continued to crack and chatter.

Rounds ripped across the hood of our vehicle, and I

began to smell gasoline.

“We should pull over!” shouted the mechanic.

“No, get us behind those trucks!”

“I’ll try!”

About fifty meters ahead, the two pickups made a

sharp left and disappeared behind a row of homes.

The mechanic floored it, and my head lurched back as

we made the turn.

My imagination ran wild with images of civilians fall-

ing under our gunfire as we tried to stop these guys. I

could already hear the voices of my superiors shouting

about the public relations nightmare we’d created.

The second Hummer fell in behind us, and we charged

down the narrow dirt street, walled in on both sides by

the mud-brick dwellings and the rusting natural gas tanks

plopped out front. The familiar laundry lines spanned the

alleys and backyards, with clothes, as always, fluttering

like flags. Our tires began kicking up enough dust to

obscure the entire street in our wake, even as we pushed

through the dust clouds whipped up by the Taliban

trucks.

We still didn’t have replacement Cross-Coms, and all

I could do was call back to the other truck and tell them

we weren’t breaking off; we were going after these guys.

And yes, the threat of civilian casualties increased dra-

matically the farther we drove, but I wanted to believe

we could do this cleanly. I’d done it before.

CO MB AT O P S

39

Nolan, Brown, and Treehorn had already opened fire

on the rear Taliban truck, knocking out a tire and send-

ing one of the Taliban tumbling over the side with a

bullet in his neck. The rear truck suddenly broke off

from the first, making a hard left turn down another

dirt street.

I told the guys in our rear truck to follow him while

we kept up with the lead truck, whose driver steered for

the bazaar ahead, the road funneling into an even more

narrow passage.

Although I’d never been into the town, Harruck had

told me about the bazaar. You could find handmade

antique jewelry, oil lamps, Persian rugs, and tsarist-era

Russian bank notes displayed next to bootlegged DVDs

and knock-off Rolexes. There were also dozens of white-

bearded traders selling meat and produce. Some vendors

were part of an American-backed program that intro-

duced soldiers to Afghan culture and injected Ameri-

can dollars into the local economy. Although locals

bought, sold, and traded there, Harruck’s company actu-

ally pumped more money into the place than anyone else

because his soldiers purchased food to prepare on the

base and souvenirs to ship back home. The Taliban knew

that, too, which was why they’d come: maximum casual-

ties and demoralization.

We nearly ran over two kids riding old bikes, and the

mechanic was forced to swerve so hard that we took out

the awning post of a house on our left. The awning col-

lapsed behind us, and I cursed.

Suddenly, our Hummer coughed and died.

40

GH OS T RE C O N

My guys started hollering.

“We’re out of gas,” shouted the driver. “It all leaked

out!”

“Dismount! Let’s go!” I shouted to Nolan, Brown,

and Treehorn, then eyed the driver. “You stay here with

the vehicle. We’ll be back for you.”

The four of us sprinted down the block, reaching the

first set of stalls covered by crude awnings. The shop-

keepers had seen the pickup fly by and had retreated to

the backs of their shops.

The truck screeched to a stop at the next intersection,

about fifty meters ahead, and four Taliban jumped out.

I expected them to do one of two things:

Run into the crowd and draw us into a pursuit.

Or . . . take cover behind their truck and engage us in

a gunfight.

Instead, something entirely surreal happened, and all

I could do was shout to my men to hold fire.

The citizens of Senjaray rushed into the street, both

vendors and shoppers alike, and quickly formed a human

barricade around the four men and their truck.

Two of the vendors began shouting and waving their

fists at us, and from what I could discern, they were yell-

ing for us to go home.

As we drew closer, the crowd grew, and the four Tal-

iban were grinning smugly at us.

A man who looked liked a village elder, dressed all in

army-green robes and with a black turban and matching

vest, emerged from one of the shops and ambled toward

CO MB AT O P S

41

us, his beard dark but coiled with gray. Most of the

locals wore beat-up sandals, but his appeared brand-new.

In Pashto he said his name was Malik Kochai Kundi.

“I own most of the land here. I will not allow you to

hurt these men. Zahed has treated us well—much better

than the governor. You will not shatter that alliance.”

Brown started cursing behind me, and I shushed

him, then struggled for the right words. “You heard the

fighting. They attacked our base.”

Kundi stroked his beard in thought. “It’s my under-

standing that you struck first . . . last night. Now, show

me your face, and I will talk to you.”

I glanced over Kundi’s shoulder and noted some-

thing going on among the four Taliban. The tallest one,

perhaps the leader, was shifting his gaze among the

others.

Kundi said something to me, but it was hard to hear

him now over the rising voices of the crowd. I heard

some folks telling Kundi to leave us alone, while others

shouted again for us to leave.

Behind me, John Hume cursed—and I saw why.

The four Taliban turned and dashed back through

the crowd, heading in four different directions.

“Take a guy!” I yelled.

We reacted swiftly, Brown, Hume, and Treehorn

each going after a thug while I went for the tallest one.

I wasn’t sure why they’d chosen to run. Maybe they

didn’t quite trust the citizenry either.

My guy rushed down a side street, leaving the bazaar

42

GH OS T RE C O N

for yet another stretch of sad-looking homes. I was gain-

ing on him when he stopped, whirled, and leveled his rifle.

Before he got off a shot I was already diving to the

right side, realizing that the cover I’d sought was one of

those natural gas tanks. Great.

The guy fired, but his rounds drummed along the

dirt beside me. I rolled, came up, peered around the

tank, saw him rushing forward between houses.

I bounded after him, sweating profusely now, my

eyes itching with dust. Once I got into the alley, I caught

a glimpse of him before he turned another corner. I

jogged ten meters, reached the corner—and a long row

of houses stretched before me.

He was gone.

But then I looked down into the dirt, tracked his

boot prints, and heard a child’s cry coming from one of

the houses.

I jogged forward, eyeing the prints, heard the noise

once more, turned and rushed toward the nearest front

door, pushed it open, and burst into a small entrance

area.

It all hit me at once: