Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

He averted his gaze. “If there’s anything I can do on

my end to help, just let me know—and I’m not just talk-

ing about the mission.”

I couldn’t hide the disgust in my voice. “All right, sir.

I’ll be sending some coordinates about a field. I want

some satellite imagery on it.”

“No problem. Scott, I got your back.”

“I know that, sir.”

That was a lie to make me feel better. It wasn’t his

fault, really. As everyone had said—the situation was

complicated.

I remained in the comm center and finally got in touch

with my sister, who told me Dad was stable, but the heart

attack was a bad one and now they thought he had pneu-

monia. He’d slipped into a coma and was on a ventilator.

“I haven’t even seen him yet,” Jenn said. “Gerry and

I will be flying in from Napa tomorrow. Did you try to

call Nick or Tommy?”

“Not yet.”

“They should know more. How’re you doing? You

don’t sound too good.”

“Just having one of those days.”

“Where are you now? Classified?”

“Not really. I’m back in Afghanistan.”

116 GH OS T RE CON

“Again?”

“It’s the war that keeps on giving.”

“Will we ever finish there?”

I snorted. “Maybe next week.”

“Why don’t you retire, Scott? You’ve done enough.

Do like Tommy. Work with your hands. You love the

woodworking just like Dad. And you’re good at it, too.

Get into the furniture business or something. Gerry says

niche markets like that are the future for American man-

ufacturing.”

“Tell Gerry thanks for the business analysis. And

retirement sounds pretty good about now. Anyway, I’ll

try calling you tomorrow night. Let me know how Dad’s

doing. Okay?”

“Okay, Scott. I love you.”

“Love you, too.

I sat there, closed my eyes, and remembered sitting

next to my father while he read Hardy Boys books to

me. Frank and Joe Hardy, teenaged detectives, could

solve any mystery, though finding one Mullah Moham-

med Zahed was beyond the scope of even their keen eyes

and deductive lines of reasoning.

Suddenly, I shivered as I thought of Dad lying in the

coffin he had built for himself in our woodworking shop

behind the house. He’d been so proud of that box, and

the rest of us had thought it so creepy and morbid of

him, but then again, it was fitting for him to design and

build his “last vehicle,” since he’d spent most of his life

in the auto plant.

CO MB AT O P S

117

After calming myself, I stood and thanked the ser-

geant who’d helped me, then left the center.

I was numb. The reality of it all wouldn’t hit me till

later.

Warris and Bronco were still waiting for me at my quar-

ters. I apologized to Warris and asked him to wait inside

my billet while I spoke to Bronco.

“Mind if I listen in?” asked the young captain.

Here we go, I thought. “Yeah, I do.” I pursed my lips

and looked fire at “the kid.”

“Hey, Captain Warris,” called Ramirez from the

doorway. “Come on, and I’ll introduce you to the rest

of the guys.”

Warris took a deep breath and scratched the peach

fuzz on his chin. “All right . . .”

I waited until he was out of earshot, then took a step

forward. “See this? Get used to this. This is me in your

face.”

Bronco frowned. “I didn’t figure you for a cowboy.”

“I’m not.”

“And I figured you’ve been here before.”

“I have.”

“Then maybe you have an idea of what you’re dealing

with here . . . or maybe you don’t. Like I said, just lock

up your dogs, and you and I will be just fine.”

“Okay.”

I stepped back from him, took a deep breath.

118 GH OS T RE CON

His eyes narrowed, deep lines spanning his face. “Just

like that?”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m a Texas boy. You?”

“Ohio. So you’re the cowboy.”

“And you’re the farmer. I think what you need to do

is listen to the CO here. He’s got it together. He under-

stands the delicate balance of power.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not my mission.”

Bronco checked his watch. “You got a minute. I’ve

got some friends I want you to meet . . .”

“Who are they?”

“Men who will provide, shall we say, enlightenment.”

“Oh, I’ve got that up to here.”

“Trust me, Joe. This will be worth your time.”

I thought about it. “I’m not coming alone.”

