Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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called back to the family, said our good-byes, then ambled

out into the street, as Ramirez got on the radio and

hailed the Hummer driver.

“What do you think?” he asked as we started around

the corner. “Waste of time?”

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GH OS T RE C O N

“I don’t think so. He doesn’t like Zahed.”

“Yeah, seems like there’s more to it.”

“And maybe we can use that to our advantage.”

Around eleven P.M. local time I got a satellite phone call

from Lieutenant Colonel Gordon back at Fort Bragg.

He’d just arrived in the office and was telling me that his

morning coffee tasted bitter because I had yet to capture

Zahed.

Then, after he finished issuing a string of epithets

regarding the call he’d just had with General Keating, he

cleared his throat and said to me point-blank, “Is Cap-

tain Harruck going to be a problem?”

“I don’t know. To be honest with you, Colonel, I

think higher’s just throwing stuff at the wall to see what

sticks, and we’re all just part of the plan.”

“Well, you listen to me, Mitchell, and you listen to

me good. We both know this COIN mission is complete

and utter nonsense. It’s politicians running the war. You

don’t secure the population and let the enemy run wild.

We ain’t playing defense here! And we can’t have that.

As far as I’m concerned, it is nota good day to be a Tal-

iban leader in the Zhari district. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“New Cross-Coms are en route. Meanwhile, you do

what you need to do. Next week at this time I’d like to

be powwowing with the fat man.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“And Mitchell?”

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67

“Yes, sir?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, sir. I’m fine. Talk to you soon.”

I’d thought he’d heard me cracking under the pres-

sure, but later on I realized that my heart was just dark-

ening, and the old man could sense that from a half a

world away.

At about three A.M. local time, in the wee hours, we left

the base in a Hummer driven by Treehorn. Harruck

made no attempts to stop us. I’d assumed he’d been told

by Keating that he should not interfere with my mission.

Instead of driving out into the desert, toward the

mountains, we headed off to the town, so that the Tal-

iban now watching us from ridgelines and the desert

would assume we were just another village patrol.

Once in town, we went to the bazaar area, where sev-

eral vendors had their old beater pickup trucks parked

out behind their homes/stalls.

We split into two teams and entered the homes behind

the stalls, accosting the shop owners and demanding their

keys at gunpoint.

The old merchants saw only a band of masked wraiths

with deep, angry voices.

Within five minutes we had two pickup trucks on the

road, and the old men who could blow the alarm were

gagged and tied. They might guess we were Americans,

but we spoke only in Pashto and were dressed like the

Taliban themselves.

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GH OS T RE C O N

I sent Jenkins back with the Hummer, and though he

was bummed to remain in the rear, I told him I needed

a good pair of eyes on the base . . . just in case.

We drove out to the main bridge over the Arghandab

River, dropped off Brown and Smith, then crossed the

bridge, heading along the mountain road that wound its

way up and back down into the valley where Sangsar lay

in the cool moonlight. The town reminded me of the

little villages my grandfather would build for his train

sets. He had a two-car garage filled with locomotives

and cars and towns and enough accessories to earn him

a spot on the local news. When he passed, my father sold

it all on eBay and made a lot of money.

The Taliban sentries watching us through their bin-

oculars probably assumed we were opium smugglers or

carrying out some other such transport mission for

Zahed. In fact, we were not stopped and reached the top

of the mountain, where the dirt road broadened enough

for us to pull over, park the vehicles, and move in closer

on foot.

We’d taken such great care to slip into Sangsar during

our first raid attempt that I’d felt certain no Taliban had

seen us, but according to Shilmani, they had. Interest-

ing that Zahed did not tip off his guards at the com-

pound and allowed them to be ambushed. That was

decidedly clever of him.

However, this time our plan was more bold. Be seen.

Be mistaken. And be deadly.

Hume had rigged up a temporary remote for the

Cypher drone, and though there was no screen from

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69

which we could view the drone’s data, he could fly it like

a remote-controlled UFO, keeping a visual on it with his

night-vision goggles.

We were bass fishing for Taliban, and the drone was

our red rubber worm.

Within five minutes we’d taken up perches along the

heavy rocks jutting from the mountainside and had, yet

again, an unobstructed and encompassing view of the

valley and all of Sangsar.

The drone whirred away, and I lay there on my belly,

just watching it and thinking about Harruck and Shil-

mani and that old man Kundi and remembering that

every one of us had his own agenda, every one of us was

stubborn, and every one of us would fight till the end.

