Combat Ops gr-2

by Tom Clancy

  “What do you think this is?” I asked him. “County lockup?”

  “We’ll get to your phone call,” Harruck told the spook in a softer tone than I’d used. He faced me. “What the hell is going on? Did you destroy the caves?”

  “Most of them.”

  “And him?”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly for effect. “He’s CIA and posing as a Chinese opium buyer or smuggler. His cover got blown. He ran into us before he could skip town.”

  “I demand to be released.”

  “Those are good demands,” said Harruck. “We like them. Just give me a couple of minutes.”

  “No, right now.”

  Harruck’s expression darkened. “What the hell are you people doing on my mountain? Why is your backpack full of opium? What the hell is your mission here?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about my face?”

  Harruck looked at me. “No, I’m not.”

  The door suddenly opened and in walked Bronco, escorted by one of Harruck’s lieutenants.

  Bronco spoke rapidly. “Captain, we appreciate your help and assistance here, and if there’s nothing else, I’d like to escort my colleague off the base.”

  Harruck eyed an empty chair. “Sit down, Bronco.”

  “Whoa, take it easy there, Joe. You got no idea what you’re dealing with here.”

  I smote a fist on the card table, and it nearly collapsed. “I just lost another man. And I’m not walking out of here until you tell us what’s going on, what your mission is here, and how it might affect what we’re trying to do. As a matter of fact, XO, do us a favor and lock that door. Armed guard outside. No one’s leaving until you two spooks cough up the truth.”

  “You can’t do that, buddy. We have the right to walk out of here.”

  “Yes, you do. But we’re way out here in the middle of nowhere,” I said. “And we’re all going to get along nicely, otherwise bad things will happen. Bad things.”

  Bronco shifted up to me. “Don’t threaten me, soldier boy. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you. And as far as we’re concerned, you know all you need to.”

  “Do you know the location of our captured soldier?” Harruck asked the prisoner point-blank.

  “No.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He thought a moment. “Mike.”

  “Okay, Mikey,” I began. “You guys are working on some Chinese connection with HERF guns and opium. I get that. I’m just a jarhead, a monkey, but I get that. Does your operation tie directly to Zahed? I just need a yes or a no.”

  Bronco, sighed, frowned, then sighed again. “Does our operation link to Zahed? Well… not exactly.”

  I closed my eyes and thought of murder.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The “opium palaces,” as they were called by the media, were mansions constructed by rich drug lords on the outskirts of Kabul, and a few were beginning to sprout up in Kandahar. One I’d visited in Kabul was on Street 6 in a neighborhood called Sherpur. That place was a four-story monstrosity with eleven bedrooms and had been constructed with the heavy use of pink granite and lime marble. The media referred to these mansions as “narcotecture” in reference to Afghanistan’s corrupt government. There were massage showers, a rooftop fountain, and even an Asian-themed nightclub in the basement. The pig that owned it was finally busted by the police, but his brotherin-law was allowed to buy it from him and was renting it out for twelve thousand bucks a week. What a bargain.

  Ironically, it was that very house, a somewhat infamous landmark now, that Bronco began to talk about.

  “So basically what we’d like to do is move Zahed over there and dismantle his operation here. He’s got a nice smuggling operation going on with the Chinese and the Pakistanis, so it’s been difficult.”

  “We just want to kill or capture him. You want to play Let’s Make a Deal,” I said. “No go. We’ve got a ticking clock, and no time for this.”

  “Besides,” added Harruck, “we’re not authorized at this level to negotiate a joint operation with you. This has all got to go through higher.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Joe,” said Bronco. “We all want to get Zahed out of here. That’s the truth.”

  “You want to put him up in a mansion and turn him into an informant. He’s got one of our guys, and he’s parading him around on TV, threatening to kill him, making insane demands, and you want to do business with this clown.”

  “Exactly,” said Mike, gently touching his swollen cheek. “He’s worth a lot more if we keep him operating. Just not here…”

  “So you guys supplied Zahed’s men with the HERF guns because you knew Special Forces would be sent in here.”