He looked wounded. “You don’t trust me. It’s not like

I work for the CIA or anything. Look, we’re just going

into the village. You’ll be fine. My car’s right over there.”

“This is important to you?”

“Very.”

“You think it’ll get me out of your face?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

Maybe I was feeling suicidal, but I told Ramirez to enter-

tain Captain Warris until I returned. I drove off with

Bronco to a part of the village I hadn’t visited before,

where the brick houses were more circular and clustered

in a labyrinth to form curving alleys that opened into

CO MB AT O P S

119

courtyards full of fruit trees and grapevines. In the dis-

tance lay great fields of wheat, sorghum, and poppy, and

off to my right was a mine-sweeping team along with

their dogs working the field where Kundi said it was

okay to drill the well. At least Harruck hadn’t been a

total fool about that. And for all intents and purposes,

he could have those minesweepers check the area where

Kundi had refused to drill . . . but he wouldn’t . . .

Bronco parked along a more narrow section of the

road, then led me onward into the dust-laden shadows of

the warren.

Several old men with long beards were trailed by chil-

dren holding a donkey by its reins. The animal was car-

rying huge stacks of grass to feed cattle penned up in the

south. Farther down the street, I spotted one of Har-

ruck’s patrols questioning a young boy of ten or twelve

wearing a dirty robe. The soldiers looked like high-tech

aliens against the ancient terrain.

We reached a narrow wooden door built into a wall

adjoining two homes and were met by a young man who

immediately recognized Bronco and let us in. He spoke

rapidly in Pashto to the boy, who ran ahead of us.

The courtyard we entered had more grapevines and

several fountains along a mosaic tile floor; it was, per-

haps, the most ornately decorated section of the village

I’d encountered. To our left lay a long walkway that ter-

minated in a side door through which the boy ran. We

started slowly after him, and I detected a sweet, smoky

smell emanating from ahead.

I was dressed like a regular soldier and still packing my

120 GH OS T RE CON

sidearm. I reached for the weapon as we started through

the door, and Bronco gave me a look: You won’t need that.

“Force of habit,” I lied.

Light filtered in from a windowless hole in the wall as

we came into a wide living area of crimson-colored rugs,

matching draperies, and shelving built into the walls to

hold dozens of pieces of pottery, along with silver trays

and decanters. Dust and smoke filtered through that

single light beam, and my gaze lowered to the three

men sitting cross-legged, one of whom was taking a long

pull on a water pipe balanced between them. The men

were brown prunes and rail-thin. Their teacups were

empty. Slowly, one by one, they raised their heads, nod-

ded, and greeted Bronco, who sat opposite them and

motioned that I do likewise. He introduced me to the

man seated in the middle, Hamid, his beard entirely

white, his nose very broad. I could barely see his eyes

behind narrow slits.

He spoke in Pashto, his voice low and burred by age.

“Bronco tells me they sent you here to capture Zahed.”

I glowered at Bronco. “No.”

“Don’t lie to them,” he snapped.

“Yes,” said Hamid. “The rope of a lie is short—and

you will hang yourself with it.”

“Who are you?” I asked him in Pashto.

“I was once the leader of this village until my son

took over.”

I nodded slowly. “Kundi is your son, and your son

negotiates with the Taliban.”

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

CO MB AT O P S

121

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

given to us by you Americans.”

“Zahed’s men attack the village, attack our base, and

rape children.”

“There is no excuse for that.”

“Then the people here should join us.”

“We already have.”

“No, I need your son to cut off all ties with the Tal-

iban. There’s a rumor that the workers building the

school and police station have to give their money to

Zahed.”

“I’m sure that is true, but Zahed is a good man.”

Hamid nodded to drive the point home.

“Do you know if he is working with al Qaeda?”

“He is not. He is nota terrorist.”

“Hamid, forgive me, but I don’t understand why

your people support him. He’s a military dictator.”

“He comes from a long line of great men. The people

in his village are very happy, safe, and secure. All we want

is the same. We did not ask you to come here. We do not

want you here. We would be happier if you went home.”

“But look at what we’re doing for you . . .”

