Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

than the governor. You will not shatter that alliance.”

Brown started cursing behind me, and I shushed

him, then struggled for the right words. “You heard the

fighting. They attacked our base.”

Kundi stroked his beard in thought. “It’s my under-

standing that you struck first . . . last night. Now, show

me your face, and I will talk to you.”

I glanced over Kundi’s shoulder and noted some-

thing going on among the four Taliban. The tallest one,

perhaps the leader, was shifting his gaze among the

others.

Kundi said something to me, but it was hard to hear

him now over the rising voices of the crowd. I heard

some folks telling Kundi to leave us alone, while others

shouted again for us to leave.

Behind me, John Hume cursed—and I saw why.

The four Taliban turned and dashed back through

the crowd, heading in four different directions.

“Take a guy!” I yelled.

We reacted swiftly, Brown, Hume, and Treehorn

each going after a thug while I went for the tallest one.

I wasn’t sure why they’d chosen to run. Maybe they

didn’t quite trust the citizenry either.

My guy rushed down a side street, leaving the bazaar

42

GH OS T RE C O N

for yet another stretch of sad-looking homes. I was gain-

ing on him when he stopped, whirled, and leveled his rifle.

Before he got off a shot I was already diving to the

right side, realizing that the cover I’d sought was one of

those natural gas tanks. Great.

The guy fired, but his rounds drummed along the

dirt beside me. I rolled, came up, peered around the

tank, saw him rushing forward between houses.

I bounded after him, sweating profusely now, my

eyes itching with dust. Once I got into the alley, I caught

a glimpse of him before he turned another corner. I

jogged ten meters, reached the corner—and a long row

of houses stretched before me.

He was gone.

But then I looked down into the dirt, tracked his

boot prints, and heard a child’s cry coming from one of

the houses.

I jogged forward, eyeing the prints, heard the noise

once more, turned and rushed toward the nearest front

door, pushed it open, and burst into a small entrance

area.

It all hit me at once:

The smell of sweet meat cooking . . .

A small kitchen area to my right with a worktable and

some fresh flowers in a vase . . .

A woman cowering behind that table with a young

girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and a boy, maybe

eleven or so, their eyes bulging, the girl beginning to

weep. The mother pulled the children closer to her chest.

And there, at the back of a room, another man,

CO MB AT O P S

43

well-trimmed beard, turban, but with sideburns that

seemed very Western. He put a finger to his lips, then

pointed down the hall, where he suggested my Taliban

guy had gone.

Then he held up a hand. Wait.

He shouted back into the hall. “All clear now. You

can come out . . .”

I shifted to the left side of the room, moving toward

the wall, and watched with utter surprise as this local guy

who’d already volunteered to help me kept tight to the

wall, gave a me a look, and then, as the Taliban fighter

moved forward, my new ally tripped him.

And that was when I moved in, leaping on his back

and knocking him face first onto the dirt floor. He tried

to reach back for a pistol holstered at his waist, but I

grabbed his wrist while my new friend grabbed the fight-

er’s other arm. With my free hand I tugged out a pair of

zipper cuffs, and we got him bound in a few seconds.

I rose, leaving the fighter still lying on the floor, and

eyed the family. In a moment of weakness I lowered my

shemagh. “I’m sorry,” I said in Pashto.

“It’s okay,” said the man in English. “I know who

this guy is and who he works for. I’m glad you’ve cap-

tured him.”

“Where’d you learn English?”

He grinned weakly. “It’s a long story. I’ll help you get

him up, so you can be on your way.”

I pursed my lips at the wife and children. The wife

shook her head in disapproval, but the girl and boy

seemed fascinated by me. I shrugged and got my prisoner

44

GH OS T RE C O N

ready to move, confiscated his weapon, and led him out-

side.

When I turned back, the entire family was standing

there beside the front door, watching me. I raised my

shemaghto conceal my face and gave them a curt nod.

