What an opportunist. He had to profit in every way imag-
inable: from our supply lines to each and every improve-
ment we’d made in the village. If he could, he would’ve
been the one to sell us the guns we’d use to kill him!
Gordon said the network was making more than a
million a week by supplying protection. There was a sym-
biotic relationship between the network and the Taliban,
who were being paid not to cause trouble and were also
being employed as guards. Many of the firefights, Gor-
don said, were the result of protection fees being docked
or paid late. The gunfire had nothing to do with purging
the “foreign invaders” from their country. Hell, the
invaders were paying their salaries.
So this was the lovely oasis that Zahed had nurtured.
And there wasn’t a single piece of high-tech weaponry—
no laser-guided bullet, radar, super bomb, nothing—
that would change that. One Ghost unit had taken out a
man. We couldn’t reinvent an entire country.
And then, the final kicker: Gordon had learned that
the CIA was already negotiating with Zahed’s number
two man, Sayid Ulla, who had taken up residence in that
opium palace in Kabul. Pretty much everything Bronco
had told me about the agency’s intentions and desires
332 GH OS T RE CON
had been a lie. And I felt certain that they had supplied
the HER F guns to Zahed’s men and attempted to use
the Chinese as fall guys.
So nothing would change. I’d taken out a thug, but in
a country with very little, thugs were not in short supply.
As I wrote a letter to Joey’s parents, I once again tried
to convince myself that my life, my job, everything . . .
was still worth it, even as murder charges loomed.
I’m sorry to inform you that your son died for nothing
and that this war messed him up so much that he killed
an innocent American solider in order to protect our
unit.
I typed that twice before I got so mad I slammed shut
the laptop.
If the plane seat could have swallowed me, I would’ve
allowed it. All I could do was throw my head back and
think about how badly they were going to burn me. And
when my mind wasn’t fixated on that, I’d see Shilmani
crying . . . and think about Hila being thrown in a rank
cell . . . and see some yellow-toothed scumbag count
cash handed to him by Bronco.
I reached down under my seat, dug into my carry-on
bag, and produced a letter that had been part of a care
package sent to me by the volunteers of Operation Shoe-
box, a remarkable organization that sent personal care
items, snacks, books, and dozens of other items we all
needed so desperately. The folks even included toys we
could hand out to children during our missions. I’d
CO MB AT O P S
333
never met a soldier who wasn’t smiling as he opened up
one of those packages.
The handwritten letter I’d received was from a
thirteen-year-old boy from Huntsville, Alabama.
Dear Soldier:
My name is James McNurty, Jr., and I want to thank
you very much for serving our country. I know it must be
hard out there for you, but if you take good care of your-
self and eat good, you will have a good day of fighting.
I want to tell you about my dad, who was also a sol-
dier. He died in Iraq while trying to protect us. He was
a very great man and he told me that whenever I see a
soldier I should thank him or her. So while I cannot see
you, I still want to thank you for helping us and for
believing in our country. My dad always said that no
matter what happens, he loved us and the United States
of America. My dad said being a soldier is a great
honor, so maybe I will be one someday, too. I hope you
can stay happy. I know it is hard.
Thanks very much.
Your friend, James McNurty, Jr.
“See this?” I tell Blaisdell, pulling the letter from my
breast pocket. “This is the only thing keeping me sane
right now. Some kid in Huntsville actually believes in
what we’re doing.”
She sighs. “That’s nice. But they’re going to argue
334 GH OS T RE CON
that you should have answered your phone, that you
ignored incoming communication and killed Zahed, an
unarmed man.”
“My mission was to kill him. I carried out my orders.
The abort came too late. I was the commander on the
ground, I saw the opportunity, I made the decision, and
I completed the mission. That’s what you’re going to
argue. If higher can’t make up their minds about what
to do, then it’s my job to make that decision.”
“They’re not going to see it like that. You’re asking
them to take responsibility for their broken system, and as
you’ve implied, even General Keating can’t save you now.”
I snort. “Is there anything else you need? Did you get
it all? Because I’m going to be very busy for the rest of
the day, trying to get drunk.”
She rises and pushes her glasses farther up her nose.
“Off the record, Captain, I’m very sorry about what’s
happened to you. In some respects you’re a victim of the
system, but you had a choice. You could have at least
tried to take Zahed into custody. And they’re going to
argue that, too. You simply shot him. They’ll argue that
you wanted to kill him.”
“You’re damned right I did.”
She starts to say something, thinks better of it. “I’m
going to review all of this with my colleagues, and I’ll
contact you tomorrow.”
I shrug and lead her to the door. She looks back at
me, a deep sadness filling her eyes, as though she’s
glimpsing a man at the gallows.
Then she just leaves. I get another drink, plop into
CO MB AT O P S
335
the recliner, and turn on ESPN, where I learn that even
the Reds lost their game, 9–4, damn it.
I must’ve dozed off and the knocking at my door con-
tinues for a while until I suddenly rush up and answer it.
“Holy shit.” The curse escapes my mouth before I
can censor it.
It’s General Keating himself, out of uniform, wearing
a golf shirt and Dockers. He pushes past me, slams shut
the door, then lifts his voice. “What the hell are you
doing here? Feeling sorry for yourself?”
“I’m confined to quarters.”
He goes over to my window and snaps open the
blinds, letting in the late-afternoon sun. “I flew in this