Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

of that already. And there were witnesses.”

“Let me ask you. Do you think what you did solved

anything?”

CO MB AT O P S

309

I take a deep breath and look away. “I don’t know. I

just don’t know.”

“The report tells me what you did. It doesn’t say how

you feel about it.”

“How do you think I feel? Ready for a party? Why

does that even matter?”

“Because I’m trying to see what kind of an emotional

appeal I can make. Unless somebody decides to take a huge

risk, to go out on a limb for you, then like I said, I don’t

want you to have any unreasonable hope at this point.”

“Unreasonable hope? Jesus Christ, what do you peo-

ple expect from me?”

“Captain. Calm down. I’m still recording, and I’d

like you to go back and finish the story. If there’s any-

thing you might’ve left out of the report, anything else

you can remember that you think might help, you have

to tell me right now . . .”

I served with a guy named Foyte, a good captain who

wound up getting killed in the Philippines. I was his

team sergeant, and he used to give me all kinds of advice

about leadership. He was a really smart guy, best-read

guy I’d ever met. He could rattle off quotes he’d memo-

rized about war and politics. He always had something

good to say. When he talked, we listened. One thing he

told me stuck: If you live by your decisions, then you

have decided to really live.

So as I stood there, staring into the smug faces of the

310 GH OS T RE CON

two Central Intelligence Assholes, and looking at Mul-

lah Mohammed Zahed, a bloated bastard who figured

that in a few seconds I’d surrender to the futility of war,

I thought of Beasley and Nolan; of my father’s funeral;

and of all the little girls we’d just freed in the tunnel. I

thought of Hila, lying there, bleeding, waiting for me,

the only person she had left in the world. And I imagined

all the other people who would be infected by Zahed’s

touch, by the poison he would continue to spread through-

out the country, even as one of our own agencies sup-

ported him because they couldn’t see that the cure was

worse than the poison.

How did I feelabout that?

I desperately loved my country and my job. If I just

turned my back on the situation because I was “little

people,” then I was no better than them.

Lights from the first helicopter panned across the vil-

lage wall behind us, the whomping now louder, the

reactionary gunfire lifting up from the ground.

My satellite phone kept ringing. I figured it was Brown

or Ramirez, so I ignored it.

A roar came from the troops somewhere out there,

and a half dozen RPGs screamed up toward the chopper,

whose pilot banked suddenly away from the incoming.

Zahed began to smile. Even his teeth had been whit-

ened. The CIA had pampered his ass, all right.

Bronco was about to say something. Mike had his

gaze on the helicopter.

The trigger came down more easily than I had antici-

CO MB AT O P S

311

pated, and my round struck Zahed in the forehead, slightly

off center. His head snapped back and he crashed back into

the Mercedes and slid down to the ground, the blood

spray glistening across the car’s roof.

Bronco and Mike reacted instantly, drawing their

weapons.

I shot Bronco first, then Mike.

But I didn’t kill them. I shot them in the legs, knock-

ing them off their feet as I whirled and sprinted back

toward the shattered window. My phone had stopped

ringing.

“You’re going down for this, Joe! You have no idea

what you’ve done! No idea!”

There was a lot of cursing involved—by both of us—

but suffice it to say I ignored them and climbed back

into the bedroom, where Hila lay motionless.

I was panting, shaking her hands, gently moving her

head. I panicked, checked her neck for a carotid pulse.

Thank God. She was alive but unconscious. I dug the

Cross-Com out of my pocket, activated it, changed the

magazine on my pistol. I gently scooped up Hila, slid

her over my shoulder, then started out of the room, my

gun hand trembling.

“Predator Control, this is Ghost Lead, over.”

A box opened in my HUD. “Where you been, Ghost

Lead?”

“Busy.”

“CAS units moving into your area, over.”

“Got ’em. Can you lock onto my location?

312 GH OS T RE CON

“I’ve got it.”

“Good. I need Hellfires right on my head. Every-

thing you got. There are no civilians here. I repeat, no

civilians. We got a weapons and opium cache in the

basement. I want it taken out, over.”

