running water were considered high-tech.
Ramirez and I ripped off our masks and switched
magazines to live ammo. We reached the main door of
CO MB AT O P S
13
the building, wrenched it open, and shifted inside, where,
in flickering candlelight, two robed Taliban turned a cor-
ner and spotted us.
One hollered.
I dropped him with a sudden burst and Ramirez
caught the second one, who was turning back.
I don’t want to glamorize their deaths or emphasize
our bravery and/or marksmanship. I emphasize that we
had made the concerted effort to minimize casualties and
initially had the advantage of our information systems.
But when we lost comm and satellite, all bets were off. I’d
given my men permission to make the call, given their
circumstances. Treehorn was, admittedly, a bit prema-
ture, but I’m still not sure what would’ve happened if
he’d held back fire. I’d told all of them they could go live
but needed to be sure about it. I’d take the heat for their
actions. The rules of engagement were as thick as a phone
book and written by lawyers whose combat experience
extended no further than fighting with line cutters at the
local Starbucks.
Ramirez led us down a long, narrow hallway filled
with dust motes and illuminated by sconces supporting
thick candles. Our boots scraped along the dirt floor as
we turned a corner and found a sleeping quarters with
empty beds and ornate rugs splayed across the floor. I
placed my hand on one mattress: still warm. On a nearby
table sat a half dozen bricks of opium. No time to con-
fiscate them now. We shifted on, out into the hall, and
toward the next room.
More gunfire thundered outside, quickening my pulse.
14
GH OS T RE C O N
I knew if we didn’t clear the compound within the next
minute or so, Zahed would be long gone. These guys
always had their escape routes planned, and it wouldn’t
have surprised me if he’d constructed several tunnel exits,
though our intel did not reveal any.
The next two rooms were more sleeping quarters,
empty, and then we reached another small courtyard
and rushed into the next building, where in the entrance
a woman with a shawl draped over her head saw us and
began crying and waving her hands. I lifted my rifle to
show her we wouldn’t shoot, but that sent her toward
me, arms up, fingers tensing as she went for my neck.
Ramirez shoved her hard against the wall and we
rushed on by, emerging into another room where at least
a dozen more women were huddled in a corner, crying
and yelling at us as they clutched their small children.
Lifting his voice, Ramirez, whose Pashto was a lot
better than mine, told them it was okay and we were
looking for Zahed. Did they know where he was?
The women frowned and shook their heads.
No, we didn’t expect to find women and children in
the compound. Our intel indicated Zahed had estab-
lished a command center occupied by his troops.
Our investigation of the next two rooms provided
more clues. They were both empty, but you could see
that equipment had been there and dragged out: tables
and some abandoned wires along with a gas generator
that had scorch marks along its sides.
“He got tipped off,” said Ramirez. “He moved the
CO MB AT O P S
15
women and children in here, thinking maybe we’d blow
the place and kill them. Bad press for us.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said in disgust.
We rushed outside, where we met up with two more
of my guys, Smith and Nolan.
Smith, the avid hunter from North Carolina, wore
his mask pushed atop his bald head and gasped as he
spoke. “Cleared the building back there. Nothing. What
the hell happened to our Cross-Coms?”
“I don’t know. Get the others. Get to the rally point.
Now!” I ordered.
They took off, and Ramirez looked to me: We had
one more building on the west side to clear. I had the
map of the compound committed to memory, and we’d
made several guesses about this structure: food storage
or maybe a weapons cache, based on what we’d seen
being moved in and out of there.
The door was locked. Ramirez opted for his faster
boot. In we went.
No surprise: two big empty rooms whose dirt floors
showed outlines where cases had been. Probably a large
weapons cache temporarily stored there and as quickly
moved out.
I was reminded of an earlier operation up in Shah
E-Pari, a village in the northeastern mountains. We’d
been trying to disrupt the rat lines in and out of Paki-
stan. Insurgents were using the tribal lands in Waziristan
and other places to recruit and train their members, then
send them across the border on missions in Afghanistan.
16
GH OS T RE C O N
A buddy of mine, Rutang, had been captured up there,
but we got him out. Anyway, the Taliban terrorized
members of small villages like Shah E-Pari. The men
would be forced to join them or suffer the consequences.
So we went up there, armed and trained the guys, and
thought it was all working out. The villagers began win-
ning battles with the Taliban and confiscating and stock-
piling their weapons. Then we got the order to go in and
seize those weapons, lest they fall back into the enemy’s
hands. Try having that conversation with the village
elder: Sorry, we taught you to protect yourselves, and you
can have some guns . . . but not too many.Ironically, what
we confiscated was mostly ancient crap sold by us to the
Mujahadeen during the Russian invasion. The guns we
provided to help fight the Russians were now being used
against us. That fact, that irony, barely garnered a reac-
tion anymore. And by the way, that entire village fell
back into the hands of the Taliban, who, the villagers said,
were giving them more living assistance than either the
government or our military.
All of which is to say that some if not all of the weap-
ons Zahed was moving around had once belonged to
the United States.
The second room we entered gave us pause. In fact,
Ramirez looked back at me for permission to enter, as
though neither of us should go on.
I took one look, closed my eyes, and gritted my teeth.
There was a Marine I knew who’d spent a long time
up in the mountains laser-designating targets for the
bombers. He’d described the locals as savages and
CO MB AT O P S
17
tenth-century barbarians who forced their five-year-old
sons into human cockfights, who clawed around all day
like gorillas with AK-47s. He’d taken great exception to
the media referring to the enemy as “smart,” when in his
opinion the enemy was cunning and crafty, but hardly
smart. And when confronted directly they were, plain
and simple, cowards who’d step on the necks of their fel-
low soldiers if that promised escape.
Although I tended to disagree with some of his gen-
eralizations because I’d spent time in both the cities and