Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Tom Clancy’s

®

COMBAT OPS

WRIT TEN BY

D A V I D M I C H A E L S

THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF

TOM CLANCY

THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

A new generation—Jack Ryan, Jr.—takes over in Tom Clancy’s

extraordinary, and extraordinarily prescient, novel.

“INCREDIBLY ADDICTIVE.”

—Daily Mail(London)

RED RABBIT

Tom Clancy returns to Jack Ryan’s early days—

in an engrossing novel of global political drama . . .

“A WILD, SATISFYING RIDE.” —New York Daily News

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

A clash of world powers. President Jack Ryan’s trial by fire.

“HEART-STOPPING ACTION . . . CLANCY STILL

REIGNS.”

—The Washington Post

RAINBOW SIX

John Clark is used to doing the CIA’s dirty work.

Now he’s taking on the world . . .

“ACTION-PACKED.”

—The New York Times Book Review

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

A devastating terrorist act leaves Jack Ryan

as President of the United States . . .

“UNDOUBTEDLY CLANCY’S BEST YET.”

—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

continued . . .

DEBT OF HONOR

It begins with the murder of an American woman

in the backstreets of Tokyo. It ends in war . . .

“A SHOCKER.”

—Entertainment Weekly

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

The smash bestseller that launched Clancy’s career—

the incredible search for a Soviet defector

and the nuclear submarine he commands . . .

“BREATHLESSLY EXCITING.”

—The Washington Post

RED STORM RISING

The ultimate scenario for World War III—

the final battle for global control . . .

“ THE ULTIMATE WAR GAME . . . BRILLIANT.”

—Newsweek

PATRIOT GAMES

CIA analyst Jack Ryan stops an assassination—

and incurs the wrath of Irish terrorists . . .

“A HIGH PITCH OF EXCITEMENT.”

—The Wal Street Journal

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

The superpowers race for the ultimate Star Wars

missile defense system . . .

“ CARDINALEXCITES, ILLUMINATES . . . A REAL

PAGE-TURNER.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

The killing of three U.S. officials in Colombia ignites the

American government’s explosive, and top secret, response . . .

“A CR ACKLING GOOD YARN.” —The Washington Post

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

The disappearance of an Israeli nuclear weapon threatens the

balance of power in the Middle East—and around the world . . .

“CLANCY AT HIS BEST . . . NOT TO BE MISSED.”

—The Dallas Morning News

WITHOUT REMORSE

His code name is Mr. Clark. And his work for the CIA

is brilliant, cold-blooded, and efficient . . . but who is he really?

“HIGHLY ENTERTAINING.” —The Wall Street Journal

Novels by Tom Clancy

THE HUNT FOR R ED OCTOBER

R ED STOR M R ISING

PATR IOT GAMES

THE CAR DINAL OF THE K R EMLIN

CLEAR AND PR ESENT DANGER

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

WITHOUT R EMORSE

DEBT OF HONOR

EXECUTIVE OR DERS

R AINBOW SIX

THE BEAR AND THE DR AGON

R ED R ABBIT

THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

DEAD OR ALIVE

(written with Grant Blackwood)

SSN: STR ATEGIES OF SUBMAR INE WAR FAR E

Nonfiction

SUBMAR INE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP

AR MOR ED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AR MOR ED CAVALRY R EGIMENT

FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING

MAR INE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MAR INE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT

AIR BOR NE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR BOR NE TASK FORCE

CAR R IER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCR AFT CAR R IER

SPECIAL FORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. AR MY SPECIAL FORCES

INTO THE STOR M: A STUDY IN COMMAND

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret., and Tony Koltz)

EVERY MAN A TIGER

(written with General Chuck Horner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

SHADOW WAR R IORS: INSIDE THE SPECIAL FORCES

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

BATTLE R EADY

(written with General Tony Zinni, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