The old man pursed his lips and sighed. “That is not

help. That is a political game. I had this very same con-

versation with a Russian commander many years ago.

And he thought just like you . . .”

A muffled shout from outside wafted in from the

window. “Hasten to prayer.”

Bronco looked at me, and we quickly excused our-

selves and headed out while they began their prayers.

122 GH OS T RE CON

Back in the courtyard, the old agent turned to me

and said, “Do you see the nut you’re trying to crack?

These guys are all family, brothers in arms, old Soviet

fighters. They bled together. You think they’ll go against

Zahed? Not in a million years.”

“Then what’re you doing here?”

“My job.”

“Which is . . .”

“Which is making sure you dumb-ass Joes don’t fuck

this all up.”

“What’s this? Having villages controlled by the Tal-

iban? Little girls raped?”

“What if I told you Zahed works for us?”

“I’d say you’re full of it.”

“Money talks, right?”

“He’s not a terrorist.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because if you do, you have a better chance of stay-

ing alive.”

“So now you want to help me stay alive? I thought

you wanted me to go home.”

“Going home will keep you alive.”

“Sorry, buddy, can’t help you there.”

“Well, then, Captain Mitchell, I guess we should

head back to my car.”

I froze. “How do you know my name?”

“Captain Scott Mitchell. Ghost Leader. The elite unit

that”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“doesn’t

exist. Top secret. Well, we’re the goddamned CIA, and

no one keeps secrets from us.”

CO MB AT O P S

123

I had to smirk. I’d tried to dig up intel on him and

come up empty.

His tone softened, if only a little. “Years ago, you

rescued a couple of buddies of mine in Waziristan. Saenz

and Vick. They weren’t too thrilled about the rescue

itself, but you saved their lives—which is why I figure I

can return the favor. If you stick around long enough,

they’ll put a target on your head.”

“I’ve been wearing one of those for a lot of years.”

“Look, you must be a smart guy. Go call your boss.

Tell him this mission is a dead end. Literally. Get out

while you still can.”

“Whoa, I’m scared.”

“Turn around and look up.”

I did. There was a Taliban fighter with an AK-47

standing on the roof, his weapon aimed at my head. And

no, he was not hastening to prayer.

“See what I mean? They’re giving you a chance to bail,

and they’re doing that as a favor to me. But if you decide

to stay and attempt to carry out your mission, then I won’t

be able to help you. I want to be very clear about that.”

“How can you do this with a clear conscience?”

“Do what?”

“Betray your country.”

“Are you serious? Come on . . .” He spun on his san-

dal and shuffled off.

I glanced back at the Taliban fighter, whose eyes wid-

ened above his shemagh.

T WELVE

I kept quiet during the ride back to the base, and as I

got out of the car near the main gate, Bronco started to

say something, but I cut him off. “I appreciate what

you’re trying to do.”

“Then do the right thing. This ain’t worth it. And if

you think you can beat them with all your fancy gadgets

and gizmos, think again, right?”

“Are you helping Zahed?”

“Me?”

“I’m asking you a direct question. Yes? Or no?”

“No.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“Listen to me, Joe. Don’t let your ego get in the way

here. They gave you a mission, but they don’t understand.

CO MB AT O P S

125

They didn’t give you orders to upset the balance

here.”

“Balance?”

“Yeah. You might think this doesn’t work, but to

these people, it ain’t half bad.”

I smirked, slammed the door, and walked on toward

the gate. The mine-sweeping team was just coming in as

well, and I asked a lieutenant at the Hummer’s wheel

how they’d made out.

The skinny redhead wiped a bead of sweat from his

brow and answered, “Looked clear to us.”

“Hey, can you do me a favor and sweep the original

zone?”

“You mean where we were supposed to drill?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I haven’t received orders or autho-

rization to do that.”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t take long, right? Thirty min-

utes? I mean you’re all loaded up already.”

He grinned slyly. “You think those bastards are hid-

ing something out there, don’t you?”

“I know they are.”

“I’m surprised Captain Harruck didn’t ask us to

sweep it.”

