“We’d have to kill most American women if this were our rule,” I said.
“I know. It seems you Americans engage in this behavior quite a bit.”
“It just happens,” I said.
Shilmani made a face. “I still don’t understand how he convinced her to do it.”
“You mean the guy?”
He hardened his voice. “Yes, the American soldier from your camp.”
I considered going to Harruck’s office and telling him what I’d seen, but I realized the men needed something from me. And I felt badly for them. They’d been lying around the billet all day, just wondering what the hell was happening.
Ramirez had come back from the hospital with some antacid to soothe his stomach. He was lying in his bunk with his arm draped over his eyes.
I called the group forward, and after a few seconds, he was the last to gather around.
“Got a couple things going on. We’ll be back up in the mountains tonight. Engineering op. We’re going to blow those tunnels.”
“Hoo-ah,” shouted Brown and Smith in unison.
“I want to do everything we can to avoid engaging the enemy. They don’t call us the Ghosts for nothing. We’ll show them why.”
Hume raised his hand. “Any word back on the HERF guns yet? Do we know if they’ve got more?”
“I know the spook is working on something, and we have to assume they have more. Nolan, we still got two spare Cross-Coms, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Good, I’ll be taking one and Joey’s got the other.”
Ramirez frowned at me.
He was still in command of Bravo team. I wasn’t going to change anything. I’d decided that my paranoia should have no effect on the way I ran my team. And in retrospect, I think that was a good decision.
Up to a point.
“Something else going on you should know about.” I looked to Treehorn, who just sighed. “The water guy? Burki? He wants us to kill Zahed. Seems the fat bastard screwed him over on the deal with the new well, so that guy, the translator guy Shilmani, is going to help us set up a meeting with Zahed.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Brown. “How’s that going to work? You don’t plan to go in there alone, do you?”
“Shilmani says he’s got a cousin who’s a courier for Zahed. I’ll probably be going in with him.”
“And when does this happen?” asked Nolan, wincing over the whole idea.
“Pretty soon, I’m guessing.”
“Then we need to work something out. The HERF guns don’t affect the chips in our bodies, so we can still track you.”
“You mean in case they take me prisoner.”
“So let me get this straight,” said Ramirez. “You’re going to walk into a meeting, put a bullet in Zahed’s head, and expect to walk out of there alive?”
“With a little help from you guys.”
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 detonation 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.
“Hello, Scott, this is your brother Nicholas.”
He was always so formal, so well educated and scholarly. He always talked about being articulate. I didn’t want him articulate at that moment. I wanted him sobbing.
“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 sitting cross-legged with a group of Taliban fighters standing 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.
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 construction in Senjaray. Pull the U.S. Army company out. Pay the equivalent of five hundred thousand American dollars. 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 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 counterattacks 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 committee,” they’d all want to pee in it, thinking it’d taste better. A crude but accurate metaphor.