239
salvos and tracers that the valley looked like a space com-
bat scene from a science fiction movie, flickering red trac-
ers arcing between the valley and the mountainside.
Brown hollered to go. Treehorn, Ramirez, and the
prisoner came charging down toward my position.
Brown brought up the rear.
Once they linked up with me, I led them farther
down while the Bradley gunners continued to cover us.
We were clearly identified as friendlies now.
My mouth had gone dry by the time we reached the
rally point five minutes later, and I asked if anyone had a
canteen. Ramirez pushed one into my hands and said,
“Our boy’s got some explaining, eh?” He cocked a
thumb at the prisoner.
“Should be interesting . . .”
The Bradley gunners broke fire, and for a few long
moments, an utter silence fell over the mountains . . .
I glanced back at Hume, who was still sitting near
Nolan’s body. A sobering moment to be sure. If I stared
any longer, I feared my lungs would collapse.
Out of the silence, in an almost surreal cry, a lone
Taliban fighter cut loose a combination of curse words
he’d probably memorized from a hip-hop song. Once his
shout had echoed away, roars of laughter came from the
crews and dismounted troops around the Bradleys.
We’d never heard anything like that. The Taliban were
usually yelling how great God was—not swearing at us
in our own language. And I didn’t want them polluted
240 GH OS T RE CON
by America. I wanted them maniacal and religious and
steadfast. They seemed a more worthy adversary that
way. To believe they could be influenced by us was, in a
word, disconcerting.
Harruck had a small planning room, and we all filed in,
unfolded the metal chairs, and took seats around a rick-
ety card table. The spook’s face had been cleaned up by
one of Harruck’s medics, and he was demanding to
make a phone call.
“What do you think this is?” I asked him. “County
lockup?”
“We’ll get to your phone call,” Harruck told the
spook in a softer tone than I’d used. He faced me. “What
the hell is going on? Did you destroy the caves?”
“Most of them.”
“And him?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly for effect.
“He’s CIA and posing as a Chinese opium buyer or
smuggler. His cover got blown. He ran into us before he
could skip town.”
“I demand to be released.”
“Those are good demands,” said Harruck. “We like
them. Just give me a couple of minutes.”
“No, right now.”
Harruck’s expression darkened. “What the hell are
you people doing on my mountain? Why is your back-
pack full of opium? What the hell is your mission here?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me about my face?”
CO MB AT O P S
241
Harruck looked at me. “No, I’m not.”
The door suddenly opened and in walked Bronco,
escorted by one of Harruck’s lieutenants.
Bronco spoke rapidly. “Captain, we appreciate your
help and assistance here, and if there’s nothing else, I’d
like to escort my colleague off the base.”
Harruck eyed an empty chair. “Sit down, Bronco.”
“Whoa, take it easy there, Joe. You got no idea what
you’re dealing with here.”
I smote a fist on the card table, and it nearly col-
lapsed. “I just lost another man. And I’m not walking
out of here until you tell us what’s going on, what your
mission is here, and how it might affect what we’re try-
ing to do. As a matter of fact, XO, do us a favor and lock
that door. Armed guard outside. No one’s leaving until
you two spooks cough up the truth.”
“You can’t do that, buddy. We have the right to walk
out of here.”
“Yes, you do. But we’re way out here in the middle of
nowhere,” I said. “And we’re all going to get along
nicely, otherwise bad things will happen. Bad things.”
Bronco shifted up to me. “Don’t threaten me, soldier
boy. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you. And as far as
we’re concerned, you know all you need to.”
“Do you know the location of our captured soldier?”
Harruck asked the prisoner point-blank.
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
He thought a moment. “Mike.”
“Okay, Mikey,” I began. “You guys are working on
242 GH OS T RE CON
some Chinese connection with HER F guns and opium.
I get that. I’m just a jarhead, a monkey, but I get that.
Does your operation tie directly to Zahed? I just need a
yes or a no.”
Bronco, sighed, frowned, then sighed again. “Does
our operation link to Zahed? Well . . . not exactly.”
I closed my eyes and thought of murder.
T WENTY-THREE
The “opium palaces,” as they were called by the media,
were mansions constructed by rich drug lords on the out-
skirts of Kabul, and a few were beginning to sprout up in
Kandahar. One I’d visited in Kabul was on Street 6 in a
neighborhood called Sherpur. That place was a four-story
monstrosity with eleven bedrooms and had been con-
structed with the heavy use of pink granite and lime mar-
ble. The media referred to these mansions as “narcotecture”
in reference to Afghanistan’s corrupt government. There
were massage showers, a rooftop fountain, and even an
Asian-themed nightclub in the basement. The pig that
owned it was finally busted by the police, but his brother-
in-law was allowed to buy it from him and was renting it
out for twelve thousand bucks a week. What a bargain.
244 GH OS T RE CON
Ironically, it was that very house, a somewhat infa-
mous landmark now, that Bronco began to talk about.
“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 HER F
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