  “Not true,” said Bronco. “Zahed’s got his own connections, and he’s smart enough to know that you SF guys are after him. He’s heard all about some of your Star Trek toys, and he loves the idea that he can knock you out with a twenty-dollar gun made in a tent in some shithole alley in China.”

  “Oh, he hasn’t knocked us out. Not yet. I don’t need toys to bring him down.”

  “Okay, Mr. Bravado. You’re a badass, we get that,” said Mike. “But when it comes to this place, that doesn’t mean jack.”

  I turned to Harruck. “I think at this point, we should lock these guys up until we get higher down here and figure out what the plan is. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve both been interfering with our mission.”

  “Aw, that’s bullshit, and you know it,” said Bronco. “I took you to see the old men. I told you what you’re up against here. And you still don’t even know the half of it. The entire U.S. Army depends on the balance… like I told you.”

  “Yeah, you told me. Thanks.” I stood. “Do the right thing, Simon. Hold these guys as long as you can. I’m going to see Zahed in the morning.”

  “You’re what?” asked Bronco.

  I grinned darkly at both spooks. “Have a good night.”

  Nolan’s body would be flown out before noon. We’d have the small prayer service, as we’d had for Beasley, and we’d all look at each other and think, We’ve lost one of our brothers and any one of us could be next. When I got back to the billet, I chatted with the guys for a few minutes, and then we all turned in, emotionally and physically exhausted.

  But I couldn’t sleep, so I just lay in my rack, staring at the curved ceiling.

  Brown was listening to his iPod, the tinny rhythm buzzing from his earbuds. I’d figured him for a hip-hop guy, but he loved his classic rock. I listened for a while, letting the tunes carry me back to moments past: my childhood, a stickball game in the middle of the street, a bully who’d beaten me up at the bus stop, a meeting with the principal when I cheated on a high school trigonometry exam and my father had come and persuaded the principal not to punish me too greatly.

  I started crying. My lips tightened, and the deep grimace finally took hold. I fought to remain quiet. But I couldn’t hold back the tears. My father was dead. I wasn’t going to his funeral. And I’d just lost another teammate. I began to tremble, then clutched the sheets and finally took a deep breath. Then I began laughing at myself. I was a deadly combatant, member of a most elite gun club of highly trained killers. We were unfeeling instruments of death, not whiners and bed wetters.

  I lifted my head and stared through the darkness, across the billet to Ramirez’s bunk.

  He was sitting up, watching me.

  Every time we attacked the Taliban, they would regroup, re-arm, and counterattack.

  What were we expecting? That our attacks would so demoralize them that they would convert to Christianity and pledge to become loyal Wal-Mart customers?

  I didn’t know what time I finally fell asleep, but my watch read seven forty-one A.M. local time when the first explosions had me snapping open my eyes.

  Ironically, the guys weren’t springing out of their bunks but slowly rising, cursing, and Treehorn yawned and said, “And that’s the morning alarm clock, Taliban style.”


  We ran outside, bare-chested, wearing only our boxers and brandishing our rifles.

  I took in the situation all at once — front gate blown to smithereens, guard house on fire, gate falling inward. Machine gunners in the nests were focusing their fire on two small sedans, taxis from Kandahar, I guessed, one of which had probably carried the gate bomber.

  An RPG screamed across the base and struck one of the barracks, tearing a gaping hole in one side and exploding within.

  Sergeants were screaming for all the gunners to cease fire, and within thirty more seconds, it was over.

  No gunfire, just more shouting, the hiss and pop of fires, personnel running in multiple directions like ants fleeing a sprinkler’s flood. We all stood outside the billet, and after another moment I reasoned there wasn’t anything else we could do, so I motioned for the guys to get back inside and get dressed and we’d head over to the barracks that’d been hit. Ramirez was last to go back in. He hesitated, then turned back to me. “Scott, I, uh… thanks for keeping all this between us.”