“That hottie Anderson is keeping him real busy

now,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, she’s hot.”

“Australian accent. What an ass on her, too.”

I was talking his talk. He wriggled his brows. “Tell you

what, we’ll give it a quick look. I’m sure the CO would

126 GH OS T RE CON

make us check it out eventually.” He threw his truck in

reverse, backed out, and started away from the gate.

Damn, I thought. I didn’t think he’d go for it. Now I

was committed to the plan.

I watched them leave, then hurried back to our billet,

where inside, the guys were doing the usual: reading,

playing computer games on their iPods, cleaning weap-

ons, and/or creating battle profiles for our Cross-Coms,

something Nolan truly enjoyed. We always killed more

time than enemy insurgents. So it was in the Army. Hurry

up and wait.

Ramirez and Warris were seated at the small confer-

ence table near the door, and Ramirez gave me a sour

look as I entered. “What’s up?”

“Sir, just had a nice, long talk with Captain Warris.

Seems he’s in charge now.”

“Say again?”

“That’s not exactly true,” said Warris.

I quickly said, “Gordon told me you’re our new—”

“Liaison officer?” Warris finished. “Yeah, well, that

was the initial thought. They say they won’t relieve you

of command, Mitchell, but I’ve been told that anything

and everything you do must be screened through me

first, and at that point I’ll bring it up with Harruck. I’m

sorry. I know how this is. But they were emphatic.”

“Outside,” I snapped.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, out. . . side. . . do you read me?”

“Whoa. You’d better check the registry.”

“Not now, son.”

CO MB AT O P S

127

I opened the door and waited for the punk I had

trained, the punk who thought he was replacing me, to

head outside, where we could talk away from my boys.

So I’d just learned that my father was in a coma, that

my chances of capturing my target were next to nil, and

that some kid with barely two combat tours under his

belt was going to “oversee” my operation. I guess I’m

trying to rationalize or justify what I did next.

Sure, my hand itched with the desire to reach for my

pistol and put it to Warris’s head—just to teach the

cocky bastard a lesson. And my other hand shook with

the desire to strangle him until he was blue and his eyes

rolled back in his head.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was standing there with

Warris as his evaluator during the training exercise we’d

just completed?

I’d been playing the role of a tribal chief and he’d

misjudged my character and how I might behave in the

heat of battle. Sure, I threw him a few surprises, but he

should have been ready for them, and he was not.

Indeed, he’d screwed up big-time and I’d chewed

him out, but he’d been humble and had never ques-

tioned my authority. I hadn’t known his true feelings

about that experience and the aftermath . . . until now.

“Mitchell, don’t think you can throw your weight

around like you did back at the school. Those days are

over,” he began. “You were the wise old man back there,

but over here, it’s a whole different ball of wax. Old

school doesn’t work anymore. We might be Ghosts, but

we still have to learn, adapt, and overcome.”

128 GH OS T RE CON

I smiled. “So you’re an asshole, too?”

His eyes widened. “I could write you up for that.”

My grin darkened. “Listen, kid, if you think I’m

going to ask your permission for anything I do here—”

The explosion came from the other side of the wall,

and I knew in the next breath who was involved: the

mine-sweeping team. Had they found a mine? Were they

under attack?

My imagination raced through fragmented images of

blood-filled sand fountaining into the air and human

appendages tumbling end over end . . .

I pointed a finger at Warris, about to say something,

then just sprinted away toward the rear wall, where a

ladder would take me up to the machine gun nest. From

there I’d have a clear view of the field.

The report of automatic weapons echoed the first

boom immediately, and it sounded like an all-out gun

battle by the time I mounted the ladder.

By the time I neared the gunner’s nest, the two guys

there were already firing, one on the fifty, the other on

his rifle. Two trucks had driven out to the field to join

the minesweepers’ Hummer, and about twenty Taliban

thugs had jumped out and were firing from behind their

vehicles.

Still more guys were firing from the foothills, at least

six more strung out along a broad reef of stone, muzzles

flashing.

