Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Combat Ops (6 page)

A small kitchen area to my right with a worktable and some fresh flowers in a vase . . .

A woman cowering behind that table with a young girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and a boy, maybe eleven or so, their eyes bulging, the girl beginning to weep. The mother pulled the children closer to her chest. And there, at the back of a room, another man, 
well-trimmed beard, turban, but with sideburns that seemed very Western. He put a finger to his lips, then pointed down the hall, where he suggested my Taliban guy had gone.

Then he held up a hand.
Wait.

He shouted back into the hall. “All clear now. You can come out . . .”

I shifted to the left side of the room, moving toward the wall, and watched with utter surprise as this local guy who’d already volunteered to help me kept tight to the wall, gave a me a look, and then, as the Taliban fighter moved forward, my new ally tripped him.

And that was when I moved in, leaping on his back and knocking him face first onto the dirt floor. He tried to reach back for a pistol holstered at his waist, but I grabbed his wrist while my new friend grabbed the fight er’s other arm. With my free hand I tugged out a pair of zipper cuffs, and we got him bound in a few seconds.

I rose, leaving the fighter still lying on the floor, and eyed the family. In a moment of weakness I lowered my
shemagh
. “I’m sorry,” I said in Pashto.

“It’s okay,” said the man in English. “I know who this guy is and who he works for. I’m glad you’ve cap tured him.”

“Where’d you learn English?”

He grinned weakly. “It’s a long story. I’ll help you get him up, so you can be on your way.”

I pursed my lips at the wife and children. The wife shook her head in disapproval, but the girl and boy seemed fascinated by me. I shrugged and got my prisoner ready to move, confiscated his weapon, and led him out side.

When I turned back, the entire family was standing there beside the front door, watching me. I raised my
shemagh
to conceal my face and gave them a curt nod.

As I led back my prisoner, I cursed at myself for send ing my boys off alone and without communications to capture those other men. We should have paired up. And we were taking an awful risk operating without comm. What the hell was I thinking? The frustration, the rage, and a bit of the guilt had clouded my judgment.

And what was worse, by the time I made it back to the bazaar and started down the main road toward the Hummer, I spotted a bonfire in the middle of the road.

But it turned out to be our Hummer.

I started running forward, forcing the prisoner to do likewise.

Another crowd had gathered to watch the infidel truck burn, and our mechanic driver was lying in the dirt with his hand on his forehead, bleeding from a ter rible gash.

Kundi was there as well, and he marched up to me with several cronies drifting behind him. He spoke so rapidly in Pashto that I couldn’t understand him, but he gesticulated wildly between the bazaar, the truck, and the people gathered. Then he pointed at me, narrowed his gaze, and this much I caught: “Time for you to go home.”

“No,” I said sarcastically. “We’ve come here to save you.” He eyed the flaming truck, the stench of melting rubber threatening to make me gag. “Thanks for the welcome.”

I pushed past him and led my prisoner over to the mechanic. “What happened?”

“They pulled me out. We can’t fire till they fire at us. They didn’t have any guns, then suddenly I’m lying on the ground. I don’t even know who hit me . . .”

Brown, Hume, and Treehorn came charging back down the street. No luck, no prisoners.

“Sorry,” Hume said. “The other three got away.” “Because they got help,” said Treehorn. “They’re 
working for Zahed, but they live here.”

I snorted. “Yeah, it’s good times.” Then I shoved the prisoner toward Treehorn and shifted into the middle of the street. I pointed to the fallen mechanic and screamed at the top of my lungs, “WHO DID THIS?”

The locals threw their hands in the air, then dis missed me with waves and started back toward their shops. Nolan hustled over to the mechanic and hun kered down to treat him.

Kundi came forward once more. “Where is Captain Harruck?” he asked in broken English. “I want to talk to him.”

“He’s busy right now.”

“You tell him I want to talk.” Kundi turned away and started back toward the bazaar.

“So I guess we’re walking,” Brown said, staring grimly at the burning Hummer.