  I pursed my lips and forced a nod.

  “I’m sorry.”

  My breath shortened. “Okay.”

  By the time we reached the barracks, all the fires had been put out and we were asked to remain along a piece of tape cordoning off the area. Harruck was there and told me the attack was against Gul. “We got a warning yesterday that if we didn’t turn over the governor, we’d be attacked.”

  “Why didn’t you give me a heads-up?”

  “Because I’ve been getting those warnings all the time. Most of them are fake or they don’t act on them. They order us to leave, say they’ll attack the next day, and they don’t.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Lost two more at the gate. Damn it. Barracks was empty, thank God. They were already up for chow, and the governor is staying on the other side, up near the gunner’s nest.”

  “Good idea. How’d they get so close to the gate again?”

  “Gul’s got people coming and going all day. I’m setting up a new roadblock. They’ll need to get past there first before they get near the gate.”

  “Could’ve done that in the first place.”

  “Didn’t see the need till now.”

  I sighed. “Live and learn. And Simon, in a little while I’m going over to see Shilmani. All they told me was that they’d set up the meeting with Zahed ‘soon.’ I’m going to tell them they’ve got twenty-four hours.”

  The XO came dashing over and faced me. “Captain? There’s a call for you in the comm center.”

  The call was from General Keating. I wasn’t surprised. Harruck had been forced to release Bronco and his buddy, Mike, after a couple of big shots from the agency flew in from Kandahar and raised hell. Keating, for his part, was ducking from the piles of dung being hurtled at him from our competing agencies. He just wanted to get me in on the fun.

  “I don’t care what they’re telling me, Mitchell. If you can get in there, get our boy out, and drop the fat man at the same time, then we’ve done our job. They’re trying to persuade me to think about this big picture while they cut deals with terrorists and drug runners, but that’s not the way we operate, is it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well, then. Where are we now?”

  “Other than what I put in my report?”

  “Frankly, Mitchell, I haven’t had time to read your report. I’ve had the CIA barking in my ear for two hours.”

  “We took out the cave network. I lost a guy doing it. We intercepted an agent.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know all about that.”

  “And now I’m working on a meeting with the fat man himself.”

  “How the hell will you pull that off?”

  “Just leave it to me, sir.”

  “And just what do you plan to talk about?”

  “I don’t plan to talk about anything, sir, if you hear me clearly.”

  “Loud and clear, son. Loud and clear.”

  Treehorn and I went back out to see Burki and Shilmani. More tea. More idle conversation, until a very tall, very lean man with a wispy beard arrived and sat with us.

  “This is my cousin. He does not wish you to know his name.”

  “So what do we call him?” asked Treehorn.

  Shilmani posed that question to the man, who answered rapidly in Pashto. Shilmani glanced up and said, “You can just call him Muji.”

  “Tell him that’s kind of a slang phrase for Mujahadeen fighters.”

  Shilmani did, then faced us. “He knows. His grandfather was one.”

  “Okay. Tell him I need to see Zahed right away.”

  Shilmani spoke with Muji at length, and all Treehorn and I could do was sit there, sipping tea. The conversation sounded like a debate, and finally Shilmani regarded me with a frustrated look. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I have to see him by tomorrow. No later. Tell him that there is no time to waste. I mean it.”

  After a brief exchange, Muji rose, nodded, and hurried out of the shack.

  “I want you to come to my house for dinner,” said Shilmani. “Your friend can come, too.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Treehorn. “You think that this will be our last meal?”

  “It could be, and I must tell you now that your plan to put a bullet in Zahed’s head will not work. You need something better. My cousin tells me that no one sees Zahed now without being strip-searched first. Perhaps your weapon could be poison, or something as easily concealed.”

  “We’ll think about it. What time tonight?”

  “Sundown.”

  “Okay, we’ll be there.”

  We drove about a quarter mile down the road, made our right turn to head through the bazaar area, and found the road blockaded by two pickup trucks.