“Roger that, Ghost Lead. I still have no authoriza-

tion for fires at this time, over.”

“I understand, buddy. Tell you what. Give me ten min-

utes, and then you make your decision—and live by it . . .”

“Roger that, Ghost Lead.”

With a few hundred Taliban fighters to defend the

village, I had a bad feeling that they’d manage to either

move or simply secure all those weapons and opium.

Better to take the cache out of the picture—blow it all

back to Allah. I wasn’t sure how committed Harruck’s

Close Air Support was, either.

I had considered for the better part of two seconds

taking Hila straight outside and trying to link up with

one of the choppers, but the place still swarmed with

Taliban. I’d rather take them out one or two at a time in

the tunnels. So I carried her back to the basement and

descended the stairs.

“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control. I’ve just received

an override order. I have clearance to fire. But I will lose

the target in four minutes, fifteen seconds, over.”

“Let the clock tick,” I told him. “But don’t miss your

shot. I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“Roger that, Ghost Lead. Godspeed.”

I nearly fell down the staircase near the bottom,

caught my balance, then turned toward the tunnel at

CO MB AT O P S

313

the far end. Judging from the sounds above, most of the

Taliban were engaging the choppers or putting fire on

the mountainside. I didn’t expect to encounter much

resistance in the tunnel, so when I cleared the rock sec-

tion and ducked a bit lower to enter the drainage pipe, I

froze at the sound of voices.

I doused the penlight in my other hand.

Flashlights shone ahead. I set Hila down. I flicked the

penlight back on.

Oh, no. There was a long line of guys, maybe twenty,

maybe more, coming right at us.

I saw them.

They saw me.

They screamed.

I reached into my web gear and produced a grenade.

They screamed again.

I pulled the pin and pitched the grenade far down the

pipe, then threw myself over Hila as three, two—

My satellite phone started ringing again.

One.

I cupped my ears as the grenade went off with a blind-

ing flash and rush of air, as the men shrieked now, and I

suddenly rose, damning my ringing phone to hell, and

unleashed salvo after salvo through the smoke and gleam-

ing debris.

Then I screamed ahead, told them to run away or die,

I think. Something pretty close.

The pipe grew very quiet, save for my ringing phone.

I cursed, pulled it from my pocket, and realized it’d

been General Keating on the line.

314 GH OS T RE CON

Aw, damn. I’d get with the old man later. I switched

off the phone, picked up Hila, and eased my way for-

ward as far ahead, footfalls sounded, though no flash-

lights lifted my way. I neared the area of the explosion,

saw how the concrete had been blasted apart, then real-

ized the earth above had nothing to support it. Below

were a half dozen men shredded into bloody heaps.

I reached up with my finger to check the stability of

the ceiling, and that was when the entire section of earth

came down on top of me. It all happened so fast that I

didn’t realize how much dirt had fallen until I tried to

move my legs. Trapped. I managed to bring up one arm

and brush it from my face. I spit dirt, then glanced up . . .

and there it was about a meter above, an open hole and

the stars beyond. The gunfire popped and cracked, and

two mortars exploded somewhere beyond.

I started writhing back and forth, trying to free

myself, when I heard more voices. I wasn’t sure which

side of the tunnel they were coming from. I began to

panic, shoving my arm more violently and trying to

kick. The earth to my right began to give away, and sud-

denly I fell sideways and out of the pile, sliding down a

hill of dirt that was spreading to Hila.

“Ghost Lead, this is Predator Control. Thirty sec-

onds, and you are still too close to the drop zone, over.”

“Roger that,” I said, then coughed. “I’m moving

out. You just do your job!”

“Mitchell, this is Keating,” called the general as

another video box opened in my HUD. “I’ve been try-

ing to get a hold of you, son! Your orders have changed!”

CO MB AT O P S

315

So I ripped the Cross-com off my head and turned it

off. It was a little late for that shit.

