Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Combat Ops (24 page)

“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 HERF 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 
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.”

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.

What were we expecting? That our attacks would so demoralize them that they would convert to Christian ity and pledge to become loyal Wal-Mart customers?

I didn’t know what time I finally fell asleep, but my watch read seven forty-one
A.M.
local time when the first explosions had me snapping open my eyes.

Ironically, the guys weren’t springing out of their bunks but slowly rising, cursing, and Treehorn yawned and said, “And that’s the morning alarm clock, Taliban style.”

We ran outside, bare-chested, wearing only our box ers and brandishing our rifles.

I took in the situation all at once—front gate blown to smithereens, guard house on fire, gate falling inward. Machine gunners in the nests were focusing their fire on two small sedans, taxis from Kandahar, I guessed, one of which had probably carried the gate bomber.

An RPG screamed across the base and struck one of the barracks, tearing a gaping hole in one side and explod ing within.

Sergeants were screaming for all the gunners to cease fire, and within thirty more seconds, it was over.

No gunfire, just more shouting, the hiss and pop of fires, personnel running in multiple directions like ants fleeing a sprinkler’s flood. We all stood outside the bil let, and after another moment I reasoned there wasn’t anything else we could do, so I motioned for the guys to get back inside and get dressed and we’d head over to the barracks that’d been hit. Ramirez was last to go back in. He hesitated, then turned back to me. “Scott, I, uh . . . thanks for keeping all this between us.”

My breath shortened. “Okay.”

By the time we reached the barracks, all the fires had been put out and we were asked to remain along a piece of tape cordoning off the area. Harruck was there and told me the attack was against Gul. “We got a warning yesterday that if we didn’t turn over the governor, we’d be attacked.”

“Why didn’t you give me a heads-up?”

“Because I’ve been getting those warnings all the time. Most of them are fake or they don’t act on them. They order us to leave, say they’ll attack the next day, and they don’t.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Lost two more at the gate. Damn it. Barracks was empty, thank God. They were already up for chow, and the governor is staying on the other side, up near the gunner’s nest.”

“Good idea. How’d they get so close to the gate again?”

“Gul’s got people coming and going all day. I’m set ting up a new roadblock. They’ll need to get past there first before they get near the gate.”

“Could’ve done that in the first place.” “Didn’t see the need till now.”

I sighed. “Live and learn. And Simon, in a little while I’m going over to see Shilmani. All they told me was

that they’d set up the meeting with Zahed ‘soon.’ I’m going to tell them they’ve got twenty-four hours.”

The XO came dashing over and faced me. “Captain?

There’s a call for you in the comm center.”

“I don’t care what they’re telling me, Mitchell. If you can get in there, get our boy out, and drop the fat man at the same time, then we’ve done our job. They’re try ing to persuade me to think about this big picture while they cut deals with terrorists and drug runners, but that’s not the way we operate, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well, then. Where are we now?” “Other than what I put in my report?”

“Frankly, Mitchell, I haven’t had time to read your report. I’ve had the CIA barking in my ear for two hours.”

“We took out the cave network. I lost a guy doing it.

We intercepted an agent.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all about that.”

“And now I’m working on a meeting with the fat man himself.”

“And just what do you plan to talk about?”

“I don’t plan to talk about anything, sir, if you hear me clearly.”

“Loud and clear, son. Loud and clear.”

Treehorn and I went back out to see Burki and Shilmani. More tea. More idle conversation, until a very tall, very lean man with a wispy beard arrived and sat with us.

“This is my cousin. He does not wish you to know his name.”

“So what do we call him?” asked Treehorn.

Shilmani posed that question to the man, who answered rapidly in Pashto. Shilmani glanced up and said, “You can just call him Muji.”

“Tell him that’s kind of a slang phrase for Mujaha deen fighters.”

Shilmani did, then faced us. “He knows. His grand father was one.”

“Okay. Tell him I need to see Zahed right away.”

Shilmani spoke with Muji at length, and all Treehorn and I could do was sit there, sipping tea. The conversa tion sounded like a debate, and finally Shilmani regarded me with a frustrated look. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“I have to see him by tomorrow. No later. Tell him that there is no time to waste. I mean it.”

After a brief exchange, Muji rose, nodded, and hur ried out of the shack.

“Why’s that?” asked Treehorn. “You think that this will be our last meal?”

“It could be, and I must tell you now that your plan to put a bullet in Zahed’s head will not work. You need something better. My cousin tells me that no one sees Zahed now without being strip-searched first. Perhaps your weapon could be poison, or something as easily concealed.”

“We’ll think about it. What time tonight?” “Sundown.”

“Okay, we’ll be there.”

We drove about a quarter mile down the road, made our right turn to head through the bazaar area, and found the road blockaded by two pickup trucks.

Suddenly two more sedans roared up behind us, and Treehorn started cursing and shouted, “Ambush!”

He was about to grab his rifle and jump out of the Hummer. I was at the wheel and told him to hang on. “They’re not firing. Let’s see what’s up.”

I raised my palms as the men, who for all the world 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 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.

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 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 
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.