“Sir,” whispered Treehorn, who was at my left shoul-

der. “Movement in the rocks behind us, six o’clock.”

SEVEN

When I was a kid, D.C.’s Sgt. Rockand Marvel’s The

’Namwere among my favorite comics. I didn’t realize it

then, but what drew me to those stories was the simplic-

ity of the plots. The good guys and bad guys were clearly

defined, and you understood every character’s desire

and related with that desire. Kill bad guys. Save every-

one. Win the war. For America! Be proud! Come home

and get a medal, be worshipped as a hero, live happily

ever after. As a kid, you’re looking for admiration and

acceptance, and being a superhero soldier always sounded

pretty damned good to me.

However, that would never happen if I stayed in Ohio.

There weren’t too many opportunities for me growing up

in Youngstown. Sure, I could’ve gone to work in the

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71

General Motors assembly plant in Lordstown like my

father had, but I doubt I would’ve matched his thirty

years. Boredom or the tanking economy would’ve finished

me. My brother Nicolas got out himself and became an

engineering professor down in Florida, while Tommy

owned and operated Mitchell’s Auto Body and Repair in

Youngstown. He loved cars and had inherited that passion

from our father. He’d had no desire to ever leave home

and had tried to persuade me to stay and run the shop

with him. Because Dad was an avid woodworker, Tommy

even tried to persuade me to open a custom furniture shop

and work with Dad, but that didn’t sound very glamorous

to an eighteen-year-old. Jennifer, the baby of our family,

married a wealthy software designer, and she lived with

him and their daughter in Northern California.

So I’d gone off to see the world and serve my coun-

try. Because that sounded so hokey, I told everyone I

was joining the Army to pay for my college education—

which Dad resented because it made us sound poor.

I can’t lie, though. During my service I’ve seen the

good, the bad, and the ugly—and it’s easy to become

disenchanted. When I’d joined, I was just as naïve as the

next guy, but for many years I clung to my beliefs and

positive attitude, and I let my passion become infectious.

But I think after 9/11, when the GWOT (global war

on terrorism) got into full swing, my veneer grew a bit

worn. It didn’t happen overnight, but every mission

seemed to sap me just a little more. I grew older, my

body became more worn, and my spirit seemed harder

to kindle.

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GH OS T RE C O N

When I raised my right hand and they swore me in, I

never thought I’d have to wrap my head around no-win

situations in which everyone I dealt with was a liar, in

which my own institution was undermining my ability to

get the job done, and in which my own friends had drawn

lines in the sand based on philosophical differences.

Before my mother had died from cancer, she’d held

my hand and told me to make the best of my life.

I figured she was rolling over in her grave when they

started calling me a murderer . . .

Treehorn had a good ear and better eyes, and I

glanced back to where he’d spotted the movement along

the mountainside. My night-vision goggles revealed two

Taliban fighters peering out from behind a pair of rocks,

but before I could get on the radio and issue an order,

Beasley appeared from behind a few rocks and slipped

down toward the Taliban thugs. As they turned back, he

took one out with his Nightwing black tungsten blade

while Nolan, who dropped down at Beasley’s side, broke

the neck of the other fighter.

Beasley called me and said, “Looks like only two up

here, boss. Clear now.”

I called up Ramirez, who was packing our portable,

ultrawide-band radar unit that could detect ground

movement up to several hundred meters away. I’d con-

sidered leaving the device behind in case we got zapped

again, but now I was glad we had it. I hadn’t expected

sentries this far up into the mountains. Within a minute

Ramirez would be scanning the outskirts of the town.

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73

Off to the northeast, along a section of wall that was

beginning to crumble, a pair of jingle trucks were parked

abreast. The trucks were colorfully painted and adorned

with pieces of rugs, festooned with chimes, and fitted with

all sorts of other dangling jewels that created quite a

racket as they traveled down the potholed roads between

villages. These trucks had become famous and then

infamous among American soldiers. They were typically

used by locals to transport goods, but in more recent

years they had become instruments to smuggle drugs

and weapons across the borders with Iran and Pakistan.

Thugs would hide weapons within stacks of firewood or

piles of rugs, and young infantrymen would have to

search the loads while wizened old men glared on, palms

raised as they were held at gunpoint. I must’ve seen a

hundred roadside incidents of search and seizure during

my time in country.

That Zahed had several of these trucks in the village

was unsurprising. That there was a man posted in the

back of one truck and pointing his rifle up at us gave me

pause.

Treehorn already had him spotted with his scope, and

he’d attached the gun’s big silencer, so he could do the

job in relative quiet.

