However, this time our plan was more bold. Be seen.

Be mistaken. And be deadly.

Hume had rigged up a temporary remote for the

Cypher drone, and though there was no screen from

CO MB AT O P S

69

which we could view the drone’s data, he could fly it like

a remote-controlled UFO, keeping a visual on it with his

night-vision goggles.

We were bass fishing for Taliban, and the drone was

our red rubber worm.

Within five minutes we’d taken up perches along the

heavy rocks jutting from the mountainside and had, yet

again, an unobstructed and encompassing view of the

valley and all of Sangsar.

The drone whirred away, and I lay there on my belly,

just watching it and thinking about Harruck and Shil-

mani and that old man Kundi and remembering that

every one of us had his own agenda, every one of us was

stubborn, and every one of us would fight till the end.

“Sir,” whispered Treehorn, who was at my left shoul-

der. “Movement in the rocks behind us, six o’clock.”

SEVEN

When I was a kid, D.C.’s Sgt. Rock and Marvel’s The

’Nam were among my favorite comics. I didn’t realize it

then, but what drew me to those stories was the simplic-

ity of the plots. The good guys and bad guys were clearly

defined, and you understood every character’s desire

and related with that desire. Kill bad guys. Save every-

one. Win the war. For America! Be proud! Come home

and get a medal, be worshipped as a hero, live happily

ever after. As a kid, you’re looking for admiration and

acceptance, and being a superhero soldier always sounded

pretty damned good to me.

However, that would never happen if I stayed in Ohio.

There weren’t too many opportunities for me growing up

in Youngstown. Sure, I could’ve gone to work in the

CO MB AT O P S

71

General Motors assembly plant in Lordstown like my

father had, but I doubt I would’ve matched his thirty

years. Boredom or the tanking economy would’ve finished

me. My brother Nicolas got out himself and became an

engineering professor down in Florida, while Tommy

owned and operated Mitchell’s Auto Body and Repair in

Youngstown. He loved cars and had inherited that passion

from our father. He’d had no desire to ever leave home

and had tried to persuade me to stay and run the shop

with him. Because Dad was an avid woodworker, Tommy

even tried to persuade me to open a custom furniture shop

and work with Dad, but that didn’t sound very glamorous

to an eighteen-year-old. Jennifer, the baby of our family,

married a wealthy software designer, and she lived with

him and their daughter in Northern California.

So I’d gone off to see the world and serve my coun-

try. Because that sounded so hokey, I told everyone I

was joining the Army to pay for my college education—

which Dad resented because it made us sound poor.

I can’t lie, though. During my service I’ve seen the

good, the bad, and the ugly—and it’s easy to become

disenchanted. When I’d joined, I was just as naïve as the

next guy, but for many years I clung to my beliefs and

positive attitude, and I let my passion become infectious.

But I think after 9/11, when the GWOT (global war

on terrorism) got into full swing, my veneer grew a bit

worn. It didn’t happen overnight, but every mission

seemed to sap me just a little more. I grew older, my

body became more worn, and my spirit seemed harder

to kindle.

72

GH OS T RE C O N

When I raised my right hand and they swore me in, I

never thought I’d have to wrap my head around no-win

situations in which everyone I dealt with was a liar, in

which my own institution was undermining my ability to

get the job done, and in which my own friends had drawn

lines in the sand based on philosophical differences.

Before my mother had died from cancer, she’d held

my hand and told me to make the best of my life.

I figured she was rolling over in her grave when they

started calling me a murderer . . .

Treehorn had a good ear and better eyes, and I

glanced back to where he’d spotted the movement along

the mountainside. My night-vision goggles revealed two

Taliban fighters peering out from behind a pair of rocks,

but before I could get on the radio and issue an order,

Beasley appeared from behind a few rocks and slipped

down toward the Taliban thugs. As they turned back, he

took one out with his Nightwing black tungsten blade

while Nolan, who dropped down at Beasley’s side, broke

the neck of the other fighter.

Beasley called me and said, “Looks like only two up

here, boss. Clear now.”

I called up Ramirez, who was packing our portable,

ultrawide-band radar unit that could detect ground

movement up to several hundred meters away. I’d con-

sidered leaving the device behind in case we got zapped

again, but now I was glad we had it. I hadn’t expected

sentries this far up into the mountains. Within a minute

Ramirez would be scanning the outskirts of the town.

CO MB AT O P S

73

Off to the northeast, along a section of wall that was

beginning to crumble, a pair of jingle trucks were parked

abreast. The trucks were colorfully painted and adorned

with pieces of rugs, festooned with chimes, and fitted with

all sorts of other dangling jewels that created quite a

racket as they traveled down the potholed roads between

villages. These trucks had become famous and then

infamous among American soldiers. They were typically

used by locals to transport goods, but in more recent

years they had become instruments to smuggle drugs

and weapons across the borders with Iran and Pakistan.

Thugs would hide weapons within stacks of firewood or

piles of rugs, and young infantrymen would have to

search the loads while wizened old men glared on, palms

raised as they were held at gunpoint. I must’ve seen a

hundred roadside incidents of search and seizure during

my time in country.

That Zahed had several of these trucks in the village

was unsurprising. That there was a man posted in the

back of one truck and pointing his rifle up at us gave me

pause.

Treehorn already had him spotted with his scope, and

he’d attached the gun’s big silencer, so he could do the

job in relative quiet.

I told him to wait while I scanned for more targets.

“Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez,” came the voice in my

headset.

“What do you got?”

“Just the one guy in the jingle truck so far. The

74

GH OS T RE C O N

compound we hit looks empty. Picking up movement

from all the farm animals in the pens. Nothing else, over.”

“Roger that. Hume, talk to me about the drone.”