“Yes, they do.”

“And I’ve already put you in danger?”

“No, because I work for Mirab Mir Burki, who is the

master of water distribution here in Zhari.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Burki knows you Americans want to dig a new well.

He wants that well, and he’s already negotiated with

Zahed over rights to the water and the profits. We’re just

waiting for you to build it. Any contact I have with

Americans is part of our water negotiations—so as you

might say, I have a good cover.”

“What is it you want?”

“What all men want. Money. Safety for my family. A

better life.” Shilmani finished his tea, then topped off

our cups and refilled his own.

“You want to see Zahed captured?”

“He’s not a good influence here—despite what others

may say. He does not break promises, but when he gives

you something, the price is always very steep.”

“Kundi seems to like him.”

“That old man is a fool, and Zahed would put a knife

in his back. There is no loyalty there.”

“Would you go over to Sangsar and work for us?”

Shilmani’s gaze turned incredulous. “No. Of course

not.”

“But you said you wanted money. I can work out an

arrangement that would be very good for you—and

your family.”

“I am no good to my family if I’m dead.”

CO MB AT O P S

65

“We can protect you.”

“You’re not a good liar, Scott.”

We finished the tea, and Shilmani’s wife and daughter

served rice and an onion-based quorma or stew, along

with chutneys, pickles, and naan—an unleavened bread

baked in a clay oven. The food was delicious, and the

wife continued urging us to eat more.

Afterward, while his family retreated to the back of

the house, Shilmani wiped his mouth, then stared hard

at me. “You have to remember something, Scott. After

all of you are gone, we are left to pick up the pieces.

We’re just trying to do the best we can for ourselves.”

I stood. “I know that. Thanks for the meal. If you

want to give me some information about Zahed, I’ll pay

for 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 gov-

ernor. 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?”

66

GH OS T RE C O N

“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 Cap-

tain 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 not a good day to be a Tal-

iban leader in the Zhari district. Do you read me?”

“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?”

CO MB AT O P S

67

“Yes, sir?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, sir. I’m fine. Talk to you soon.”

I’d thought he’d heard me cracking under the pres-

sure, but later on I realized that my heart was just dark-

ening, 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 Tal-

iban 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 sev-

eral 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.

68

GH OS T RE C O N

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 bin-

oculars 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. Interest-

ing that Zahed did not tip off his guards at the com-

pound and allowed them to be ambushed. That was

decidedly clever of him.