appeared to be Taliban with turbans and shemaghs across

their faces, pulled us out of the Hummer.

My words in Pashto were ignored. I kept asking them

what they wanted, what was going on, we weren’t here

to hurt them. One guy came up and suddenly pulled a

black sack over my head. I started screaming as others

252 GH OS T RE CON

dragged my hands behind my back and zipper-cuffed

them.

And then I really panicked. How the hell could I have

been so stupid? Shilmani was probably in bed with Zahed

and had arranged this entire pack of lies so that they could

kidnap us. Now they’d have three American prisoners . . .

Treehorn was screaming and struggling to get free.

I yelled for him to calm down, we’d be okay.

“We should’ve killed them all!” he said, his voice muf-

fled by the sack presumably over his head. “We should’ve!”

They shoved me into the backseat of one of the cars,

driving my head down and forcing me to sit.

I was a Ghost officer. Neither seen nor heard.

And never once had I been taken prisoner.

T WENTY-FOUR

As someone used to being in control, I could hardly

believe that I was helpless and at the mercy of my captors.

I kept telling myself, You’re Captain Scott Mitchell, D

Company, First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group.

This does not happen to you.

My emotions flew in chaotic orbits. One second I was

furious, wanting to curse and scream and shove my way

out of the car. The next moment I was scared out of my

mind, picturing myself hanging inverted from a rope

and being tortured in ways both medieval and merciless.

We drove, with Treehorn in the seat next to me. He

kept trying to talk, but our captors shouted for him to

be quiet. They knew a little English. I assumed they

254 GH OS T RE CON

wouldn’t answer our questions, so there was no reason

to talk until we arrived at wherever we were going.

I took only small comfort in the fact that Gordon

could still locate Treehorn and me via the signals from

our Green Force Tracker Chips (unless, of course, we

were taken to a cave or the chips were removed from our

bodies). And yes, I had assumed we were being captured

by the Taliban—initially, at least. As the car ride contin-

ued, I began counting off the seconds and trying to

estimate how far they were taking us from the village.

I tried to make myself feel better by concocting some

elaborate scheme that involved Bronco and his CIA bud-

dies capturing us for some reason—maybe to threaten

us or force a conversation, something. Bronco did wield

some power in the village, having longstanding relation-

ships with all the players, so I wouldn’t have put it past

him to engage in a little payback and some threats. He

could have paid off some local guys to pick us up and

deliver us to him.

The road grew very rough, jostling us in the seats,

and the driver directly in front of me began arguing

with the passenger. I focused on the conversation, tried

my best to ferret out the words, but they always spoke so

rapidly that my hearing turned into a skipping CD,

just . . . getting . . . a word . . . here . . . there . . .

“Boss, I’m a little worried,” said Treehorn.

“I know. Don’t talk,” I snapped.

The men hollered back at us.

At that point I began to feel sorry for myself. I’ll

admit it. I’d grown a little too comfortable in the

CO MB AT O P S

255

village, believing that since Burki wanted me to kill

Zahed, I could move a bit more freely and not be threat-

ened. Sure, we dressed like the locals and were begin-

ning to grow out our beards, but I’m sure it wasn’t

difficult to ID us as foreigners.

I heard my father telling me, Son, you really screwed

up. You watched a guy murder another soldier and lied

about it. You basically got two of your men killed. And

now you’ve gone and gotten yourself captured. Are you

having a bad day or what? What the hell happened to you?

Don’t you remember what your mom told you? You’re des-

tined for some great things . . . so I have to ask you, son,

what the hell happened?

My eyes were brimming with tears. I kept calling

myself a fool and wanted to apologize to Treehorn. He

was going to die because I’d made poor decisions. All of

the axioms of leadership didn’t mean a goddamned

thing to me anymore. The Special Forces creed was a

joke. I had a sack over my head and was being driven to

hell, where a fat man lounged near a pool of lava, sipping

on tea.

I started reflecting on everything: my pathetic rela-

tionships with women, how I’d tortured poor Kristen for

so many years, how she kept lying to me and saying this

was the exact relationship she wanted, long-distance and

infrequent, when I could see the ache in her eyes. What

kind of a life had I made for myself? Was I truly happy?

Were all the missions and the sacrifices really worth it?

Like I said, I was really feeling sorry for myself.

Any operator who tells you he has no doubts, that he

256 GH OS T RE CON

is fully committed to the choices he’s made and the sac-

rifices to come, is, in my humble opinion, lying. There

will always be the doubts, and they were, at that

moment, all I had left.

I’d estimated the car’s speed at about thirty miles per

hour and had counted off about thirty minutes, give or

take, so I figured we’d gone about fifteen miles when the

car came to an abrupt halt, the dirt hissing beneath the

tires.

More chatter from the driver and passenger. The zip-

per cuffs were digging into my wrists and my shoulders

were on fire by the time they opened the door and

yanked us from the car. We were guided about twenty

steps away, and then one man said, “Stay.”

“Boss, I say we make a break for it. I’d rather get shot

trying to escape.”

“Relax, brother. We’re going to be okay.”

“Dude! We’re not okay!” he shouted.

That drew the reaction of the men. I heard a thump,

Treehorn groaned, and I hollered, “Treehorn, you okay?

You okay?”

“Yeah.” He gasped. “They just whacked me!”

The wind was tugging at my loose shirt and driving

the sack deeper into my face.

We weren’t in the village, and we hadn’t crossed the

mountains. I was sure of that. We would’ve felt the

mountain road, heard the engine groaning. The road

had been relatively flat.

CO MB AT O P S

257

Suddenly, the sack was ripped off my head, and I was

blinded by the glare. It took a few seconds of squinting

for my eyes to fully adjust.

Treehorn stood next to me, squinting as well.