school. I was young and somewhat foolish. And I volunteered. But when Hila was born, I decide
d to leave.”

  “They threatened you?”

  “You mean the Taliban?”

  I nodded.

  “Of course. If you help the Americans, you suffer the consequences.”

  “You’re taking a pretty big risk right now,” I pointed out.

  “Not really. Besides, I owe you.”

  “For what? You helped me capture that man.”

  “And you helped me get him out of my house. I was afraid for my wife and daughter. In most cases it is forbidden for a woman to be in the presence of a man who is not related to her — but I am more liberal than that.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  As if on cue, the wife and daughter entered and provided all of us with tea. I took a long pull on my cup and relished the flavor, which somehow tasted like pistachios.

  “So, Scott, what do you do for the Army?”

  “I take care of problems.”

  “But you cannot do it alone. You want my help.”

  “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone here. But my job would be easier, and fewer innocent people would get hurt, if I could get some help.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Not what. Who.”

  Shilmani took a deep breath and stroked his thin beard. “You’ve come for Zahed.”

  I smiled. “Why not?”

  “Because that’s impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible,” said Ramirez.

  “He has too many friends, even American friends, and too many connections. He has too many assets for you to ever get close. They always know when you’re coming. And they’re always prepared. They have eyes on your base every hour of every day. You cannot leave without them knowing about it.”

  “So they know I’m here.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “And I’ve already put you in danger?”

  “No, because I work for Mirab Mir Burki, who is the master of water distribution here in Zhari.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Burki knows you Americans want to dig a new well. He wants that well, and he’s already negotiated with Zahed over rights to the water and the profits. We’re just waiting for you to build it. Any contact I have with Americans is part of our water negotiations — so as you might say, I have a good cover.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “What all men want. Money. Safety for my family. A better life.” Shilmani finished his tea, then topped off our cups and refilled his own.

  “You want to see Zahed captured?”

  “He’s not a good influence here — despite what others may say. He does not break promises, but when he gives you something, the price is always very steep.”

  “Kundi seems to like him.”

  “That old man is a fool, and Zahed would put a knife in his back. There is no loyalty there.”

  “Would you go over to Sangsar and work for us?”

  Shilmani’s gaze turned incredulous. “No. Of course not.”

  “But you said you wanted money. I can work out an arrangement that would be very good for you — and your family.”

  “I am no good to my family if I’m dead.”

  “We can protect you.”

  “You’re not a good liar, Scott.”

  We finished the tea, and Shilmani’s wife and daughter served rice and an onion-based quorma or stew, along with chutneys, pickles, and naan — an unleavened bread baked in a clay oven. The food was delicious, and the wife continued urging us to eat more.

  Afterward, while his family retreated to the back of the house, Shilmani wiped his mouth, then stared hard at me. “You have to remember something, Scott. After all of you are gone, we are left to pick up the pieces. We’re just trying to do the best we can for ourselves.”

  I stood. “I know that. Thanks for the meal. If you want to give me some information about Zahed, I’ll pay for it. If you change your mind about going to Sangsar, then just tell one of the soldiers on patrol that you want to speak to me. I’ll get the word.”

  “Okay. And one more thing. Walk in my shoes for a moment. I cannot trust the Taliban. I cannot trust my village elder or my boss. I cannot trust the district governor. And I cannot trust you, the foreigner.”

  “You know something? I think I’m already there,” I told him.

  Ramirez pursed his lips and gestured that we leave. I called back to the family, said our good-byes, then ambled out into the street, as Ramirez got on the radio and hailed the Hummer driver.

  “What do you think?” he asked as we started around the corner. “Waste of time?”

  “I don’t think so. He doesn’t like Zahed.”

  “Yeah, seems like there’s more to it.”

  “And maybe we can use that to our advantage.”

  Around eleven P.M. local time I got a satellite phone call from Lieutenant Colonel Gordon back at Fort Bragg. He’d just arrived in the office and was telling me that his morning coffee tasted bitter because I had yet to capture Zahed.

  Then, after he finished issuing a string of epithets regarding the call he’d just had with General Keating, he cleared his throat and said to me point-blank, “Is Captain Harruck going to be a problem?”

