and decanters. Dust and smoke filtered through that
single light beam, and my gaze lowered to the three
men sitting cross-legged, one of whom was taking a long
pull on a water pipe balanced between them. The men
were brown prunes and rail-thin. Their teacups were
empty. Slowly, one by one, they raised their heads, nod-
ded, and greeted Bronco, who sat opposite them and
motioned that I do likewise. He introduced me to the
man seated in the middle, Hamid, his beard entirely
white, his nose very broad. I could barely see his eyes
behind narrow slits.
He spoke in Pashto, his voice low and burred by age.
“Bronco tells me they sent you here to capture Zahed.”
I glowered at Bronco. “No.”
“Don’t lie to them,” he snapped.
“Yes,” said Hamid. “The rope of a lie is short—and
you will hang yourself with it.”
“Who are you?” I asked him in Pashto.
“I was once the leader of this village until my son
took over.”
I nodded slowly. “Kundi is your son, and your son
negotiates with the Taliban.”
“Of course. I fought with Zahed’s father many years
CO MB AT O P S
121
ago. We are both Mujahadeen. The guns we used were
given to us by you Americans.”
“Zahed’s men attack the village, attack our base, and
rape children.”
“There is no excuse for that.”
“Then the people here should join us.”
“We already have.”
“No, I need your son to cut off all ties with the Tal-
iban. There’s a rumor that the workers building the
school and police station have to give their money to
Zahed.”
“I’m sure that is true, but Zahed is a good man.”
Hamid nodded to drive the point home.
“Do you know if he is working with al Qaeda?”
“He is not. He is nota terrorist.”
“Hamid, forgive me, but I don’t understand why
your people support him. He’s a military dictator.”
“He comes from a long line of great men. The people
in his village are very happy, safe, and secure. All we want
is the same. We did not ask you to come here. We do not
want you here. We would be happier if you went home.”
“But look at what we’re doing for you . . .”
The old man pursed his lips and sighed. “That is not
help. That is a political game. I had this very same con-
versation with a Russian commander many years ago.
And he thought just like you . . .”
A muffled shout from outside wafted in from the
window. “Hasten to prayer.”
Bronco looked at me, and we quickly excused our-
selves and headed out while they began their prayers.
122 GH OS T RE CON
Back in the courtyard, the old agent turned to me
and said, “Do you see the nut you’re trying to crack?
These guys are all family, brothers in arms, old Soviet
fighters. They bled together. You think they’ll go against
Zahed? Not in a million years.”
“Then what’re you doing here?”
“My job.”
“Which is . . .”
“Which is making sure you dumb-ass Joes don’t fuck
this all up.”
“What’s this? Having villages controlled by the Tal-
iban? Little girls raped?”
“What if I told you Zahed works for us?”
“I’d say you’re full of it.”
“Money talks, right?”
“He’s not a terrorist.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because if you do, you have a better chance of stay-
ing alive.”
“So now you want to help me stay alive? I thought
you wanted me to go home.”
“Going home will keep you alive.”
“Sorry, buddy, can’t help you there.”
“Well, then, Captain Mitchell, I guess we should
head back to my car.”
I froze. “How do you know my name?”
“Captain Scott Mitchell. Ghost Leader. The elite unit
that”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“doesn’t
exist. Top secret. Well, we’re the goddamned CIA, and
no one keeps secrets from us.”
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123
I had to smirk. I’d tried to dig up intel on him and
come up empty.
His tone softened, if only a little. “Years ago, you
rescued a couple of buddies of mine in Waziristan. Saenz
and Vick. They weren’t too thrilled about the rescue
itself, but you saved their lives—which is why I figure I
can return the favor. If you stick around long enough,
they’ll put a target on your head.”
“I’ve been wearing one of those for a lot of years.”
“Look, you must be a smart guy. Go call your boss.
Tell him this mission is a dead end. Literally. Get out
while you still can.”
“Whoa, I’m scared.”
“Turn around and look up.”
I did. There was a Taliban fighter with an AK-47
standing on the roof, his weapon aimed at my head. And
no, he was not hastening to prayer.
“See what I mean? They’re giving you a chance to bail,
and they’re doing that as a favor to me. But if you decide
to stay and attempt to carry out your mission, then I won’t
be able to help you. I want to be very clear about that.”
“How can you do this with a clear conscience?”
“Do what?”
“Betray your country.”
“Are you serious? Come on . . .” He spun on his san-
dal and shuffled off.
I glanced back at the Taliban fighter, whose eyes wid-
ened above his shemagh.
T WELVE
I kept quiet during the ride back to the base, and as I
got out of the car near the main gate, Bronco started to
say something, but I cut him off. “I appreciate what
you’re trying to do.”
“Then do the right thing. This ain’t worth it. And if
you think you can beat them with all your fancy gadgets
and gizmos, think again, right?”
“Are you helping Zahed?”
“Me?”
“I’m asking you a direct question. Yes? Or no?”
“No.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“Listen to me, Joe. Don’t let your ego get in the way
here. They gave you a mission, but they don’t understand.
CO MB AT O P S
125
They didn’t give you orders to upset the balance
here.”
“Balance?”
“Yeah. You might think this doesn’t work, but to
these people, it ain’t half bad.”
I smirked, slammed the door, and walked on toward
the gate. The mine-sweeping team was just coming in as
well, and I asked a lieutenant at the Hummer’s wheel
how they’d made out.
The skinny redhead wiped a bead of sweat from his
brow and answered, “Looked clear to us.”
“Hey, can you do me a favor and sweep the original
zone?”
“You mean where we were supposed to drill?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I haven’t received orders or autho-
rization to do that.”
“Yeah, but it wouldn’t take long, right? Thirty min-
utes? I mean you’re all loaded up already.”
He grinned slyly. “You think those bastards are hid-