There were only five guys out there, huddled around

their Hummer and being surrounded by four times as

many Taliban.

CO MB AT O P S

129

An RPG whooshed from behind one of the Taliban

trucks and struck the Hummer, exploding inside the cab

and sending the fireball skyward.

“Get off that gun,” I screamed to the kid manning the

fifty. I shoved him out of the way and began directing fire

myself, first on one Taliban truck, then on the other. My

bead drove the Taliban away toward a ditch behind their

trucks, tracers gleaming, big rounds thumping hard into

steel, glass, plastic, and sending sparks and then gasoline

pouring onto the sand.

Within another two heartbeats, both trucks caught fire,

and the Taliban now ran toward the foothills. Between me

and the guy on his rifle, we cut down five guys making

their break.

Someone was shouting my name, and when I glanced

below, I saw Ramirez in a Hummer with the rest of the

team, including Warris, whose expression seemed neu-

tral. I came back down the ladder and hopped in the

flatbed. Ramirez floored it, and we rushed past the open

main gate and hightailed it toward the field, along with

two other Hummers carrying a pair of rifle squads.

We took sporadic small-arms fire from the hills for a

minute, but the rifle squads returned fire and suppressed

those guys. We parked behind the burning trucks for

cover, then charged out and raced toward the mine-

sweeping team.

Six guys were there, every one of them on the ground.

I rushed over to the lieutenant I’d spoken to at the gate.

He’d been shot in the neck and the arm and was bleed-

ing badly. “Nolan!” I screamed.

130 GH OS T RE CON

The medic rushed over while guys from the rifle

squads went to assist the other fallen sweepers.

“It’s right next to our truck.” The lieutenant gasped.

“Right there.”

“GET BACK! GET BACK!” Ramirez screamed.

I turned my head.

And it all unfolded in a weird slow motion that peo-

ple describe during traumatic events. Sometimes they

say they felt “outside themselves,” as though swimming

in an ether while watching the event from far, far away.

Ramirez pointed to the ground, where an insurgent

had just rolled over. He’d been shot up badly but was

wearing a vest of explosives with a detonator clutched in

his right hand.

He’d been waiting for us to get close.

I’ve always wondered what would’ve happened if

Warris had been within the blast radius. How might the

rest of the story have played out?

But Warris was back near our truck, calling it all in,

probably talking to Harruck, when I turned and lunged

away, toward him, along with the rest of our group.

I hit the ground near the Hummer’s right front tire,

crawled once on my elbows, and the deafening burst

sounded behind me, followed a half second later by

blasting sand and shrapnel pinging all over the truck.

Ears ringing, pulse racing, drool spilling out of my

mouth, I rolled, then pushed up on my hands and knees

as the fire and smoke mushroomed above us.

Guys were screaming, but no noise came from their

mouths. I took a few seconds to search out each of my

CO MB AT O P S

131

men, and I found them all except for Beasley, who was

lying near one of the other Hummers. I rose and stag-

gered over to him.

He was missing a leg, an arm . . . the side of his face.

I turned away and gagged.

A few of the others gathered around me, and Nolan

and Brown dropped to their knees.

Two more pickup trucks were racing across the desert

now, heading toward us from the village. I shielded my

eyes from the glare and saw Kundi in the passenger seat

of one vehicle and the water man, Burki, at the wheel.

My arms and legs were stinging because I’d taken

some minor hits, but I was still too shocked to even look

for the wounds. With the fires raging all around us, I

shifted around the trucks to where I spotted a shovel

stuck in the sand. The lieutenant had found something

all right, and one of his guys had begun digging.

I knew that once Kundi arrived—and no doubt Har-

ruck would, too—it’d all be over, so whatever the villag-

ers or the Taliban had buried out there needed to be

uncovered—immediately.

I’d just lost a guy, and I’d be damned if it was for

nothing. I seized the shovel and began digging like a

maniac, sand arcing through the air, while Ramirez

came over to me, wanted to know what I was doing.

“Grab the other shovel! Dig now! Dig!”

“Matt’s gone! He’s dead!”