TOM CLANCY’S HAWX

TOM CLANCY’S GHOST R ECON

GHOST R ECON

COMBAT OPS

TOM CLANCY’S ENDWAR

ENDWAR

THE HUNTED

TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL

SPLINTER CELL

FALLOUT

OPER ATION BAR R ACUDA

CONVICTION

CHECK MATE

ENDGAME

Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE

OP-CENTER

NET FORCE

MIR ROR IMAGE

HIDDEN AGENDAS

GAMES OF STATE

NIGHT MOVES

ACTS OF WAR

BR EAK ING POINT

BALANCE OF POWER

POINT OF IMPACT

STATE OF SIEGE

CYBER NATION

DIVIDE AND CONQUER

STATE OF WAR

LINE OF CONTROL

CHANGING OF THE GUAR D

MISSION OF HONOR

SPR INGBOAR D

SEA OF FIR E

THE ARCHIMEDES EFFECT

CALL TO TR EASON

WAR OF EAGLES

Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS

POLITIK A

COLD WAR

RUTHLESS.COM

CUTTING EDGE

SHADOW WATCH

ZERO HOUR

BIO-STRIKE

WILD CARD

Tom Clancy’s

®

COMBAT OPS

WRIT TEN BY

D A V I D M I C H A E L S

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

TOM CLANCY’S GHOST RECON®: COMBAT OPS

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Ubisoft Entertainment S.A.

Copyright © 2011 by Ubisoft Entertainment S.A. All rights reserved. Tom Clancy, Ghost Recon, the

Soldier Icon, Ubisoft, and the Ubisoft logo are trademarks of Ubisoft Entertainment in the U.S.

and in other countries.

Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 1-101-46950-1

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank my editor, Mr. Tom Colgan, for this great

opportunity.

Mr. Tom Clancy and all of the folks at Ubisoft who cre-

ated the Ghost Recon game certainly deserve my gratitude,

as well as the following individuals:

Mr. Sam Strachman of Longtail Studios helped me

develop this story from the ground up. His contributions

were great, and his willingness to take risks with the story

and characters was deeply appreciated.

Mr. James Ide served as my military researcher and story

expert. He reviewed every page, relying on his extensive

military background to provide criticism, advice, and sug-

gestions that greatly improved the manuscript.

Finally, Nancy, Lauren, and Kendall Telep offered their

eternal patience and support. Every manuscript is a battle,

and I’m fortunate to have these ladies in my platoon.

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,

Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.

– Titus Andronicus, Act II, sc. 3, l. 38

The sword is ever suspended.

—Voltaire

PROLOGUE

“You think I’m guilty?” I ask her.

She smirks. “My opinion doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“How do you expect me to formulate an opinion

when I don’t know your story?”

I sigh through a curse.

My name is Captain Scott Mitchell, United States

Army. I’m a member of a Special Forces group called the

Ghosts. When I’m on the job, out on a mission, I don’t

exist. I’d thought we operated with impunity.

But when I was ordered back home and confined to

quarters, I realized everything had changed. The same

organization that helped conceal my operations and

erase all evidence of the people I’d killed had been forced

16

GH OS T RE C O N

to make an example of me. They had changed. I had

changed. And we could never go back.

People don’t have to talk. They can invite you to kiss

them . . . or even kill them with their eyes. Talk is cheap,

but I’ve crawled through enough rat holes to learn that

for some, life is even cheaper.

I had permission. I did what I had to do. They say I

had a choice, but I didn’t. I have never done anything

more difficult in my life.

And now they want me to pay for my sins.

I haven’t slept in two days. The growing humidity

here at Fort Bragg makes it harder to breathe, and when

I go to the window and run a finger across the glass, it

comes up sweaty. The humidity is all I have to keep me

company.

My father taught me that it’s easier to cut wood with

the grain rather than against it, and I carried that simple

metaphor into the Army. I promised myself to remain

apolitical, do the missions, go with the grain, not because

I was trying to cop out but because I just wanted to be a

great soldier. I’d already seen what torn loyalties and jeal-

ousy could do to the warrior spirit, and I wanted to pro-

tect myself against that.

But for what? My life is now a blade caught in a heavy

knot, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared out of my

mind. I’m fourteen again, and Dad’s telling me that

Mom just died, and I’m worried about how we’ll get

along when she did so much—when she was the person

who held our family together. When I think about going

CO MB AT O P S

3

to prison, I lose my breath. It’s a panic attack, and all I

can do is hide behind sarcasm and belligerence.

Blaisdell, who’s shaking her head at me now, showed

up three hours late with some bullshit excuse about a

deposition running long, and I told her to have a seat at

my little kitchen table so we can talk about saving my

life. She gave me a look. She’s a major with the JAG

corps, probably about my age, thirty-six or so, with rect-

angular glasses that suggest bitch rather than scholar. I

hate her.

Now she lifts her chin and grimaces. “Is that you?”

