a good pair of eyes on the base . . . just in case.
We drove out to the main bridge over the Arghandab
River, dropped off Brown and Smith, then crossed the
bridge, heading along the mountain road that wound its
way up and back down into the valley where Sangsar lay
in the cool moonlight. The town reminded me of the
little villages my grandfather would build for his train
sets. He had a two-car garage filled with locomotives
and cars and towns and enough accessories to earn him
a spot on the local news. When he passed, my father sold
it all on eBay and made a lot of money.
The Taliban sentries watching us through their bin-
oculars probably assumed we were opium smugglers or
carrying out some other such transport mission for
Zahed. In fact, we were not stopped and reached the top
of the mountain, where the dirt road broadened enough
for us to pull over, park the vehicles, and move in closer
on foot.
We’d taken such great care to slip into Sangsar during
our first raid attempt that I’d felt certain no Taliban had
seen us, but according to Shilmani, they had. Interest-
ing that Zahed did not tip off his guards at the com-
pound and allowed them to be ambushed. That was
decidedly clever of him.
However, this time our plan was more bold. Be seen.
Be mistaken. And be deadly.
Hume had rigged up a temporary remote for the
Cypher drone, and though there was no screen from
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69
which we could view the drone’s data, he could fly it like
a remote-controlled UFO, keeping a visual on it with his
night-vision goggles.
We were bass fishing for Taliban, and the drone was
our red rubber worm.
Within five minutes we’d taken up perches along the
heavy rocks jutting from the mountainside and had, yet
again, an unobstructed and encompassing view of the
valley and all of Sangsar.
The drone whirred away, and I lay there on my belly,
just watching it and thinking about Harruck and Shil-
mani and that old man Kundi and remembering that
every one of us had his own agenda, every one of us was
stubborn, and every one of us would fight till the end.
“Sir,” whispered Treehorn, who was at my left shoul-
der. “Movement in the rocks behind us, six o’clock.”
SEVEN
When I was a kid, D.C.’s Sgt. Rockand Marvel’s The
’Namwere among my favorite comics. I didn’t realize it
then, but what drew me to those stories was the simplic-
ity of the plots. The good guys and bad guys were clearly
defined, and you understood every character’s desire
and related with that desire. Kill bad guys. Save every-
one. Win the war. For America! Be proud! Come home
and get a medal, be worshipped as a hero, live happily
ever after. As a kid, you’re looking for admiration and
acceptance, and being a superhero soldier always sounded
pretty damned good to me.
However, that would never happen if I stayed in Ohio.
There weren’t too many opportunities for me growing up
in Youngstown. Sure, I could’ve gone to work in the
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71
General Motors assembly plant in Lordstown like my
father had, but I doubt I would’ve matched his thirty
years. Boredom or the tanking economy would’ve finished
me. My brother Nicolas got out himself and became an
engineering professor down in Florida, while Tommy
owned and operated Mitchell’s Auto Body and Repair in
Youngstown. He loved cars and had inherited that passion
from our father. He’d had no desire to ever leave home
and had tried to persuade me to stay and run the shop
with him. Because Dad was an avid woodworker, Tommy
even tried to persuade me to open a custom furniture shop
and work with Dad, but that didn’t sound very glamorous
to an eighteen-year-old. Jennifer, the baby of our family,
married a wealthy software designer, and she lived with
him and their daughter in Northern California.
So I’d gone off to see the world and serve my coun-
try. Because that sounded so hokey, I told everyone I
was joining the Army to pay for my college education—
which Dad resented because it made us sound poor.
I can’t lie, though. During my service I’ve seen the
good, the bad, and the ugly—and it’s easy to become
disenchanted. When I’d joined, I was just as naïve as the
next guy, but for many years I clung to my beliefs and
positive attitude, and I let my passion become infectious.
But I think after 9/11, when the GWOT (global war
on terrorism) got into full swing, my veneer grew a bit
worn. It didn’t happen overnight, but every mission
seemed to sap me just a little more. I grew older, my
body became more worn, and my spirit seemed harder
to kindle.
72
GH OS T RE C O N
When I raised my right hand and they swore me in, I
never thought I’d have to wrap my head around no-win
situations in which everyone I dealt with was a liar, in
which my own institution was undermining my ability to
get the job done, and in which my own friends had drawn
lines in the sand based on philosophical differences.
Before my mother had died from cancer, she’d held
my hand and told me to make the best of my life.
I figured she was rolling over in her grave when they
started calling me a murderer . . .
Treehorn had a good ear and better eyes, and I
glanced back to where he’d spotted the movement along
the mountainside. My night-vision goggles revealed two
Taliban fighters peering out from behind a pair of rocks,
but before I could get on the radio and issue an order,
Beasley appeared from behind a few rocks and slipped
down toward the Taliban thugs. As they turned back, he
took one out with his Nightwing black tungsten blade
while Nolan, who dropped down at Beasley’s side, broke
the neck of the other fighter.
Beasley called me and said, “Looks like only two up
here, boss. Clear now.”
I called up Ramirez, who was packing our portable,
ultrawide-band radar unit that could detect ground
movement up to several hundred meters away. I’d con-
sidered leaving the device behind in case we got zapped
again, but now I was glad we had it. I hadn’t expected
sentries this far up into the mountains. Within a minute
Ramirez would be scanning the outskirts of the town.
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73
Off to the northeast, along a section of wall that was
beginning to crumble, a pair of jingle trucks were parked
abreast. The trucks were colorfully painted and adorned
with pieces of rugs, festooned with chimes, and fitted with
all sorts of other dangling jewels that created quite a
racket as they traveled down the potholed roads between
villages. These trucks had become famous and then
infamous among American soldiers. They were typically
used by locals to transport goods, but in more recent
years they had become instruments to smuggle drugs
and weapons across the borders with Iran and Pakistan.