TWENTY-THREE
The “opium palaces,” as they were called by the
media, were mansions constructed by rich drug lords on the
outskirts of Kabul, and a few were beginning to sprout up in
Kandahar. One I’d visited in Kabul was on Street 6 in a
neighborhood called Sherpur. That place was a four-story
monstrosity with eleven bedrooms and had been constructed with the
heavy use of pink granite and lime marble. The media referred to
these mansions as “narcotecture” in reference to Afghanistan’s
corrupt government. There were massage showers, a rooftop fountain,
and even an Asian-themed nightclub in the basement. The pig that
owned it was finally busted by the police, but his brotherin-law
was allowed to buy it from him and was renting it out for twelve
thousand bucks a week. What a bargain.
Ironically, it was that very house, a somewhat
infamous landmark now, that Bronco began to talk about.
“So basically what we’d like to do is move Zahed
over there and dismantle his operation here. He’s got a nice
smuggling operation going on with the Chinese and the Pakistanis,
so it’s been difficult.”
“We just want to kill or capture him. You want to
play Let’s Make a Deal,” I said. “No go. We’ve got a ticking
clock, and no time for this.”
“Besides,” added Harruck, “we’re not authorized at
this level to negotiate a joint operation with you. This has all
got to go through higher.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Joe,” said Bronco. “We
all want to get Zahed out of here. That’s the truth.”
“You want to put him up in a mansion and turn him
into an informant. He’s got one of our guys, and he’s parading him
around on TV, threatening to kill him, making insane demands, and
you want to do business with this clown.”
“Exactly,” said Mike, gently touching his swollen
cheek. “He’s worth a lot more if we keep him operating. Just not
here . . .”
“So you guys supplied Zahed’s men with the HERF
guns because you knew Special Forces would be sent in here.”
“Not true,” said Bronco. “Zahed’s got his own
connections, and he’s smart enough to know that you SF guys are
after him. He’s heard all about some of your Star Trek toys,
and he loves the idea that he can knock you out with a
twenty-dollar gun made in a tent in some shithole alley in
China.”
“Oh, he hasn’t knocked us out. Not yet. I don’t
need toys to bring him down.”
“Okay, Mr. Bravado. You’re a badass, we get that,”
said Mike. “But when it comes to this place, that doesn’t mean
jack.”
I turned to Harruck. “I think at this point, we
should lock these guys up until we get higher down here and figure
out what the plan is. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve both been
interfering with our mission.”
“Aw, that’s bullshit, and you know it,” said
Bronco. “I took you to see the old men. I told you what you’re up
against here. And you still don’t even know the half of it. The
entire U.S. Army depends on the balance . . . like I told
you.”
“Yeah, you told me. Thanks.” I stood. “Do the right
thing, Simon. Hold these guys as long as you can. I’m going to see
Zahed in the morning.”
“You’re what?” asked Bronco.
I grinned darkly at both spooks. “Have a good
night.”
Nolan’s body would be flown out before noon. We’d
have the small prayer service, as we’d had for Beasley, and we’d
all look at each other and think, We’ve lost one of our brothers
and any one of us could be next. When I got back to the billet,
I chatted with the guys for a few minutes, and then we all turned
in, emotionally and physically exhausted.
But I couldn’t sleep, so I just lay in my rack,
staring at the curved ceiling.
Brown was listening to his iPod, the tinny rhythm
buzzing from his earbuds. I’d figured him for a hip-hop guy, but he
loved his classic rock. I listened for a while, letting the tunes
carry me back to moments past: my childhood, a stickball game in
the middle of the street, a bully who’d beaten me up at the bus
stop, a meeting with the principal when I cheated on a high school
trigonometry exam and my father had come and persuaded the
principal not to punish me too greatly.
I started crying. My lips tightened, and the deep
grimace finally took hold. I fought to remain quiet. But I couldn’t
hold back the tears. My father was dead. I wasn’t going to his
funeral. And I’d just lost another teammate. I began to tremble,
then clutched the sheets and finally took a deep breath. Then I
began laughing at myself. I was a deadly combatant, member of a
most elite gun club of highly trained killers. We were unfeeling
instruments of death, not whiners and bed wetters.
I lifted my head and stared through the darkness,
across the billet to Ramirez’s bunk.
He was sitting up, watching me.
Every time we attacked the Taliban, they would
regroup, re-arm, and counterattack.
What were we expecting? That our attacks would so
demoralize them that they would convert to Christianity and pledge
to become loyal Wal-Mart customers?
I didn’t know what time I finally fell asleep, but
my watch read seven forty-one A.M. local time when the first
explosions had me snapping open my eyes.
Ironically, the guys weren’t springing out of their
bunks but slowly rising, cursing, and Treehorn yawned and said,
“And that’s the morning alarm clock, Taliban style.”
We ran outside, bare-chested, wearing only our
boxers and brandishing our rifles.
I took in the situation all at once—front gate
blown to smithereens, guard house on fire, gate falling inward.
Machine gunners in the nests were focusing their fire on two small
sedans, taxis from Kandahar, I guessed, one of which had probably
carried the gate bomber.
An RPG screamed across the base and struck one of
the barracks, tearing a gaping hole in one side and exploding
within.
Sergeants were screaming for all the gunners to
cease fire, and within thirty more seconds, it was over.