“I know. Dig!” I cursed at him, kept digging, going

down another two feet when my shovel hit something. I

dropped to my hands and knees, dug around with my

132 GH OS T RE CON

hands, found wood. Maybe a hatch. “Got something!

Help me out!”

My gaze was torn between clearing away more dirt

and the approaching vehicles.

And now came the heavily armed and armored Hum-

mer carrying Harruck himself, streaking across the sand.

I found the edge of the hatch, a rope pull, and tugged

on it. Nothing. Just a creak. Still too much sand holding

it down.

Ramirez leaned over and began clearing sand with

his hands, and within thirty seconds we began to pull

free the wood. It finally gave and we came up with it: a

rectangular piece of plywood about three feet by four.

As dirt poured down into the hole, sunlight revealed

a wooden ladder and a chamber at least two meters deep.

I stole one more look at the pickup trucks and Harruck’s

ride, then descended the ladder. I turned around and in

the shadows saw that the chamber extended another two

or three meters to my left and was filled with cardboard

boxes and crates.

No, it wasn’t some Afghan wine cellar, that was for

sure, and what I’d uncovered was both significant and

alarming. A creak from the ladder drew my gaze, and

Harruck reached the bottom, turned, and let his gaze

drift past me.

Another man I didn’t recognize reached the bottom

of the ladder. He was middle-aged, had a thick mus-

tache, and wore a green uniform with red insignia on

the shoulders: AFGHAN NATIONAL POLICE.

“It’s all American,” I said, my voice cracking. “Probably

CO MB AT O P S

133

a hundred rifles or more. Thousands of rounds of ammo.

Grenades, gas masks . . . all stuff that was meant for the

national army and the police.”

“I agree,” said the man in uniform. He looked at me.

“I am Shafiq, the new police chief here in Senjaray.”

Harruck spun around, his eyes now glassy, his cheeks

turning red. “Mitchell, get your people back to the base.

We’ll take over from here. I’ll work this out with Cap-

tain Warris.”

“Yes, sir.”

He blinked hard, coughed, then looked at me, as

though to say, No argument?

But then, as I ascended the ladder, he threw a verbal

punch that I could not ignore: “I’ll find out why the

minesweepers were here, Mitchell.”

“Look around. Kundi’s been letting the Taliban store

weapons. They figured we wouldn’t look here, right out

in the open—unless of course we wanted to drill a well.

And that’s why the old man got so bent out of shape. He

was protecting his little cache here.”

“He is right,” said Shafiq.

I gave Harruck a final look and climbed out, where I

shouted for my men to rally back on our Hummer.

Nolan had already removed a body bag from the truck,

and he and Ramirez had just finished zipping up Beas-

ley. They carried his body to the flatbed and eased it

onboard.

The fires were still whipping in the breeze behind us,

the scene now like an anthill that had been disturbed.

Kundi was out near the hole, throwing his hands in the

134 GH OS T RE CON

air, along with Burki, as Warris, Harruck, and the new

police chief faced them.

Warris turned away from the group and looked at me,

and for just a moment, I thought he longed to be in my

boots, not having to deal with any of the crap.

But then, suddenly, he waved me over.

I looked over my shoulder, then back to him. Me?

He nodded.

Harruck turned around and cried, “Mitchell? We

need you over here right now!”

I liked how he called me Mitchell around everyone

else.

“You wanna just take off?” Ramirez asked me. “Screw

them all. Screw all these assholes.”

“No. You guys take Beasley back. Then get to the

hospital and get everybody else checked out. If these

idiots want to talk to me, then they’d better strap in and

get ready for the ride . . .”

I took a deep breath, winced over a shooting pain in

my leg, and marched toward them.

THIRTEEN

I wanted to beat down at least three of the four men in

front of me. I already saw them lying unconscious and

bloody.

You have to give me some credit for my honesty.

The new police chief hadn’t earned my hatred yet.

Kundi and Burki were shouting at Harruck, pointing

to the ground, and then gesturing back up to the foot-

hills.

