Combat Ops gr-2

by Tom Clancy

  “Do you want to see her?” I asked.

  “I can’t.”

  “You would have been so proud. She fought at my side. And she saved my life.”

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

  “Why don’t you take your family and get the hell out of here? There’s got to be a way out.”

  He finally looked at me, backhanded away the tears, and said, “This is my life.”

  By late in the day I got called to the comm center and learned that General Keating was waiting to speak to me.

  “Mitchell, you make it damn near impossible for me to get your back when you play it this close to the vest. If the president weren’t distracted by twenty other problems, I’d be pulling KP in the White House mess.”

  “I understand, sir. And I’ve been running an obstacle course here myself.”

  Okay, I was speaking through my teeth, and though I highly respected the man, I wanted to unload on him, too. He’d had no idea what I’d just gone through, but I wasn’t about to cry on his shoulder.

  “I’m pulling you back to Fort Bragg. I’d advise you to lay low but I know you don’t work that way, so once you’re back home you’ll be confined to quarters. We’ll put on a show until JAG takes its best shot or you’re last month’s news.”

  “Sir, Joey Ramirez is still MIA.”

  “I know that, son, and the search will continue. But we’ve got Warris running off at the mouth and trying to ruin your career. I want you out of there.”

  “Warris is an asshole. Sir. He’d bitch if you hanged him with a new rope. It’s my word against his.”

  “For now, he doesn’t need witnesses, Mitchell. Because I believe him.”

  “Sir?”

  “Easy, son. I agree. He’s a fool. But I know he’s telling the truth — because I know you. And your men. But between him and the CIA, they’re not going to back off. I’ve got to deal with it.”

  “Where does all this leave me, sir?”

  “From where I’m sitting, this operation has become a perfect storm of botched communications. And because of the political ramifications in Kabul, as well as here, higher’s out for blood. It’s why they have officers, son. Someone’s got to fall on his sword. Someone will take the fall for this mess.”

  “And blood flows downhill…”

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

  I closed my eyes and massaged them. “I understand, sir. For the good of the service…”

  “That bastard Zahed needed killing, and you gave it to him. You did a fine job, soldier, no matter what you hear, no matter what they say.”

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

  He took a deep breath, looked torn—

  And broke the connection.

  By dinnertime the team had packed up the billet. We were being driven to Kandahar, where we’d catch the first of many flights back home.

  They’d refused to allow us to participate in the tunnel search, but before we left, Harruck sent a man out to fetch me. The guy led me to a small tent behind the hospital, the makeshift morgue, where Ramirez lay across a folding table.

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

  “Oh, dear God,” I said aloud.

  “Any other wounds?” I asked one of the other soldiers there.

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

  I cursed and rushed out of there.

  And all I could see was Warris raising a rifle to Ramirez’s head and pulling the trigger.

  I found the punk lying in his bunk, staring at the ceiling. He had no time to get up. I leaned over him and screamed, “YOU KILLED HIM, YOU RAT BASTARD, DIDN’T YOU? YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED HIM!”

  I guess Brown had seen me running toward Warris’s quarters and had come after me because he burst through the door and rushed over, believing I was going to strike Warris. He grabbed my wrist and hung on.

  Warris started cursing and told me I’d lost my mind and why the hell would he kill Ramirez?

  “Because he knew you were going to blow the whistle on all of us. And he probably threatened you, didn’t he? He told you if you talked, he’d kill you, right?”

  A guilty expression came over Warris, and he tried to hide it by tightening his lips.

  “You killed him!” I repeated.

  “Your career is over, Mitchell. It’s all over now. You’re old news. Even the Ghosts are a waste. Every other agency, State, DoD — the entire alphabet tribe — undermines what we do. We’re history.”

  “No, you’re history. Count on it!”

  I shoved Brown aside and hustled out of the room. I stormed back to the billet, wrenched up my duffel, and lifted my voice to the men. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  But we didn’t leave right away. The guys wanted to pay their last respects to Ramirez, and they all went over to the hospital and did that. I waited by the Hummer and found myself in an awkward conversation with Dr. Anderson.

  “So now you go home, and the next Zahed takes over? We have to start from scratch.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Don’t you even care?”

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

  EPILOGUE

  We weren’t ghosts who returned home. We were zombies. War-torn. Down three men. Feeling little joy in our “mission completed.” I spoke briefly with each of the men, and they shared my sentiments.

  Colonel Gordon told me that Warris had friends and relatives in high places, which was why his loyalties tended to lean toward regular Army operations, even though he’d chosen a career in Special Forces. In fact, Gordon said that Warris had even written an article published in Soldiers magazine detailing his thoughts about a dramatic shift in Special Forces operations and mentality, an argument against elitism and what he deemed as special privileges granted to our operators.