I told him to wait while I scanned for more targets.

“Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez,” came the voice in my

headset.

“What do you got?”

“Just the one guy in the jingle truck so far. The

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GH OS T RE C O N

compound we hit looks empty. Picking up movement

from all the farm animals in the pens. Nothing else, over.”

“Roger that. Hume, talk to me about the drone.”

“Nothing. Just flying around. If they’re here, they’re

not taking the bait. Not yet, anyway.”

“All right, just keep flying over the town. Maybe get

in close to the mosque.”

“I see it. I’ll get near the dome and towers.”

“Ghost Lead, this is Treehorn, I have my target.”

“I know you do. Hang tight for now. Still want to see

if they take the bait, over.”

“Roger that. Say the word.”

I continued scanning the village, which stretched out

for about a quarter kilometer, swelling to the south with

dozens more brick homes that had open windows and

rickety wooden ladders leading up to storage areas on

the roofs. Most windows were dark, with only a faint

flickering here and there from either candles or perhaps

kerosene or gas lanterns. I imagined that somewhere

down there, sprawled across a bed whose legs were buck-

ling under his girth, was the fat man who wielded all the

power in this region.

“Still no takers on the drone,” reported Hume.

I listened to the wind. Glanced around once more.

Scanned. Saw the shooter still sitting there in the truck.

Time to move in.

“Treehorn, clear to fire,” I said.

“Clear to fire, roger that, stand by . . .”

I held my breath, anticipated the faint click and pop,

no louder than the sound of a BB gun, and watched

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75

through the binoculars as the gunman in the jingle

truck slumped.

“Good hit, target down,” reported Treehorn.

“Ghost Team, this is Ghost Lead. Advance to the

wall. Hume, get that drone in deeper, and feel ’em out.

Two teams. Alpha right, Bravo left. Move out!”

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was an adrenaline

junkie and that this part of the job quickened my pulse

and was entirely addictive. You stayed up nights think-

ing about moments like this. And there was no better

ego-stroking in the world than to play God, to decide

who lives and who dies. There was nothing better than

the hunting of men, Ernest Hemingway had once said,

and the old man was right.

But I always stressed to my people that they had to

live with their decisions, a simple fact that would become

terribly ironic for me.

“Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez. Radar’s picking up

something big behind us.”

“Ghost Lead, this is Brown. Paul and I are all set

here, but FYI, two Blackhawks inbound, your position,

over.”

Even as he finished his report, the telltale whomping

began to echo off the mountains, like an arena full of

people clapping off the beat, and abruptly the two heli-

copters appeared, both switching on searchlights that

panned across the desert floor like pearlescent lasers.

“Ghost Team, take cover now!” I cried, dodging

across the sand toward the jingle trucks.

Ramirez, Jenkins, and Hume rushed up behind me,

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GH OS T RE C O N

while Nolan, Beasley, and Treehorn darted for a large

section of fallen wall, the crumbling bricks forming a

U-shaped bunker to shield them.

“Hume, bring back the drone,” I added. Then I

switched channels to the command net. “Liberty Base,

this is Ghost Lead, over.”

“Go ahead, Ghost Lead,” came the radio operator

back at FOB Eisenhower.

“I want to talk to Liberty Six right now!” I could

already see myself grabbing Harruck by the throat.

“I’m sorry, Ghost Lead, but Liberty Six is unavailable

right now.”

I cursed and added, “I don’t care! Get him on the

line!”

Meanwhile, Ramirez, who like all of us had received

Air Force combat controller training, gave me the hand

signal that he’d made contact with one of the chopper

pilots, as both helicopters wheeled overhead, waking up

the entire village. I listened to him speak with that guy

while I waited.

“Repeat, we are the friendly team on the ground.

What is your mission, over?”

I leaned in closer to hear his radio. “Ground team, we

were ordered to pick you up at these coordinates, over.”

Ramirez’s eyes bulged.

“Tell him to evac immediately,” I said. “We do not

need the goddamned pickup.”

Ramirez opened his mouth as a flurry of gunfire cut

across the jingle truck, and even more fire was directed

CO MB AT O P S

77

up at the two Blackhawks, rounds sparking off the fuse-

lages.

With a gasp, I realized there had to be twenty, maybe

thirty combatants laying down fire now.

I knew the choppers’ door gunners wouldn’t return

fire. Close Air Support had become as rare as indoor

plumbing in Afghanistan because of both friendly fire

and civilian casualty incidents, so those pilots would just

bug out. Which they did.