The passage through the pipe was completely blocked.

I thought if I could get us up on top of the pile, I might

be able to push Hila through the hole and up top.

But I had no idea what we’d find up there. I needed

to chance a look for myself. I climbed back up, pushing

back into the dirt, and up through the hole until my

head jutted out. I was facing the mountainside, muzzle

flashes dancing across the ridgelines. I turned around to

face the village and saw at least forty Taliban fighters

racing directly toward me running behind a pair of

pickup trucks with fifty-calibers mounted on the back,

the guns spewing rounds.

But then, from somewhere behind me came the hiss

of rockets, and just as I turned my head, I saw an Apache

roar overhead and the pickup trucks explode in great

fireballs not thirty meters from my head.

I ducked back into the hole. The Predator controller

was about to drop his bombs. I hustled down and

grabbed Hila. I moved her higher across the dirt mound

and toward our escape hole. I shifted around to try to

shield her from the blast, then took two long breaths

and listened for the first impact.

THIRT Y

I tucked in as tightly as I could, and the next few sec-

onds felt like a lifetime.

For a moment, I thought the controller had changed

his mind or been ordered to abort.

But then, just as my doubts were beginning to take

root, twin detonations, somewhat muffled at first, origi-

nated from behind us, well off into the basement. Not

three heartbeats later came a roar unlike anything I’d

ever heard, followed by a massive tremor ripping through

the ground.

As the earthquake continued, a wave of intense heat

pushed through the tunnel behind me, and I gasped and

started dragging Hila higher toward the hole, fearing

that all the air would be consumed before we escaped.

CO MB AT O P S

317

That I moved farther up was the only thing that saved us

from a wave of fire that rushed through the pipe. I kept

groaning and dragging her higher, my boots slipping on

the dirt, as dozens of smaller explosions began to boom,

and I knew that was all the ammunition beginning to

cook off. Then came a horrible stench as the opium

began to burn. My eyes filled with tears, and for a few

seconds I thought I’d pass out before someone grabbed

my arm and began pulling me up.

There was screaming, but I couldn’t identify anyone

above the cracking and booming from below, as well as

more booming from the village as I was suddenly hoisted

out of the hole and plopped down in the sand.

I blinked hard, saw Brown and Smith there, with

Brown digging back into the hole and pulling out Hila.

He was wearing the Cross-Com I’d given to Ramirez.

Behind us, the helicopters were still engaging the

Taliban fighters on the ground, but most of them were

retreating back toward the walls.

However, at least one machine gunner set up behind

a jingle truck opened fire, and we all hit the deck a

moment before the Apache gunship whirled around and

directed a massive barrage of fire that not only tore

through the gunner but began to shred the truck itself.

“I’ve got her,” yelled Smith, scooping up Hila and

gesturing toward the mountainside. “The tunnel’s up

there! Let’s go!”

Brown pulled me back up. “We locked onto your chip

as soon as you got close to the top. You okay?”

“More than okay. I got Zahed.”

318 GH OS T RE CON

Brown was all pearly whites. “Hoo-ah! Mission com-

plete, baby. Let’s roll!”

The three of us ran back toward the hills, with the

choppers covering our exit. Brown was in direct contact

with them, and he said that he’d sent the others off

toward two rifle squads that had come up through the

defile. They were bringing back one Bradley to pick up

the girls. We took a tunnel I hadn’t seen before, which

Brown said led up to one of the mountain passes.

As we neared the exit and emerged onto the dirt road,

we looked down toward Senjaray and saw the Bradley

pulling away. The girls we’d rescued were, I later learned,

safely onboard.

We were almost home.

“Hold up,” I said, as we crossed around some boul-

ders. We squatted down. “We need to get her out of here

faster than this.” I looked to Brown. “Can we get a

Blackhawk to pick her up?”

“I’m on it. But we’ll still have to get down to the val-

ley over there.”

“All right.” I dug into my pocket, switched on my

satellite phone, and saw there was a message from Gen-

eral Keating. I took a deep breath, dialed, and listened.

