by Tom Clancy
I was dressed like a regular soldier and still packing my 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, nodded, 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 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 Taliban. 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 not a 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 conversation 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 ourselves and headed out while they began their prayers.
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 Taliban? 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 staying 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.”
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 sandal and shuffled off.
I glanced back at the Taliban fighter, whose eyes widened above his shemagh.
TWELVE
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. 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 authorization to do that.”
“Yeah, but it wouldn’t take long, right? Thirty minutes? I mean you’re all loaded up already.”
He grinned slyly. “You think those bastards are hiding 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 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 bac
k to our billet, where inside, the guys were doing the usual: reading, playing computer games on their iPods, cleaning weapons, 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 conference 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.”
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 questioned 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.”
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.
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 neutral. 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 bleeding badly. “Nolan!” I screamed.
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 people 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 men, and I found them all except for Beasley, who was lying near one of the other Hummers. I rose and staggered 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 Harruck would, too—it’d all be over, so whatever the villagers 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 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 Hummer 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 mustache, and wore a green uniform with red insignia on the shoulders: AFGHAN NATIONAL POLICE.
“It’s all American,” I said, my voice cracking. “Probably 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.”