The Ghost War

“Yes, sir — I mean John.” Hackett looked at the pistol. “Is that the one you used?”

Wells didn’t know what Hackett meant, and then he did. “On Khadri, you mean.”

Hackett nodded. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the weapon.

“Since you ask. Yeah.” Wells handed the Makarov to Hackett. The sergeant cradled the pistol like a newborn.

“No need to fetishize it, Sergeant. It’s just a gun.”

Hackett handed the pistol back. “Can I ask one more question, sir? How does it feel to be back here?”

“Sergeant, don’t you have something to do?”

WELLS HAD COME TO AFGHANISTAN years before September 11, when most Americans had never heard of Osama bin Laden. He’d fought alongside Qaeda and Taliban guerrillas for almost a decade. He had even become a Muslim during those years. Eventually, the guerrillas had accepted him as a believer.

But Wells was happy to hunt his former allies today. He didn’t count himself as Muslim anymore. He couldn’t honestly say whether he believed in God after everything he’d seen. And even during the years when he had accepted Islam as the one true faith and prostrated himself to Allah five times daily, he had hated bin Laden’s nihilistic vision of the religion. The Taliban and Qaeda gloried in encouraging teenagers to become suicide bombers. They were unworthy of Islam.

And they were unworthy of Afghanistan. Afghans were tribal to a fault, splintered into narrow sects whose hatreds dated back centuries. The Taliban had taken advantage of Afghanistan’s internal fractures to impose a vicious dictatorship in the 1990s. Seemingly out of spite, they had undone what little progress Afghanistan had made during the twentieth century, destroying the country’s hospitals and schools. During the American invasion after September 11, the planners at the Pentagon joked that the United States would bomb Afghanistan up to the Stone Age.

The American attack had forced the Talibs out of power. Now Afghanistan was stumbling toward modernity and democracy. But the Taliban hadn’t gone away. The guerrillas were trying to turn tribal leaders against the United States and its allies. They had a real chance of succeeding, because in any crisis Afghans turned inward. Wells understood why they depended on themselves. For hundreds of years, outsiders had come and gone, most often leaving the country in worse shape than they found it in. But—

A hand on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts.

“Goggles!” Captain Steve Hughley, the commander of B Company, yelled.

Wells had been so busy figuring out Afghanistan’s future that he’d missed the Black Hawk starting up again. He tucked in his earplugs and pulled down his goggles as the helicopter’s rotors reached full speed, kicking up dust and pebbles from the tarmac.

“Ready?” Hughley yelled.

“Yeah!” Wells screamed back. His enthusiasm was real. He hadn’t flown in a Black Hawk since his days as a Ranger in the mid-nineties. He’d forgotten how magnificent these helicopters were up close. And how loud. Even with his earplugs in, he was nearly overwhelmed by the screech of the Black Hawk’s 1,800-horsepower turbines.

The ten-ton helicopter bounced slightly off the runway in its eagerness to take flight. The crew chief waved B Company forward. Down the tarmac, A Company was boarding its own bird. Wells pulled a windbreaker over his vest and grabbed his pack. Inside the cabin, he settled into his seat — designed to collapse to the floor of the cabin if the Black Hawk crashed — and clicked on his harness.

“Comfy?” The crew chief tugged the six-point harness tight and offered Wells headphones. Wells took them gratefully. Insulation was wasted weight for combat helicopters, so the Black Hawk wasn’t soundproofed. Inside the cabin, the roar of the turbines was overwhelming, a scrum of white noise that made conversation or even thinking nearly impossible.

The crew chief hooked in. When he and the gunner on the other side were set, the helicopter’s frame began to rattle as the turbines spun at peak power for takeoff. The Black Hawk burned three gallons of fuel a minute, so pilots didn’t waste time once the crew strapped in.

The copilot pulled back the Black Hawk’s collective and the helicopter rose effortlessly off the tarmac. Wells knew that the Black Hawk had the aerodynamics of a brick and would plummet if its engines failed. Yet the copter seemed to belong in the air. As soon as it took off, its frame stopped shaking and the scream of the turbines lessened. It banked right and kept climbing, leaving Bagram’s stubby huts behind.

WELLS LOOKED AROUND the Black Hawk’s cabin at B Company, an impressive group, even by Special Forces standards. Three of the soldiers spoke Pashto, a fourth Dari. Their sniper team had finished third in the Army’s shooting competition two years back. Hughley, the company captain, was one of the few black commanders in the Special Forces. He was six-three, with arms that seemed to be carved from oak. At West Point, he’d played defensive tackle. And somewhere along the way, he had picked up fluent Arabic. A few Saudis still lingered in the mountains, fighting alongside the Taliban, and at dinner the night before, Brett Gaffan, the company radioman and unofficial comedian, had told Wells how one Saudi they’d captured had refused to believe that Hughley spoke his language:

“So Abdullah — he’s sitting on the ground, see — he’s peeking over his shoulder, looking all scared. Captain’s like, ‘Calm down, dude. You’re not getting whacked.’ How do you say ‘whack’ in Arabic, Cap?”

“You don’t.” Hughley’s tone was deadpan.

“How ‘bout ’dude‘? They gotta have a word for ’dude,‘ right?”

“You believe the crap I have to listen to every day?” Hughley said to Wells.

“Anyway, this camel jockey, ‘scuse my French, starts looking around harder than Jeff Gordon on turn four, trying to see who’s really talking to him.” Here, Gaffan craned his neck from side to side, imitating the Saudi, before jamming a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. “So Cap gives him some more mumbo jumbo.”

“Finish your dinner, Gaffan.” Hughley turned to Wells. “I told him it was no trick, I was the one talking.”

Gaffan dribbled a glass of lemonade into his mouth and swallowed mightily. “Then Abdullah says something back, and Cap nods at him and tells us to stand him up. Then it gets weird, ‘cause Abdullah gets real close to the captain, like he’s getting ready to give him a kiss.”

“He wasn’t that close.”

“All due respect, sir, he was. Wasn’t he?”

Nods around the table.

“And we’re all confused, wondering if we’re gonna be whacking Abdullah after all. And you know we try not to kill our captures, even though damn sure the other side ain’t showing us the same courtesy.”

More nods.

“But then we’re thinking, maybe Cap wants a kiss. Since he hasn’t seen his wife in six months, and the dude was kinda cute.”

“Now you’re scaring me,” Hughley said.

“Nah, he was cute. Wasn’t he?” Gaffan looked around the silent table. “I know y‘all thought so too, so don’t deny it. anybody?” Pause. “Okay, then. Let’s make like I never said that.”

“Too late,” said Danny Gonzalez, the company’s medic.

“Moving on. Then Cap starts singing—”

“Praying.” Hughley looked at Wells. “The first sura.”

“And Abdullah leans in close, making sure Cap’s really the one talking — How was his breath, by the way, sir?”

“Lemme put it this way, Sergeant. I wouldn’t have kissed him even if I did play on your team.”

“Sir. Uncalled for and untrue. I believe that’s harassment, sir. Anyway, he gets in real close.” Gaffan stood up and leaned so close that Wells could count his pores. “Looking up, because Cap’s maybe a foot taller than he is.”

“Sergeant, did you put Tabasco on your burger?” Wells said, getting a laugh from the table. “‘Cause it sure smells that way.”

Gaffan sat down. “Guess I’ll be brushing my teeth when dinner’s done,” he said sheepishly. “Anyway. Abdullah gets this scared look on his face, like, ‘Damn. It’s no joke. This black dude talks my language. Not only