Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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“Why’d you run?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smirked. “What’re youdoing here?”

I looked at Ramirez. “Cut him loose and help him

get outside, then cuff him again.”

“Hey, spooky,” I said, breathing in the guy’s ear. “If

you resist, we monkeys will do some more surgery on

your face. Got it?”

He turned back and glared.

Ramirez shoved him away. I regarded Brown. “You

ready to blow this mother?”

He grinned. “I think this mother is ready to be blown.”

“Indeed.”

The glowing fuse was, for just a few seconds, hypnotic,

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237

holding me there, a deer in the headlights. I thought back

to those moments when I was the last kid on the play-

ground, swinging as high as I could, hitting that place

in the sky between pure joy and pure terror. The teacher

would be shouting my name and I’d swing just a few

more seconds, flirting with the combined danger of fall-

ing off and getting in trouble.

With a slight hiss and even brighter glow, the fuse

burned down even more. I wondered, how long could

we remain in the tunnel without blowing ourselves up?

“Okay, boss, let’s go!” cried Brown.

I blinked hard and looked at him.

“Scott, you okay?”

I stared through him. Then . . . “Yeah, yeah, come

on, let’s go!”

Brown and I had just cleared the other side of the pas-

sage when the explosion reverberated through the

ground like a freight train beneath our boots.

Treehorn was still near the tunnel’s edge, the stars

beyond him. He was crouched down, his rifle raised high.

“Still out there,” he said. “Just waiting to take some pot-

shots at us.”

“We need to get those Bradley gunners to help sup-

press that fire so we can make a break,” I said.

“How?” asked Treehorn. “No comm.”

“What’re you talking about?” I said. “We’re the

Ghosts. If we were slaves to technology we’d never get

anything done. Watch this, buddy . . .”

238 GH OS T RE CON

I fished out my penlight and began flashing SOS.

“Are you serious?” he asked me.

“As a heart attack, bro.”

Whether the Taliban to our flank and above us could

see the tiny light, I wasn’t sure, but I continued for a full

minute, then turned back to the guys.

And then it came: a flashing from one of the Bradleys.

“What’re they saying?” asked Treehorn.

“I have no clue. I don’t remember my Morse code.

But we are good to go. So listen up. I’m going to make

a break. I’ll draw the first few rounds. You guys hold off

a second or two, then get in behind me and we’ll take

the path to the east. Those Bradley gunners are ready,

I’m sure. Got it?”

“Why don’t we send out the spook to make a break?”

asked Brown. “He wants to run away so badly.”

“Hey, that’s a good idea,” I said. “You want to go,

spooky?”

“I like your plan better,” he said, licking the blood

from his lips.

“I figured you would. Hey, you don’t happen to know

a guy named Bronco?” I wriggled my brows.

“Yeah, he’s my daddy.”

“Well, let’s get you home to Papa.” With that, I

bolted from the cave, drawing immediate fire from the

Taliban behind our right flank. I had no intention of

getting hit and practically dove for the next section

of boulders that would screen me.

Once the Taliban had revealed themselves by firing at

me, the Bradley gunners drilled them with so many

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239

salvos and tracers that the valley looked like a space com-

bat scene from a science fiction movie, flickering red trac-

ers arcing between the valley and the mountainside.

Brown hollered to go. Treehorn, Ramirez, and the

prisoner came charging down toward my position.

Brown brought up the rear.

Once they linked up with me, I led them farther

down while the Bradley gunners continued to cover us.

We were clearly identified as friendlies now.

My mouth had gone dry by the time we reached the

rally point five minutes later, and I asked if anyone had a

canteen. Ramirez pushed one into my hands and said,

“Our boy’s got some explaining, eh?” He cocked a

thumb at the prisoner.

“Should be interesting . . .”

The Bradley gunners broke fire, and for a few long

moments, an utter silence fell over the mountains . . .

I glanced back at Hume, who was still sitting near

Nolan’s body. A sobering moment to be sure. If I stared

any longer, I feared my lungs would collapse.