“What do you mean?”

“That smell . . .”

I scratch at my beard, rake fingers through my crew

cut. All right, I hadn’t bathed in a couple of days, either,

and I’d been growing the beard for the past month.

“You want to wait while I take a shower?”

“Look, Captain, I’m doing this as a favor to Brown’s

sister, but you can hire your own attorney.”

I shake my head. “Before I shipped back home,

Brown told me about some of the other cases you did,

maybe a little similar to mine.”

She sighs deeply. “Not similar. Not as many witnesses.

Some reasonable doubt—the chance that maybe it was

just an accident. Everything I’ve read in your case says

this was hardly an accident.”

“No, it certainly wasn’t.”

“And you understand that you could lose everything

and spend the rest of your life in Leavenworth?”

4

GH OS T RE C O N

I stare back at her, unflinching. “You want a drink? I

mean as in alcohol . . .”

“No. And you shouldn’t have one, either. Because if

you want me to help you, I need to know everything.

The narrative they gave me is their point of view. I need

yours.”

“You don’t even know what unit I work for. They

won’t tell you. They just say D Company, First Battalion,

Fifth Special Forces Group. You ever hear of the Ghosts?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. They want plausible deniability.

Well, they got it, all right, and now I’m the fall guy.”

“You’re not the fall guy. From what I read, no one

forced you to do anything.”

I lower my voice. “I went to a briefing. They showed

me a PowerPoint slide of the situation over there. It was

supposed to illustrate the complexity of our mission.

Somebody said the graph looked like a bowl of spaghetti,

and guys were laughing. But you know what I was

thinking? Nothing. I didn’t care.”

“Why’s that?”

“They gave me a mission, and I tried to put on the

blinders. I went in, and I got the job done. Usually I

never give a crap about the politics. I don’t feed the

machine. I am the machine. But this . . . this wasn’t a

mission. This isn’t a war. It’s an illusion of understand-

ing and control. They think they can color-code it, but

they have no idea what’s going on out there. You need to

stand in the dirt, look around, and realize that it’s

just . . . I don’t even know what the hell it is . . .”

CO MB AT O P S

5

She purses her lips. And now she’s looking at me like

I’m a stereotypical burned-out warrior with a new drink-

ing problem and personal hygiene challenges. Screw her.

“You don’t care what I think, do you?” I ask.

“I’m here to defend you.”

I take a deep breath. “That sounds like an inconve-

nience.”

“Captain, I know where this is coming from, and I’ve

seen it before. You’re angry and upset, but you’d best

not forget that I’m all you’ve got right now.”

“I’ll ask you again, do you think I’m guilty?”

She dismisses my question with a wave. “Start at the

beginning, and I need to record you.” She reaches into

her fancy leather tote bag and produces a small tablet

computer with attached camera that she places on the

table. The camera automatically pivots toward me.

I make a face at the lens, then rise and head toward

the kitchen counter, where my bottle of cheap scotch

awaits. I pour myself a glass and return to the table.

She’s scowling at me and checks her smartphone.

“Oh, I’m sorry if you don’t have the time for this,” I

say, then sip my drink.

“Captain . . .”

“You got any kids?”

She rolls her eyes. “We’re not here to talk about me.”

“I’m just asking you a question.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

I grin slightly. “How many?”

“I have two daughters.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are.”

6

GH OS T RE C O N

“Can we get on with this now? I assume you know

about attorney-client privilege? Anything you share

about the mission will remain classified, compartmen-

talized, and confidential, of course.”

I finish my scotch, exhale through the burn, then

narrow my gaze. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I am not

a murderer.”

ONE

My target’s name was Mullah Mohammed Zahed, the

Taliban commander in the Zhari district just outside

the city of Kandahar in southern Afghanistan. His home-

town, Sangsar, was located in a rural area along the

Arghandab River. The Russians call that place “the heart

of darkness.”

Zhari and its small towns were and still are a crucial

gateway region to Kandahar and also a staging area for

Taliban activity. Commanders often told us that if we

could take Zhari, we’d control Kandahar. I’ve been in

the military long enough to understand the disparity

between wishful thinking and the will of a dedicated

and ruthless insurgency.