  Well, the punk really got a taste of our “special privileges” by spending some time in a hole full of crap. That’s how we prima donnas in SF live the high life.

  During one layover, I got a call from Harruck, who told me Anderson had placed the girls in a good orphanage, but then the facility had been raided by Taliban who said the girls had been raped and that they were all going to face charges. Hila was, of course, among that group. Would she spend twenty or more years in jail? I didn’t know, but Harruck said he had a few ideas. He then surprised me: “You were wrong about me, Scott. I’m not a politician. And I’ll prove it to you.”

  And then, as we were boarding our final flight back to Fort Bragg, Gordon called again to tell me the spooks were going for a charge of murder.

  Apparently, Mullah Mohammed Zahed wasn’t just the Taliban commander in the Zhari district. He was the warlord leader of a network of men — warlords, Taliban leaders, and corrupt public officials — who were part of a massive protection racket in the country. It seemed the United States was paying tens of millions of dollars to these men to ensure safe passage of supply convoys throughout the country.

  We imported virtually everything we needed: food, water, fuel, and ammo, and we did most of it by road through Pakistan or Central Asia to hubs at Bagram air base north of Kabul and the air base at Kandahar. From there, local Afghan contractors took over, and the powers that be thought hiring local security was a brilliant idea so we could promote entrepreneurship. Indeed, it had struck me as curious when local Afghan trucks showed up at the FOB loaded with our military supplies. I’d assumed the Chinooks had brought in everything, but I was wrong.

  So… Zahed was indirectly being paid by the United States to provide protection to the trucks delivering supplies to our base, even though we were his mortal enemies. What an opportunist. He had to profit in every way imaginable: from our supply lines to each and every improvement we’d made in the village. If he could, he would’ve been the one to sell us the guns we’d use to kill him!

  Gordon said the netw
ork was making more than a million a week by supplying protection. There was a symbiotic relationship between the network and the Taliban, who were being paid not to cause trouble and were also being employed as guards. Many of the firefights, Gordon said, were the result of protection fees being docked or paid late. The gunfire had nothing to do with purging the “foreign invaders” from their country. Hell, the invaders were paying their salaries.

  So this was the lovely oasis that Zahed had nurtured. And there wasn’t a single piece of high-tech weaponry — no laser-guided bullet, radar, super bomb, nothing — that would change that. One Ghost unit had taken out a man. We couldn’t reinvent an entire country.

  And then, the final kicker: Gordon had learned that the CIA was already negotiating with Zahed’s number two man, Sayid Ulla, who had taken up residence in that opium palace in Kabul. Pretty much everything Bronco had told me about the agency’s intentions and desires had been a lie. And I felt certain that they had supplied the HERF guns to Zahed’s men and attempted to use the Chinese as fall guys.

  So nothing would change. I’d taken out a thug, but in a country with very little, thugs were not in short supply.

  As I wrote a letter to Joey’s parents, I once again tried to convince myself that my life, my job, everything… was still worth it, even as murder charges loomed.

  I’m sorry to inform you that your son died for nothing and that this war messed him up so much that he killed an innocent American solider in order to protect our unit.

  I typed that twice before I got so mad I slammed shut the laptop.

  If the plane seat could have swallowed me, I would’ve allowed it. All I could do was throw my head back and think about how badly they were going to burn me. And when my mind wasn’t fixated on that, I’d see Shilmani crying… and think about Hila being thrown in a rank cell… and see some yellow-toothed scumbag count cash handed to him by Bronco.

  I reached down under my seat, dug into my carry-on bag, and produced a letter that had been part of a care package sent to me by the volunteers of Operation Shoebox, a remarkable organization that sent personal care items, snacks, books, and dozens of other items we all needed so desperately. The folks even included toys we could hand out to children during our missions. I’d never met a soldier who wasn’t smiling as he opened up one of those packages.

  The handwritten letter I’d received was from a thirteen-year-old boy from Huntsville, Alabama.

  Dear Soldier:

  My name is James McNurty, Jr., and I want to thank you very much for serving our country. I know it must be hard out there for you, but if you take good care of yourself and eat good, you will have a good day of fighting.

  I want to tell you about my dad, who was also a soldier. He died in Iraq while trying to protect us. He was a very great man and he told me that whenever I see a soldier I should thank him or her. So while I cannot see you, I still want to thank you for helping us and for believing in our country. My dad always said that no matter what happens, he loved us and the United States of America. My dad said being a soldier is a great honor, so maybe I will be one someday, too. I hope you can stay happy. I know it is hard.

  Thanks very much.

  Your friend, James McNurty, Jr.