As I led back my prisoner, I cursed at myself for send-

ing my boys off alone and without communications to

capture those other men. We should have paired up. And

we were taking an awful risk operating without comm.

What the hell was I thinking? The frustration, the rage,

and a bit of the guilt had clouded my judgment.

And what was worse, by the time I made it back to

the bazaar and started down the main road toward the

Hummer, I spotted a bonfire in the middle of the road.

But it turned out to be our Hummer.

I started running forward, forcing the prisoner to do

likewise.

Another crowd had gathered to watch the infidel

truck burn, and our mechanic driver was lying in the

dirt with his hand on his forehead, bleeding from a ter-

rible gash.

Kundi was there as well, and he marched up to me

with several cronies drifting behind him. He spoke so

rapidly in Pashto that I couldn’t understand him, but he

gesticulated wildly between the bazaar, the truck, and

the people gathered. Then he pointed at me, narrowed

his gaze, and this much I caught: “Time for you to go

home.”

“No,” I said sarcastically. “We’ve come here to save

you.” He eyed the flaming truck, the stench of melting

CO MB AT O P S

45

rubber threatening to make me gag. “Thanks for the

welcome.”

I pushed past him and led my prisoner over to the

mechanic. “What happened?”

“They pulled me out. We can’t fire till they fire at us.

They didn’t have any guns, then suddenly I’m lying on

the ground. I don’t even know who hit me . . .”

Brown, Hume, and Treehorn came charging back

down the street. No luck, no prisoners.

“Sorry,” Hume said. “The other three got away.”

“Because they got help,” said Treehorn. “They’re

working for Zahed, but they live here.”

I snorted. “Yeah, it’s good times.” Then I shoved the

prisoner toward Treehorn and shifted into the middle of

the street. I pointed to the fallen mechanic and screamed

at the top of my lungs, “WHO DID THIS?”

The locals threw their hands in the air, then dis-

missed me with waves and started back toward their

shops. Nolan hustled over to the mechanic and hun-

kered down to treat him.

Kundi came forward once more. “Where is Captain

Harruck?” he asked in broken English. “I want to talk

to him.”

“He’s busy right now.”

“You tell him I want to talk.” Kundi turned away and

started back toward the bazaar.

“So I guess we’re walking,” Brown said, staring

grimly at the burning Hummer.

I began to lose my breath. I wanted to move all the

women and children to a tent city just outside town,

46

GH OS T RE C O N

then call in an air strike and level the entire place and tell

them we were turning it into a parking lot for a Wal-

Mart Supercenter.

Then we’d go to Zahed and say, This will happen to

your village if you don’t turn yourself in. I couldn’t under-

stand how helping these people would help us win the

war. I was willing to bet that even that guy who’d helped

me would stab me in the back if push came to shove.

I was ready to leave, but of course the mission had

just begun.

FIVE

We reached the edge of town, where in the distance two

more Hummers bounced across the desert like mechani-

cal dragons wagging long tails of dust. I squinted and

saw that one truck contained the rest of my team, while

the other was carrying Harruck. In about five minutes

they reached us and screeched to a stop.

“Man, they were fast,” said Paul Smith from the

other truck. “They ditched their ride and scattered like

roaches. We asked around. No one’s talking. They’re all

too afraid to say anything. No shock there.”

“All right,” I said, then took a deep breath and

crossed to Harruck as he hopped out of the cab. “We

shot one, got one.”

“What the hell, Scott? You shouldn’t have followed

48

GH OS T RE C O N

them into town, for God’s sake! Maybe you can operate

outside the ROE, but I can’t. And I won’t. I’ve spent a

long time trying to work something out with them.”

“With who? That guy Kundi? He’s a scumbag who

will burn you. Come on, Simon, you already know that.

They’re all opportunists, scammers, users . . .”

“Which means we have to play them just right, Scott.

Just right. We need to be the ones they thinkthey can

trust.” He glanced at my men, feeling the heat of their

gazes. “Look, we’ll talk about this later.”

