“Because he knew you were going to blow the whistle on all of us. And he probably threatened you, didn’t he? He told you if you talked, he’d kill you, right?”
A guilty expression came over Warris, and he tried to hide it by tightening his lips.
“You killed him!” I repeated.
“Your career is over, Mitchell. It’s all over now. You’re old news. Even the Ghosts are a waste. Every other agency, State, DoD — the entire alphabet tribe — undermines what we do. We’re history.”
“No, you’re history. Count on it!”
I shoved Brown aside and hustled out of the room. I stormed back to the billet, wrenched up my duffel, and lifted my voice to the men. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
But we didn’t leave right away. The guys wanted to pay their last respects to Ramirez, and they all went over to the hospital and did that. I waited by the Hummer and found myself in an awkward conversation with Dr. Anderson.
“So now you go home, and the next Zahed takes over? We have to start from scratch.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Don’t you even care?”
“I care too much. That’s what’s killing me. That’s what’s killing us all.”
EPILOGUE
We weren’t ghosts who returned home. We were zombies. War-torn. Down three men. Feeling little joy in our “mission completed.” I spoke briefly with each of the men, and they shared my sentiments.
Colonel Gordon told me that Warris had friends and relatives in high places, which was why his loyalties tended to lean toward regular Army operations, even though he’d chosen a career in Special Forces. In fact, Gordon said that Warris had even written an article published in Soldiers magazine detailing his thoughts about a dramatic shift in Special Forces operations and mentality, an argument against elitism and what he deemed as special privileges granted to our operators.
Well, the punk really got a taste of our “special privileges” by spending some time in a hole full of crap. That’s how we prima donnas in SF live the high life.
During one layover, I got a call from Harruck, who told me Anderson had placed the girls in a good orphanage, but then the facility had been raided by Taliban who said the girls had been raped and that they were all going to face charges. Hila was, of course, among that group. Would she spend twenty or more years in jail? I didn’t know, but Harruck said he had a few ideas. He then surprised me: “You were wrong about me, Scott. I’m not a politician. And I’ll prove it to you.”
And then, as we were boarding our final flight back to Fort Bragg, Gordon called again to tell me the spooks were going for a charge of murder.
Apparently, Mullah Mohammed Zahed wasn’t just the Taliban commander in the Zhari district. He was the warlord leader of a network of men — warlords, Taliban leaders, and corrupt public officials — who were part of a massive protection racket in the country. It seemed the United States was paying tens of millions of dollars to these men to ensure safe passage of supply convoys throughout the country.
We imported virtually everything we needed: food, water, fuel, and ammo, and we did most of it by road through Pakistan or Central Asia to hubs at Bagram air base north of Kabul and the air base at Kandahar. From there, local Afghan contractors took over, and the powers that be thought hiring local security was a brilliant idea so we could promote entrepreneurship. Indeed, it had struck me as curious when local Afghan trucks showed up at the FOB loaded with our military supplies. I’d assumed the Chinooks had brought in everything, but I was wrong.
So… Zahed was indirectly being paid by the United States to provide protection to the trucks delivering supplies to our base, even though we were his mortal enemies. What an opportunist. He had to profit in every way imaginable: from our supply lines to each and every improvement 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 symbiotic 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, Gordon 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 had been a lie. And I felt certain that they had supplied the HERF 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 Shoebox, 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 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 yourself and eat good, you will have a good day of fighting.
I want to tell you about my dad, who was also a soldier. 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 that you should have answered your phone, that you ignored incoming communication and killed Zahed, an unarmed man.”