some satellite imagery on it.”
“No problem. Scott, I got your back.”
“I know that, sir.”
That was a lie to make me feel better. It wasn’t his
fault, really. As everyone had said—the situation was
complicated.
I remained in the comm center and finally got in touch
with my sister, who told me Dad was stable, but the heart
attack was a bad one and now they thought he had pneu-
monia. He’d slipped into a coma and was on a ventilator.
“I haven’t even seen him yet,” Jenn said. “Gerry and
I will be flying in from Napa tomorrow. Did you try to
call Nick or Tommy?”
“Not yet.”
“They should know more. How’re you doing? You
don’t sound too good.”
“Just having one of those days.”
“Where are you now? Classified?”
“Not really. I’m back in Afghanistan.”
116 GH OS T RE CON
“Again?”
“It’s the war that keeps on giving.”
“Will we ever finish there?”
I snorted. “Maybe next week.”
“Why don’t you retire, Scott? You’ve done enough.
Do like Tommy. Work with your hands. You love the
woodworking just like Dad. And you’re good at it, too.
Get into the furniture business or something. Gerry says
niche markets like that are the future for American man-
ufacturing.”
“Tell Gerry thanks for the business analysis. And
retirement sounds pretty good about now. Anyway, I’ll
try calling you tomorrow night. Let me know how Dad’s
doing. Okay?”
“Okay, Scott. I love you.”
“Love you, too.
I sat there, closed my eyes, and remembered sitting
next to my father while he read Hardy Boys books to
me. Frank and Joe Hardy, teenaged detectives, could
solve any mystery, though finding one Mullah Moham-
med Zahed was beyond the scope of even their keen eyes
and deductive lines of reasoning.
Suddenly, I shivered as I thought of Dad lying in the
coffin he had built for himself in our woodworking shop
behind the house. He’d been so proud of that box, and
the rest of us had thought it so creepy and morbid of
him, but then again, it was fitting for him to design and
build his “last vehicle,” since he’d spent most of his life
in the auto plant.
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117
After calming myself, I stood and thanked the ser-
geant who’d helped me, then left the center.
I was numb. The reality of it all wouldn’t hit me till
later.
Warris and Bronco were still waiting for me at my quar-
ters. I apologized to Warris and asked him to wait inside
my billet while I spoke to Bronco.
“Mind if I listen in?” asked the young captain.
Here we go, I thought. “Yeah, I do.” I pursed my lips
and looked fire at “the kid.”
“Hey, Captain Warris,” called Ramirez from the
doorway. “Come on, and I’ll introduce you to the rest
of the guys.”
Warris took a deep breath and scratched the peach
fuzz on his chin. “All right . . .”
I waited until he was out of earshot, then took a step
forward. “See this? Get used to this. This is me in your
face.”
Bronco frowned. “I didn’t figure you for a cowboy.”
“I’m not.”
“And I figured you’ve been here before.”
“I have.”
“Then maybe you have an idea of what you’re dealing
with here . . . or maybe you don’t. Like I said, just lock
up your dogs, and you and I will be just fine.”
“Okay.”
I stepped back from him, took a deep breath.
118 GH OS T RE CON
His eyes narrowed, deep lines spanning his face. “Just
like that?”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m a Texas boy. You?”
“Ohio. So you’re the cowboy.”
“And you’re the farmer. I think what you need to do
is listen to the CO here. He’s got it together. He under-
stands the delicate balance of power.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not my mission.”
Bronco checked his watch. “You got a minute. I’ve
got some friends I want you to meet . . .”
“Who are they?”
“Men who will provide, shall we say, enlightenment.”
“Oh, I’ve got that up to here.”
“Trust me, Joe. This will be worth your time.”
I thought about it. “I’m not coming alone.”
He looked wounded. “You don’t trust me. It’s not like
I work for the CIA or anything. Look, we’re just going
into the village. You’ll be fine. My car’s right over there.”
“This is important to you?”
“Very.”
“You think it’ll get me out of your face?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see.”
Maybe I was feeling suicidal, but I told Ramirez to enter-
tain Captain Warris until I returned. I drove off with
Bronco to a part of the village I hadn’t visited before,
where the brick houses were more circular and clustered
in a labyrinth to form curving alleys that opened into
CO MB AT O P S
119
courtyards full of fruit trees and grapevines. In the dis-
tance lay great fields of wheat, sorghum, and poppy, and
off to my right was a mine-sweeping team along with
their dogs working the field where Kundi said it was
okay to drill the well. At least Harruck hadn’t been a
total fool about that. And for all intents and purposes,
he could have those minesweepers check the area where
Kundi had refused to drill . . . but he wouldn’t . . .
Bronco parked along a more narrow section of the
road, then led me onward into the dust-laden shadows of
the warren.
Several old men with long beards were trailed by chil-
dren holding a donkey by its reins. The animal was car-
rying huge stacks of grass to feed cattle penned up in the
south. Farther down the street, I spotted one of Har-
ruck’s patrols questioning a young boy of ten or twelve
wearing a dirty robe. The soldiers looked like high-tech
aliens against the ancient terrain.
We reached a narrow wooden door built into a wall
adjoining two homes and were met by a young man who
immediately recognized Bronco and let us in. He spoke
rapidly in Pashto to the boy, who ran ahead of us.
The courtyard we entered had more grapevines and
several fountains along a mosaic tile floor; it was, per-
haps, the most ornately decorated section of the village
I’d encountered. To our left lay a long walkway that ter-
minated in a side door through which the boy ran. We
started slowly after him, and I detected a sweet, smoky
smell emanating from ahead.
I was dressed like a regular soldier and still packing my
120 GH OS T RE CON
sidearm. I reached for the weapon as we started through
the door, and Bronco gave me a look: You won’t need that.
“Force of habit,” I lied.
Light filtered in from a windowless hole in the wall as
we came into a wide living area of crimson-colored rugs,
matching draperies, and shelving built into the walls to
hold dozens of pieces of pottery, along with silver trays