Combat Ops

by Tom Clancy

  He and the two sergeants who’d been in the vehicle bolted toward me as behind them the rocket struck the Hummer and exploded, flames shooting into the sky, the boom reverberating off the huts and other buildings, whose doors were now swinging open, soldiers flooding outside.

  I had my sidearm and was already squeezing off rounds at the RPG guy, but he slipped back behind the hut. At that point, reflexes took over. I was on my feet, catapulting across the yard. I rushed along the hut between the mess hall and the insurgents, reached the back, rounded the corner, and spotted all three of them—at exactly the same moment the machine gunners up in the nest did. I shot the closest guy, but only got him in the shoulder before the machine gunner shredded all three with one fluid sweep.

  At that second, I remembered to breathe.

  Up ahead came a faint click. Then the entire rear third of the mess hall burst apart, pieces of the hut hurtling into the sky as though lifted by the smoke and flames. The explosion knocked me onto my back, and for a few seconds there was only the muffled screams and the booming, over and over.

  Something thudded onto my chest, and when I sat up, I saw it was a piece of the roof and accompanying insulation. And then it dawned on me that there’d been personnel in the mess, still coming out when the bomb had gone off. Wincing, I got up, staggered forward.

  A gaping hole had been torn in the side of the mess, and at least a half dozen of Harruck’s people were lying on the ground, torn to pieces by the explosion as they’d been heading toward the door. Some had no faces, the blast having shredded cheeks and foreheads, skin peeling back and leaving only bone in its wake. I began coughing, my eyes burning through the smoke, as Harruck arrived with his sergeants.

  “I’ll get my people out here to help!” I told him.

  He nodded, gritted his teeth, and began cursing at the top of his lungs. I’d never seen him lose it like that.

  The facts were clear. We Ghosts had brought this on the camp; the attack was payback for our raid the night before. Innocent soldiers had died because of what we’d done.

  I felt the guilt, yes, but I never allowed it to eat at me. We had orders. We had to deal with the consequences of those orders. But seeing Harruck so cut up left me feeling much more than I wanted. Maybe that was the first sign.

  My Ghosts were already outside our hut, all wearing pakols and shemaghs on their heads and wrapped around their faces to conceal their identities. I ordered them out to the perimeter to see what the hell was going on.

  A roar and thundering collision out near the guard gate stole my attention. A flatbed truck had just plowed through the gatehouse and barreled onward to smash through the galvanized steel gates.

  The guards there had backed off and were riddling the truck with rifle fire.

  And it took Treehorn all of a second to shoulder his rifle and send two rounds into the head of that driver.

  But as if on cue, the truck itself exploded in a swelling fireball that spread over the buildings and quarters beside it, setting fire to the rooftops as more flaming debris came in a hailstorm across the walkway between the huts.

  We didn’t realize it then, but a hundred or more Taliban had set up positions along the mountains, and once they saw the truck explode, they set free a vicious wave of fire that had all of us in the dirt and crawling for cover as our machine gunners brought their barrels around . . . and the rat-tat-tat commenced.

  FOUR

  Two more pickup trucks raced on past our FOB, cutting across the desert and bouncing up and onto the gravel road leading toward the town and the bazaar. Hundreds of people were milling about that area, setting up shop or making their morning purchases. If the Taliban reached that area and cut loose into the crowds . . .

  I shouted for the Ghosts to follow me, and we commandeered two Hummers from the motor pool on the east side of the base. A couple of mechanics volunteered on the spot to be our drivers. We roared out past the shattered gate, me riding shotgun, the others standing in the flatbeds or leaning out the open windows, weapons at the ready. I quickly wrapped a shemagh around my face.

  Behind us, the fires still raged, and the machine guns continued to crack and chatter.

  Rounds ripped across the hood of our vehicle, and I began to smell gasoline.

  “We should pull over!” shouted the mechanic.

  “No, get us behind those trucks!”

  “I’ll try!”

  About fifty meters ahead, the two pickups made a sharp left and disappeared behind a row of homes.

  The mechanic floored it, and my head lurched back as we made the turn.

  My imagination ran wild with images of civilians falling under our gunfire as we tried to stop these guys. I could already hear the voices of my superiors shouting about the public relations nightmare we’d created.

  The second Hummer fell in behind us, and we charged down the narrow dirt street, walled in on both sides by the mud-brick dwellings and the rusting natural gas tanks plopped out front. The familiar laundry lines spanned the alleys and backyards, with clothes, as always, fluttering like flags. Our tires began kicking up enough dust to obscure the entire street in our wake, even as we pushed through the dust clouds whipped up by the Taliban trucks.