“They burned our Hummer,” I said as he turned

away.

He whirled back. “What?”

“They beat him up and burned our Hummer.” I

cocked a thumb at the mechanic, now sporting a bloody

bandage on his forehead. “Nice, isn’t it . . .”

“What the hell did you expect?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Do me a favor, just . . . for now . . . don’t try to help . . .”

Harruck’s company suffered seven dead and fourteen

injured. We killed about eight or nine around the base,

with more dead in the mountains, but the Taliban recov-

ered those bodies before we could confirm the kills.

Harruck’s snipers were confident that at least four

more had been taken down. The fires had been put out,

and Harruck already had crews cleaning up the mess by

the time he returned from town and nearly broke down

the door of our billet. “Let’s go,” he snapped.

CO MB AT O P S

49

The rest of my team made faces as I followed him out

and across the base, feeling like a cherry about to be

trounced on by his CO, yet also resenting how upset

Harruck had become. He had to take his anger out on

someone, I guess. I acknowledged that he was the CO

there, and though I didn’t answer exclusively to him, I

should respect his authority despite my far greater expe-

rience. I could easily get Keating to override him, but

once I did that, our friendship would be over.

He collapsed into his chair. I took the one in front of

his dusty desk. You could still smell the ash and cinders

from the mess hall wafting in through the open window,

and a small fan pivoting to and fro on the desk didn’t

help. I stared at the fan a moment, then took a deep

breath and closed my eyes. “So, okay, buddy, let’s have it.”

When I opened my eyes, he was pouring me a drink,

then one for himself.

I took the shot, downed it quickly. He did the same,

swore, then said, “I need a miracle.”

“I thought we were going to fight.”

He shrugged. “I know where you’re coming from.

But I need to be honest with you—it looks like remov-

ing Zahed from power could do more harm than good.”

“Simon, unless you can get my orders revised, I’m

here to do one thing.”

“You haven’t met the district governor here, have

you?”

I shook my head. “Just read about him in the brief-

ing. He’s another model citizen.”

“Well, yeah, if you recall, the guy’s name is Naimut

50

GH OS T RE C O N

Gul. He came in here last year and promised these peo-

ple the world, told them the Afghan government would

help. He didn’t do anything except take their money.

He’s like a Mafia kingpin, and his word means nothing.

When the people think of the government, they see

him. He’s in bed with some of the warlords up north,

and it’s pretty damned clear he’s on the payroll for

opium production.”

I snorted. “And he’s the guy we’re trying to support.

He’s the goodguy.”

Harruck cursed through a sigh. “Look, Zahed’s a

ruthless killer. His men are Huns. But the canals that

are here, the bazaar? He financed all of that, had his

people build it all. The Taliban brought in the natural

gas tanks and have been talking about getting power

lines hooked up.”

“And Kundi, our big landowner, supports all of this,”

I said.

“Here’s the thing. And I’ve been thinking about this

all day. If you take out Zahed too early—before I can

get something going here—then they’ll still hate us and

align us with the government.”

“They’ve already done that.”

“Not all of them. If we can build them their school,

their police station, and dig them a new well—and we

deliver on those promises—then the timing will be per-

fect to remove Zahed and maybe even bring in a new

governor. I’ve heard talk of that, too. Start off with a

clean slate.”

I sat back and tried to consider everything without

CO MB AT O P S

51

getting a migraine. “You want me to believe it’s all that

simple.”

“I’ve got nothing else, Scott. I can’t walk out of here

as a failure.”

“The legacy, huh?”

“This entire company is depending on me to help

them complete the mission. We’re not even close yet.”

“What if your mission is bullshit?”

“It’s not.”

“My people seem to think that if we take out the Tal-

iban leadership, we’ll be in a better position to help these

civilians—not that I agree with that, either. I mean

look . . . how are you supposed to build a school with no

assets and constant attacks from them?”

