The group chuckled. Ramirez’s expression remained
deadpan. “Boss, I think it’s crazy.”
“Couple other things,” I said. “Higher’s planning a
big offensive to sweep through Sangsar. They’re using
Warris’s capture as an excuse. It’ll take them a couple of
weeks to work out the logistics, so we need to drag our
boots on Freddy’s rescue . . .”
“Hey,” Treehorn began, throwing up his hands. “I
got no problem with that, since that punk wants to burn
us all.”
“All right. Let’s go over the maps, plan the detona-
tion points, and be ready to roll for tonight.”
The call came in while I was finishing up dinner in the
mess hall. I remember stepping out there, looking at the
mountains haloed by the setting sun, and thinking, This
is it. This is the death call.
That was a very long walk to the comm center.
I was feeling numb by the time they guided me over
to the cubicle, and my brother’s voice sounded strangely
absent.
204 GH OS T RE CON
“Hello, Scott, this is your brother Nicholas.”
He was always so formal, so well educated and schol-
arly. He always talked about being articulate. I didn’t
want him articulate at that moment. I wanted him sob-
bing.
“Hey, Nick.” My voice was already cracking.
“Dad passed away about an hour ago.”
“Okay.”
“Can you come home? We can delay the funeral for
you, but I’ll need to know as soon as possible.”
Before I could answer him, a commotion behind me
caught my attention. I told him to hang on.
A group of officers and NCOs was gathered around a
flat screen, where a videotape was being played on the Al
Jazeera network.
There was Fred Warris, dressed like a Taliban and sit-
ting cross-legged with a group of Taliban fighters stand-
ing behind him. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but
that didn’t matter.
I told Nick I’d call him back. I drifted outside like a
zombie and just stood near the door. I closed my eyes
and thought of my father’s workshop, filled with the
heavenly scent of sawdust. And I pictured his handmade
coffin propped up on those sawhorses. I was also certain
he’d left detailed instructions about his funeral.
I could take the emergency leave. Just bail out on all
the bullshit. Maybe not even come back. Maybe just go
AWOL and let them arrest me. I was entertaining every
crazy thought I could, thinking of ways to self-destruct
to hold back the tears.
CO MB AT O P S
205
My father had taught me how to be a man. I owed
him everything. He was gone.
I don’t know how long I was standing there when
Harruck and the XO rushed up and Harruck just looked
at me. “Have you heard? They put Warris on TV!”
The terms for Warris’s release, presented by the man
himself in the video, were quite simple: Stop all construc-
tion in Senjaray. Pull the U.S. Army company out. Pay
the equivalent of five hundred thousand American dol-
lars. Release nearly a dozen captured Taliban fighters and
leaders.
I was sitting in the comm center on a conference video
call with General Keating, Lieutenant Colonel Gordon,
and Harruck’s battalion commander.
“We’re not going to negotiate with these bastards,”
said Keating. “And I’m going to make sure we step up
our timetable. I want a full-scale raid to happen within
the next seven days. I want to make that happen. I don’t
care what it takes.”
Gordon just shrugged.
Harruck’s boss was a yes man.
I shook my head in disgust.
“Mitchell, you got a problem with all this?”
“Sir, you told me I wouldn’t have any air support for
this mission, and unless that’s changed, we’ll be moving
in much too slowly with a large force. Zahed’s got spies
planted all over this district. He’ll see our ground forces
coming in, and he’ll be out of there long before they
206 GH OS T RE CON
arrive. You won’t get him, and I doubt you’ll get Warris.
We need to be dropped by chopper. Shock and awe.
That’s the only way it’ll work.”
“I’d have to agree with Mitchell,” said Harruck. “We
can’t afford to blow this. We can’t afford any counterat-
tacks down here. We’re making great progress so far.”
I sat there, debating whether I should tell them about
Burki and my plan to have a face-to-face meeting with
Zahed. Part of me considered the idea that if I managed
to bring in the guy alive, I’d be a hero and they could
call off the whole offensive and save the taxpayers a lot of
money. The other part of me, the realist, said, no, that
probably wouldn’t happen; the offensive would go on
because Keating was very upset now, and the old man
would have his blood. So nabbing Zahed wouldn’t affect
that outcome.
But I was intrigued by the idea of talking to Zahed.
Perhaps I was suicidal, but the fat man had caused so
much trouble in the area, created so many headaches, that
I just wouldn’t be satisfied until I met him in the flesh.
And if I presented that cup of soup to “the commit-
tee,” they’d all want to pee in it, thinking it’d taste bet-
ter. A crude but accurate metaphor.
Perhaps, I quipped to myself, we should change our
name to Rogue Recon.
Then I realized once again that if I didn’t tell them
what I had in mind, we’d be digging ourselves deeper
graves. So I just took a breath and spilled the beans:
“Gentlemen, I’m in the process of setting up a meet-
ing with Zahed.”
CO MB AT O P S
207
“Are you serious, Mitchell?” asked Keating.
“Yes, General, I am. One of my contacts in the village
works for the water man, who wants me to kill Zahed.
My contact has a cousin who works for the fat man him-
self. Let me go in there and talk to them.”
“No, not you, Mitchell,” snapped Harruck. “We’ll
send in a professional negotiator.”
I started laughing. “I’ve got the translator, and
they’re setting me up as an opium smuggler, so once I
get in there, we’ll spring the trap on Zahed. There won’t
be any negotiations.”
“Now that sounds like a plan,” said Keating. “We don’t
sit around and chat while they’re about to chop the head
off an American soldier. What do you need, Mitchell?”
I faced Harruck and the others on their screens. “I
just need to be left alone so I can do my job, sir. And I
need evac when the fireworks begin.”
Harruck was shaking his head. “General, with all due
respect, sir, don’t you think an ambush operation like
this can do more harm than good? If Mitchell fails,
they’ll behead Warris on TV, and they’ll all be gone
before we can launch our offensive. It’s a lose-lose, if you
ask me.”
“We didn’t ask you, Captain. And Mitchell will not
fail.”
Keating looked at me.
I gave him a curt nod. “My team is heading up into the
mountains tonight. There’s a small cave network they’ll