The Shadow Patrol

Even so, the Army’s EOD squads, its bomb experts, hadn’t understood at first how such big bombs had been planted in the middle of the valley’s main road. Then an informant in Qalat, the capital of Zabul, told a military intelligence officer that the cell was posting spotters on the road miles from the bomb sites. That way they had advance warning of American patrols. And to reduce the odds that a drone might spot them, they created diversions while they planted the bombs. They sent men out to take potshots at American patrols or rocket a combat outpost. Anything to draw attention from the road.

The informant also explained that the leader of the cell wanted to press his luck. He believed that the Americans wouldn’t expect another attack so soon. He hoped to plant another bomb within the next seventy-two hours east of Toray, a part of the road that hadn’t been hit yet.

Under normal circumstances, stopping a single IED-planting cell would be considered a relatively low-value mission and left to local units. But a bomb big enough to blow out a Gator got attention at the regional command level, especially when a reporter was involved. And aerial surveillance had revealed an ideal sniper hole near the road, an abandoned grape hut that had a clear line of sight to the target area the informant had mentioned. So Detachment 71 had been asked to send a squad.

When he heard about the operation, Francesca volunteered. Weston had told him about the speech that Wells gave to the Strykers at FOB Jackson. Francesca didn’t think it was a coincidence. Wells was closing in. Francesca wanted to have the option of taking Young out. Being close to FOB Jackson would give it to him.

The digital clock on Francesca’s bedside table beeped. Nine o’clock. Time to get ready. He reached for his pistol, which hung over his bed next to Holly’s poster. He pulled the pistol’s clip and examined the rounds for dust or scratches, then wiped them down with a chamois cloth. He was about to do the same with his spare clip when a knock interrupted him.

“Francesca? Major wants to see you.”

MAJOR STEVEN PENN commanded the Delta squads at Kandahar. He was a black man, tall and solid and more than happy to be first through the door. His office was all business, not a single family picture, no hint where he’d grown up or had gone to school.

“Sir.” Francesca gave his crispest salute.

“Mr. Francesca.” Warrant officers were addressed as “Mister,” because in the military hierarchy they ranked between commissioned officers and enlisted men. “Sit, please.” Penn nodded at the wooden bench beside his desk. “You ever heard of someone named Ellis Shafer?”

Not the question Francesca expected. Or the name. “No, sir.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Seems he’s heard of you. Do you have any idea why the CIA might want to investigate you, Daniel? Any idea at all?”

John Wells. “No, sir.”

“This”—Penn hesitated—“man Ellis Shafer works for the CIA. He had the insolence to ask Colonel Cunningham for your file.”

“Sir. May I ask if he said why?”

“He did not. But it’s no secret that our friends at Langley are not a hundred percent on board with what we’re doing.”

For a crazy half second, Francesca wondered whether Stan had planned this twist all along, to set him up, take down Detachment 71. No. He couldn’t see how that would work, much less how the missiles fit in. No, Young had snitched to Wells and Wells had chased him down. Francesca wasn’t sure how. Didn’t matter. What mattered was that Wells and this Shafer were onto him.

But the Delta commanders didn’t know why. They figured that the CIA was making a play against Detachment 71. So Francesca had caught a break. Penn and Cunningham didn’t know whether he was dirty. And they didn’t want to know. Knowing would make protecting the project harder, and protecting the project was their priority. They were giving him a heads-up, a chance to fix whatever was wrong.

And fix it he would.

“Anything at all you want to tell me, Daniel?”

“No, sir.”

“You still want to go up into the Arghandab? Because I can assign another team.”

“Yes, sir. One hundred percent.”

“Glad to hear it. Dismissed.”

Francesca saluted and stalked back to his trailer and grabbed one of his untraceable spare phones. He left the Delta compound and punched in a Kabul number. Stan picked up on the second ring. “Twenty minutes,” he said.

Francesca didn’t want to go back to the compound and leave again. To pass the time, he walked over to the Boardwalk, the airfield’s equivalent of a town square, a block of shops and restaurants. At the Boardwalk, guys who never got outside the wire could eat Nathan’s hot dogs and KFC and buy leather jackets covered with maps of Afghanistan. Of all the things that Francesca hated — and these days his hatred seemed almost infinite — he hated the Boardwalk and the falsity of the pretend soldiers on it most of all. The Air Force ought to drop a nuke on the place.

Stan called back right on time. “What’s going on?”

“Your friends are asking about me. Called my commander. Said my name came up in an investigation.”

“They say what they had?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“They mention me?”

“No. I need to find the freelancer.” How they’d agreed to refer to Wells. No names on these phones, ever, Stan had said.

“I suspect he’s close to you, but I don’t know. Let me handle this. Sit tight.”

“You said that before. This is out of hand. I’m taking care of it.”

“Give me a chance to find out what they know.”

“I’ll think about it,” Francesca said, knowing he wouldn’t. He hung up. Stan rang again a few seconds later, but Francesca didn’t answer. He had another call to make, this one to FOB Jackson.

WHEN HE GOT BACK to the trailer, Alders was cleaning his weapons. “Heard Penn was looking for you. Anything I need to know about?”

“Later. In the truck.”

They cleaned their weapons and went for a final briefing for the Arghandab mission with the captain who ran 71. If all went as planned, they would reach the grape hut — a tall mud building where Afghan farmers dried grapes into raisins — an hour before sunrise. There they would hide themselves and the truck. The insurgents didn’t have drones or satellites, so vehicles were invisible once they were parked inside.

Drones had made repeated runs in the last forty-eight hours to be sure the grape hut was empty. But the Talibs wouldn’t risk planting an IED if they believed that a drone was nearby, so all surveillance would be pulled once Francesca and Alders got to the hut. In fact, much of the valley would be closed to both helicopters and drones for the next five days, both to encourage the bomb makers to get to work and to reduce the chance of friendly fire.

As the briefing dragged on, Francesca’s attention slid to the other operation he was planning. It would be easier. A turkey shoot, really. First Young. Then, with any luck, Wells, who was likely to come running once he heard that Young had been killed.

So he was risking his life to protect one group of American soldiers while killing another. The irony was perfect. The world was perfect. Francesca bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing.

JUST BEFORE TWO A.M., Francesca and Alders drove out through Gate 1, on the base’s southern side. Each man wore a brown shalwar kameez and had a short-stock AK tucked behind his seat. As usual, the Barrett was hidden in the compartment under the Toyota, along with their uniforms and night-vision