SIX
Without our Cross-Coms, satellite uplinks and
downlinks, and targeting computers, we were, for all intents and
purposes, traditional old-school combatants relying on our scopes
and skills. We did, however, have one nice toy well suited for
Afghanistan: the XM-25, a laser-designated grenade launcher with
smart rounds that did not require a link to our Cross-Coms. Matt
Beasley had traded in his rifle for the XM-25, saying he predicted
that he’d finally get a chance to field-test the weapon for
himself. His prediction would come true, all right . . .
I couldn’t deny the fact that long-range recon from
the mountains would gain us only a small portion of the big
picture. We needed HUMINT—human intelligence— which could be
gathered only by boots on the ground . . . spies walking among the
enemy.
The guy I’d captured back in town was worthless. He
wouldn’t talk, make a deal, nothing. Harruck handed him off to the
CIA and wished him good riddance.
So at that point it was both necessary and logical
that I try to recruit the only local guy I knew who was seemingly
on my side.
I won’t say I fully trusted him—because I never
did. But I figured the least I could do was ask. Maybe for the
right price he’d be willing to walk into the valley of the shadow
of death and bring me back Zahed’s location. The Ghosts gave me an
allowance for such cases, and I planned on spending it. I had
nothing to lose except the taxpayers’ money, and I worked for the
government—so that was par for the course.
Ramirez and I got a lift into town, and dressed
like locals with the shemaghs covering our heads and faces,
we had the driver let us off about a block from the house. Ramirez
would keep in radio contact with our driver.
I wouldn’t have remembered the house if I didn’t
spot the young girl standing near the front door. She took one look
at me, gaped, then ran back into the house, slamming the door after
her. Ramirez looked at me, and we shifted forward. I didn’t have to
knock. The guy who’d helped me capture the Taliban thug emerged. I
lowered my shemagh, and he didn’t look happy to see me.
“Hello again.”
“Hello.”
I proffered my hand. “My name is Scott. And this is
Joe.”
He sighed and begrudgingly took the hand. “I am
Babrak Shilmani.” He shook hands with Ramirez as well.
“Do you have a moment to talk?”
He glanced around the street, then lifted his chin
and gestured that we go into his house.
The table I’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by
large colorful cushions spread across newly unfurled carpets. I’d
learned during my first tour in the country that Afghans ate on the
floor and that the cushions were called toshak and that the
thin mat in the center was a disterkahn.
“We didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” I
said.
“Please sit. You are our guests.” He spoke rapidly
in Pashto, calling out to the rest of his family down the
hall.
I knew that hospitality was very important in the
Afghan code of honor. They routinely prepared the best possible
food for their guests, even if the rest of the family did
without.
As his family entered from the hall, heads lowered
shyly, Shilmani raised a palm. “This is my wife, Panra; my
daughter, Hila; and my son, Hewad.”
They returned nervous grins, and then the mother
and daughter hustled off, while the boy came to us and offered to
take our shemaghs and showed us where to sit on the floor.
Then he ran off and returned with a special bowl and jug called a
haftawa-wa-lagan.
“You don’t have to feed us,” I told Shilmani,
realizing that the boy had brought the bowl to help us wash our
hands and prepare for the meal.
“I insist.”
I glanced over at Ramirez. “Only use your right
hand. Remember?”
“Gotcha, boss.”
“You’ve been here before,” said Shilmani. “I mean
Afghanistan.”
I nodded. “I love the tea.”
“Excellent.”
“Will you tell me now how you learned
English?”
He sighed. “I used to work for your military as a
translator, but it got too dangerous, so I gave it up.”
Ramirez gave me a look. Perhaps we were wasting our
time and had received the no already . . .
“They taught you?”
“Yes, a special school. I was young and somewhat
foolish. And I volunteered. But when Hila was born, I decided to
leave.”
“They threatened you?”
“You mean the Taliban?”
I nodded.
“Of course. If you help the Americans, you suffer
the consequences.”
“You’re taking a pretty big risk right now,” I
pointed out.
“Not really. Besides, I owe you.”
“For what? You helped me capture that man.”
“And you helped me get him out of my house. I was
afraid for my wife and daughter. In most cases it is forbidden for
a woman to be in the presence of a man who is not related to
her—but I am more liberal than that.”
“Glad to hear it.”
As if on cue, the wife and daughter entered and
provided all of us with tea. I took a long pull on my cup and
relished the flavor, which somehow tasted like pistachios.
“So, Scott, what do you do for the Army?”
“I take care of problems.”
“But you cannot do it alone. You want my
help.”
“I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone here. But
my job would be easier, and fewer innocent people would get hurt,
if I could get some help.”
“What do you need?”
“Not what. Who.”
Shilmani took a deep breath and stroked his thin
beard. “You’ve come for Zahed.”
I smiled. “Why not?”
“Because that’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” said Ramirez.
“He has too many friends, even American friends,
and too many connections. He has too many assets for you to ever
get close. They always know when you’re coming. And they’re always
prepared. They have eyes on your base every hour of every day. You
cannot leave without them knowing about it.”
“So they know I’m here.”
“Yes, they do.”
“And I’ve already put you in danger?”
“No, because I work for Mirab Mir Burki, who is the
master of water distribution here in Zhari.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Burki knows you Americans want to dig a new well.
He wants that well, and he’s already negotiated with Zahed over
rights to the water and the profits. We’re just waiting for you to
build it. Any contact I have with Americans is part of our water
negotiations—so as you might say, I have a good cover.”
“What is it you want?”
“What all men want. Money. Safety for my family. A
better life.” Shilmani finished his tea, then topped off our cups
and refilled his own.
“You want to see Zahed captured?”
“He’s not a good influence here—despite what others
may say. He does not break promises, but when he gives you
something, the price is always very steep.”
“Kundi seems to like him.”
“That old man is a fool, and Zahed would put a
knife in his back. There is no loyalty there.”
“Would you go over to Sangsar and work for
us?”
Shilmani’s gaze turned incredulous. “No. Of course
not.”
“But you said you wanted money. I can work out an
arrangement that would be very good for you—and your family.”
“I am no good to my family if I’m dead.”
“We can protect you.”
“You’re not a good liar, Scott.”
We finished the tea, and Shilmani’s wife and
daughter served rice and an onion-based quorma or stew,
along with chutneys, pickles, and naan—an unleavened bread baked in
a clay oven. The food was delicious, and the wife continued urging
us to eat more.
Afterward, while his family retreated to the back
of the house, Shilmani wiped his mouth, then stared hard at me.
“You have to remember something, Scott. After all of you are gone,
we are left to pick up the pieces. We’re just trying to do the best
we can for ourselves.”
I stood. “I know that. Thanks for the meal. If you
want to give me some information about Zahed, I’ll pay for it. If
you change your mind about going to Sangsar, then just tell one of
the soldiers on patrol that you want to speak to me. I’ll get the
word.”
“Okay. And one more thing. Walk in my shoes for a
moment. I cannot trust the Taliban. I cannot trust my village elder
or my boss. I cannot trust the district governor. And I cannot
trust you, the foreigner.”
“You know something? I think I’m already there,” I
told him.
Ramirez pursed his lips and gestured that we leave.
I 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?”
“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 Captain 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
not a good day to be a Taliban 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?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, sir. I’m fine. Talk to you soon.”
I’d thought he’d heard me cracking under the
pressure, but later on I realized that my heart was just darkening,
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 Taliban 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
several 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.
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
binoculars 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. Interesting that
Zahed did not tip off his guards at the compound 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 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 Shilmani 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
shoulder. “Movement in the rocks behind us, six o’clock.”