And my heart sank.

“I repeat, son, we need to pull you off this mission.

Abort. Abort. Stand down . . .”

He’d said a lot more than that, but those were the

only words that meant anything. Bronco hadn’t been

bluffing.

CO MB AT O P S

319

At that moment, though, I was glad I hadn’t heard

the message, but I wondered whether I would’ve shot

Zahed anyway, despite the order to stand down.

I wondered.

I’d like to think that my experience and honor

would’ve led me to make the right decision. But the

politics and grim reality were far too powerful to ignore.

“Captain, you don’t look so good,” said Smith.

“The order to stand down came in, but I, uh, I guess

I missed it. Zahed’s dead anyway.”

“Good work,” said Brown.

“Ghost Lead, this is Hume, over.”

“Go ahead, John.”

“Jenkins and I got on the Bradley, but we got cut off

from Warris and Ramirez in the tunnels. We figured

they’d link up with us down here, but they didn’t show

up, over.”

“Roger that, we’ll find them.”

“Paul, you get her down there to link up with the

chopper?” Brown asked Smith.

“I’m on it.”

“Then I’m with you, Captain, let’s go!”

We rose and jogged off, back into the tunnel, while

Smith carried Hila toward the valley.

“I’m afraid of what we’ll find,” said Brown.

We linked up with another section of tunnels, ones

we’d already marked with beacons, and we stepped over

four or five bodies of Taliban fighters.

Brown and I spent nearly an hour combing the tunnels.

320 GH OS T RE CON

No tracker chips were detected during those moments

when I’d slip outside to search for a signal, so we had to

assume both men were still underground.

Sighing in disgust, I told Brown we needed to get

back and see if we couldn’t get a search team in the tun-

nels by morning.

“You think they got captured?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I told him. “But we

can’t stay up here all night.”

We hiked down from the mountains and toward the vil-

lage. The firing had all but stopped, and the gunships had

already pulled out and were heading toward Kandahar.

As Brown and I reached the defile, we were met by a

horrible sight:

Anderson and Harruck were standing in the smoking

ruins of the school, shattered by Taliban mortar fire.

The once tall walls of the police station, whose roof was

about to be constructed, looked like jagged teeth now,

with more smoke coiling up into the night sky.

Anderson was crying. Harruck glared and cried,

“Thanks a lot for all your help!”

Fifteen minutes later I was getting my gunshot wound

treated. All the girls had been taken back to the hospital

as well, and they were all staring at me, as if to say thank

you. Hila had been rushed into surgery.

I was patting my fresh bandage when Brown came

running into the hut and cried, “Captain! Get out here!

You’re not going to believe this!”

CO MB AT O P S

321

I rushed away from the nurse and made it outside,

where Warris was being helped out of a Hummer. He was

ragged and filthy and still reeked. His eyes were bloodshot

and he just looked at me vaguely as I rushed up to him.

“Fred, where the hell were you?”

It took a few seconds for him to focus on me. “They

found me down in the valley.”

“Where’s Ramirez?”

He swallowed. “I, uh, I don’t know.”

I raised my voice. “What do you mean?”

“I MEAN, I DON’T KNOW! NOW GET OUT OF

MY GODDAMNED FACE!” He shoved me aside and

headed toward the hospital.

I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.

“You’re going to talk right now.”

“I’ll talk, all right. No worries about that!”

“Where’s Ramirez?”

“We got separated. I don’t know what happened. I

looked for him, and he was gone. That’s all I know.”

“Where is he?”

He glared at me, then turned and walked away. I started

after him, but Brown grabbed my shoulder. “Don’t . . .”

I talked to one of the doctors, who told me Hila would

pull through just fine. They’d removed the bullet. The

doc did take me aside and tell me she’d found evidence

of rape on all the girls. I explained the situation, and she

said, as I already knew, that none of the families would

want these girls back, and if we revealed what had

322 GH OS T RE CON

happened to them, their fates could take an even sharper

turn for the worse.