Out of the silence, in an almost surreal cry, a lone

Taliban fighter cut loose a combination of curse words

he’d probably memorized from a hip-hop song. Once his

shout had echoed away, roars of laughter came from the

crews and dismounted troops around the Bradleys.

We’d never heard anything like that. The Taliban were

usually yelling how great God was—not swearing at us

in our own language. And I didn’t want them polluted

240 GH OS T RE CON

by America. I wanted them maniacal and religious and

steadfast. They seemed a more worthy adversary that

way. To believe they could be influenced by us was, in a

word, disconcerting.

Harruck had a small planning room, and we all filed in,

unfolded the metal chairs, and took seats around a rick-

ety card table. The spook’s face had been cleaned up by

one of Harruck’s medics, and he was demanding to

make a phone call.

“What do you think this is?” I asked him. “County

lockup?”

“We’ll get to your phone call,” Harruck told the

spook in a softer tone than I’d used. He faced me. “What

the hell is going on? Did you destroy the caves?”

“Most of them.”

“And him?”

I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly for effect.

“He’s CIA and posing as a Chinese opium buyer or

smuggler. His cover got blown. He ran into us before he

could skip town.”

“I demand to be released.”

“Those are good demands,” said Harruck. “We like

them. Just give me a couple of minutes.”

“No, right now.”

Harruck’s expression darkened. “What the hell are

you people doing on my mountain? Why is your back-

pack full of opium? What the hell is your mission here?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my face?”

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241

Harruck looked at me. “No, I’m not.”

The door suddenly opened and in walked Bronco,

escorted by one of Harruck’s lieutenants.

Bronco spoke rapidly. “Captain, we appreciate your

help and assistance here, and if there’s nothing else, I’d

like to escort my colleague off the base.”

Harruck eyed an empty chair. “Sit down, Bronco.”

“Whoa, take it easy there, Joe. You got no idea what

you’re dealing with here.”

I smote a fist on the card table, and it nearly col-

lapsed. “I just lost another man. And I’m not walking

out of here until you tell us what’s going on, what your

mission is here, and how it might affect what we’re try-

ing to do. As a matter of fact, XO, do us a favor and lock

that door. Armed guard outside. No one’s leaving until

you two spooks cough up the truth.”

“You can’t do that, buddy. We have the right to walk

out of here.”

“Yes, you do. But we’re way out here in the middle of

nowhere,” I said. “And we’re all going to get along

nicely, otherwise bad things will happen. Bad things.”

Bronco shifted up to me. “Don’t threaten me, soldier

boy. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you. And as far as

we’re concerned, you know all you need to.”

“Do you know the location of our captured soldier?”

Harruck asked the prisoner point-blank.

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

He thought a moment. “Mike.”

“Okay, Mikey,” I began. “You guys are working on

242 GH OS T RE CON

some Chinese connection with HER F guns and opium.

I get that. I’m just a jarhead, a monkey, but I get that.

Does your operation tie directly to Zahed? I just need a

yes or a no.”

Bronco, sighed, frowned, then sighed again. “Does

our operation link to Zahed? Well . . . not exactly.”

I closed my eyes and thought of murder.

T WENTY-THREE

The “opium palaces,” as they were called by the media,

were mansions constructed by rich drug lords on the out-

skirts of Kabul, and a few were beginning to sprout up in

Kandahar. One I’d visited in Kabul was on Street 6 in a

neighborhood called Sherpur. That place was a four-story

monstrosity with eleven bedrooms and had been con-

structed with the heavy use of pink granite and lime mar-

ble. The media referred to these mansions as “narcotecture”

in reference to Afghanistan’s corrupt government. There

were massage showers, a rooftop fountain, and even an

Asian-themed nightclub in the basement. The pig that

owned it was finally busted by the police, but his brother-

in-law was allowed to buy it from him and was renting it

out for twelve thousand bucks a week. What a bargain.

244 GH OS T RE CON

Ironically, it was that very house, a somewhat infa-

mous landmark now, that Bronco began to talk about.