  “I don’t know. To be honest with you, Colonel, I think higher’s just throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks, and we’re all just part of the plan.”

  “Well, you listen to me, Mitchell, and you listen to me good. We both know this COIN mission is complete and utter nonsense. It’s politicians running the war. You don’t secure the population and let the enemy run wild. We ain’t playing defense here! And we can’t have that. As far as I’m concerned, it is not a good day to be a Taliban leader in the Zhari district. Do you read me?”

  “Loud and clear, sir.”

  “New Cross-Coms are en route. Meanwhile, you do what you need to do. Next week at this time I’d like to be powwowing with the fat man.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “And Mitchell?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, sir. I’m fine. Talk to you soon.”

  I’d thought he’d heard me cracking under the pressure, but later on I realized that my heart was just darkening, and the old man could sense that from a half a world away.

  At about three A.M. local time, in the wee hours, we left the base in a Hummer driven by Treehorn. Harruck made no attempts to stop us. I’d assumed he’d been told by Keating that he should not interfere with my mission.

  Instead of driving out into the desert, toward the mountains, we headed off to the town, so that the Taliban now watching us from ridgelines and the desert would assume we were just another village patrol.

  Once in town, we went to the bazaar area, where several vendors had their old beater pickup trucks parked out behind their homes/stalls.

  We split into two teams and entered the homes behind the stalls, accosting the shop owners and demanding their keys at gunpoint.

  The old merchants saw only a band of masked wraiths with deep, angry voices.

  Within five minutes we had two pickup trucks on the road, and the old men who could blow the alarm were gagged and tied. They might guess we were Americans, but we spoke only in Pashto and were dressed like the Taliban themselves.

  I sent Jenkins back with the Hummer, and though he was bummed to remain in the rear, I told him I needed a good pair of eyes on the base… just in case.

  We drove out to the main bridge over the Arghandab River, dropped off Brown and Smith, then crossed the bridge, heading along the mountain road that wound its way up and back down into the valley where Sangsar lay in the cool moonlight. The town reminded me of the little villages my grandfather would build for his train sets. He had a two-car garage filled with locomotives and cars and towns and enough accessories to earn him a spot on the local news. When he passed, my father sold it all on eBay and made a lot of money.

  The Taliban sentries watching us through their binoculars probably assu
med we were opium smugglers or carrying out some other such transport mission for Zahed. In fact, we were not stopped and reached the top of the mountain, where the dirt road broadened enough for us to pull over, park the vehicles, and move in closer on foot.

  We’d taken such great care to slip into Sangsar during our first raid attempt that I’d felt certain no Taliban had seen us, but according to Shilmani, they had. Interesting that Zahed did not tip off his guards at the compound and allowed them to be ambushed. That was decidedly clever of him.

  However, this time our plan was more bold. Be seen. Be mistaken. And be deadly.

  Hume had rigged up a temporary remote for the Cypher drone, and though there was no screen from which we could view the drone’s data, he could fly it like a remote-controlled UFO, keeping a visual on it with his night-vision goggles.

  We were bass fishing for Taliban, and the drone was our red rubber worm.

  Within five minutes we’d taken up perches along the heavy rocks jutting from the mountainside and had, yet again, an unobstructed and encompassing view of the valley and all of Sangsar.

  The drone whirred away, and I lay there on my belly, just watching it and thinking about Harruck and Shilmani and that old man Kundi and remembering that every one of us had his own agenda, every one of us was stubborn, and every one of us would fight till the end.

  “Sir,” whispered Treehorn, who was at my left shoulder. “Movement in the rocks behind us, six o’clock.”

  SEVEN

  When I was a kid, D.C.’s Sgt. Rock and Marvel’s The ’Nam were among my favorite comics. I didn’t realize it then, but what drew me to those stories was the simplicity of the plots. The good guys and bad guys were clearly defined, and you understood every character’s desire and related with that desire. Kill bad guys. Save everyone. Win the war. For America! Be proud! Come home and get a medal, be worshipped as a hero, live happily ever after. As a kid, you’re looking for admiration and acceptance, and being a superhero soldier always sounded pretty damned good to me.