“We’ll see if we can get them to an orphanage,” I

said. “The woman who’s in charge of the school project,

Anderson? We’ll see if we can get help from her.”

I still vowed to find Shilmani and tell him I had got-

ten his daughter out of there. I wanted to tell the man

how bravely she’d fought and how she’d literally saved

my life. I wasn’t sure if that would change anything, but

I wanted him to know.

However, the fan was dialed up to ten, and the camel

dung was about to hit it and fly for miles.

I was ordered to Harruck’s office before I even returned

to my billet.

When he was finished cursing his head off and suck-

ing down his drink, he looked at me and said, “I hope to

God you think this was worth it. At least give me that

much. At least let me know that you still believe in what

you did, because if you don’t . . .”

“Zahed needed to die. I’m sorry about the conse-

quences. He’s dead. Maybe things will change here.

Maybe not.”

“Well, I’m done here. I’m out. That’s a change. You

win. I lose. We did nothing here. Nothing.”

I might’ve stolen two hours of sleep before I dragged

myself back up and fought with the guards at the gate,

who wouldn’t let me and Brown leave the base.

“I have direct orders from the CO. Your team is

CO MB AT O P S

323

confined to the base. You’ll have to take that up with the

CO, sir.”

I did. Harruck was sleeping, but the XO spoke to us.

“Word came down. There are some boys from Kandahar

flying in to talk to you guys.”

“Army Intel?”

He shook his head. “Spooks.”

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Bronco screamed,

and that was the edited version of his question, which in

truth had contained curses and combinations of curses I

hadn’t heard before.

He and his sidekick had escaped from Sangsar, gotten

treated for their gunshot wounds, and linked up with

their superiors. The group of four decided they would

interrogate the hell out of me all morning. I’d grinned at

the crutches both Bronco and Mikey had used to get

into the room.

With arms folded over my chest and a bored look on

my face, I repeated, “I don’t have to talk to you, and I

won’t. So piss off.”

Bronco attempted to describe the length and breadth

of their operation, and he leaned forward and told me

that I’d ruined years’ worth of work, murdered an unarmed

man, and that the agency would see me hang. Blah.

Blah. Blah.

I told them all where to go, then stormed out. They

couldn’t hold me. They couldn’t do jack. I went back to

Harruck and told him I was going to see Shilmani and

324 GH OS T RE CON

that if he tried to stop me, I’d have him brought up on

charges.

He started laughing and just waved me off. His laugh-

ter sounded more unbalanced than cynical.

Brown and I caught up with Shilmani at the shacks on

the outskirts of town. He was loading water and would

not look at me as we approached.

“Listen to me, please,” I began. “We got Hila. She’s

in the hospital. She’s okay.”

He froze at the back of his truck and just stood there

a moment, his breathing ragged before he began to cry.

I looked at Brown and turned away. I was choked up

myself. I could barely imagine what Shilmani was going

through. He had to convince himself that his daughter

was dirt now because his culture dictated how he should

think. In fact, if we didn’t get the girls to an orphanage

and simply call them “war orphans,” they would all be

arrested and sentenced to prison. That’s right. The sys-

tem did not distinguish between victims of rape and

those who willingly had relations outside marriage.

“Do you want to see her?” I asked.

“I can’t.”

“You would have been so proud. She fought at my

side. And she saved my life.”

“Scott, don’t tell me any more. Please . . .”

“Why don’t you take your family and get the hell out

of here? There’s got to be a way out.”

CO MB AT O P S

325

He finally looked at me, backhanded away the tears,

and said, “This is my life.”

By late in the day I got called to the comm center and

learned that General Keating was waiting to speak to me.

“Mitchell, you make it damn near impossible for me

to get your back when you play it this close to the vest. If

the president weren’t distracted by twenty other prob-

lems, I’d be pulling KP in the White House mess.”

“I understand, sir. And I’ve been running an obstacle

course here myself.”