“So basically what we’d like to do is move Zahed over

there and dismantle his operation here. He’s got a nice

smuggling operation going on with the Chinese and the

Pakistanis, so it’s been difficult.”

“We just want to kill or capture him. You want to

play Let’s Make a Deal,” I said. “No go. We’ve got a

ticking clock, and no time for this.”

“Besides,” added Harruck, “we’re not authorized at

this level to negotiate a joint operation with you. This

has all got to go through higher.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Joe,” said Bronco. “We

all want to get Zahed out of here. That’s the truth.”

“You want to put him up in a mansion and turn him

into an informant. He’s got one of our guys, and he’s

parading him around on TV, threatening to kill him,

making insane demands, and you want to do business

with this clown.”

“Exactly,” said Mike, gently touching his swollen

cheek. “He’s worth a lot more if we keep him operating.

Just not here . . .”

“So you guys supplied Zahed’s men with the HER F

guns because you knew Special Forces would be sent in

here.”

“Not true,” said Bronco. “Zahed’s got his own con-

nections, and he’s smart enough to know that you SF

guys are after him. He’s heard all about some of your

Star Trektoys, and he loves the idea that he can knock

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245

you out with a twenty-dollar gun made in a tent in some

shithole alley in China.”

“Oh, he hasn’t knocked us out. Not yet. I don’t need

toys to bring him down.”

“Okay, Mr. Bravado. You’re a badass, we get that,”

said Mike. “But when it comes to this place, that doesn’t

mean jack.”

I turned to Harruck. “I think at this point, we should

lock these guys up until we get higher down here and

figure out what the plan is. As far as I’m concerned,

they’ve both been interfering with our mission.”

“Aw, that’s bullshit, and you know it,” said Bronco.

“I took you to see the old men. I told you what you’re

up against here. And you still don’t even know the half

of it. The entire U.S. Army depends on the balance . . .

like I told you.”

“Yeah, you told me. Thanks.” I stood. “Do the right

thing, Simon. Hold these guys as long as you can. I’m

going to see Zahed in the morning.”

“You’re what?” asked Bronco.

I grinned darkly at both spooks. “Have a good

night.”

Nolan’s body would be flown out before noon. We’d

have the small prayer service, as we’d had for Beasley,

and we’d all look at each other and think, We’ve lost one

of our brothers and any one of us could be next. When I

got back to the billet, I chatted with the guys for a few

246 GH OS T RE CON

minutes, and then we all turned in, emotionally and

physically exhausted.

But I couldn’t sleep, so I just lay in my rack, staring at

the curved ceiling.

Brown was listening to his iPod, the tinny rhythm

buzzing from his earbuds. I’d figured him for a hip-hop

guy, but he loved his classic rock. I listened for a while,

letting the tunes carry me back to moments past: my

childhood, a stickball game in the middle of the street, a

bully who’d beaten me up at the bus stop, a meeting

with the principal when I cheated on a high school trig-

onometry exam and my father had come and persuaded

the principal not to punish me too greatly.

I started crying. My lips tightened, and the deep gri-

mace finally took hold. I fought to remain quiet. But I

couldn’t hold back the tears. My father was dead. I wasn’t

going to his funeral. And I’d just lost another teammate.

I began to tremble, then clutched the sheets and finally

took a deep breath. Then I began laughing at myself. I

was a deadly combatant, member of a most elite gun club

of highly trained killers. We were unfeeling instruments

of death, not whiners and bed wetters.

I lifted my head and stared through the darkness,

across the billet to Ramirez’s bunk.

He was sitting up, watching me.

Every time we attacked the Taliban, they would regroup,

re-arm, and counterattack.

What were we expecting? That our attacks would so

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247

demoralize them that they would convert to Christian-

ity and pledge to become loyal Wal-Mart customers?

I didn’t know what time I finally fell asleep, but my

watch read seven forty-one A.M. local time when the first

explosions had me snapping open my eyes.

Ironically, the guys weren’t springing out of their

bunks but slowly rising, cursing, and Treehorn yawned

and said, “And that’s the morning alarm clock, Taliban

style.”

