took was one observer to radio ahead to Zahed that we were coming. We’d taken all the precautions. Or at least we’d thought we had.
And at that moment, I was beginning to wonder about our “find, fix, and finish the enemy” mantra. I still wasn’t buying into the whole COIN ideology (let’s help the locals and turn them into spies) because I figured they’d always turn on us no matter how many canals we built. But I wondered how we were supposed to gather actionable intelligence without help from the inside — without members of the Taliban itself turning on each other… because in the end, everyone knew we Americans weren’t staying forever, so all parties were trying to exploit us before we left.
The second truck arrived, and we loaded everyone on board and took off for the drive across the desert. My hackles rose as I imagined the Taliban peering at us from the mountains behind. My thoughts were already leaping ahead to solve the security breach and tech issues.
Treehorn, who was at the wheel, began having a conversation with himself, offering congratulations for his fine marksmanship. After a few minutes of that, I interrupted him. “All right, good shooting. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Hell, Captain, it’s something. I got the feeling this whole op will go round and round, and we won’t get off the roller coaster till higher tells us.”
I considered myself an optimist, the never-say-quit guy. I’d been taught that from the beginning. Hell, I’d been a team sergeant on an operation in the Philippines and lost nearly my entire ODA unit. My best friend flipped out. But even then, I never quit. Never allowed myself to get discouraged because the setbacks weren’t failures — they were battle scars that made me stronger. I had such a scar on my chest, and it used to remind me that there was a larger purpose to my life and that quitting and becoming depressed was too selfish. I’d be letting everyone down. I had to go on.
If you join the military for yourself, then you’re setting yourself up for failure. Kennedy had it right: Ask what you can do for your country. I’ve seen many guys join “for college” or “to see the world” or “to learn a trade.” Their hearts are not in it, and they never achieve what they could. Perhaps I’m too biased, but in the beginning, there was an ideal, an image of America that I kept in my head, and it reminded me of why I was there.
Kristen Fitzgerald, standing among acres of lush farmland, her strawberry-blond hair tugged by the wind. She smiles at me, even says, “This is why.”
Pretty cliche, huh? Makes it sound like I do it all for a girl. But she represented that ideal. A high school sweetheart who told me she’d always wait, that she was like me, that we were not born to live ordinary lives.
My ideal was not some jingoistic military recruiting commercial or some glamorous Hollywood version of war. I didn’t join because I wanted to “get some.” I wanted to protect my country and help people. That made me feel good, made me feel worth something. And as the years went on, and I got promoted and was told how good I was, I decided to share what I knew. I loved teaching at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. I couldn’t think of a more rewarding part of my military career.
In fact, that was where I met Captain Simon Harruck, who’d been a fellow trainer despite his youth and who was now commander of Delta Company, 1st Battalion—120 soldiers charged with providing security for Senjaray and conducting counterinsurgency operations.
I knew that when we got back, Harruck would try to cheer me up. He was indeed ten years my junior, and when I looked at him, oh, how I saw myself back in those days.
But as we both knew, the ’Stan was unforgiving, with its oppressive heat and sand that got into everything, even your soul. I threw my head back on the seat and trusted Treehorn to take us home, headlights out, guided by his night-vision goggles.
By the time we arrived at the FOB, Harruck was already standing outside the small Quonset hut that housed the company’s offices, and the expression on his face was sympathetic. “Well, we got three we can talk to, right?”
I returned a sour look and marched past him, into the hut.
THREE
The three prisoners were taken to a holding room. The CIA was sending a chopper down to transfer them to FOB Chapman in Khost, where some big shot from Kabul would come in to interrogate them. FOB Chapman was the CIA outpost where seven agents were killed years ago. I knew this time the bad guys would be strip-searched, x- rayed, and then have their every orifice and cavity probed.
Didn’t matter, though. I didn’t think they knew much. Zahed wasn’t fool enough to allow underlings to know his plans or whereabouts.
The girl was taken to our small hospital, and we could only speculate on what would happen to her after that. She was damaged goods, a disgrace and dishonor to her family, and they would, I knew, not want her back. A terrible thing, to be sure. She might be transported to one of the local orphanages and/or assisted by one of the dozens of aid groups in the country. She might even be arrested. I couldn’t think about her anymore, and I’d made it a point
I sent the rest of my team back to quarters. We’d debrief in the morning. I sat around Harruck’s desk, and he offered me a quick and covert shot of cheap scotch, saying we’d turn ourselves in later and receive our letters of reprimand.
Harruck was a dark-haired, blue-eyed poster boy who made you wonder why he’d joined the military. He resembled a corporate type who played golf on the weekends with clients. He was taking graduate courses online, trying to earn his master’s, and he kept on retainer two or three girlfriends back home in San Diego. Because he was so articulate and so damned smart, he’d been recruited to teach at the JFK School, and when he wasn’t overseas, he participated in our four-week-long unconventional warfare exercise, Robin Sage. The first time I met him, I was immediately impressed by his knowledge of our tactics, techniques, and procedures. His candor and sense of humor invited you into a conversation. Once there, you realized,
But those attributes did not make him famous around the Ghosts, no. He was, as far as I knew, the only Army officer who’d been offered his own Ghost unit and had turned down the offer.
Let me repeat that.
He’d become a Special Forces officer, had led an ODA team for a while, but when asked to join the Ghosts, he’d said no — and had even gone so far as to leave Special Forces and return to the regular Army to become a company commander.
We called it temporary insanity. Or alcoholism. Or some said cowardice: Pretty boy didn’t want to get a scratch on his smooth cheek.
I’d never asked him why he’d done this. I didn’t want to pry, but I was also afraid of the answer.
“I don’t know how much help you want with your gear,” Harruck said after we finished our drinks. “All your toys are classified, but I’ve got some guys that’ll take a look if you want.”
“That’s all right. I’ll have to ship a few units back and see what they say. Meanwhile, we’ll have to wait till they drop in replacements.”
“Any thoughts?”
“Taliban bought EMP weapons from China,” I said through a dark chuckle. “It’d make sense. We’re running a war on their money now. Wouldn’t they do everything they can to keep us spending? It worked when we did it to the Russians.”
“I hear that.”
“I’ve still got a half dozen more drones I can send up — if I can get some Cross-Coms. The disruption’s localized, so we’ll find out what they’re using. I’m curious to see who they’re playing with now.”
“What if it’s us?”
I snorted. “NSA? CIA? You think they’re in bed with Zahed? Well, if that’s true—”
“You sound tense.”
