scheme of things means nothing. He’s a local yokel.
You’re making him sound like Bin Laden.”
I balled my hands into fists. “You’re assuming that I
can’t demoralize them, that I can’t get the whole leader-
ship party, that no matter what I do it’s going to be sta-
tus quo over there.”
“That’s right, because that’s the way it’s been here. If
we’re going to change anything, it has to be big and
swift, and we need to do it together—if we leave them
out, we’re doomed to fail.”
I couldn’t face him any more and looked to the door.
“Scott—”
I took a deep breath. “I understand now why you
didn’t become a Ghost.”
“Don’t be this way.”
“Sorry, I’m not like you, Simon. I’m a soldier.”
“Wow, what the hell was that?”
I faced him and spoke slowly . . . for effect. “What I
see here is us building another welfare state, socialism at
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its finest, but remember what Margaret Thatcher said:
‘Socialism only works until you run out of other people’s
money.’ I’m not ready to negotiate with these bastards.”
“Captain,” he snapped. “I’ll be contacting the gen-
eral. I’ll take this all the way up. There’s just too much at
stake here. Nothing personal.”
“That’s fine. You won’t like the answer you get. We’re
doing a recon tonight. I’ll need company support. I’ll
expect you to provide it. Check the registry, Captain.”
SIX
Without our Cross-Coms, satellite uplinks and down-
links, and targeting computers, we were, for all intents
and purposes, traditional old-school combatants relying
on our scopes and skills. We did, however, have one nice
toy well suited for Afghanistan: the XM-25, a laser-
designated grenade launcher with smart rounds that did
not require a link to our Cross-Coms. Matt Beasley had
traded in his rifle for the XM-25, saying he predicted
that he’d finally get a chance to field-test the weapon for
himself. His prediction would come true, all right . . .
I couldn’t deny the fact that long-range recon from the
mountains would gain us only a small portion of the big
picture. We needed HUMINT—human intelligence—
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GH OS T RE C O N
which could be gathered only by boots on the ground . . .
spies walking among the enemy.
The guy I’d captured back in town was worthless. He
wouldn’t talk, make a deal, nothing. Harruck handed
him off to the CIA and wished him good riddance.
So at that point it was both necessary and logical that
I try to recruit the only local guy I knew who was seem-
ingly on my side.
I won’t say I fully trusted him—because I never did.
But I figured the least I could do was ask. Maybe for the
right price he’d be willing to walk into the valley of the
shadow of death and bring me back Zahed’s location.
The Ghosts gave me an allowance for such cases, and I
planned on spending it. I had nothing to lose except the
taxpayers’ money, and I worked for the government—so
that was par for the course.
Ramirez and I got a lift into town, and dressed like
locals with the shemaghscovering our heads and faces,
we had the driver let us off about a block from the
house. Ramirez would keep in radio contact with our
driver.
I wouldn’t have remembered the house if I didn’t
spot the young girl standing near the front door. She
took one look at me, gaped, then ran back into the
house, slamming the door after her. Ramirez looked at
me, and we shifted forward. I didn’t have to knock. The
guy who’d helped me capture the Taliban thug emerged.
I lowered my shemagh, and he didn’t look happy to see
me. “Hello again.”
“Hello.”
CO MB AT O P S
61
I proffered my hand. “My name is Scott. And this is
Joe.”
He sighed and begrudgingly took the hand. “I am
Babrak Shilmani.” He shook hands with Ramirez as
well.
“Do you have a moment to talk?”
He glanced around the street, then lifted his chin
and gestured that we go into his house.
The table I’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by large
colorful cushions spread across newly unfurled carpets.
I’d learned during my first tour in the country that
Afghans ate on the floor and that the cushions were
called toshakand that the thin mat in the center was a
disterkahn.
“We didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” I said.
“Please sit. You are our guests.” He spoke rapidly in
Pashto, calling out to the rest of his family down the
hall.
I knew that hospitality was very important in the
Afghan code of honor. They routinely prepared the best
possible food for their guests, even if the rest of the fam-
ily did without.
As his family entered from the hall, heads lowered
shyly, Shilmani raised a palm. “This is my wife, Panra;
my daughter, Hila; and my son, Hewad.”
They returned nervous grins, and then the mother
and daughter hustled off, while the boy came to us and
offered to take our shemaghsand showed us where to sit
on the floor. Then he ran off and returned with a special
bowl and jug called a haftawa-wa-lagan.
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GH OS T RE C O N
“You don’t have to feed us,” I told Shilmani, realiz-
ing that the boy had brought the bowl to help us wash
our hands and prepare for the meal.
“I insist.”
I glanced over at Ramirez. “Only use your right
hand. Remember?”
“Gotcha, boss.”
“You’ve been here before,” said Shilmani. “I mean
Afghanistan.”
I nodded. “I love the tea.”
“Excellent.”
“Will you tell me now how you learned English?”
He sighed. “I used to work for your military as a trans-
lator, but it got too dangerous, so I gave it up.”
Ramirez gave me a look. Perhaps we were wasting
our time and had received the noalready . . .
“They taught you?”
“Yes, a special school. I was young and somewhat
foolish. And I volunteered. But when Hila was born, I
decided to leave.”
“They threatened you?”
“You mean the Taliban?”
I nodded.
“Of course. If you help the Americans, you suffer the
consequences.”
“You’re taking a pretty big risk right now,” I
pointed out.
“Not really. Besides, I owe you.”
“For what? You helped me capture that man.”
CO MB AT O P S
63
“And you helped me get him out of my house. I was
afraid for my wife and daughter. In most cases it is for-
bidden for a woman to be in the presence of a man who
is not related to her—but I am more liberal than that.”
“Glad to hear it.”
As if on cue, the wife and daughter entered and pro-