We ran outside, bare-chested, wearing only our box-

ers and brandishing our rifles.

I took in the situation all at once—front gate blown

to smithereens, guard house on fire, gate falling inward.

Machine gunners in the nests were focusing their fire on

two small sedans, taxis from Kandahar, I guessed, one

of which had probably carried the gate bomber.

An RPG screamed across the base and struck one of

the barracks, tearing a gaping hole in one side and explod-

ing within.

Sergeants were screaming for all the gunners to cease

fire, and within thirty more seconds, it was over.

No gunfire, just more shouting, the hiss and pop of

fires, personnel running in multiple directions like ants

fleeing a sprinkler’s flood. We all stood outside the bil-

let, and after another moment I reasoned there wasn’t

anything else we could do, so I motioned for the guys to

get back inside and get dressed and we’d head over to

the barracks that’d been hit. Ramirez was last to go back

in. He hesitated, then turned back to me. “Scott, I,

uh . . . thanks for keeping all this between us.”

248 GH OS T RE CON

I pursed my lips and forced a nod.

“I’m sorry.”

My breath shortened. “Okay.”

By the time we reached the barracks, all the fires had

been put out and we were asked to remain along a piece

of tape cordoning off the area. Harruck was there and

told me the attack was against Gul. “We got a warning

yesterday that if we didn’t turn over the governor, we’d

be attacked.”

“Why didn’t you give me a heads-up?”

“Because I’ve been getting those warnings all the

time. Most of them are fake or they don’t act on them.

They order us to leave, say they’ll attack the next day,

and they don’t.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Lost two more at the gate. Damn it. Barracks was

empty, thank God. They were already up for chow, and

the governor is staying on the other side, up near the

gunner’s nest.”

“Good idea. How’d they get so close to the gate

again?”

“Gul’s got people coming and going all day. I’m set-

ting up a new roadblock. They’ll need to get past there

first before they get near the gate.”

“Could’ve done that in the first place.”

“Didn’t see the need till now.”

I sighed. “Live and learn. And Simon, in a little while

I’m going over to see Shilmani. All they told me was

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249

that they’d set up the meeting with Zahed ‘soon.’ I’m

going to tell them they’ve got twenty-four hours.”

The XO came dashing over and faced me. “Captain?

There’s a call for you in the comm center.”

The call was from General Keating. I wasn’t surprised.

Harruck had been forced to release Bronco and his buddy,

Mike, after a couple of big shots from the agency flew in

from Kandahar and raised hell. Keating, for his part, was

ducking from the piles of dung being hurtled at him from

our competing agencies. He just wanted to get me in on

the fun.

“I don’t care what they’re telling me, Mitchell. If you

can get in there, get our boy out, and drop the fat man

at the same time, then we’ve done our job. They’re try-

ing to persuade me to think about this big picture while

they cut deals with terrorists and drug runners, but

that’s not the way we operate, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well, then. Where are we now?”

“Other than what I put in my report?”

“Frankly, Mitchell, I haven’t had time to read your

report. I’ve had the CIA barking in my ear for two

hours.”

“We took out the cave network. I lost a guy doing it.

We intercepted an agent.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all about that.”

“And now I’m working on a meeting with the fat

man himself.”

250 GH OS T RE CON

“How the hell will you pull that off?”

“Just leave it to me, sir.”

“And just what do you plan to talk about?”

“I don’t plan to talk about anything, sir, if you hear

me clearly.”

“Loud and clear, son. Loud and clear.”

Treehorn and I went back out to see Burki and Shilmani.

More tea. More idle conversation, until a very tall, very

lean man with a wispy beard arrived and sat with us.

“This is my cousin. He does not wish you to know his

name.”

“So what do we call him?” asked Treehorn.

Shilmani posed that question to the man, who

answered rapidly in Pashto. Shilmani glanced up and

said, “You can just call him Muji.”

“Tell him that’s kind of a slang phrase for Mujaha-

deen fighters.”

Shilmani did, then faced us. “He knows. His grand-

father was one.”

“Okay. Tell him I need to see Zahed right away.”