  Suddenly two more sedans roared up behind us, and Treehorn started cursing and shouted, “Ambush!”

  He was about to grab his rifle and jump out of the Hummer. I was at the wheel and told him to hang on. “They’re not firing. Let’s see what’s up.”

  I raised my palms as the men, who for all the world appeared to be Taliban with turbans and shemaghs across their faces, pulled us out of the Hummer.

  My words in Pashto were ignored. I kept asking them what they wanted, what was going on, we weren’t here to hurt them. One guy came up and suddenly pulled a black sack over my head. I started screaming as others dragged my hands behind my back and zipper-cuffed them.

  And then I really panicked. How the hell could I have been so stupid? Shilmani was probably in bed with Zahed and had arranged this entire pack of lies so that they could kidnap us. Now they’d have three American prisoners…

  Treehorn was screaming and struggling to get free. I yelled for him to calm down, we’d be okay.

  “We should’ve killed them all!” he said, his voice muffled by the sack presumably over his head. “We should’ve!”

  They shoved me into the backseat of one of the cars, driving my head down and forcing me to sit.

  I was a Ghost officer. Neither seen nor heard.

  And never once had I been taken prisoner.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As someone used to being in control, I could hardly believe that I was helpless and at the mercy of my captors.

  I kept telling myself, You’re Captain Scott Mitchell, D Company, First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group. This does not happen to you.

  My emotions flew in chaotic orbits. One second I was furious, wanting to curse and scream and shove my way out of the car. The next moment I was scared out of my mind, picturing myself hanging inverted from a rope and being tortured in ways both medieval and merciless.

  We drove, with Treehorn in the seat next to me. He kept trying to talk, but our captors shouted for him to be quiet. They knew a little English. I assumed they wouldn’t answer our questions, so there was no reason to talk until we arrived at wherever we were going.

  I took only small comfort in the fact that Gordon could still locate Tree
horn and me via the signals from our Green Force Tracker Chips (unless, of course, we were taken to a cave or the chips were removed from our bodies). And yes, I had assumed we were being captured by the Taliban — initially, at least. As the car ride continued, I began counting off the seconds and trying to estimate how far they were taking us from the village.

  I tried to make myself feel better by concocting some elaborate scheme that involved Bronco and his CIA buddies capturing us for some reason — maybe to threaten us or force a conversation, something. Bronco did wield some power in the village, having longstanding relationships with all the players, so I wouldn’t have put it past him to engage in a little payback and some threats. He could have paid off some local guys to pick us up and deliver us to him.

  The road grew very rough, jostling us in the seats, and the driver directly in front of me began arguing with the passenger. I focused on the conversation, tried my best to ferret out the words, but they always spoke so rapidly that my hearing turned into a skipping CD, just… getting… a word… here… there…

  “Boss, I’m a little worried,” said Treehorn.

  “I know. Don’t talk,” I snapped.

  The men hollered back at us.

  At that point I began to feel sorry for myself. I’ll admit it. I’d grown a little too comfortable in the village, believing that since Burki wanted me to kill Zahed, I could move a bit more freely and not be threatened. Sure, we dressed like the locals and were beginning to grow out our beards, but I’m sure it wasn’t difficult to ID us as foreigners.

  I heard my father telling me, Son, you really screwed up. You watched a guy murder another soldier and lied about it. You basically got two of your men killed. And now you’ve gone and gotten yourself captured. Are you having a bad day or what? What the hell happened to you? Don’t you remember what your mom told you? You’re destined for some great things… so I have to ask you, son, what the hell happened?

  My eyes were brimming with tears. I kept calling myself a fool and wanted to apologize to Treehorn. He was going to die because I’d made poor decisions. All of the axioms of leadership didn’t mean a goddamned thing to me anymore. The Special Forces creed was a joke. I had a sack over my head and was being driven to hell, where a fat man lounged near a pool of lava, sipping on tea.