by Tom Clancy
Ramirez opened his mouth as a flurry of gunfire cut across the jingle truck, and even more fire was directed up at the two Blackhawks, rounds sparking off the fuselages.
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 they had 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 miscommunication, and he’ll remind me that I needed company support. 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 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 ducking 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 penetrate.
Another glance showed a second gunman in the window 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.
“Hey, wait, before he fires, maybe we can call Harruck 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-designated his target, used the scope to set range, and then without ceremony fired.
Each twenty-five-millimeter round packed two warheads 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 window and detonated in midair, sending a cloud of fragmentation 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 it open. We rushed through and ran to the right, working 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 casting 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 mountain, 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 breathlessly 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.
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 driving 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 headlights 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 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 distan
ce.
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 government 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.
Everyone had answers that involved false assumptions, sweeping generalizations, and a skewed understanding 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 exploding as I described the situation to the general. He told me Harruck had contacted him already. “Sir, the bottom 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 understand something. First, I can’t stop you from lopping off 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 management 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.”
“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 paraphrased 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 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 built to 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?”
“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 outrageous 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 the job done. Secure the town. Assist in building the infrastructure.”
“They’re already talking about pulling me out. Giving me four months—if I’m lucky.”
“Well, you got the ball rolling now.”
&n
bsp; He swore under his breath. “Maybe. So what’s next?”
“Well, I can’t trust you, but I still need this company’s support to get my job done. Does the XO know what happened?”
“Shoregan’s on my side. He’ll do whatever I say.”
“Don’t trust him. He wants your command, and I could give it to him right now.”
“Scott, I don’t want to take this any further.”
“Yeah, because you got caught.” I snorted. “I don’t care what you got on me. Bring it.”
“Just slow down, and think about what you’re doing . . . one minute you sound like you’ll let me off, the next you’re blowing the whistle.”
He was right. I was torn. I could still go against Keating’s wishes, burn Harruck, and back the old man into a corner; however, if I did that, Keating could easily ruin me.
I glanced over to the wall, where Harruck had proudly displayed pictures of his various tours. One on the left caught my eye: our Robin Sage training. I stood there with our class, with Simon at my side, his arm draped over my shoulder.
So right there I reasoned that now I could better control and even manipulate him. The guilt persuaded me to give him a chance.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but see him as a mindless cog in the wheel of socialism. Sure, we’d build the locals an infrastructure, but they’d screw us over and probably forget about us after we left. Nevertheless, Harruck billed himself as a humanitarian—one who’d been willing to sacrifice us for his “larger cause.” You had to love that irony.
“Here’s the plan,” I began. “You get word out to the village elders that the Taliban blew up the bridge and tried to frame some of the local merchants. That way we save face with Kundi and the rest of those idiots in the town.”
“I don’t think they’ll go for it.”
“Doesn’t matter. All we need is doubt. Just make them think everyone is lying. Now, with the bridge out, you’ll have a little more freedom to begin construction, because the Taliban will use the shallowest part of the river to cross, and they’ll have to move through the east side and approach through the valley and our choke point, so you guys can better defend against them now. I’ll help your men set up some overwatch positions and some gun emplacements.”