Okay, I was speaking through my teeth, and though

I highly respected the man, I wanted to unload on him,

too. He’d had no idea what I’d just gone through, but I

wasn’t about to cry on his shoulder.

“I’m pulling you back to Fort Bragg. I’d advise you

to lay low but I know you don’t work that way, so once

you’re back home you’ll be confined to quarters. We’ll

put on a show until JAG takes its best shot or you’re last

month’s news.”

“Sir, Joey Ramirez is still MIA.”

“I know that, son, and the search will continue. But

we’ve got Warris running off at the mouth and trying to

ruin your career. I want you out of there.”

“Warris is an asshole. Sir. He’d bitch if you hanged

him with a new rope. It’s my word against his.”

“For now, he doesn’t need witnesses, Mitchell. Because

I believe him.”

326 GH OS T RE CON

“Sir?”

“Easy, son. I agree. He’s a fool. But I know he’s tell-

ing the truth—because I know you. And your men. But

between him and the CIA, they’re not going to back

off. I’ve got to deal with it.”

“Where does all this leave me, sir?”

“From where I’m sitting, this operation has become a

perfect storm of botched communications. And because

of the political ramifications in Kabul, as well as here,

higher’s out for blood. It’s why they have officers, son.

Someone’s got to fall on his sword. Someone will take

the fall for this mess.”

“And blood flows downhill . . .”

“It’s Newton’s law, Scott. Simple as that.”

I closed my eyes and massaged them. “I understand,

sir. For the good of the service . . .”

“That bastard Zahed needed killing, and you gave it

to him. You did a fine job, soldier, no matter what you

hear, no matter what they say.”

“But you still don’t have my back, do you, sir?”

He took a deep breath, looked torn—

And broke the connection.

By dinnertime the team had packed up the billet. We

were being driven to Kandahar, where we’d catch the

first of many flights back home.

They’d refused to allow us to participate in the tun-

nel search, but before we left, Harruck sent a man out to

fetch me. The guy led me to a small tent behind the

CO MB AT O P S

327

hospital, the makeshift morgue, where Ramirez lay

across a folding table.

He’d been shot in the head. Point-blank.

“Oh, dear God,” I said aloud.

“Any other wounds?” I asked one of the other sol-

diers there.

“Nope. Must’ve caught him by surprise.”

I cursed and rushed out of there.

And all I could see was Warris raising a rifle to Ramirez’s

head and pulling the trigger.

I found the punk lying in his bunk, staring at the ceiling.

He had no time to get up. I leaned over him and screamed,

“YOU KILLED HIM, YOU RAT BASTARD, DIDN’T

YOU? YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED HIM!”

I guess Brown had seen me running toward Warris’s

quarters and had come after me because he burst

through the door and rushed over, believing I was going

to strike Warris. He grabbed my wrist and hung on.

Warris started cursing and told me I’d lost my mind

and why the hell would he kill Ramirez?

“Because he knew you were going to blow the whistle

on all of us. And he probably threatened you, didn’t he?

He told you if you talked, he’d kill you, right?”

A guilty expression came over Warris, and he tried to

hide it by tightening his lips.

“You killed him!” I repeated.

“Your career is over, Mitchell. It’s all over now. You’re

old news. Even the Ghosts are a waste. Every other agency,

State, DoD—the entire alphabet tribe—undermines what

we do. We’re history.”

328 GH OS T RE CON

“No, you’re history. Count on it!”

I shoved Brown aside and hustled out of the room. I

stormed back to the billet, wrenched up my duffel, and

lifted my voice to the men. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

But we didn’t leave right away. The guys wanted to

pay their last respects to Ramirez, and they all went over

to the hospital and did that. I waited by the Hummer

and found myself in an awkward conversation with

Dr. Anderson.

“So now you go home, and the next Zahed takes

over? We have to start from scratch.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Don’t you even care?”

“I care too much. That’s what’s killing me. That’s

what’s killing us all.”

EPILOGUE

We weren’t ghosts who returned home. We were zombies.