  “See this?” I tell Blaisdell, pulling the letter from my breast pocket. “This is the only thing keeping me sane right now. Some kid in Huntsville actually believes in what we’re doing.”

  She sighs. “That’s nice. But they’re going to argue that you should have answered your phone, that you ignored incoming communication and killed Zahed, an unarmed man.”

  “My mission was to kill him. I carried out my orders. The abort came too late. I was the commander on the ground, I saw the opportunity, I made the decision, and I completed the mission. That’s what you’re going to argue. If higher can’t make up their minds about what to do, then it’s my job to make that decision.”

  “They’re not going to see it like that. You’re asking them to take responsibility for their broken system, and as you’ve implied, even General Keating can’t save you now.”

  I snort. “Is there anything else you need? Did you get it all? Because I’m going to be very busy for the rest of the day, trying to get drunk.”

  She rises and pushes her glasses farther up her nose. “Off the record, Captain, I’m very sorry about what’s happened to you. In some respects you’re a victim of the system, but you had a choice. You could have at least tried to take Zahed into custody. And they’re going to argue that, too. You simply shot him. They’ll argue that you wanted to kill him.”

  “You’re damned right I did.”

  She starts to say something, thinks better of it. “I’m going to review all of this with my colleagues, and I’ll contact you tomorrow.”

  I shrug and lead her to the door. She looks back at me, a deep sadness filling her eyes, as though she’s glimpsing a man at the gallows.

  Then she just leaves. I get another drink, plop into the recliner, and turn on ESPN, where I learn that even the Reds lost their game, 9–4, damn it.

  I must’ve dozed off and the knocking at my door continues for a while until I suddenly rush up and answer it.

  “Holy shit.” The curse escapes my mouth before I can censor it.

  It’s General Keating himself, out of uniform, wearing a golf shirt and Dockers. He pushes past me, slams shut the door, then lifts his voice. “What the hell are you doing here? Feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “I’m confined to quarters.”

  He goes over to my window and snaps open the blinds, letting in the late-afternoon sun. “I flew in this morning. Then I spent the whole day in a videoconference with those assholes in Langley.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I upset your day.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, son. Some of your tactics might give me heartburn, but you ain’t got enough horsepower to put a dent in my day. I think you underestimated Harruck. That boy went to bat for you big-time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He used his friend, the humanitarian worker, to do some digging. Turns out that little girl you saved witnessed Bronco and Mike on the scene of Warris’s torture, and they failed to report any of it.”

  I frown. “Then Warris can burn them, maybe get me off?”

  He shakes his head. “We called in Warris. He made a deal with the CIA to keep his mouth shut, so long as they helped him burn you.”

  “He admitted that?”

  “No, Bronco and Mike did. I can’t get to those two, but I’m kicking Warris out of the Army for conduct unbecoming.”

  “So Warris wanted to bring me down with the CIA’s help. His plan backfires, and he gets burned himself.”

  “Enough justice for today.”

  “Ramirez might disagree. Doesn’t he count?”

  “An Article 118 murder charge is out of the question. However, integrity’s what you do when nobody’s looking. You won’t find that in the UCMJ. That’s why Warris is history.”

  “What about me? Am I free?”

  “You’re going on temporary duty to Walter Reed for evaluation.”

  “What? You think I’m crazy?”

  “Nah. I might if you’d answered that phone. Scott, you bivouacked a long time in that fucking valley of woe. Let’s placate them for now, okay?”

  I sigh deeply.

  “Look, son, this has been tough for all of us.”

  “Tough? A hangover is tough. This has been a goddamned nightmare, and yeah, maybe I should sit my ass in a psych ward so I can decide whether I want to do this anymore…”

  “Are you kidding me? When you get out of the hospital, I’m promoting you to major. You’ll be general by the time I get through with you. I told you the Army’s changing, and we old-school boys need to adapt.”

  I couldn’t hide my twisted grin. “One minute I’m going to Leavenworth, the next I’m being promoted. I’m crazy. The system’s crazy…”

  Keating crosses to the kitchen, lifts my emp
ty scotch bottle. “You’re crazy drinking this crap. We only drink Glenfiddich single malt. Didn’t I teach you that?”

  “You did, sir.”

  “All right, then, pack your bags, soldier.”

  “I will. But first I want you to read something.”

  I hand him the note written by James McNurty, Jr.

  He reads it, then looks up, a sheen now in his eyes.

  “Being a soldier is a great honor,” I remind him. “But are we honoring the profession? Or maybe, just maybe, they’re asking too much of us. Just a little too much.”

  He takes a deep breath, returns the letter, then says, “Hurry up and pack. Then we’ll get some real scotch.”

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