Harruck lowered his voice. “Maybe we can work with

them.”

I started laughing. “Last night I untied a girl from a

pool table, and you’re telling me you want to work with

these people?”

“Money talks.”

“Simon, if you go there, then you’re no better than

them. I’m telling you.”

“My back’s against the wall.”

A knock came at the door, and the company’s executive

officer, Martin Shoregan, peeked inside. He was a lean

black man and highly articulate, clearly being groomed

to lead a company of his own. “Sir, sorry to interrupt.

Dr. Anderson is here from the ARO.”

Harruck bolted out of his chair. “Are you kidding me?”

“Do you want me to—”

52

GH OS T RE C O N

“Send her right in!” he cried.

I glanced up at him. “Do you want me—”

“No, please stay.”

The door opened, and in stepped a woman in a green-

striped high-bodice dress with a swirling skirt and wide

shawl draped over her head. Blond hair spilled out from

the front of the shawl, and she grinned easily at us as I

rose to meet her.

“Captain Harruck?” she asked, looking at me.

I shook my head.

“I’m Captain Simon Harruck.” He proffered his

hand. “And this is a friend.”

She shook hands with Harruck, then smiled at me.

“Well, hello, friend. I guess if I get your name, then

you’ll have to kill me?”

I shrugged. “Call me Scott. Where are you from?

Australia?”

“Sydney. Very good. You?”

“I’m not here.”

She liked that. “Right . . .”

Harruck told her to take my seat, and I didn’t mind.

She was easy on the eyes.

The two exchanged a few more pleasantries, and I

learned that they’d spoken on the phone for many months.

She said she was finally able to gather the resources and

that the Afghanistan Relief Organization (ARO)—along

with more than a dozen other relief groups—was ready to

work with Army engineers on the construction of the

school, police station, and solar-powered well. All of the

agreements had been struck with the district governor and

CO MB AT O P S

53

other elders, and they should be able to break ground

within a week. Funding was finally in place.

“This is the news I’ve been waiting to hear for eight

months now,” said Harruck, his voice cracking. He

glanced over at me and nodded.

I didn’t hide my skepticism. “Dr. Anderson, I assume

the Doctoris for Ph.D.?”

“That’s right. My brother’s the medical doctor in our

family. My degree is in agricultural economics and rural

sociology. Call me Cassie.”

“Well, Cassie, you’re a smart woman, and you under-

stand the political situation here.”

“I’ve been working in this country for three years

now. So, yes, I’m keenly aware of what’s happening. The

ARO has made significant strides despite all the corrup-

tion.”

“I understand, but you don’t see this as a terrific

waste of resources?”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re going to provide all these services for the local

community, but when we leave, the Taliban will move

back in and destroy them, or exploit them, or hold them

ransom. We should neutralize the enemy first, build a

militia, then provide these people with an infrastructure

only after they can protect themselves.”

She looked at Harruck. “Your friend’s a bit of a

cynic.”

“His mission has become slightly different than

mine, but I think we can all work together to make this

happen.”

54

GH OS T RE C O N

I raised my voice, if only a little. “Simon, do you think

by helping these people you’ll really build their trust?

We’ll always be foreigners.”

“I need to try. At least for the children.”

I took a deep breath. “I have a mission.”

“I understand. But would you be willing to talk to

Keating? Maybe just buy us some time?”

“That’s the one thing they’re telling me I don’t have.”

“Will you at least try?”

I shrugged, then turned to the door.

“Scott, I respect your opinion, and I’m going to need

your help. Let’s do this together.”

I couldn’t answer, and I’m glad I didn’t.

“Nice to meet you . . . Scott,” said Anderson.

My grin was forced, and she knew it.

I returned to quarters and sat around with the rest of my

men, who were cleaning weapons. Hume and Nolan

were busy dissecting the Cross-Coms for any more clues

and had speculated that high-energy radio frequencies

were probably to blame. I told them to keep working on

it and shared with everyone what Harruck planned to do.