I began to lose my breath. I wanted to move all the women and children to a tent city just outside town, 
then call in an air strike and level the entire place and tell them we were turning it into a parking lot for a Wal- Mart Supercenter.

Then we’d go to Zahed and say,
This will happen to your village if you don’t turn yourself in
. I couldn’t under stand how helping these people would help us win the war. I was willing to bet that even that guy who’d helped me would stab me in the back if push came to shove.

I was ready to leave, but of course the mission had just begun.

We reached the edge of town, where in the distance two more Hummers bounced across the desert like mechani cal dragons wagging long tails of dust. I squinted and saw that one truck contained the rest of my team, while the other was carrying Harruck. In about five minutes they reached us and screeched to a stop.

“Man, they were fast,” said Paul Smith from the other truck. “They ditched their ride and scattered like roaches. We asked around. No one’s talking. They’re all too afraid to say anything. No shock there.”

“All right,” I said, then took a deep breath and crossed to Harruck as he hopped out of the cab. “We shot one, got one.”

“What the hell, Scott? You shouldn’t have followed 
them into town, for God’s sake! Maybe you can operate outside the ROE, but I can’t. And I won’t. I’ve spent a long time trying to work something out with them.”

“With who? That guy Kundi? He’s a scumbag who will burn you. Come on, Simon, you already know that. They’re all opportunists, scammers, users . . .”

“Which means we have to play them just right, Scott. Just right. We need to be the ones they
think
they can trust.” He glanced at my men, feeling the heat of their gazes. “Look, we’ll talk about this later.”

“They burned our Hummer,” I said as he turned away.

He whirled back. “What?”

“They beat him up and burned our Hummer.” I cocked a thumb at the mechanic, now sporting a bloody bandage on his forehead. “Nice, isn’t it . . .”

“What the hell did you expect?” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Do me a favor, just . . . for now . . . don’t try to help . . .”

Harruck’s company suffered seven dead and fourteen injured. We killed about eight or nine around the base, with more dead in the mountains, but the Taliban recov ered those bodies before we could confirm the kills.

Harruck’s snipers were confident that at least four more had been taken down. The fires had been put out, and Harruck already had crews cleaning up the mess by the time he returned from town and nearly broke down the door of our billet. “Let’s go,” he snapped.

The rest of my team made faces as I followed him out and across the base, feeling like a cherry about to be trounced on by his CO, yet also resenting how upset Harruck had become. He had to take his anger out on someone, I guess. I acknowledged that he was the CO there, and though I didn’t answer exclusively to him, I should respect his authority despite my far greater expe rience. I could easily get Keating to override him, but once I did that, our friendship would be over.

He collapsed into his chair. I took the one in front of his dusty desk. You could still smell the ash and cinders from the mess hall wafting in through the open window, and a small fan pivoting to and fro on the desk didn’t help. I stared at the fan a moment, then took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “So, okay, buddy, let’s have it.” When I opened my eyes, he was pouring me a drink, then one for himself. 

I took the shot, downed it quickly. He did the same, swore, then said, “I need a miracle.”

“I thought we were going to fight.”

He shrugged. “I know where you’re coming from. But I need to be honest with you—it looks like removing Zahed from power could do more harm than good.” “Simon, unless you can get my orders revised, I’m here to do one thing.”

“You haven’t met the district governor here, have you?”

I shook my head. “Just read about him in the brief ing. He’s another model citizen.”

“Well, yeah, if you recall, the guy’s name is Naimut 
Gul. He came in here last year and promised these peo ple the world, told them the Afghan government would help. He didn’t do anything except take their money. He’s like a Mafia kingpin, and his word means nothing. When the people think of the government, they see him. He’s in bed with some of the warlords up north, and it’s pretty damned clear he’s on the payroll for opium production.”

I snorted. “And he’s the guy we’re trying to support.

He’s the
good
guy.”

