“No, not kill you . . . just start an argument, and it’s

CO MB AT O P S

95

not worth it. I’m just here to get a job done, and when

I’m finished, I go on to the next problem.”

“Me, too.” She stared out the window at the dust blow-

ing across the road. “This place . . . it has a way of drain-

ing all your energy. Some days I just feel like sleeping.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“So you think I’m wasting my time, don’t you? You

think we’re all just spinning our wheels.”

I didn’t look up, just ate my toast and found great

interest in the black pool of my coffee.

“Scott, maybe in the end we can do more good by

showing kindness,” she added.

“We’re a fighting force, trained for battle, not police

work. These people need a police force and a better army

to protect them, and then people like you can come and

offer aid. We’re doing it all for them right now, and

when we pull out, you watch . . . it’ll all crumble.”

The guys decided that they hated Harruck. I couldn’t

blame them. I shared what Keating had told me. They

snorted, cursed, wished we had beer.

At the same time, they were getting cabin fever, so I

told them we’d bend orders and don regular Army uni-

forms and pose as grunts to assist with arranging and

constructing defensive positions along the choke point

near the river.

“We just finished telling you how much we hate Har-

ruck,” said Brown. “Now you want us to help him?”

96

GH OS T RE C O N

I smiled. “That’s right. Don’t you love this place?”

They threw up their hands.

I put Ramirez in charge and sent my boys out there

to help a few sergeants, who were glad to have more

hands on shovels in the one-hundred-plus-degree heat.

Meanwhile, I paid a long overdue visit to our friendly

neighborhood CIA agent, a guy who called himself

“Bronco.” I wasn’t keen on working with those bas-

tards, but I figured the least I could do was feel him out.

I’d thought his agency wanted Zahed as much as I did,

so we had a common goal.

Bronco didn’t live on the base but paid rent for a one-

room shack on the west side of the village. He’d been

working the district for the past two years and had,

according to Harruck, earned the respect of Kundi and

the rest of the elders.

I found him sitting outside his shack, reading a book

and smoking a filterless cigarette. His gray beard, sun-

weathered skin, and turban made it hard to discern him

as an American. I’d taken a private with me for security

and had donned regular Army gear myself.

Bronco took a long pull on his cigarette, flicked it

away, then exhaled loudly and spoke in Pashto. “Good

morning, gentlemen. What do you want?”

I answered in English. “My name’s Scott. I was hop-

ing we could go inside and talk in private.”

“You’re not the asshole who blew up our bridge, are

you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny any information you

CO MB AT O P S

97

have regarding bridges in this region,” I answered curtly,

then gave him my lucky fuck-you smile.

He rolled his eyes. “Come on in, Joe.”

“Scott.”

“No, Joe.”

We went in, and I wasn’t sure how a human being

could live like that. One meager bed, small washbasin, a

table, and two chairs. No power, no running water. He

did have natural gas to cook, but that was about it. A

laptop with satellite link sat improbably on the table, and

he told me had a dozen solar-powered batteries to keep

the thing running—his lifeline to home. He plopped

into a chair.

“I’m surprised they didn’t attach me to your mis-

sion,” he said suddenly.

“And what mission would that be?”

“Cut the crap. You’re an SF guy come here to take

out Zahed. He knew you were coming. We knew you

were coming. No one wants you here. No one needs you

here. So what the hell are you doing here?”

I started laughing and looked around. “I keep asking

myself the same question.”

“Go home, Joe.”

“Aren’t you here with the same agenda?”

He just stared at me. Squinted, really, deep lines

creasing his face. “I can neither confirm nor deny any

information I have regarding the whereabouts or

intended capture of Zahed.”

“All right. You’re me. What do you do?”

98

GH OS T RE C O N

“Are you deaf? Go home, Joe.”

“You don’t think removing Zahed will have any effect

on what’s happening here?”

“Yeah, actually I do. This place will tank even more.”

“You don’t think capturing him will gain us valuable

information regarding the Taliban’s activities in this

region?”

“Nope. We got predators flying around, watching

every move they make. We don’t need one fat man to

spill his guts.”

“So you’re JAFO.”

His was old enough and experienced enough to know

the term: Just Another Fucking Observer.

“What’s happening here is a little too complex for the

average military mind to grasp. I’m sure you saw the

PowerPoint they made. That’s why I’m here. We’re not

JAFOs. We’re specialists. You guys are just overpaid

assassins. And you’re what? Oh for two on night raids

now? I mean, that’s amateur crap. Really.”

“I was hoping we could share some intel, so that the

next time something happens, it’ll be the last.”

“Of course you were.”

“I need to know whether or not your agency will

pose any interference with my mission.”

He threw his head back and cackled at that.

I just stood there.

Finally, his smile evaporated. “Joe, my agency inter-

feres with everything. That’s what we do.”

I envisioned myself crossing to the table, grabbing

the bastard by the neck, shoving him against the wall,

CO MB AT O P S

99

and saying, If you get in my way, you’ll be on my target

list.

“No help from you, then.”

He shrugged. “Have you met the provincial gover-

nor?”

I shook my head.

“You should. The people here want him dead more

than Zahed. You want to be a hero, kill him.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Look at me, Joe. I could be sitting in a hotel room in

Laughlin, going downstairs every night to gamble my ass

off, drink my ass off, and have sex with a different hooker

every night. But no, I’m here. Of course, I’m nuts.”

“You doing this for America?”

He gave me a sarcastic salute and said, “Apple pie,

baby.”

“If I told you that I wanted to talk to Zahed, would

you be able to get word back to him?”

“That might depend on what you want to discuss.”

Bronco withdrew another cigarette from his breast

pocket and was about to light it up when I answered:

“I want to discuss the terms of his surrender.”

He dropped his Zippo and looked up. “Dude, you

are a comedian. I’m so glad you came.”

“Do you know anything about EMP disruption