“He’s just painting a bigger target on this town and

pissing off the Taliban,” said Brown. “The local govern-

ment’s corrupt. That’s a given. So these people have come

to trust the Taliban, who’ve kept their word. Now we’re

supposed to get them to trust us more by giving them

more stuff, and we’re supposed to think that once we’ve

bought their trust, they’ll help us capture the Taliban.”

CO MB AT O P S

55

“Exactly,” I said. “But what’s wrong with that pic-

ture?”

Treehorn started laughing. “The Taliban ain’t going

to let that happen.”

“Harruck actually said we might have to work with

them.”

“Are you serious?” asked Ramirez, who set down a

magazine and turned his frown on me.

“See, Harruck knows that if we build the school and

the rest of it, the Taliban will attack, so how do you get

them off your back?”

“You take out their leader, disrupt their communica-

tions, and demoralize them,” said Matt Beasley, who’d

been very quiet the past few days. I could now hear the

frustration in his tone.

“That might work, Matt, and you can bet we’re going

to try. But that’s not Harruck’s plan.”

Ramirez made the money sign with his fingers.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “They’ll try to cut a deal.”

“Well, then, what’re we supposed to do?” asked

Ramirez. “Harruck’s offering a handshake while we’re

putting guns to their heads.”

“Look, he can’t do that openly,” I said. “Imagine the

headline. Bottom line is the taxpayers need an enemy

they can believe in—just as much as a hero.”

“All this is making my brain explode,” said Treehorn.

“I need a bullet and a target. I’m easy to please. The rest

of it is bullshit.”

“Captain, I know Harruck’s your friend,” began

Ramirez, “but we weren’t sent here to build a school. If

56

GH OS T RE C O N

this is a good old-fashioned militia training op, I can

deal with that, too. But we can’t be tiptoeing around

and still get our job done.”

“I know. And there’s no reason we should get caught

up in all this. I want to go back out there tonight, gather

more intel, and proceed on mission.”

“We’ve got the drones but still no way to talk to

them,” said Hume. “Waiting on new gear. Could be a

few more days.”

I cursed. “Then we’ll do it the old-fashioned way.

Radios, binoculars, NVGs, it’s not like we didn’t train

that way,” I said.

“You going to tell Harruck?” asked Treehorn.

“No choice. We still need company support. He

wanted me to call Keating and delay our mission. I don’t

know about you guys, but I’d rather get the job done

and get the hell out of here as soon as possible.”

“So just lie to him,” said Treehorn.

I thought about that.

And I wondered if maybe I was just being a selfish

bastard, but my guys felt the same way, so I lied and told

Harruck no go. Our mission remained unchanged. We

needed to find and capture Zahed.

“Don’t you understand?” he asked me, raising his

voice when I returned to his office later in the day. “This

is eight months’ worth of work finally coming together,

and you want to screw it up just to nail that fat bastard

who’ll be replaced by his second in command! If we

don’t reach some kind of an agreement, nothing will

happen.”

CO MB AT O P S

57

“They didn’t send me here to debate the politics,

Simon. They sent me to get a guy, and you can’t blame

me for doing that. I understand your mission here. All

I’m asking is that you understand mine. If I can capture

Zahed and they get him to talk, he could turn the tide

for us.”

“Okay, yeah, I get it now. I understand how you’re

going to incite them and create an even more volatile situ-

ation, as evidenced by today’s attack. And at the same

time that I’m trying to earn the locals’ trust, you’re piss-

ing them off by hunting down one fool who in the grand

scheme of things means nothing. He’s a local yokel.

You’re making him sound like Bin Laden.”

I balled my hands into fists. “You’re assuming that I

can’t demoralize them, that I can’t get the whole leader-

ship party, that no matter what I do it’s going to be sta-

tus quo over there.”

“That’s right, because that’s the way it’s been here. If

we’re going to change anything, it has to be big and

swift, and we need to do it together—if we leave them

out, we’re doomed to fail.”

