Harvath didn’t like it. It was too direct and went straight through the center of the village. “Na,” he insisted, using the Pashtu word for no, and then retraced the route he intended them to take.
Grabbing Harvath’s left index finger with the small aviator’s light secured to it with Velcro, Asadoulah illuminated Harvath’s proposed route once more and pointed to specific structures along the way. “Taliban, Taliban, Taliban, Massoud,” he whispered with his broken jaw as he pointed to house after house after house.
Harvath looked at Gallagher. “What do you think?”
“Well, out of all of us,” he replied, “this kid’s the only one who’s been to this village before. And I may not be crazy about walking right up Main Street, but he sure seems adamant about it.”
“Fine,” said Harvath as he turned off his fingerlight and tucked the map back into his pocket. “We’ll do it his way, but that means no NODs. If even one person sees us and gets suspicious, we’ll be blown before we ever make the jirga.”
CHAPTER 43
Though the moon wasn’t full, it was entirely too bright for Harvath’s liking, as were the stars. As the group moved deeper into the village, they threw long shadows across the ground and were silhouetted against every mud brick and stone building they passed.
They slipped from one property to the next, staying low and seeking out as many places of concealment as possible. There was no sound except for the wind, which had begun to pick up, and the river of snowmelt that rushed past the village as it made its way further down into the valley. The cold mountain air enveloping them was filled with the scent of wood smoke and roasting meats.
With his back against one of the many walled village compounds, Harvath was about to peek around the corner to make sure it was safe for them to proceed when he heard a noise. Immediately, he signaled for everyone to get down.
Straining his ears against the sound of the river, he tried to make out what he was hearing. As the noise got closer, he figured out what it was. Footsteps.
Contrary to what people saw in the movies, suppressed weapons were not completely silenced. Gallagher’s taking shots from his suppressed weapon on the outskirts of the village was one thing, Harvath’s trying to do so here among the densely packed houses was something else entirely. They couldn’t risk it.
Waving everyone back, Harvath pulled his knife from its sheath. Letting his MP5 hang from its sling beneath his patoo, he readied himself to take out whoever was coming around the corner. With one hand poised to clamp down and cover the person’s mouth so he couldn’t scream out, and the other wielding the knife, which measured over a foot in length, Harvath prepared to attack.
The footsteps grew closer and as they did Harvath adjusted his grip on the weapon’s notched handle. Slowing his breathing, he focused on the sound of the approaching figure. The person was less than a meter away at this point. Harvath inched closer to the edge of the building and got ready.
Closer the footsteps came. As they did, Harvath took in a deep breath of air. Like a statue he stood perfectly still. As had been true in the raid on the interrogation facility beneath the Soviet military base in Kabul, and as was true in all such scenarios, the keys to success were speed, surprise, and overwhelming violence of action.
When the figure suddenly appeared, Harvath sprang.
Grabbing the person by the throat, Harvath yanked him off his feet, spun him around the edge of the building he was hiding behind, and slammed him up against the wall. The blackened-steel blade was up against the soft flesh of the person’s throat in a fraction of a second. Harvath looked into the face of his victim and saw abject terror in his eyes. He also saw that his victim was a boy no older than fourteen.
Suddenly, Asadoulah had broken away from Gallagher and was at Harvath’s arm imploring him in Pashtu, “Na, na.” Then he spoke the first word Harvath had heard him say in English, “Friend.”
Harvath looked at Asadoulah and then back at the teen he had pinned to the wall. Slowly, he lowered the boy back down to the ground.
He left the blade in place, just underneath the teen’s chin, but removed his hand from around the boy’s throat. As he did, Harvath raised his finger to his lips and instructed the teen to remain quiet.
The boy looked at Asadoulah and then back at Harvath and nodded. Harvath lowered the blade. The second he did, the boy tried to rabbit on him. Harvath, though, was ready. Grabbing hold of him, he once again lifted the teen off his feet by his throat and pinned him against the wall.
Harvath hissed for Gallagher and Daoud to come over, while Asadoulah tried to calm his friend down.
Daoud was at Harvath’s side in a flash and Harvath instructed the interpreter about what he wanted to say to the boy. “Tell him we’re not here to hurt him, but if he doesn’t calm down I will.”
Frightened by Harvath’s intensity, Daoud hesitated. “Tell him,” Harvath snapped.
The interpreter relayed Harvath’s orders to the boy. “Now ask him how many Taliban are in the village right now.”
Daoud obeyed, and despite Harvath’s hand wrapped around his throat the boy was able to croak out an answer.
“At least twenty,” the interpreter replied.
“Where?” asked Harvath.
The boy had no idea.
“What about Massoud?”
“Gone,” Daoud translated.
“And the American woman?” Harvath asked.
Daoud listened and then said, “The boy says they took her with them.”
Harvath lowered the teen back down to his feet, pointed at the ground, and told him to sit. Daoud was about to translate, but as the boy sat right down, he saw that Harvath had made himself perfectly clear.
“What are we going to do about him?” asked Gallagher. “We’re not going to kill him.”
“Of course we’re not,” said Harvath.
“We also can’t let him go. If we do, he’s going to raise the alarm and we’re as good as dead. We’ll not only have Massoud’s men on us, we’ll have every other member of this village gunning for us.”
Gallagher was right. He remembered the story of a four-man SEAL team in Afghanistan that had been dispatched to capture or kill a high-ranking Taliban leader only to be discovered while doing their reconnaissance by a small group of goatherds. Hamstrung by politically correct rules of engagement and fearful of what their own government might do to them if they pursued the most logical option, the SEALs reluctantly and against their better judgment let the goatherds go. Within an hour, the team was engaged in a firefight with over 150 Taliban. Three of the SEALs, as well as the sixteen-man rescue force sent in via a Chinook helicopter that was shot down, were killed. Only one of the SEALs survived, and even then just barely, to recount the horrific tale. It was a situation Harvath was not interested in repeating.
Looking at Asadoulah, Harvath said to Daoud, “Ask Asadoulah if this boy is one of the friends who accosted Dr. Gallo with him.”
The interpreter put the question to Asadoulah, and the boy turned his face away in shame. That was answer enough for Harvath.
Staring back down at the teen he’d told to sit, Harvath said, “I want to know this boy’s name.”
The interpreter posed the question and the teen replied, “Usman.”
“Repeat my promise to Usman that as long as he cooperates, no harm will come to him.”
As the interpreter spoke to the boy, Harvath withdrew his map of the village and illuminated it with his fingerlight for the boy to see. “Tell him where we’re going and ask him if he knows if there are any Taliban or any other villagers that he has seen out. In fact, I also want you to ask him why he is out.”
Daoud put all the questions to the boy and then said, “His uncle’s family has a stomach flu. His mother made dinner for them and he took the food to their house. He was on the way home when we found him.”
“What about Taliban or other villagers?”
“He said he didn’t see any other villagers. He saw a truck with four Taliban in it twenty minutes ago, but