Shilmani spoke with Muji at length, and all Treehorn

and I could do was sit there, sipping tea. The conversa-

tion sounded like a debate, and finally Shilmani regarded

me with a frustrated look. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“I have to see him by tomorrow. No later. Tell him

that there is no time to waste. I mean it.”

After a brief exchange, Muji rose, nodded, and hur-

ried out of the shack.

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251

“I want you to come to my house for dinner,” said

Shilmani. “Your friend can come, too.”

“Why’s that?” asked Treehorn. “You think that this

will be our last meal?”

“It could be, and I must tell you now that your plan

to put a bullet in Zahed’s head will not work. You need

something better. My cousin tells me that no one sees

Zahed now without being strip-searched first. Perhaps

your weapon could be poison, or something as easily

concealed.”

“We’ll think about it. What time tonight?”

“Sundown.”

“Okay, we’ll be there.”

We drove about a quarter mile down the road, made our

right turn to head through the bazaar area, and found

the road blockaded by two pickup trucks.

Suddenly two more sedans roared up behind us, and

Treehorn started cursing and shouted, “Ambush!”

He was about to grab his rifle and jump out of the

Hummer. I was at the wheel and told him to hang on.

“They’re not firing. Let’s see what’s up.”

I raised my palms as the men, who for all the world

appeared to be Taliban with turbans and shemaghsacross

their faces, pulled us out of the Hummer.

My words in Pashto were ignored. I kept asking them

what they wanted, what was going on, we weren’t here

to hurt them. One guy came up and suddenly pulled a

black sack over my head. I started screaming as others

252 GH OS T RE CON

dragged my hands behind my back and zipper-cuffed

them.

And then I really panicked. How the hell could I have

been so stupid? Shilmani was probably in bed with Zahed

and had arranged this entire pack of lies so that they could

kidnap us. Now they’d have threeAmerican prisoners . . .

Treehorn was screaming and struggling to get free.

I yelled for him to calm down, we’d be okay.

“We should’ve killed them all!” he said, his voice muf-

fled by the sack presumably over his head. “We should’ve!”

They shoved me into the backseat of one of the cars,

driving my head down and forcing me to sit.

I was a Ghost officer. Neither seen nor heard.

And never once had I been taken prisoner.

T WENTY-FOUR

As someone used to being in control, I could hardly

believe that I was helpless and at the mercy of my captors.

I kept telling myself, You’re Captain Scott Mitchell, D

Company, First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group.

This does not happen to you.

My emotions flew in chaotic orbits. One second I was

furious, wanting to curse and scream and shove my way

out of the car. The next moment I was scared out of my

mind, picturing myself hanging inverted from a rope

and being tortured in ways both medieval and merciless.

We drove, with Treehorn in the seat next to me. He

kept trying to talk, but our captors shouted for him to

be quiet. They knew a little English. I assumed they

254 GH OS T RE CON

wouldn’t answer our questions, so there was no reason

to talk until we arrived at wherever we were going.

I took only small comfort in the fact that Gordon

could still locate Treehorn and me via the signals from

our Green Force Tracker Chips (unless, of course, we

were taken to a cave or the chips were removed from our

bodies). And yes, I had assumed we were being captured

by the Taliban—initially, at least. As the car ride contin-

ued, I began counting off the seconds and trying to

estimate how far they were taking us from the village.

I tried to make myself feel better by concocting some

elaborate scheme that involved Bronco and his CIA bud-

dies capturing us for some reason—maybe to threaten

us or force a conversation, something. Bronco did wield

some power in the village, having longstanding relation-

ships with all the players, so I wouldn’t have put it past

him to engage in a little payback and some threats. He

could have paid off some local guys to pick us up and

deliver us to him.

The road grew very rough, jostling us in the seats,

and the driver directly in front of me began arguing

with the passenger. I focused on the conversation, tried

my best to ferret out the words, but they always spoke so

rapidly that my hearing turned into a skipping CD,

just . . . getting . . . a word . . . here . . . there . . .

“Boss, I’m a little worried,” said Treehorn.