Leaving us to contend with the hornet’s nest theyhad

stirred up.

“What do you think happened?” Ramirez cried over

the booms and pops of AK-47s.

“Harruck figured out a way to abort our mission,” I

said through my teeth. “He’ll call it a miscommunica-

tion, and he’ll remind me that I needed company sup-

port. But those birds had to come all the way from

Kandahar—what a waste!”

“Well, he didn’t screw up our entire mission,” said

Ramirez, then he flashed a reassuring grin. “Not yet!”

A breath-robbing whistle came from the right, and I

couldn’t get the letters out of my mouth fast enough:

“RPG!”

The rocket-propelled grenade lit up the night as it

streaked across the wall and exploded at the foot of the

concrete bricks near the rest of my team.

As the debris flew and the smoke and flames slowly

dissipated, I led my group along the wall and back

toward the brick pile, where we linked up with the

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GH OS T RE C O N

others, who were stunned but all right. Nolan had found

a hole in the wall, and we all passed through, reaching

the first row of houses and rushing back toward them,

where to our right the wall continued onward until it

terminated in a big wooden gate. “We’ll get out that

way,” I hollered, pointing.

We reached the first house, sprinted to the next, and

then had to cross a much wider road, on the side of

which stood a donkey cart with the donkey still attached

but pulling at his straps. The moment I peered around

the corner, a salvo ripped into the wall just above my

head. I stole another quick glance and saw a guy duck-

ing back inside his house, using his open window and

the thick brick walls as cover. We could fire all day at

those walls, but our conventional rounds wouldn’t pen

etrate.

Another glance showed a second gunman in the win-

dow next door. Two for one. Double your pleasure.

Wonderful. We were pinned down.

I turned back to the group and gave Beasley a hand

signal: We can’t get across. Got two. You’re up.

Over the years I’ve come to appreciate advances in

weapons technology for two reasons: One, as a member

of an elite gun club called the Ghosts, I couldn’t help

but be fascinated by the instruments that kept me alive,

and two, like everyone else in the Army, I enjoyed things

that went BOOM!

The XM-25 launcher that Beasley was about to present

to the enemy made one hell of a twenty-five-thousand-

dollar boom, which was the CPU or cost per unit.

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79

“Hey, wait, before he fires, maybe we can call Har-

ruck and ask for mortar support,” said Ramirez, making

a very bad joke.

I snorted and gave Beasley the all clear.

The team sergeant lifted the launcher, which was much

thicker than a conventional rifle and came equipped with

a pyramid-shaped scope.

With smooth, graceful movement, Beasley laser-des-

ignated his target, used the scope to set range, and then

without ceremony fired.

Each twenty-five-millimeter round packed two war-

heads that were more powerful than the conventional

forty-millimeter grenade launchers. Next came the moment

when gun freaks like me got our jollies: The round didn’t

have to burrow through the wall and kill the guy on the

other side, no. The round passed through the open win-

dow and detonated in midair, sending a cloud of fragmen-

tation inside that would shred anyone, most particularly

Taliban fighters attempting to play Whac-A-Mole with

Ghost units.

The moment his first round detonated, Beasley turned

his attention to window number two, got his laser on

target, set his distance for detonation, and boom, by the

time the echo struck the back wall, we were already en

route toward the wooden gate, even as that donkey broke

his straps and clattered past us.

“This one’s a keeper,” Beasley told me, patting the

XM-25 like a puppy.

Before Ramirez could try the lock, Jenkins put his

size thirteen boot to the wooden gate panel and smashed

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GH OS T RE C O N

it open. We rushed through and ran to the right, work-

ing back along the wall while Treehorn lingered behind,

throwing smoke grenades into the street to create a little

chaos and diversion.

The choppers were still whomping somewhere over

the mountains, out of range now, as we charged toward

the foothills, only drawing fire once we reached the first

ravine. There, we dove for cover, rolled and came back

up, on our bellies, ready to return fire—

But I told everyone to hold. Wait. Keep low. And

watch. Treehorn’s smoke grenades kept hissing and cast-

ing thick clouds over the village.

Many of the Taliban were running from the front gate,

and two went over to the jingle trucks and fired them up.

“They’re going to chase us in those?” Ramirez asked.

“Looks like it,” I said. “Let’s fall back. Up the moun-

tain, back to the pickup trucks.”

We broke from cover and ran, working our way along

the mountainside and keeping as many of the jagged

outcroppings between us and the village as possible. I

wish I could say it was a highly planned and skillful

withdrawal performed by some of the most elite soldiers

in the world.

