one of the dozens of aid groups in the country. She

might even be arrested. I couldn’t think about her any-

more, and I’d made it a point not to learn her name. Her

plight fueled my hatred for the Taliban and the local

Afghans. No one cared about her. No one . . .

I sent the rest of my team back to quarters. We’d

debrief in the morning. I sat around Harruck’s desk, and

he offered me a quick and covert shot of cheap scotch,

saying we’d turn ourselves in later and receive our letters

of reprimand.

Harruck was a dark-haired, blue-eyed poster boy

who made you wonder why he’d joined the military. He

resembled a corporate type who played golf on the week-

ends with clients. He was taking graduate courses online,

trying to earn his master’s, and he kept on retainer two

or three girlfriends back home in San Diego. Because he

was so articulate and so damned smart, he’d been

recruited to teach at the JFK School, and when he wasn’t

overseas, he participated in our four-week-long uncon-

ventional warfare exercise, Robin Sage. The first time I

met him, I was immediately impressed by his knowledge

of our tactics, techniques, and procedures. His candor

and sense of humor invited you into a conversation.

Once there, you realized, Holy crap, this guy is for real:

talented, intelligent, and handsome. If you weren’t jeal-

ous and didn’t hate him immediately, you wanted him

on your team.

CO MB AT O P S

29

But those attributes did not make him famous around

the Ghosts, no. He was, as far as I knew, the only Army

officer who’d been offered his own Ghost unit and had

turned down the offer.

Let me repeat that.

He’d become a Special Forces officer, had led an ODA

team for a while, but when asked to join the Ghosts,

he’d said no—and had even gone so far as to leave Spe-

cial Forces and return to the regular Army to become a

company commander.

We called it temporary insanity. Or alcoholism. Or

some said cowardice: Pretty boy didn’t want to get a

scratch on his smooth cheek.

I’d never asked him why he’d done this. I didn’t want

to pry, but I was also afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know how much help you want with your

gear,” Harruck said after we finished our drinks. “All

your toys are classified, but I’ve got some guys that’ll

take a look if you want.”

“That’s all right. I’ll have to ship a few units back and

see what they say. Meanwhile, we’ll have to wait till they

drop in replacements.”

“Any thoughts?”

“Taliban bought EMP weapons from China,” I said

through a dark chuckle. “It’d make sense. We’re run-

ning a war on their money now. Wouldn’t they do every-

thing they can to keep us spending? It worked when we

did it to the Russians.”

“I hear that.”

“I’ve still got a half dozen more drones I can send

30

GH OS T RE C O N

up—if I can get some Cross-Coms. The disruption’s

localized, so we’ll find out what they’re using. I’m curi-

ous to see who they’re playing with now.”

“What if it’s us?”

I snorted. “NSA? CIA? You think they’re in bed with

Zahed? Well, if that’s true—”

“You sound tense.”

“I’m not good with setbacks, you know that. I fig-

ured we’d capture this guy tonight and get out.”

Harruck wriggled his brows. “Yeah, I mean he’s a fat

bastard. He can’t even run.”

I smiled. Barely.

“You need to relax, Scott. You’re only here a few days.

And the last time you were here, that didn’t last long,

either. You’ve been lucky. It’s eight months for me now.

Damn, eight months . . .”

“Still smiling?”

“To be honest with you—no.”

I shifted to the edge of my seat. “Are you kidding me?”

“This might sound a little hokey, but you know what?

I came here to build a legacy.”

“A legacy?”

“Scott, you wouldn’t believe the pressure they’ve put

on me. They think this whole war can be won if we

secure Kandahar.”

“I hear you.”

“They’re calling it the center of gravity for the insur-

gency. That’s some serious rhetoric. But I can’t get the

support I need. It’s all halfhearted. I’m going to walk

out of here having done . . . nothing.”

CO MB AT O P S

31

“That’s not true.”

Harruck leaned back in his chair and pillowed his

head in his hands. “I know what these people need. I

know what my mission is. But I can’t do it alone.”

I averted my gaze. “Can I ask you something? Why

did you do this to yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

I took a moment, stared at my empty glass.

“Another one?” he asked.

“No. Um, Simon, this isn’t any of my business, but

you could’ve been a Ghost.”

“Aw, that’s old news. Don’t make me say something

I’ll regret.”

I smiled weakly. “Me, too.”

I’d had no idea that Harruck was exercising tremen-

dous reserve in that meeting, when, in fact, he’d proba-

bly wanted to leap out of his chair and throttle me.

Forward Operating Base Eisenhower lay on the north-

west side of Senjaray. It was a rather sad-looking collec-

tion of Quonset huts and small, prefabricated buildings

walled in by concrete and concertina wire. The main

gate rose behind a meager guardhouse manned by two

sentries, with more guards strung out along the perim-

eter. The usual machine gun emplacements along with a

minefield on the southern approach helped give the

Taliban pause. The juxtaposition between the ancient

mud-brick town blending organically into the landscape

and our rather crude complex was striking. We were

32

GH OS T RE C O N

foreigners making a modern and synthetic attempt to

assimilate.

Harruck knew he’d never get his job done by hiding

behind the walls of the FOB, so nearly every day he went

into the town to communicate with the people via

TCAF interviews (we pronounced it “T-caff”), which

stood for Tactical Conflict Assessment Framework. Har-

ruck’s patrols were required to ask certain questions:

What’s going on here? Do you have any problems? What

can we get for you?

And he’d get the same answers over and over again:

We need a new well, we want you to rebuild and open the

school. We need a police station, more canals. And can you

get us some electricity? The diesel power plant in Kanda-

har serviced about nine thousand families, but nothing

had been provided for the towns like Senjaray.

The following week, Harruck’s patrols would ask the

very same questions, get the same answers, and nothing

would be done because Harruck couldn’t get what he

needed. The reasons for that were complex, varied, and

many.

Despite the cynicism creeping into his voice, I still

trusted that he’d fly the flag high and struggle valiantly

to complete his mission. He said that at any time the

tide could turn and assets could be reallocated to him.

We Ghosts didn’t have the luxury of leaving the base.