The smell of sweet meat cooking . . .

A small kitchen area to my right with a worktable and

some fresh flowers in a vase . . .

A woman cowering behind that table with a young

girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and a boy, maybe

eleven or so, their eyes bulging, the girl beginning to

weep. The mother pulled the children closer to her chest.

And there, at the back of a room, another man,

CO MB AT O P S

43

well-trimmed beard, turban, but with sideburns that

seemed very Western. He put a finger to his lips, then

pointed down the hall, where he suggested my Taliban

guy had gone.

Then he held up a hand. Wait.

He shouted back into the hall. “All clear now. You

can come out . . .”

I shifted to the left side of the room, moving toward

the wall, and watched with utter surprise as this local guy

who’d already volunteered to help me kept tight to the

wall, gave a me a look, and then, as the Taliban fighter

moved forward, my new ally tripped him.

And that was when I moved in, leaping on his back

and knocking him face first onto the dirt floor. He tried

to reach back for a pistol holstered at his waist, but I

grabbed his wrist while my new friend grabbed the fight-

er’s other arm. With my free hand I tugged out a pair of

zipper cuffs, and we got him bound in a few seconds.

I rose, leaving the fighter still lying on the floor, and

eyed the family. In a moment of weakness I lowered my

shemagh. “I’m sorry,” I said in Pashto.

“It’s okay,” said the man in English. “I know who

this guy is and who he works for. I’m glad you’ve cap-

tured him.”

“Where’d you learn English?”

He grinned weakly. “It’s a long story. I’ll help you get

him up, so you can be on your way.”

I pursed my lips at the wife and children. The wife

shook her head in disapproval, but the girl and boy

seemed fascinated by me. I shrugged and got my prisoner

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GH OS T RE C O N

ready to move, confiscated his weapon, and led him out-

side.

When I turned back, the entire family was standing

there beside the front door, watching me. I raised my

shemagh to conceal my face and gave them a curt nod.

As I led back my prisoner, I cursed at myself for send-

ing my boys off alone and without communications to

capture those other men. We should have paired up. And

we were taking an awful risk operating without comm.

What the hell was I thinking? The frustration, the rage,

and a bit of the guilt had clouded my judgment.

And what was worse, by the time I made it back to

the bazaar and started down the main road toward the

Hummer, I spotted a bonfire in the middle of the road.

But it turned out to be our Hummer.

I started running forward, forcing the prisoner to do

likewise.

Another crowd had gathered to watch the infidel

truck burn, and our mechanic driver was lying in the

dirt with his hand on his forehead, bleeding from a ter-

rible gash.

Kundi was there as well, and he marched up to me

with several cronies drifting behind him. He spoke so

rapidly in Pashto that I couldn’t understand him, but he

gesticulated wildly between the bazaar, the truck, and

the people gathered. Then he pointed at me, narrowed

his gaze, and this much I caught: “Time for you to go

home.”

“No,” I said sarcastically. “We’ve come here to save

you.” He eyed the flaming truck, the stench of melting

CO MB AT O P S

45

rubber threatening to make me gag. “Thanks for the

welcome.”

I pushed past him and led my prisoner over to the

mechanic. “What happened?”

“They pulled me out. We can’t fire till they fire at us.

They didn’t have any guns, then suddenly I’m lying on

the ground. I don’t even know who hit me . . .”

Brown, Hume, and Treehorn came charging back

down the street. No luck, no prisoners.

“Sorry,” Hume said. “The other three got away.”

“Because they got help,” said Treehorn. “They’re

working for Zahed, but they live here.”

I snorted. “Yeah, it’s good times.” Then I shoved the

prisoner toward Treehorn and shifted into the middle of

the street. I pointed to the fallen mechanic and screamed

at the top of my lungs, “WHO DID THIS?”

The locals threw their hands in the air, then dis-

missed me with waves and started back toward their

shops. Nolan hustled over to the mechanic and hun-

kered down to treat him.

Kundi came forward once more. “Where is Captain

Harruck?” he asked in broken English. “I want to talk

to him.”

“He’s busy right now.”

“You tell him I want to talk.” Kundi turned away and

started back toward the bazaar.

“So I guess we’re walking,” Brown said, staring

grimly at the burning Hummer.

I began to lose my breath. I wanted to move all the

women and children to a tent city just outside town,

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GH OS T RE C O N

then call in an air strike and level the entire place and tell

them we were turning it into a parking lot for a Wal-

Mart Supercenter.

Then we’d go to Zahed and say, This will happen to

your village if you don’t turn yourself in. I couldn’t under-

stand how helping these people would help us win the

war. I was willing to bet that even that guy who’d helped

me would stab me in the back if push came to shove.

I was ready to leave, but of course the mission had

just begun.

FIVE

We reached the edge of town, where in the distance two

more Hummers bounced across the desert like mechani-

cal dragons wagging long tails of dust. I squinted and

saw that one truck contained the rest of my team, while

the other was carrying Harruck. In about five minutes

they reached us and screeched to a stop.

“Man, they were fast,” said Paul Smith from the

other truck. “They ditched their ride and scattered like

roaches. We asked around. No one’s talking. They’re all

too afraid to say anything. No shock there.”

“All right,” I said, then took a deep breath and

crossed to Harruck as he hopped out of the cab. “We

shot one, got one.”

“What the hell, Scott? You shouldn’t have followed

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GH OS T RE C O N

them into town, for God’s sake! Maybe you can operate

outside the ROE, but I can’t. And I won’t. I’ve spent a

long time trying to work something out with them.”

“With who? That guy Kundi? He’s a scumbag who

will burn you. Come on, Simon, you already know that.

They’re all opportunists, scammers, users . . .”

“Which means we have to play them just right, Scott.

Just right. We need to be the ones they think they can

trust.” He glanced at my men, feeling the heat of their

gazes. “Look, we’ll talk about this later.”

“They burned our Hummer,” I said as he turned