“Well, you listen to me, Mitchell, and you listen to me good. We both know this COIN mission is complete and utter nonsense. It’s politicians running the war. You don’t secure the population and let the enemy run wild. We ain’t playing defense here! And we can’t have that. As far as I’m concerned, it is not a good day to be a Taliban leader in the Zhari district. Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear, sir.”
“New Cross-Coms are en route. Meanwhile, you do what you need to do. Next week at this time I’d like to be powwowing with the fat man.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“And Mitchell?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, sir. I’m fine. Talk to you soon.”
I’d thought he’d heard me cracking under the pressure, but later on I realized that my heart was just darkening, and the old man could sense that from a half a world away.
At about three A.M. local time, in the wee hours, we left the base in a Hummer driven by Treehorn. Harruck made no attempts to stop us. I’d assumed he’d been told by Keating that he should not interfere with my mission.
Instead of driving out into the desert, toward the mountains, we headed off to the town, so that the Taliban now watching us from ridgelines and the desert would assume we were just another village patrol.
Once in town, we went to the bazaar area, where several vendors had their old beater pickup trucks parked out behind their homes/stalls.
We split into two teams and entered the homes behind the stalls, accosting the shop owners and demanding their keys at gunpoint.
The old merchants saw only a band of masked wraiths with deep, angry voices.
Within five minutes we had two pickup trucks on the road, and the old men who could blow the alarm were gagged and tied. They might guess we were Americans, but we spoke only in Pashto and were dressed like the Taliban themselves.
I sent Jenkins back with the Hummer, and though he was bummed to remain in the rear, I told him I needed a good pair of eyes on the base… just in case.
We drove out to the main bridge over the Arghandab River, dropped off Brown and Smith, then crossed the bridge, heading along the mountain road that wound its way up and back down into the valley where Sangsar lay in the cool moonlight. The town reminded me of the little villages my grandfather would build for his train sets. He had a two-car garage filled with locomotives and cars and towns and enough accessories to earn him a spot on the local news. When he passed, my father sold it all on eBay and made a lot of money.
The Taliban sentries watching us through their binoculars probably assumed we were opium smugglers or carrying out some other such transport mission for Zahed. In fact, we were not stopped and reached the top of the mountain, where the dirt road broadened enough for us to pull over, park the vehicles, and move in closer on foot.
We’d taken such great care to slip into Sangsar during our first raid attempt that I’d felt certain no Taliban had seen us, but according to Shilmani, they had. Interesting that Zahed did not tip off his guards at the compound and allowed them to be ambushed. That was decidedly clever of him.
However, this time our plan was more bold. Be seen. Be mistaken. And be deadly.
Hume had rigged up a temporary remote for the Cypher drone, and though there was no screen from which we could view the drone’s data, he could fly it like a remote-controlled UFO, keeping a visual on it with his night-vision goggles.
We were bass fishing for Taliban, and the drone was our red rubber worm.
Within five minutes we’d taken up perches along the heavy rocks jutting from the mountainside and had, yet again, an unobstructed and encompassing view of the valley and all of Sangsar.
The drone whirred away, and I lay there on my belly, just watching it and thinking about Harruck and Shilmani and that old man Kundi and remembering that every one of us had his own agenda, every one of us was stubborn, and every one of us would fight till the end.
“Sir,” whispered Treehorn, who was at my left shoulder. “Movement in the rocks behind us, six o’clock.”
SEVEN
When I was a kid, D.C.’s Sgt. Rock and Marvel’s The ’Nam were among my favorite comics. I didn’t realize it then, but what drew me to those stories was the simplicity of the plots. The good guys and bad guys were clearly defined, and you understood every character’s desire and related with that desire. Kill bad guys. Save everyone. Win the war. For America! Be proud! Come home and get a medal, be worshipped as a hero, live happily ever after. As a kid, you’re looking for admiration and acceptance, and being a superhero soldier always sounded pretty damned good to me.
However, that would never happen if I stayed in Ohio. There weren’t too many opportunities for me growing up in Youngstown. Sure, I could’ve gone to work in the General Motors assembly plant in Lordstown like my father had, but I doubt I would’ve matched his thirty years. Boredom or the tanking economy would’ve finished me. My brother Nicolas got out himself and became an engineering professor down in Florida, while Tommy owned and operated Mitchell’s Auto Body and Repair in Youngstown. He loved cars and had inherited that passion from our father. He’d had no desire to ever leave home and had tried to persuade me to stay and run the shop with him. Because Dad was an avid woodworker, Tommy even tried to persuade me to open a custom furniture shop and work with Dad, but that didn’t sound very glamorous to an eighteen-year-old. Jennifer, the baby of our family, married a wealthy software designer, and she lived with him and their daughter in Northern California.
So I’d gone off to see the world and serve my country. Because that sounded so hokey, I told everyone I was joining the Army to pay for my college education — which Dad resented because it made us sound poor.
I can’t lie, though. During my service I’ve seen the good, the bad, and the ugly — and it’s easy to become disenchanted. When I’d joined, I was just as naïve as the next guy, but for many years I clung to my beliefs and positive attitude, and I let my passion become infectious.
But I think after 9/11, when the GWOT (global war on terrorism) got into full swing, my veneer grew a bit worn. It didn’t happen overnight, but every mission seemed to sap me just a little more. I grew older, my body became more worn, and my spirit seemed harder to kindle.
When I raised my right hand and they swore me in, I never thought I’d have to wrap my head around no-win situations in which everyone I dealt with was a liar, in which my own institution was undermining my ability to get the job done, and in which my own friends had drawn lines in the sand based on philosophical differences.
Before my mother had died from cancer, she’d held my hand and told me to make the best of my life.
I figured she was rolling over in her grave when they started calling me a murderer…
Treehorn had a good ear and better eyes, and I glanced back to where he’d spotted the movement along the mountainside. My night-vision goggles revealed two Taliban fighters peering out from behind a pair of rocks, but before I could get on the radio and issue an order, Beasley appeared from behind a few rocks and slipped down toward the Taliban thugs. As they turned back, he took one out with his Nightwing black tungsten blade while Nolan, who dropped down at Beasley’s side, broke the neck of the other fighter.
Beasley called me and said, “Looks like only two up here, boss. Clear now.”
I called up Ramirez, who was packing our portable, ultrawide-band radar unit that could detect ground movement up to several hundred meters away. I’d considered leaving the device behind in case we got zapped again, but now I was glad we had it. I hadn’t expected sentries this far up into the mountains. Within a minute Ramirez would be scanning the outskirts of the town.