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
“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.”
SEVEN
When I was a kid, D.C.’s
However, that would never happen if I stayed in Ohio. There weren’t too many opportunities for me growing up in Youngstown. Sure, I could’ve gone to work in the General Motors assembly plant in Lordstown like my father had, but I doubt I would’ve matched his thirty years. Boredom or the tanking economy would’ve finished me. My brother Nicolas got out himself and became an engineering professor down in Florida, while Tommy owned and operated Mitchell’s Auto Body and Repair in Youngstown. He loved cars and had inherited that passion from our father. He’d had no desire to ever leave home and had tried to persuade me to stay and run the shop with him. Because Dad was an avid woodworker, Tommy even tried to persuade me to open a custom furniture shop and work with Dad, but that didn’t sound very glamorous to an eighteen-year-old. Jennifer, the baby of our family, married a wealthy software designer, and she lived with him and their daughter in Northern California.
So I’d gone off to see the world and serve my country. Because that sounded so hokey, I told everyone I was joining the Army to pay for my college education — which Dad resented because it made us sound poor.
I can’t lie, though. During my service I’ve seen the good, the bad, and the ugly — and it’s easy to become disenchanted. When I’d joined, I was just as naive as the next guy, but for many years I clung to my beliefs and positive attitude, and I let my passion become infectious.
But I think after 9/11, when the GWOT (global war on terrorism) got into full swing, my veneer grew a bit worn. It didn’t happen overnight, but every mission seemed to sap me just a little more. I grew older, my body
