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 gov ernor. 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 Cap- tain 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 Tal iban 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 pres sure, but later on I realized that my heart was just dark ening, 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 Tal iban 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 sev eral 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 bin oculars probably assumed 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. Interest ing that Zahed did not tip off his guards at the com pound 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 Shil mani 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 shoul der. “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 simplic ity 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 every one. 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.
However, that would never happen if I stayed in Ohio. There weren’t too many opportunities for me growing up in Youngstown. Sure, I could’ve gone to work in the
General Motors assembly plant in Lordstown like my father had, but I doubt I would’ve matched his thirty years. Boredom or the tanking economy would’ve finished me. My brother Nicolas got out himself and became an engineering professor down in Florida, while Tommy owned and operated Mitchell’s Auto Body and Repair in Youngstown. He loved cars and had inherited that passion from our father. He’d had no desire to ever leave home and had tried to persuade me to stay and run the shop with him. Because Dad was an avid woodworker, Tommy even tried to persuade me to open a custom furniture shop and work with Dad, but that didn’t sound very glamorous to an eighteen-year-old. Jennifer, the baby of our family, married a wealthy software designer, and she lived with him and their daughter in Northern California.
So I’d gone off to see the world and serve my coun try. Because that sounded so hokey, I told everyone I was joining the Army to pay for my college education— which Dad resented because it made us sound poor.
I can’t lie, though. During my service I’ve seen the good, the bad, and the ugly—and it’s easy to become disenchanted. When I’d joined, I was just as naïve as the next guy, but for many years I clung to my beliefs and positive attitude, and I let my passion become infectious. But I think after 9/11, when the GWOT (global war on terrorism) got into full swing, my veneer grew a bit worn. It didn’t happen overnight, but every mission seemed to sap me just a little more. I grew older, my body became more worn, and my spirit seemed harder
to kindle.
When I raised my right hand and they swore me in, I never thought I’d have to wrap my head around no-win situations in which everyone I dealt with was a liar, in which my own institution was undermining my ability to get the job done, and in which my own friends had drawn lines in the sand based on philosophical differences.
Before my mother had died from cancer, she’d held my hand and told me to make the best of my life.
I figured she was rolling over in her grave when they started calling me a murderer . . .
Treehorn had a good ear and better eyes, and I glanced back to where he’d spotted the movement along the mountainside. My night-vision goggles revealed two Taliban fighters peering out from behind a pair of rocks, but before I could get on the radio and issue an order, Beasley appeared from behind a few rocks and slipped down toward the Taliban thugs. As they turned back, he took one out with his Nightwing black tungsten blade while Nolan, who dropped down at Beasley’s side, broke the neck of the other fighter.
Beasley called me and said, “Looks like only two up here, boss. Clear now.”
I called up Ramirez, who was packing our portable, ultrawide-band radar unit that could detect ground movement up to several hundred meters away. I’d con sidered leaving the device behind in case we got zapped again, but now I was glad we had it. I hadn’t expected sentries this far up into the mountains. Within a minute Ramirez would be scanning the outskirts of the town.
Off to the northeast, along a section of wall that was beginning to crumble, a pair of jingle trucks were parked abreast. The trucks were colorfully painted and adorned with pieces of rugs, festooned with chimes, and fitted with all sorts of other dangling jewels that created quite a racket as they traveled down the potholed roads between villages. These trucks had become famous and then infamous among American soldiers. They were typically used by locals to transport goods, but in more recent years they had become instruments to smuggle drugs and weapons across the borders with Iran and Pakistan. Thugs would hide weapons within stacks of firewood or piles of rugs, and young infantrymen would have to search the loads while wizened old men glared on, palms raised as they were held at gunpoint. I must’ve seen a hundred roadside incidents of search and seizure during my time in country.
That Zahed had several of these trucks in the village was unsurprising. That there was a man posted in the back of one truck and pointing his rifle up at us gave me pause.
Treehorn already had him spotted with his scope, and he’d attached the gun’s big silencer, so he could do the job in relative quiet.
I told him to wait while I scanned for more targets. “Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez,” came the voice in my
headset.
“What do you got?”
“Just the one guy in the jingle truck so far. The
compound we hit looks empty. Picking up movement from all the farm animals in the pens. Nothing else, over.” “Roger that. Hume, talk to me about the drone.”
“Nothing. Just flying around. If they’re here, they’re not taking the bait. Not yet, anyway.”
“All right, just keep flying over the town. Maybe get in close to the mosque.”
“I see it. I’ll get near the dome and towers.” “Ghost Lead, this is Treehorn, I have my target.”
“I know you do. Hang tight for now. Still want to see if they take the bait, over.”
“Roger that. Say the word.”
I continued scanning the village, which stretched out for about a quarter kilometer, swelling to the south with dozens more brick homes that had open windows and rickety wooden ladders leading up to storage areas on the roofs. Most windows were dark, with only a faint flickering here and there from either candles or perhaps kerosene or gas lanterns. I imagined that somewhere down there, sprawled across a bed whose legs were buck ling under his girth, was the fat man who wielded all the power in this region.
“Still no takers on the drone,” reported Hume.
I listened to the wind. Glanced around once more. Scanned. Saw the shooter still sitting there in the truck. Time to move in.
“Treehorn, clear to fire,” I said.
“Clear to fire, roger that, stand by . . .”
I held my breath, anticipated the faint click and pop, no louder than the sound of a BB gun, and watched through the binoculars as the gunman in the jingle truck slumped.
“Good hit, target down,” reported Treehorn. “Ghost Team, this is Ghost Lead. Advance to the
wall. Hume, get that drone in deeper, and feel ’em out. Two teams. Alpha right, Bravo left. Move out!”
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was an adrenaline junkie and that this part of the job quickened my pulse and was entirely addictive. You stayed up nights think ing about moments like this. And there was no better ego-stroking in the world than to play God, to decide who lives and who dies. There was nothing better than the hunting of men, Ernest Hemingway had once said, and the old man was right.
But I always stressed to my people that they had to live with their decisions, a simple fact that would become terribly ironic for me.
“Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez. Radar’s picking up something big behind us.”
“Ghost Lead, this is Brown. Paul and I are all set here, but FYI, two Blackhawks inbound, your position, over.”
Even as he finished his report, the telltale whomping began to echo off the mountains, like an arena full of people clapping off the beat, and abruptly the two heli copters appeared, both switching on searchlights that panned across the desert floor like pearlescent lasers.
“Ghost Team, take cover now!” I cried, dodging across the sand toward the jingle trucks.
Ramirez, Jenkins, and Hume rushed up behind me,
while Nolan, Beasley, and Treehorn darted for a large section of fallen wall, the crumbling bricks forming a U-shaped bunker to shield them.