“I know. Don’t talk,” I snapped.

The men hollered back at us.

At that point I began to feel sorry for myself. I’ll

admit it. I’d grown a little too comfortable in the

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255

village, believing that since Burki wanted me to kill

Zahed, I could move a bit more freely and not be threat-

ened. Sure, we dressed like the locals and were begin-

ning to grow out our beards, but I’m sure it wasn’t

difficult to ID us as foreigners.

I heard my father telling me, Son, you really screwed

up. You watched a guy murder another soldier and lied

about it. You basically got two of your men killed. And

now you’ve gone and gotten yourself captured. Are you

having a bad day or what? What the hell happened to you?

Don’t you remember what your mom told you? You’re des-

tined for some great things . . . so I have to ask you, son,

what the hell happened?

My eyes were brimming with tears. I kept calling

myself a fool and wanted to apologize to Treehorn. He

was going to die because I’d made poor decisions. All of

the axioms of leadership didn’t mean a goddamned

thing to me anymore. The Special Forces creed was a

joke. I had a sack over my head and was being driven to

hell, where a fat man lounged near a pool of lava, sipping

on tea.

I started reflecting on everything: my pathetic rela-

tionships with women, how I’d tortured poor Kristen for

so many years, how she kept lying to me and saying this

was the exact relationship she wanted, long-distance and

infrequent, when I could see the ache in her eyes. What

kind of a life had I made for myself? Was I truly happy?

Were all the missions and the sacrifices really worth it?

Like I said, I was really feeling sorry for myself.

Any operator who tells you he has no doubts, that he

256 GH OS T RE CON

is fully committed to the choices he’s made and the sac-

rifices to come, is, in my humble opinion, lying. There

will always be the doubts, and they were, at that

moment, all I had left.

I’d estimated the car’s speed at about thirty miles per

hour and had counted off about thirty minutes, give or

take, so I figured we’d gone about fifteen miles when the

car came to an abrupt halt, the dirt hissing beneath the

tires.

More chatter from the driver and passenger. The zip-

per cuffs were digging into my wrists and my shoulders

were on fire by the time they opened the door and

yanked us from the car. We were guided about twenty

steps away, and then one man said, “Stay.”

“Boss, I say we make a break for it. I’d rather get shot

trying to escape.”

“Relax, brother. We’re going to be okay.”

“Dude! We’re not okay!” he shouted.

That drew the reaction of the men. I heard a thump,

Treehorn groaned, and I hollered, “Treehorn, you okay?

You okay?”

“Yeah.” He gasped. “They just whacked me!”

The wind was tugging at my loose shirt and driving

the sack deeper into my face.

We weren’t in the village, and we hadn’t crossed the

mountains. I was sure of that. We would’ve felt the

mountain road, heard the engine groaning. The road

had been relatively flat.

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257

Suddenly, the sack was ripped off my head, and I was

blinded by the glare. It took a few seconds of squinting

for my eyes to fully adjust.

Treehorn stood next to me, squinting as well.

They’d taken us west down A01, the main road, to a

little truck stop area where several tractor-trailers were

lined up. I wasn’t sure if the place was a gas station or

what, but I definitely knew we’d headed west because off

to the east I could see Kandahar in the far distance and

a plane taking off from the airport.

Without a word, the two men got back in the car,

threw it in gear, and left us standing there on the side of

the road, our hands still cuffed.

“What the hell?” Treehorn gasped.

I whirled, faced the truck stop. A small, blue booth

stood near several large trees whose limbs were being

thrashed in the wind. I wondered if that was a phone

booth, so I gestured with my head and Treehorn and I

started walking over there, the wind kicking sand in our

faces.

From behind several of the parked trailers came a half

dozen more gunmen, AK-47s swinging to come to bear

on us.

“Oh, great,” I said. “And I just thought they were

playing a prank on us.”

“Remind me to laugh later,” said Treehorn. “Or at

least before they kill us.”

From behind the gunmen came a familiar face that

left me with a deep frown.

Shilmani.

