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Harruck looked at me. “No, I’m not.”

The door suddenly opened and in walked Bronco,

escorted by one of Harruck’s lieutenants.

Bronco spoke rapidly. “Captain, we appreciate your

help and assistance here, and if there’s nothing else, I’d

like to escort my colleague off the base.”

Harruck eyed an empty chair. “Sit down, Bronco.”

“Whoa, take it easy there, Joe. You got no idea what

you’re dealing with here.”

I smote a fist on the card table, and it nearly col-

lapsed. “I just lost another man. And I’m not walking

out of here until you tell us what’s going on, what your

mission is here, and how it might affect what we’re try-

ing to do. As a matter of fact, XO, do us a favor and lock

that door. Armed guard outside. No one’s leaving until

you two spooks cough up the truth.”

“You can’t do that, buddy. We have the right to walk

out of here.”

“Yes, you do. But we’re way out here in the middle of

nowhere,” I said. “And we’re all going to get along

nicely, otherwise bad things will happen. Bad things.”

Bronco shifted up to me. “Don’t threaten me, soldier

boy. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you. And as far as

we’re concerned, you know all you need to.”

“Do you know the location of our captured soldier?”

Harruck asked the prisoner point-blank.

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

He thought a moment. “Mike.”

“Okay, Mikey,” I began. “You guys are working on

242 GH OS T RE CON

some Chinese connection with HER F guns and opium.

I get that. I’m just a jarhead, a monkey, but I get that.

Does your operation tie directly to Zahed? I just need a

yes or a no.”

Bronco, sighed, frowned, then sighed again. “Does

our operation link to Zahed? Well . . . not exactly.”

I closed my eyes and thought of murder.

T WENTY-THREE

The “opium palaces,” as they were called by the media,

were mansions constructed by rich drug lords on the out-

skirts of Kabul, and a few were beginning to sprout up in

Kandahar. One I’d visited in Kabul was on Street 6 in a

neighborhood called Sherpur. That place was a four-story

monstrosity with eleven bedrooms and had been con-

structed with the heavy use of pink granite and lime mar-

ble. The media referred to these mansions as “narcotecture”

in reference to Afghanistan’s corrupt government. There

were massage showers, a rooftop fountain, and even an

Asian-themed nightclub in the basement. The pig that

owned it was finally busted by the police, but his brother-

in-law was allowed to buy it from him and was renting it

out for twelve thousand bucks a week. What a bargain.

244 GH OS T RE CON

Ironically, it was that very house, a somewhat infa-

mous landmark now, that Bronco began to talk about.

“So basically what we’d like to do is move Zahed over

there and dismantle his operation here. He’s got a nice

smuggling operation going on with the Chinese and the

Pakistanis, so it’s been difficult.”

“We just want to kill or capture him. You want to

play Let’s Make a Deal,” I said. “No go. We’ve got a

ticking clock, and no time for this.”

“Besides,” added Harruck, “we’re not authorized at

this level to negotiate a joint operation with you. This

has all got to go through higher.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Joe,” said Bronco. “We

all want to get Zahed out of here. That’s the truth.”

“You want to put him up in a mansion and turn him

into an informant. He’s got one of our guys, and he’s

parading him around on TV, threatening to kill him,

making insane demands, and you want to do business

with this clown.”

“Exactly,” said Mike, gently touching his swollen

cheek. “He’s worth a lot more if we keep him operating.

Just not here . . .”

“So you guys supplied Zahed’s men with the HER F

guns because you knew Special Forces would be sent in

here.”

“Not true,” said Bronco. “Zahed’s got his own con-

nections, and he’s smart enough to know that you SF

guys are after him. He’s heard all about some of your

Star Trek toys, and he loves the idea that he can knock

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245

you out with a twenty-dollar gun made in a tent in some

shithole alley in China.”

“Oh, he hasn’t knocked us out. Not yet. I don’t need

toys to bring him down.”

“Okay, Mr. Bravado. You’re a badass, we get that,”

said Mike. “But when it comes to this place, that doesn’t

mean jack.”

I turned to Harruck. “I think at this point, we should

lock these guys up until we get higher down here and

figure out what the plan is. As far as I’m concerned,

they’ve both been interfering with our mission.”

“Aw, that’s bullshit, and you know it,” said Bronco.

“I took you to see the old men. I told you what you’re

up against here. And you still don’t even know the half

of it. The entire U.S. Army depends on the balance . . .

like I told you.”

“Yeah, you told me. Thanks.” I stood. “Do the right

thing, Simon. Hold these guys as long as you can. I’m

going to see Zahed in the morning.”

“You’re what?” asked Bronco.

I grinned darkly at both spooks. “Have a good

night.”

Nolan’s body would be flown out before noon. We’d

have the small prayer service, as we’d had for Beasley,

and we’d all look at each other and think, We’ve lost one

of our brothers and any one of us could be next. When I

got back to the billet, I chatted with the guys for a few

246 GH OS T RE CON

minutes, and then we all turned in, emotionally and

physically exhausted.

But I couldn’t sleep, so I just lay in my rack, staring at

the curved ceiling.

Brown was listening to his iPod, the tinny rhythm

buzzing from his earbuds. I’d figured him for a hip-hop

guy, but he loved his classic rock. I listened for a while,

letting the tunes carry me back to moments past: my

childhood, a stickball game in the middle of the street, a

bully who’d beaten me up at the bus stop, a meeting

with the principal when I cheated on a high school trig-

onometry exam and my father had come and persuaded

the principal not to punish me too greatly.

I started crying. My lips tightened, and the deep gri-

mace finally took hold. I fought to remain quiet. But I

couldn’t hold back the tears. My father was dead. I wasn’t

going to his funeral. And I’d just lost another teammate.

I began to tremble, then clutched the sheets and finally

took a deep breath. Then I began laughing at myself. I

was a deadly combatant, member of a most elite gun club

of highly trained killers. We were unfeeling instruments

of death, not whiners and bed wetters.

I lifted my head and stared through the darkness,

across the billet to Ramirez’s bunk.

He was sitting up, watching me.