But again, we didn’t care about the politics or the

8

GH OS T RE C O N

past or even superstitious Russians. I took my eight-man

team to “the ’Stan,” as we call it, and invested in two

days of recon using our airborne drones complemented

by a local guy feeding us intel from a handful of his

eight thousand neighbors. We picked up enough to jus-

tify a raid on a mud-brick compound we believed was

Zahed’s command post.

“Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez. Jenkins and I are in

position, over.”

“Roger that, buddy,” I responded. “Just hold till the

others check in.”

I had positioned myself in the foothills, shielded by an

outcropping so I could survey the maze of dust-caked

structures through my Cross-Com. The combination

monocle-earpiece fed me data from my teammates as

well as from the drone and the satellite uplinks. The tar-

geting computer could identify friend or foe on the bat-

tlefield, and at that moment, red outlines were appearing

all over the grid like taillights in a traffic jam.

Prior to our operation, General Keating, commander

of United States Special Operations Command (USSO-

COM) in Tampa, Florida—the big kahuna for grunts like

me—had been talking a lot about COIN, or counterin-

surgency operations. Keating had expressed his concern

that Special Forces in the area might’ve already

exhausted their usefulness because the Army’s new phi-

losophy was to protect the people and provide them

with security and government services rather than ven-

turing out to hunt down and eradicate the enemy. We

were to win over the hearts and minds of the locals by

CO MB AT O P S

9

improving their living conditions. Once we made them

our allies, we could enlist their help in gathering human

intelligence on our targets. In many cases, intel from

those locals made all the difference.

Nevertheless, I remember Lieutenant Colonel Gor-

don, our Ghost Commander, having several four-letter

words to describe how effective that campaign would

be. As a Special Forces combatant, he believed, like I

once did, that you needed to spend most of your time

teaching the people how to fight so that after we left

they could defend themselves. However, if their enemies

were too great or too overwhelming, then we should go

in there like surgeons and cut out the cancer.

Zahed, our commanders believed, was the cancer.

What they hadn’t realized was how far the disease had

spread.

“Ghost Lead, this is Treehorn. In position, over.”

Doug Treehorn was the sniper I’d brought along,

much to the chagrin of Alicia Diaz, my regular operator.

Alicia had done tours in Afghanistan before, and I’d

had no qualms about taking her along, despite the chal-

lenges of being female in a nation where women were

treated . . . let’s just say differently. That she had taken a

fall and broken her ankle two weeks before being

shipped out ruined my initial game plan.

Treehorn was good, but he was no Diaz.

The others reported in. We had the complex cordoned

off, and with Less Than Lethal (LTL) rubber rounds to

stun guards before we gassed them into unconscious-

ness, the plan was to neutralize Zahed’s force, then slip

10

GH OS T RE C O N

soundlessly inside the compound and capture the man

himself. No blood spilled. Special Forces surgery. I mean,

could we make it any more politically correct? We were

going in there to take out a man whose soldiers routinely

blew themselves up at the local bazaars, but we were try-

ing our best not to hurt anyone.

Well, I’d told my guys that if push came to shove, we’d

go live. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to that, if only to

meet the challenge. As I’d told the others before ascend-

ing the mountains, “This is not rocket science. And it

ain’t over till the fat man sings.” Zahed was pushing three

hundred pounds, according to intelligence photos and

video, and we planned to make him sing all about Taliban

operations in the region, including the smuggling of

IEDs manufactured in Iraq and rumors about Chinese

and North Korean electronic shipments into the country.

I know I’m making Zahed sound like a real scumbag,

but at that time, things seemed pretty clear. But I hadn’t

been there long enough, and I never thought for one

second that we Ghosts and the rest of our military might

be causing more damage than anyone else. We were

there to help.

“All right, Ghosts, let’s move out.”

I issued a voice command so that my computer would

patch me into the Cross-Com cameras of the others, and

I watched as the guards fell like puppets. Thump. Down.

And then my men, who wore masks themselves, hit the

bad guys with quick shots from a new CS gas gun we

were fielding. The gun issued a silent burst into an ene-

my’s face.

CO MB AT O P S

11

Ramirez crouched before the lock on the front gate

while I rushed down from my position and joined him.

It was a cool desert night. A couple of dogs barked in

the distance. Laundry flapped like sails on long lines

that spanned several nearby buildings. The faint scent of

lamb that had been roasted on open fires was getting

swallowed in the stench of the CS gas. I checked my

heads-up display: two twenty A.M. local time. You always

hit them in the middle of the night while they’re sleep-

ing. Again, not rocket science.