258 GH OS T RE CON

And then, from behind him, came Kundi, the village

headman and land owner, shaking his head at us.

I called to Shilmani and quickened my step toward

them. “What the hell is this?” I added.

“Please, Scott, it is very unexpected.” Shilmani’s eyes

were bloodshot, and blood was dripping from one of his

nostrils.

“You guys better release us right now,” said Tree-

horn.

“That’s right,” I said.

“No,” said Kundi, shaking his finger at us. “We talk

first. Right here.”

“Shilmani, tell this asshole if he wanted a meeting, he

could have asked for it.”

Shilmani glanced away, and, his voice cracking, said,

“Burki is dead.”

My mouth fell open. “Say again?”

“Burki was just shot and killed. Right after you left.

My cousin betrayed us. He told Kundi everything—

about us hiring you to kill Zahed.”

I remembered the conversation I’d had with the old

man that Bronco had taken me to see:

“Kundi is your son, and your son negotiates with the

Taliban.”

“Of course. I fought with Zahed’s father many years

ago. We are both Mujahadeen. The guns we used were

given to us by you Americans.”

Of course Kundi was loyal to Zahed. Like father,

like son.

I widened my eyes on Kundi and started toward him.

CO MB AT O P S

259

The half dozen guards he’d brought along cut me off—

but what was I going to do with my hands still cuffed?

“You killed Burki?” I asked the old man. “Wasn’t he

your friend?”

Shilmani translated. Kundi threw up his hands and

rattled off something about betrayal. I thought I caught

a word of that.

“He says Burki was altering the deal on the water. It was

not Zahed who had changed the terms of the agreement.”

“Do you believe that?” I asked Shilmani.

“No, I do not. I was there when Zahed’s man came

and told us about the new terms.”

“Tell him to let us go. Tell him if doesn’t let us go,

I’m going to make a few phone calls, and there’s going

to be a lot of trouble. And we’ll cut off access to the well,

that’s for sure . . .”

Shilmani took a deep breath and reluctantly trans-

lated.

Kundi’s eyes grew wide and maniacal. He marched

up to me, got in my face, his crooked yellow teeth bared.

“You . . . go home . . .”

I felt like saying, Let me go and I’ll catch the next flight

out. To hell with the politics, this place, the mission. To hell

with it all.

But the bastard challenged me, managed to capture

me, even, and I wasn’t going to take any more of his

bullshit. So what I did say was, “I’m not going home

until I either capture or kill your good buddy Zahed.”

Shilmani translated.

Kundi stepped back. The gunmen lined up.

260 GH OS T RE CON

“What the hell, boss?” groaned Treehorn. “Are they

getting ready to shoot us?”

Kundi heard the whomping first. He whirled around,

lifted a hand to his brow.

Then I heard it. We all did. Two choppers: a Black-

hawk and an Apache screaming in from the east, from

Kandahar.

“We’re late getting back,” I told Treehorn.

“Good deal,” he said.

Suddenly, Kundi waved for his men to retreat behind

the trailers. They ran off, as did the old man, who was

shouting back at Shilmani.

“I’m sorry, Scott. Really. I am,” cried Shilmani. “And

Scott, maybe you can help me! They took my daughter!

They took my daughter!”

With that Shilmani bolted off.

It was interesting trying to explain to the Blackhawk

crew how we’d managed to get our sorry asses kid-

napped, and I called ahead to Harruck to have someone

pick up our Hummer—that was, providing the villagers

hadn’t set it on fire. Turned out they hadn’t.

During the chopper ride back to the FOB, Gordon

contacted me to say that while they’d been scanning for

Green Force Tracker Chips they’d picked up a brief sig-

nal from Warris’s GFTC. Intel indicated that he was

being moved, and Gordon had pinpointed the entrance

to yet another tunnel complex.

It was time to make our move for a rescue.

CO MB AT O P S

261

* * *

“So you got yourself taken prisoner,” said Harruck, pro-

ducing two glasses for us. It was going to be straight

whiskey this time and it was barely past noon.

We sat in his office, me still rubbing my wrists, him