But all I can really say is . . . we got the hell out of

there.

Up near the mountaintop road, we climbed breath-

lessly into the pickup trucks as down below, headlights

shone across the dirt road. My binoculars showed the pair

of jingle trucks and two more pickups with fifty-caliber

guns mounted on their flatbeds. I breathed a curse.

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81

Since Harruck had already sabotaged my mission, I

decided not to throw any more gasoline on the fire. We

wouldn’t engage those guys unless absolutely necessary.

Treehorn took us down the mountain road at a

breakneck pace, and I was more frightened by his driv-

ing than by the Taliban on our tails. The pickup literally

came up on two wheels as we cut around a narrow cliff

side turn, and that drew swearing from everyone as the

road seemed to give way in at least two spots.

“This thing’s got some power,” Treehorn said evenly.

We came down the last few slopes and turned onto

the dirt road leading up to the bridge. With our head-

lights out, Smith and Brown were watching us with

their NVGs and gave us a flash signal. We found them at

the foot of the bridge, and Brown climbed in the back of

our truck.

“Good to go, Captain,” he said. “Just give me the

word.”

“Soon as we cross,” I told him.

“You don’t want to wait and take them out, too?” he

asked, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Nah, it’s okay. This’ll be enough.”

A double thud worked its way up into the seats, and

we left the bridge and crossed back onto the sand.

“All right,” I cried back to Brown. “Blow that son of

a bitch!”

He worked his remote, and the C-4 that he and Smith

had expertly planted along the bridge’s pylons detonated in

a rapid sequence of thunderclaps that shook both the

ground and the pickups themselves. Magnesium-bright

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GH OS T RE C O N

flashes came from beneath all that concrete, and just as the

smoke clouds began to rise, the center section of the bridge

simply broke off and belly flopped into the ink-black water,

sending waves rushing toward both shorelines.

The drivers of the jingle trucks must have seen the

explosions and bridge collapse, but the guy in the lead

truck braked too hard, and the truck behind him plowed

into his rear bumper, sending him over the edge where

the concrete had sheared off. He did a swan dive toward

the river, while the second guy attempted to turn away,

but he rolled onto his side and slid off the edge. Three,

two, boom, he hit the water.

Behind them, the two pickups with machine gunners

came to brake-squealing halts and paused at the edge so

that the drivers and gunners could stare down in awe at

the sinking trucks—

As we raced off toward Senjaray in the distance.

EIGHT

While I was blowing up bridges and trying to hunt

down my target, the president of Afghanistan was in the

United States, making speeches about how his govern-

ment and the United States needed to build bridges in

order to unite his people. He argued that not all Taliban

were linked to terrorist groups like al Qaeda and that

many Taliban wanted to lay down their arms and reach

reconciliation with the national government.

That may have been true. But I wanted to know how

you sorted out the friendly Taliban from the ones wiring

themselves with explosives, even as the Afghan president

allied himself with his neighbors: Iran and Pakistan,

nations that served as training grounds and safe havens

for those wanting to destroy the United States.

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GH OS T RE C O N

Everyone had answers that involved false assump-

tions, sweeping generalizations, and a skewed under-

standing of the complexities, contradictions, and culture

of Afghanistan.

But that was all politics, right? None of my business.

I just needed to capture a Taliban commander. One of

the first things I learned after joining the military was to

focus on my mission and leave the debates to the fat

boys back home. I talked to my colleagues, and it was

the same old story: Officers who got too caught up in

the politics of their missions were, in most cases, not as

successful as those who did not. Success was judged on

whether the mission goals had been achieved and at

what cost.

Lest we be accused of theft instead of borrowing, we

dropped off the pickup trucks at the edge of town and

were met by a driver and Hummer for the ride back to

the FOB.

En route, I made a satellite phone call to Lieutenant

Colonel Gordon, who suggested I speak directly with

General Keating. I tried to restrain myself from explod-

ing as I described the situation to the general. He told

me Harruck had contacted him already. “Sir, the bot-

tom line is, I want the guy’s head on a platter.”

“You guys were very well liked and made a great team

during that Robin Sage.”

“Yes, sir. But I don’t think the captain is playing on

our team anymore.”

“I know you feel that way, but you need to under-

stand something. First, I can’t stop you from lopping off

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85

his head. If you put it in writing, I’ll have to forward the

charge.”

“I’ll have it to you right away.”

“Slow down, son. Our situation is complicated, and

Captain Harruck’s mission further complicates matters.

