“I’m glad you’re getting a chance to see them,” said

Anderson, turning toward me and gesturing to the tent

full of children.

“I assume they’ll have desks, once they move inside . . .”

“Yes, they will. These kids need a sense of dignity.

And we’ll give that to them. We’ve made a great deal

here. We train the teachers and provide the educational

materials if the community provides us with those teach-

ers. And we’re trying to recruit more girls to the classes,

at least thirty percent for us to receive full funding from

some of my sources.”

“The Taliban doesn’t want girls educated,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter what they want. It’s what the peo-

ple want. And if the Taliban know what’s good for them,

they’ll follow the example of some of the other villages

up north. This works. I’ve seen it.”

“It works until we leave. And hey, you haven’t called

me about these guys turning over their paychecks to the

Taliban.”

“I know. I think they know I’m watching them, and

they’ve become more discreet. But it’s going on, I know it.”

“All part of the great legacy we’re building here.”

She hoisted a brow and looked me dead in the eye.

“When Harruck told me about trying to build a legacy,

do you know what I told him?”

180 GH OS T RE CON

“That he’s dreaming?” I guessed.

“No, that it’s obvious: This school is the legacy. But

we need to protect it. We need to train the police and

whatever National Army troops we can get here.”

“We’ve already done what we can,” I said, gesturing to

the sandbagged nests and the observation posts beyond. I

lifted the binoculars hanging around my neck and panned

the horizon, coming to a stop on a cluster of Taliban

fighters, at least ten of them, perched on the mountain-

side, watching us. Our machine gunners were watching

them, too.

“No, that’s not enough. We need more police, more

Afghan Army troops. We need a garrison here. We need

police to patrol the town.”

“Talk to Harruck.”

“I already did. I’m talking to you.”

“Why do you think that’ll make a difference? You

don’t even know who I am . . .”

She smiled as if she did. She couldn’t. Unless, there

was much more to her than met the eye.

“I know who he is,” she said, gesturing toward an old

white sedan that was rumbling toward us, its hood caked

in dust, its windshield wipers still working to clear away

more dust. Bronco was behind the wheel. She contin-

ued: “I know you guys talk.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss this any further.”

“I’m just telling you, please . . . help us.” She gave me

a curt nod, and Ramirez and I stepped away as Bronco

parked near the school tent and climbed out.

“You’re not looking for me, are you?” I asked.

CO MB AT O P S

181

“I figured you’d be looking for me. Buy me flowers.

Something for saving your ass,” he said.

I wished I could tell him my ass was far from saved.

“What’re you doing out here?” I asked.

“Saw you. Figured I’d let you know about your

buddy.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“They captured one of your men. I heard about it. I

talked to a few of my contacts in Sangsar. They’ve got

him. I’m sure you’ll hear from them soon.”

I glanced over at Ramirez, who just shook his head

and sighed.

Though I hate to admit it now, when Bronco said he

had news concerning “our buddy,” I’d hoped that Warris

had been killed. That’s a terrible thing to wish on the

man, but that was how I felt.

And I just knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that

Keating would want me to rescue Warris, the very man

who would burn me at the stake when we got back.

“All right, thanks for the info,” I told Bronco. “Always

nice doing business with the friendly neighborhood

spook. And now, what is it you want from us, because I

know you want something.”

He smiled—an unfortunate grin that revealed his

aversion to modern dentistry. “I want HER F guns. You

came back with two of them, didn’t you?”

“Classified,” I said.

“I need one.”

“Too late. Already turned them over to Army intel.”

He looked away. “Damn it.”

182 GH OS T RE CON

“So that’s why you’re here?”

“Among other things. We’ve got some Chinese agents

in Sangsar. They’re supplying the HERF guns.”

“You got proof?”

“I got it. But hard evidence is always better. It allows

me to more definitively make a move. It allows me to

have my three-letter agency call your agency and get the

job done right.”

I nodded. “Assholes or allies. Hard to tell the differ-

ence sometimes . . .”

“That it is.”

“How come you’re willing to play nice all of a sudden?”

“Because now it benefits me. What else you need to

know?”

“Just where my guy is and where I can find Zahed . . .”

“I’ll get back to you on those . . .” He winked and

hobbled back toward his car. Only then did I notice his

limp and the deep scar running across his ankle. What I

didn’t notice, though, were all the lies he’d just told me.

He could’ve won an Oscar for that performance.

I dropped off Ramirez back at the base, then headed over

to Harruck’s office. I was about to open the door to enter

the Quonset hut when I noticed a car parked outside and

an old man, a local from Senjaray I figured, unloading

luggage from the trunk. I opened the door, stepped inside,

and just as the door was closing behind me—

A thundering explosion rattled the walls followed by

the pinging of debris.

CO MB AT O P S

183

Ahead was Harruck, seated at his desk, talking to a

dignified-looking man with gray beard and expensive-

looking Afghan clothes. I assumed he was a government

official of some sort, and I was correct.

As Harruck and the other man shouted behind me, I

took a deep breath, then slipped back outside.

The car had exploded, the man removing the luggage

lying in pieces across the dirt, the flames still pouring up

from the shattered windows. I raised an arm against the

intense heat as Harruck’s security people were scream-

ing and rushing to get fire extinguishers.

Harruck came out behind me and screamed orders to

his people, while the older man hollered in Pashto, then

covered his eyes and began speaking so rapidly that I

barely understood a word.

We watched as Harruck’s teams began putting out

the fire, and the black smoke sent signals to the Taliban

in the mountains and everyone in Senjaray—indeed,

something had happened on the American base.

Harruck ushered the old man back into his office,

and I entered behind them. The old man collapsed into

his chair and tried to catch his breath. His eyes brimmed

with tears.

Harruck glowered at me and said, “Well, Scott, this

is obviously not the time for you and I to talk.”

“I understand.” In Pashto, I said to the old man,

“I’m very sorry about this.”

He answered in English. “They must’ve rigged my