Shilmani was there and came over to me. “The guns

belong to Kundi. He says he bought them from the Tal-

iban.”

“Do you believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is

that you can’t take them away, but I know you will.”

136 GH OS T RE CON

I raised my chin to Harruck. “Well, he’ll have to con-

fiscate them, and no one’s going to be happy about that.”

“He speaks English?” Harruck called out to me.

“Yes, he does. His name’s Shilmani. He works for

Burki.”

“Then come over here and help me translate,” said

Harruck. “They’re talking way too fast for me.”

“Do you really need me here?” I asked Harruck.

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

Behind us, the rifle squads had finished up with their

extinguishers, and the pickup trucks and Hummer were

still smoldering. I’d grown far too used to the stench of

burning rubber.

While Harruck went back over to Kundi and the water

man, with a tense Shilmani forced to go along, I pulled

Warris aside. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, I was tell-

ing you that if you think I’m going to filter my plans

through you, you’re dreaming. Okay?”

“Looks like you’ve got some good plans here, too.

Pissed off the locals. Got a whole sweeper team killed,

one of your own guys killed.” He gasped. “All right,

that was too far. Sorry . . .”

“Wow, when did you grow a pair?”

He puffed air. “The situation has changed. They

brought me in here to clean up an old man’s mess. I’m

hating it. I resent you for putting me in this situation.

And every time I set eyes on you it’s an instant replay of

that ass-chewing you gave me back at Robin Sage. I still

hear about it to this day.”

I balled my hand into a fist and drew it back.

CO MB AT O P S

137

He sensed it coming. “Do it. Do us both a favor.”

“Mitchell?” cried Harruck.

He kept calling me by name in front of everyone, but

who was I to argue at that point? They were going to

dump it all on me anyway. I staggered over there like a

drunk and didn’t realize I was favoring one leg until

another pain needled up the hip and into my spine.

“Why were the minesweepers out here?”

I played dumb. “Uh, you told me you were going to

find out.”

“They had specific orders to sweep the other part of

the field.”

“Wish I could help you.”

“No, you don’t.”

I stood there, my gaze traveling a thousand miles

away.

“Scott?”

I finally looked at him. “What?”

“I want an answer.”

“I don’t know why the sweepers were here. And I

guess you can’t ask them. Maybe they got lost. Or maybe

they wanted to check out this side of the field, too. Who

knows . . .”

“You sent them here, didn’t you?”

“Guys, let’s get this under control,” said Warris.

Harruck looked at him, cursed, then told him to shut

the hell up.

Warris recoiled, stunned.

“I need to be with my men,” I said, my tone growing

even more sarcastic.

138 GH OS T RE CON

“And I need an answer,” snapped Harruck.

“All right, let’s cut to the chase, then,” I said. “I got

a four-star behind me and my mission. And I was per-

fectly within my mission’s envelope when I ordered the

field searched. I was defending my perimeter and pro-

tecting my men. The problem here is mission conflict.

All three of us are doing exactly what we should be

doing—which is why we’ve got a problem.”

“Why didn’t you notify me of what you did?” Har-

ruck asked.

“I would have . . . eventually.”

He gave a slight snort. “Well, I got the entire United

States Army supporting my mission, Scott. And it will

take precedence.”

Kundi drifted over to me and raised his finger. “You

went with Bronco. You talked to my father. You know

the right thing to do now. These weapons belong to us.

Don’t let anyone take them.”

“What’s he talking about?” Harruck asked.

“I don’t know. They smoke a lot of opium here. They

forget things.”

“This isn’t over, Scott. It’s just begun.”

I winced in pain. The leg again. “I hear you.”

“I’ll get with you later,” said Harruck.

“So will I,” Warris added.

I made a face. “I’ll be at the hospital if you need me.”

I took a detour before getting treated. I went back to the

comm center and called Gordon. I updated him and asked

CO MB AT O P S

139

for anything he could dig up about Bronco and any con-

nection the spook might have to Zahed and the technol-

ogy industry. “I think he has something to do with the

EMP knocking out our Cross-Coms—if it’s EMP at all.”