Combat Ops

“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.

TWENTY-FOUR

As someone used to being in control, I could hardly believe that I was helpless and at the mercy of my captors.

I kept telling myself, You’re Captain Scott Mitchell, D Company, First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group. This does not happen to you.

My emotions flew in chaotic orbits. One second I was furious, wanting to curse and scream and shove my way out of the car. The next moment I was scared out of my mind, picturing myself hanging inverted from a rope and being tortured in ways both medieval and merciless.

We drove, with Treehorn in the seat next to me. He kept trying to talk, but our captors shouted for him to be quiet. They knew a little English. I assumed they wouldn’t answer our questions, so there was no reason to talk until we arrived at wherever we were going.

I took only small comfort in the fact that Gordon could still locate Treehorn and me via the signals from our Green Force Tracker Chips (unless, of course, we were taken to a cave or the chips were removed from our bodies). And yes, I had assumed we were being captured by the Taliban — initially, at least. As the car ride continued, I began counting off the seconds and trying to estimate how far they were taking us from the village.

I tried to make myself feel better by concocting some elaborate scheme that involved Bronco and his CIA buddies capturing us for some reason — maybe to threaten us or force a conversation, something. Bronco did wield some power in the village, having longstanding relationships with all the players, so I wouldn’t have put it past him to engage in a little payback and some threats. He could have paid off some local guys to pick us up and deliver us to him.

The road grew very rough, jostling us in the seats, and the driver directly in front of me began arguing with the passenger. I focused on the conversation, tried my best to ferret out the words, but they always spoke so rapidly that my hearing turned into a skipping CD, just… getting… a word… here… there…

“Boss, I’m a little worried,” said Treehorn.

“I know. Don’t talk,” I snapped.

The men hollered back at us.

At that point I began to feel sorry for myself. I’ll admit it. I’d grown a little too comfortable in the village, believing that since Burki wanted me to kill Zahed, I could move a bit more freely and not be threatened. Sure, we dressed like the locals and were beginning to grow out our beards, but I’m sure it wasn’t difficult to ID us as foreigners.

I heard my father telling me, Son, you really screwed up. You watched a guy murder another soldier and lied about it. You basically got two of your men killed. And now you’ve gone and gotten yourself captured. Are you having a bad day or what? What the hell happened to you? Don’t you remember what your mom told you? You’re destined for some great things… so I have to ask you, son, what the hell happened?

My eyes were brimming with tears. I kept calling myself a fool and wanted to apologize to Treehorn. He was going to die because I’d made poor decisions. All of the axioms of leadership didn’t mean a goddamned thing to me anymore. The Special Forces creed was a joke. I had a sack over my head and was being driven to hell, where a fat man lounged near a pool of lava, sipping on tea.

I started reflecting on everything: my pathetic relationships with women, how I’d tortured poor Kristen for so many years, how she kept lying to me and saying this was the exact relationship she wanted, long-distance and infrequent, when I could see the ache in her eyes. What kind of a life had I made for myself? Was I truly happy? Were all the missions and the sacrifices really worth it?

Like I said, I was really feeling sorry for myself.

Any operator who tells you he has no doubts, that he is fully committed to the choices he’s made and the sacrifices to come, is, in my humble opinion, lying. There will always be the doubts, and they were, at that moment, all I had left.

I’d estimated the car’s speed at about thirty miles per hour and had counted off about thirty minutes, give or take, so I figured we’d gone about fifteen miles when the car came to an abrupt halt, the dirt hissing beneath the tires.

More chatter from the driver and passenger. The zipper cuffs were digging into my wrists and my shoulders were on fire by the time they opened the door and yanked us from the car. We were guided about twenty steps away, and then one man said, “Stay.”

“Boss, I say we make a break for it. I’d rather get shot trying to escape.”

“Relax, brother. We’re going to be okay.”

“Dude! We’re not okay!” he shouted.

That drew the reaction of the men. I heard a thump, Treehorn groaned, and I hollered, “Treehorn, you okay? You okay?”

“Yeah.” He gasped. “They just whacked me!”

The wind was tugging at my loose shirt and driving the sack deeper into my face.

We weren’t in the village, and we hadn’t crossed the mountains. I was sure of that. We would’ve felt the mountain road, heard the engine groaning. The road had been relatively flat.

Suddenly, the sack was ripped off my head, and I was blinded by the glare. It took a few seconds of squinting for my eyes to fully adjust.