Harruck cursed through a sigh. “Look, Zahed’s a ruthless killer. His men are Huns. But the canals that are here, the bazaar? He financed all of that, had his people build it all. The Taliban brought in the natural gas tanks and have been talking about getting power lines hooked up.”

“And Kundi, our big landowner, supports all of this,” I said.

“Here’s the thing. And I’ve been thinking about this all day. If you take out Zahed too early—before I can get something going here—then they’ll still hate us and align us with the government.”

“They’ve already done that.”

“Not all of them. If we can build them their school, their police station, and dig them a new well—and we deliver on those promises—then the timing will be per fect to remove Zahed and maybe even bring in a new governor. I’ve heard talk of that, too. Start off with a clean slate.”

I sat back and tried to consider everything without getting a migraine. “You want me to believe it’s all that simple.”

“I’ve got nothing else, Scott. I can’t walk out of here as a failure.”

“The legacy, huh?”

“This entire company is depending on me to help them complete the mission. We’re not even close yet.”

“What if your mission is bullshit?” “It’s not.”

“My people seem to think that if we take out the Tal iban leadership, we’ll be in a better position to help these civilians—not that I agree with that, either. I mean look . . . how are you supposed to build a school with no assets and constant attacks from them?”

Harruck lowered his voice. “Maybe we can work with them.”

I started laughing. “Last night I untied a girl from a pool table, and you’re telling me you want to work with these people?”

“Money talks.”

“Simon, if you go there, then you’re no better than them. I’m telling you.”

“My back’s against the wall.”

A knock came at the door, and the company’s executive officer, Martin Shoregan, peeked inside. He was a lean black man and highly articulate, clearly being groomed to lead a company of his own. “Sir, sorry to interrupt. Dr. Anderson is here from the ARO.”

Harruck bolted out of his chair. “Are you kidding me?” “Do you want me to—”

“Send her right in!” he cried.

I glanced up at him. “Do you want me—” “No, please stay.”

The door opened, and in stepped a woman in a green striped high-bodice dress with a swirling skirt and wide shawl draped over her head. Blond hair spilled out from the front of the shawl, and she grinned easily at us as I rose to meet her.

“Captain Harruck?” she asked, looking at me. I shook my head.

“I’m Captain Simon Harruck.” He proffered his hand. “And this is a friend.”

She shook hands with Harruck, then smiled at me. “Well, hello, friend. I guess if I get your name, then you’ll have to kill me?”

I shrugged. “Call me Scott. Where are you from?

Australia?”

“Sydney. Very good. You?” “I’m not here.”

She liked that. “Right . . .”

Harruck told her to take my seat, and I didn’t mind.

She was easy on the eyes.

The two exchanged a few more pleasantries, and I learned that they’d spoken on the phone for many months. She said she was finally able to gather the resources and that the Afghanistan Relief Organization (ARO)—along with more than a dozen other relief groups—was ready to work with Army engineers on the construction of the school, police station, and solar-powered well. All of the agreements had been struck with the district governor and other elders, and they should be able to break ground within a week. Funding was finally in place.

“This is the news I’ve been waiting to hear for eight months now,” said Harruck, his voice cracking. He glanced over at me and nodded.

I didn’t hide my skepticism. “Dr. Anderson, I assume the
Doctor
is for Ph.D.?”

“That’s right. My brother’s the medical doctor in our family. My degree is in agricultural economics and rural sociology. Call me Cassie.”

“Well, Cassie, you’re a smart woman, and you under stand the political situation here.”

“I’ve been working in this country for three years now. So, yes, I’m keenly aware of what’s happening. The ARO has made significant strides despite all the corrup tion.”

“I understand, but you don’t see this as a terrific waste of resources?”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re going to provide all these services for the local community, but when we leave, the Taliban will move back in and destroy them, or exploit them, or hold them ransom. We should neutralize the enemy first, build a militia, then provide these people with an infrastructure only after they can protect themselves.”

She looked at Harruck. “Your friend’s a bit of a cynic.”