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

“Scott—”

I took a deep breath. “I understand now why you

didn’t become a Ghost.”

“Don’t be this way.”

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

“Wow, what the hell was that?”

I faced him and spoke slowly . . . for effect. “What I

see here is us building another welfare state, socialism at

58

GH OS T RE C O N

its finest, but remember what Margaret Thatcher said:

‘Socialism only works until you run out of other people’s

money.’ I’m not ready to negotiate with these bastards.”

“Captain,” he snapped. “I’ll be contacting the gen-

eral. I’ll take this all the way up. There’s just too much at

stake here. Nothing personal.”

“That’s fine. You won’t like the answer you get. We’re

doing a recon tonight. I’ll need company support. I’ll

expect you to provide it. Check the registry, Captain.”

SIX

Without our Cross-Coms, satellite uplinks and down-

links, and targeting computers, we were, for all intents

and purposes, traditional old-school combatants relying

on our scopes and skills. We did, however, have one nice

toy well suited for Afghanistan: the XM-25, a laser-

designated grenade launcher with smart rounds that did

not require a link to our Cross-Coms. Matt Beasley had

traded in his rifle for the XM-25, saying he predicted

that he’d finally get a chance to field-test the weapon for

himself. His prediction would come true, all right . . .

I couldn’t deny the fact that long-range recon from the

mountains would gain us only a small portion of the big

picture. We needed HUMINT—human intelligence—

60

GH OS T RE C O N

which could be gathered only by boots on the ground . . .

spies walking among the enemy.

The guy I’d captured back in town was worthless. He

wouldn’t talk, make a deal, nothing. Harruck handed

him off to the CIA and wished him good riddance.

So at that point it was both necessary and logical that

I try to recruit the only local guy I knew who was seem-

ingly on my side.

I won’t say I fully trusted him—because I never did.

But I figured the least I could do was ask. Maybe for the

right price he’d be willing to walk into the valley of the

shadow of death and bring me back Zahed’s location.

The Ghosts gave me an allowance for such cases, and I

planned on spending it. I had nothing to lose except the

taxpayers’ money, and I worked for the government—so

that was par for the course.

Ramirez and I got a lift into town, and dressed like

locals with the shemaghscovering our heads and faces,

we had the driver let us off about a block from the

house. Ramirez would keep in radio contact with our

driver.

I wouldn’t have remembered the house if I didn’t

spot the young girl standing near the front door. She

took one look at me, gaped, then ran back into the

house, slamming the door after her. Ramirez looked at

me, and we shifted forward. I didn’t have to knock. The

guy who’d helped me capture the Taliban thug emerged.

I lowered my shemagh, and he didn’t look happy to see

me. “Hello again.”

“Hello.”

CO MB AT O P S

61

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

Joe.”

He sighed and begrudgingly took the hand. “I am

Babrak Shilmani.” He shook hands with Ramirez as

well.

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

He glanced around the street, then lifted his chin

and gestured that we go into his house.

The table I’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by large

colorful cushions spread across newly unfurled carpets.

I’d learned during my first tour in the country that

Afghans ate on the floor and that the cushions were

called toshakand that the thin mat in the center was a

disterkahn.

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

“Please sit. You are our guests.” He spoke rapidly in

Pashto, calling out to the rest of his family down the

hall.

I knew that hospitality was very important in the

Afghan code of honor. They routinely prepared the best

possible food for their guests, even if the rest of the fam-

ily did without.

As his family entered from the hall, heads lowered

shyly, Shilmani raised a palm. “This is my wife, Panra;

my daughter, Hila; and my son, Hewad.”

They returned nervous grins, and then the mother

and daughter hustled off, while the boy came to us and

offered to take our shemaghsand showed us where to sit

on the floor. Then he ran off and returned with a special

bowl and jug called a haftawa-wa-lagan.