War-torn. Down three men. Feeling little joy in our “mis-

sion completed.” I spoke briefly with each of the men, and

they shared my sentiments.

Colonel Gordon told me that Warris had friends and

relatives in high places, which was why his loyalties

tended to lean toward regular Army operations, even

though he’d chosen a career in Special Forces. In fact,

Gordon said that Warris had even written an article pub-

lished in Soldiersmagazine detailing his thoughts about

a dramatic shift in Special Forces operations and mental-

ity, an argument against elitism and what he deemed as

special privileges granted to our operators.

330 GH OS T RE CON

Well, the punk really got a taste of our “special privi-

leges” by spending some time in a hole full of crap.

That’s how we prima donnas in SF live the high life.

During one layover, I got a call from Harruck, who

told me Anderson had placed the girls in a good orphan-

age, but then the facility had been raided by Taliban

who said the girls had been raped and that they were all

going to face charges. Hila was, of course, among that

group. Would she spend twenty or more years in jail? I

didn’t know, but Harruck said he had a few ideas. He

then surprised me: “You were wrong about me, Scott.

I’m not a politician. And I’ll prove it to you.”

And then, as we were boarding our final flight back

to Fort Bragg, Gordon called again to tell me the spooks

were going for a charge of murder.

Apparently, Mullah Mohammed Zahed wasn’t just

the Taliban commander in the Zhari district. He was

the warlord leader of a network of men—warlords, Tal-

iban leaders, and corrupt public officials—who were part

of a massive protection racket in the country. It seemed

the United States was paying tens of millions of dollars

to these men to ensure safe passage of supply convoys

throughout the country.

We imported virtually everything we needed: food,

water, fuel, and ammo, and we did most of it by road

through Pakistan or Central Asia to hubs at Bagram air

base north of Kabul and the air base at Kandahar. From

there, local Afghan contractors took over, and the pow-

ers that be thought hiring local security was a brilliant

idea so we could promote entrepreneurship. Indeed, it

CO MB AT O P S

331

had struck me as curious when local Afghan trucks

showed up at the FOB loaded with our military supplies.

I’d assumed the Chinooks had brought in everything,

but I was wrong.

So . . . Zahed was indirectly being paid by the United

States to provide protection to the trucks delivering sup-

plies to our base, even though we were his mortal enemies.

What an opportunist. He had to profit in every way imag-

inable: from our supply lines to each and every improve-

ment we’d made in the village. If he could, he would’ve

been the one to sell us the guns we’d use to kill him!

Gordon said the network was making more than a

million a week by supplying protection. There was a sym-

biotic relationship between the network and the Taliban,

who were being paid not to cause trouble and were also

being employed as guards. Many of the firefights, Gor-

don said, were the result of protection fees being docked

or paid late. The gunfire had nothing to do with purging

the “foreign invaders” from their country. Hell, the

invaders were paying their salaries.

So this was the lovely oasis that Zahed had nurtured.

And there wasn’t a single piece of high-tech weaponry—

no laser-guided bullet, radar, super bomb, nothing—

that would change that. One Ghost unit had taken out a

man. We couldn’t reinvent an entire country.

And then, the final kicker: Gordon had learned that

the CIA was already negotiating with Zahed’s number

two man, Sayid Ulla, who had taken up residence in that

opium palace in Kabul. Pretty much everything Bronco

had told me about the agency’s intentions and desires

332 GH OS T RE CON

had been a lie. And I felt certain that they had supplied

the HER F guns to Zahed’s men and attempted to use

the Chinese as fall guys.

So nothing would change. I’d taken out a thug, but in

a country with very little, thugs were not in short supply.

As I wrote a letter to Joey’s parents, I once again tried

to convince myself that my life, my job, everything . . .

was still worth it, even as murder charges loomed.

I’m sorry to inform you that your son died for nothing

and that this war messed him up so much that he killed

an innocent American solider in order to protect our

unit.

I typed that twice before I got so mad I slammed shut

the laptop.