Ramirez, our expert cat burglar, picked the lock with

his tool kit and lifted his thumb in victory. I shifted into

a courtyard as Treehorn whispered in my earpiece: “Two

tangos. One to your right, up near that far building, the

other to your left.”

“See them,” I said, the Cross-Com flashing with more

signature red outlines that zoomed in on each guard.

Like most Taliban, they wore long cotton shirts draped

over their trousers and held to their waists with wide

sashes. The requisite beards and turbans made it harder

to distinguish among them, but they all had one thing in

common: They wanted to kill you.

I lifted my rifle, about to stun the guy on the right,

who stood near a doorway, his head hanging as though

he were drifting off.

Ramirez had the guy on the left, the taller one.

Static filled my earpiece and the images being sent via

laser from the monocle into my eye vanished.

Just like that.

The lack of data felt like a heart attack. I’d grown so

12

GH OS T RE C O N

used to the Cross-Com that it had become another

appendage, one abruptly hacked off.

My first thought: EMP? Pulse wave? We’d lost com-

munications, targeting, everything. And I never for one

second thought the Taliban could be responsible for

that.

Ramirez shifted over to me as he kept tight to a side

wall beside the courtyard. “What the hell?” he asked,

voice muffled by his mask.

Without warning, two shots boomed from the dis-

tance: Treehorn. He’d taken out both guards with live

fire. I wanted to scream at him, but it was too late.

“We’re clear!” I shouted to Ramirez. “Let’s go.”

I’d barely gotten the words out of my mouth when

salvos of gunfire resounded all over the compound. I

listened for the telltale booming of my team’s rifles

echoed by the popcorn crackle of the Taliban’s AK-47s.

Everyone had gone weapons free, live fire.

At the same time, the whir of the Cypher drone’s

engines resounded behind me, but then the drone banked

drunkenly and dove toward the courtyard, crashing into

the dirt with a heavy thud followed by the buzz of short-

circuiting instruments.

The enemy was using electronic countermeasures?

Theyhad taken out our Cross-Coms and drone?

Impossible.

We were in rural Afghanistan, where electricity and

running water were considered high-tech.

Ramirez and I ripped off our masks and switched

magazines to live ammo. We reached the main door of

CO MB AT O P S

13

the building, wrenched it open, and shifted inside, where,

in flickering candlelight, two robed Taliban turned a cor-

ner and spotted us.

One hollered.

I dropped him with a sudden burst and Ramirez

caught the second one, who was turning back.

I don’t want to glamorize their deaths or emphasize

our bravery and/or marksmanship. I emphasize that we

had made the concerted effort to minimize casualties and

initially had the advantage of our information systems.

But when we lost comm and satellite, all bets were off. I’d

given my men permission to make the call, given their

circumstances. Treehorn was, admittedly, a bit prema-

ture, but I’m still not sure what would’ve happened if

he’d held back fire. I’d told all of them they could go live

but needed to be sure about it. I’d take the heat for their

actions. The rules of engagement were as thick as a phone

book and written by lawyers whose combat experience

extended no further than fighting with line cutters at the

local Starbucks.

Ramirez led us down a long, narrow hallway filled

with dust motes and illuminated by sconces supporting

thick candles. Our boots scraped along the dirt floor as

we turned a corner and found a sleeping quarters with

empty beds and ornate rugs splayed across the floor. I

placed my hand on one mattress: still warm. On a nearby

table sat a half dozen bricks of opium. No time to con-

fiscate them now. We shifted on, out into the hall, and

toward the next room.

More gunfire thundered outside, quickening my pulse.

14

GH OS T RE C O N

I knew if we didn’t clear the compound within the next

minute or so, Zahed would be long gone. These guys

always had their escape routes planned, and it wouldn’t

have surprised me if he’d constructed several tunnel exits,

though our intel did not reveal any.

The next two rooms were more sleeping quarters,

empty, and then we reached another small courtyard

and rushed into the next building, where in the entrance

a woman with a shawl draped over her head saw us and

began crying and waving her hands. I lifted my rifle to

show her we wouldn’t shoot, but that sent her toward

me, arms up, fingers tensing as she went for my neck.

Ramirez shoved her hard against the wall and we

rushed on by, emerging into another room where at least

a dozen more women were huddled in a corner, crying

and yelling at us as they clutched their small children.