62

GH OS T RE C O N

“You don’t have to feed us,” I told Shilmani, realiz-

ing that the boy had brought the bowl to help us wash

our hands and prepare for the meal.

“I insist.”

I glanced over at Ramirez. “Only use your right

hand. Remember?”

“Gotcha, boss.”

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

Afghanistan.”

I nodded. “I love the tea.”

“Excellent.”

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

He sighed. “I used to work for your military as a trans-

lator, but it got too dangerous, so I gave it up.”

Ramirez gave me a look. Perhaps we were wasting

our time and had received the noalready . . .

“They taught you?”

“Yes, a special school. I was young and somewhat

foolish. And I volunteered. But when Hila was born, I

decided to leave.”

“They threatened you?”

“You mean the Taliban?”

I nodded.

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

consequences.”

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

pointed out.

“Not really. Besides, I owe you.”

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

CO MB AT O P S

63

“And you helped me get him out of my house. I was

afraid for my wife and daughter. In most cases it is for-

bidden for a woman to be in the presence of a man who

is not related to her—but I am more liberal than that.”

“Glad to hear it.”

As if on cue, the wife and daughter entered and pro-

vided all of us with tea. I took a long pull on my cup and

relished the flavor, which somehow tasted like pista-

chios.

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

“I take care of problems.”

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

“I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone here. But my

job would be easier, and fewer innocent people would

get hurt, if I could get some help.”

“What do you need?”

“Not what. Who.”

Shilmani took a deep breath and stroked his thin

beard. “You’ve come for Zahed.”

I smiled. “Why not?”

“Because that’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Ramirez.

“He has too many friends, even American friends,

and too many connections. He has too many assets for

you to ever get close. They always know when you’re

coming. And they’re always prepared. They have eyes on

your base every hour of every day. You cannot leave

without them knowing about it.”

“So they know I’m here.”

64

GH OS T RE C O N

“Yes, they do.”

“And I’ve already put you in danger?”

“No, because I work for Mirab Mir Burki, who is the

master of water distribution here in Zhari.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Burki knows you Americans want to dig a new well.

He wants that well, and he’s already negotiated with

Zahed over rights to the water and the profits. We’re just

waiting for you to build it. Any contact I have with

Americans is part of our water negotiations—so as you

might say, I have a good cover.”

“What is it you want?”

“What all men want. Money. Safety for my family. A

better life.” Shilmani finished his tea, then topped off

our cups and refilled his own.

“You want to see Zahed captured?”

“He’s not a good influence here—despite what others

may say. He does not break promises, but when he gives

you something, the price is always very steep.”

“Kundi seems to like him.”

“That old man is a fool, and Zahed would put a knife

in his back. There is no loyalty there.”

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

Shilmani’s gaze turned incredulous. “No. Of course

not.”

“But you said you wanted money. I can work out an

arrangement that would be very good for you—and

your family.”

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

CO MB AT O P S

65

“We can protect you.”

“You’re not a good liar, Scott.”

We finished the tea, and Shilmani’s wife and daughter

served rice and an onion-based quormaor stew, along

with chutneys, pickles, and naan—an unleavened bread

baked in a clay oven. The food was delicious, and the

wife continued urging us to eat more.

Afterward, while his family retreated to the back of

the house, Shilmani wiped his mouth, then stared hard

at me. “You have to remember something, Scott. After

all of you are gone, we are left to pick up the pieces.

We’re just trying to do the best we can for ourselves.”

I stood. “I know that. Thanks for the meal. If you

want to give me some information about Zahed, I’ll pay

for it. If you change your mind about going to Sangsar,

then just tell one of the soldiers on patrol that you want

to speak to me. I’ll get the word.”

“Okay. And one more thing. Walk in my shoes for a

moment. I cannot trust the Taliban. I cannot trust my

village elder or my boss. I cannot trust the district gov-

ernor. And I cannot trust you, the foreigner.”

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

told him.

Ramirez pursed his lips and gestured that we leave. I