No gunfire, just more shouting, the hiss and pop of
fires, personnel running in multiple directions like ants fleeing a
sprinkler’s flood. We all stood outside the billet, and after
another moment I reasoned there wasn’t anything else we could do,
so I motioned for the guys to get back inside and get dressed and
we’d head over to the barracks that’d been hit. Ramirez was last to
go back in. He hesitated, then turned back to me. “Scott, I, uh . .
. thanks for keeping all this between us.”
I pursed my lips and forced a nod.
“I’m sorry.”
My breath shortened. “Okay.”
By the time we reached the barracks, all the fires
had been put out and we were asked to remain along a piece of tape
cordoning off the area. Harruck was there and told me the attack
was against Gul. “We got a warning yesterday that if we didn’t turn
over the governor, we’d be attacked.”
“Why didn’t you give me a heads-up?”
“Because I’ve been getting those warnings all the
time. Most of them are fake or they don’t act on them. They order
us to leave, say they’ll attack the next day, and they
don’t.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Lost two more at the gate. Damn it. Barracks was
empty, thank God. They were already up for chow, and the governor
is staying on the other side, up near the gunner’s nest.”
“Good idea. How’d they get so close to the gate
again?”
“Gul’s got people coming and going all day. I’m
setting up a new roadblock. They’ll need to get past there first
before they get near the gate.”
“Could’ve done that in the first place.”
“Didn’t see the need till now.”
I sighed. “Live and learn. And Simon, in a little
while I’m going over to see Shilmani. All they told me was that
they’d set up the meeting with Zahed ‘soon.’ I’m going to tell them
they’ve got twenty-four hours.”
The XO came dashing over and faced me. “Captain?
There’s a call for you in the comm center.”
The call was from General Keating. I wasn’t
surprised. Harruck had been forced to release Bronco and his buddy,
Mike, after a couple of big shots from the agency flew in from
Kandahar and raised hell. Keating, for his part, was ducking from
the piles of dung being hurtled at him from our competing agencies.
He just wanted to get me in on the fun.
“I don’t care what they’re telling me, Mitchell. If
you can get in there, get our boy out, and drop the fat man at the
same time, then we’ve done our job. They’re trying to persuade me
to think about this big picture while they cut deals with
terrorists and drug runners, but that’s not the way we operate, is
it?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well, then. Where are we now?”
“Other than what I put in my report?”
“Frankly, Mitchell, I haven’t had time to read your
report. I’ve had the CIA barking in my ear for two hours.”
“We took out the cave network. I lost a guy doing
it. We intercepted an agent.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know all about that.”
“And now I’m working on a meeting with the fat man
himself.”
“How the hell will you pull that off?”
“Just leave it to me, sir.”
“And just what do you plan to talk about?”
“I don’t plan to talk about anything, sir, if you
hear me clearly.”
“Loud and clear, son. Loud and clear.”
Treehorn and I went back out to see Burki and
Shilmani. More tea. More idle conversation, until a very tall, very
lean man with a wispy beard arrived and sat with us.
“This is my cousin. He does not wish you to know
his name.”
“So what do we call him?” asked Treehorn.
Shilmani posed that question to the man, who
answered rapidly in Pashto. Shilmani glanced up and said, “You can
just call him Muji.”
“Tell him that’s kind of a slang phrase for
Mujahadeen fighters.”
Shilmani did, then faced us. “He knows. His
grandfather was one.”
“Okay. Tell him I need to see Zahed right
away.”
Shilmani spoke with Muji at length, and all
Treehorn and I could do was sit there, sipping tea. The
conversation sounded like a debate, and finally Shilmani regarded
me with a frustrated look. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“I have to see him by tomorrow. No later. Tell him
that there is no time to waste. I mean it.”
After a brief exchange, Muji rose, nodded, and
hurried out of the shack.
“I want you to come to my house for dinner,” said
Shilmani. “Your friend can come, too.”
“Why’s that?” asked Treehorn. “You think that this
will be our last meal?”
“It could be, and I must tell you now that your
plan to put a bullet in Zahed’s head will not work. You need
something better. My cousin tells me that no one sees Zahed now
without being strip-searched first. Perhaps your weapon could be
poison, or something as easily concealed.”
“We’ll think about it. What time tonight?”
“Sundown.”
“Okay, we’ll be there.”
We drove about a quarter mile down the road, made
our right turn to head through the bazaar area, and found the road
blockaded by two pickup trucks.
Suddenly two more sedans roared up behind us, and
Treehorn started cursing and shouted, “Ambush!”
He was about to grab his rifle and jump out of the
Hummer. I was at the wheel and told him to hang on. “They’re not
firing. Let’s see what’s up.”
I raised my palms as the men, who for all the world
appeared to be Taliban with turbans and shemaghs across
their faces, pulled us out of the Hummer.
My words in Pashto were ignored. I kept asking them
what they wanted, what was going on, we weren’t here to hurt them.
One guy came up and suddenly pulled a black sack over my head. I
started screaming as others dragged my hands behind my back and
zipper-cuffed them.
And then I really panicked. How the hell could I
have been so stupid? Shilmani was probably in bed with Zahed and
had arranged this entire pack of lies so that they could kidnap us.
Now they’d have three American prisoners . . .
Treehorn was screaming and struggling to get free.
I yelled for him to calm down, we’d be okay.
“We should’ve killed them all!” he said, his voice
muffled by the sack presumably over his head. “We should’ve!”
They shoved me into the backseat of one of the
cars, driving my head down and forcing me to sit.
I was a Ghost officer. Neither seen nor
heard.
And never once had I been taken prisoner.