But that can and should work to our advantage.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Mitchell, we can use his mission as a distraction to

keep everyone busy while you hunt down our boy. The

COIN mission is our screen. Harruck’s attempts to win

over the locals will keep the Taliban busy.”

“Sir, how about the same plan, only we let the XO

take over. Lose Harruck.”

The general sighed deeply. “Better the devil we know

than the devil we don’t, Mitchell.”

“Sir, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Son, this has already become a huge task manage-

ment problem. We don’t need to make it more difficult.

Go talk to Harruck. Work it out. I know you can.”

I could barely answer. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m counting on you, Mitchell.”

I ended the call before cursing.

Harruck was waiting for me outside his office when the

Hummer pulled up. “You were wrong about Keating,”

he said to me abruptly.

“Oh, yeah?”

“He’s not a soldier. He’s a politician, just like the rest

of them.”

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GH OS T RE C O N

“Just like you.”

He shook his head. “Come inside.”

I raised an index finger, deciding I was going to make

this bastard suffer a little more for what he’d done. “At

this point, I advise you to speak very carefully, because

you’ve just committed a court-martial offense, and even

worse, an immoral and ethical offense. You’ve not only

disobeyed an order from a superior, you’ve broken the

code of honor by endangering me and my Ghosts.”

“Scott, this is the part where I say I don’t know what

you’re talking about.”

“Look, buddy, I won’t even ask what kind of proof

you have or how you tried to orchestrate this thing to get

yourself off. Point is, without authorization you called in

those birds to abort my mission. And you know, if word

of this gets out, it’ll spread like wildfire. No one will

trust you.”

“I got two merchants who said people tied them up

and stole their trucks. I got chopper pilots telling me

you blew the bridge over the river. Hell, we heard the

thing go up. And now you’re playing angel? Jesus Christ,

Scott . . . you can’t walk in here and take over. I told you

I got eight months in here! EIGHT GODDAMNED

MONTHS!”

As he raised his voice, I grew more calm and para-

phrased regulations, which I knew would spike his pulse.

“By law, you were required to carry out the last order

given to you by your superior officer and only afterward

were you to question that order by going up the chain of

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87

command to my superiors. I’m sure neither Gordon nor

Keating gave you the okay to abort my mission.”

“Don’t stand there and think you can burn me, Scott.

I’ve got a lot on you, too. I’m talking lots of stuff in the

closet, friendly-fire crap that was covered up . . . you

know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Actually, I didn’t because there were too many close

calls, too many missions where collateral damage needed

to be addressed by my superiors, who, for the most part,

kept me and my team out of the loop. Whatever he

thought he had was probably bullshit . . . but then again,

you never knew . . .

He turned and headed into his office. I followed. He

crossed around his desk but remained standing. I kept

near the door and didn’t take a chair, either.

After a deep breath, I said, “Simon, I’m trying to

decide if I should have you removed from command.”

“That’s not your decision.”

“Once I light the fuse, there’s no putting it out.”

“Yeah, you like blowing things up. So why the

bridge?”

“Changing the subject?”

“Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“Yeah, made it harder for them. They’ve been using

the bridge we builtto come over here and attack us.

Now if they want to come, they get to go swimming.”

“That bridge was symbolic of our presence here.”

“Like the school and the police station and the well

you want to drill?”

88

GH OS T RE C O N

“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

“Man, I would’ve never seen this coming.” I closed

my eyes and took another deep breath. “We can agree to

disagree, but you cannot interfere with my mission.”

“You know your mission is worthless. And it might

mean we have to sacrifice everything—even now when

things are finally going to happen.”

“They gave me a target.”

“And you think you can act with impunity?”

I tensed. “I can and will act with impunity.”

“So now you’re God.”

My hands turned into fists. “Why are you doing this?

We’re on the same side. Zahed is a thug.”

He rubbed the corners of his eyes. “You think I’m a

bleeding-heart liberal now?”

“They sent you here to secure the town and help the

people, and they’re calling that counterinsurgency. It’s a

goddamned joke. They sent me here to capture or kill

the bad guy. To them, it’s all very simple.”

“I just want to help these people, give their kids a

school, let ’em have a police station, and let them have

more drinking water so they’re not constantly screwed

over by the Taliban, who’re selling it to them at outra-

geous prices. What’s wrong with that? We’re talking

about basic human rights.”

I hardened my gaze. “At what cost? My life? The lives

of my team?”

He couldn’t meet my gaze.

“Simon, you’re not here to create a legacy. Just get