Lifting his voice, Ramirez, whose Pashto was a lot

better than mine, told them it was okay and we were

looking for Zahed. Did they know where he was?

The women frowned and shook their heads.

No, we didn’t expect to find women and children in

the compound. Our intel indicated Zahed had estab-

lished a command center occupied by his troops.

Our investigation of the next two rooms provided

more clues. They were both empty, but you could see

that equipment had been there and dragged out: tables

and some abandoned wires along with a gas generator

that had scorch marks along its sides.

“He got tipped off,” said Ramirez. “He moved the

CO MB AT O P S

15

women and children in here, thinking maybe we’d blow

the place and kill them. Bad press for us.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said in disgust.

We rushed outside, where we met up with two more

of my guys, Smith and Nolan.

Smith, the avid hunter from North Carolina, wore

his mask pushed atop his bald head and gasped as he

spoke. “Cleared the building back there. Nothing. What

the hell happened to our Cross-Coms?”

“I don’t know. Get the others. Get to the rally point.

Now!” I ordered.

They took off, and Ramirez looked to me: We had

one more building on the west side to clear. I had the

map of the compound committed to memory, and we’d

made several guesses about this structure: food storage

or maybe a weapons cache, based on what we’d seen

being moved in and out of there.

The door was locked. Ramirez opted for his faster

boot. In we went.

No surprise: two big empty rooms whose dirt floors

showed outlines where cases had been. Probably a large

weapons cache temporarily stored there and as quickly

moved out.

I was reminded of an earlier operation up in Shah

E-Pari, a village in the northeastern mountains. We’d

been trying to disrupt the rat lines in and out of Paki-

stan. Insurgents were using the tribal lands in Waziristan

and other places to recruit and train their members, then

send them across the border on missions in Afghanistan.

16

GH OS T RE C O N

A buddy of mine, Rutang, had been captured up there,

but we got him out. Anyway, the Taliban terrorized

members of small villages like Shah E-Pari. The men

would be forced to join them or suffer the consequences.

So we went up there, armed and trained the guys, and

thought it was all working out. The villagers began win-

ning battles with the Taliban and confiscating and stock-

piling their weapons. Then we got the order to go in and

seize those weapons, lest they fall back into the enemy’s

hands. Try having that conversation with the village

elder: Sorry, we taught you to protect yourselves, and you

can have some guns . . . but not too many.Ironically, what

we confiscated was mostly ancient crap sold by us to the

Mujahadeen during the Russian invasion. The guns we

provided to help fight the Russians were now being used

against us. That fact, that irony, barely garnered a reac-

tion anymore. And by the way, that entire village fell

back into the hands of the Taliban, who, the villagers said,

were giving them more living assistance than either the

government or our military.

All of which is to say that some if not all of the weap-

ons Zahed was moving around had once belonged to

the United States.

The second room we entered gave us pause. In fact,

Ramirez looked back at me for permission to enter, as

though neither of us should go on.

I took one look, closed my eyes, and gritted my teeth.

There was a Marine I knew who’d spent a long time

up in the mountains laser-designating targets for the

bombers. He’d described the locals as savages and

CO MB AT O P S

17

tenth-century barbarians who forced their five-year-old

sons into human cockfights, who clawed around all day

like gorillas with AK-47s. He’d taken great exception to

the media referring to the enemy as “smart,” when in his

opinion the enemy was cunning and crafty, but hardly

smart. And when confronted directly they were, plain

and simple, cowards who’d step on the necks of their fel-

low soldiers if that promised escape.

Although I tended to disagree with some of his gen-

eralizations because I’d spent time in both the cities and

rural areas and had encountered sophisticated and sim-

ple people, I was haunted by his accusations that the

Taliban had exploited their children—

And all the more so because of what lay before us in

that dimly lit room.

T WO

Neither Ramirez nor I had any children, so there wasn’t

that moment when we projected our own kids into the

situation before us.

But I’m certain that what we felt was equally shock-

ing and painful.

“Oh my God,” Ramirez said with a gasp.

Before we could take another step, footfalls echoed

behind us, and a male voice came in a stage whisper,

though I couldn’t discern the exact words.

I turned, crouched, lifted my rifle, and came face to

face with a Taliban soldier, his AK swinging into the

room. My rounds drove him back into the opposite wall,

where he shrank, leaving a blood trail on the wall above

him. Oddly, he was still alive as he tipped onto one side