  We still didn’t have replacement Cross-Coms, and all I could do was call back to the other truck and tell them we weren’t breaking off; we were going after these guys. And yes, the threat of civilian casualties increased dramatically the farther we drove, but I wanted to believe we could do this cleanly. I’d done it before.

  Nolan, Brown, and Treehorn had already opened fire on the rear Taliban truck, knocking out a tire and sending one of the Taliban tumbling over the side with a bullet in his neck. The rear truck suddenly broke off from the first, making a hard left turn down another dirt street.

  I told the guys in our rear truck to follow him while we kept up with the lead truck, whose driver steered for the bazaar ahead, the road funneling into an even more narrow passage.

  Although I’d never been into the town, Harruck had told me about the bazaar. You could find handmade antique jewelry, oil lamps, Persian rugs, and tsarist-era Russian bank notes displayed next to bootlegged DVDs and knock-off Rolexes. There were also dozens of white-bearded traders selling meat and produce. Some vendors were part of an American-backed program that introduced soldiers to Afghan culture and injected American dollars into the local economy. Although locals bought, sold, and traded there, Harruck’s company actually pumped more money into the place than anyone else because his soldiers purchased food to prepare on the base and souvenirs to ship back home. The Taliban knew that, too, which was why they’d come: maximum casualties and demoralization.

  We nearly ran over two kids riding old bikes, and the mechanic was forced to swerve so hard that we took out the awning post of a house on our left. The awning collapsed behind us, and I cursed.

  Suddenly, our Hummer coughed and died.

  My guys started hollering.

  “We’re out of gas,” shouted the driver. “It all leaked out!”

  “Dismount! Let’s go!” I shouted to Nolan, Brown, and Treehorn, then eyed the driver. “You stay here with the vehicle. We’ll be back for you.”

  The four of us sprinted down the block, reaching the first set of stalls covered by crude awnings. The shopkeepers had seen the pickup fly by and had retreated to the backs of their shops.

  The truck screeched to a stop at the next intersection, about fifty meters ahead, and four Taliban jumped out.

  I expected them to do one of two things:

  Run into the crowd and draw us into a pursuit.

  Or . . . take cover behind their truck and engage us in a gunfight.

  Instead, something entirely surreal happened, and all I could do was shout to my men to hold fire.

  The citizens of Senjaray rushed into the street, both vendors and shoppers alike, and quickly formed a human barricade around the four men and their truck.

  Two of the vendors began shouting and
waving their fists at us, and from what I could discern, they were yelling for us to go home.

  As we drew closer, the crowd grew, and the four Taliban were grinning smugly at us.

  A man who looked liked a village elder, dressed all in army-green robes and with a black turban and matching vest, emerged from one of the shops and ambled toward us, his beard dark but coiled with gray. Most of the locals wore beat-up sandals, but his appeared brand-new.

  In Pashto he said his name was Malik Kochai Kundi. “I own most of the land here. I will not allow you to hurt these men. Zahed has treated us well—much better than the governor. You will not shatter that alliance.”

  Brown started cursing behind me, and I shushed him, then struggled for the right words. “You heard the fighting. They attacked our base.”

  Kundi stroked his beard in thought. “It’s my understanding that you struck first . . . last night. Now, show me your face, and I will talk to you.”

  I glanced over Kundi’s shoulder and noted something going on among the four Taliban. The tallest one, perhaps the leader, was shifting his gaze among the others.

  Kundi said something to me, but it was hard to hear him now over the rising voices of the crowd. I heard some folks telling Kundi to leave us alone, while others shouted again for us to leave.

  Behind me, John Hume cursed—and I saw why.

  The four Taliban turned and dashed back through

  the crowd, heading in four different directions.

  “Take a guy!” I yelled.

  We reacted swiftly, Brown, Hume, and Treehorn each going after a thug while I went for the tallest one.

  I wasn’t sure why they’d chosen to run. Maybe they didn’t quite trust the citizenry either.

  My guy rushed down a side street, leaving the bazaar for yet another stretch of sad-looking homes. I was gaining on him when he stopped, whirled, and leveled his rifle.

  Before he got off a shot I was already diving to the right side, realizing that the cover I’d sought was one of those natural gas tanks. Great.

  The guy fired, but his rounds drummed along the dirt beside me. I rolled, came up, peered around the tank, saw him rushing forward between houses.

  I bounded after him, sweating profusely now, my eyes itching with dust. Once I got into the alley, I caught a glimpse of him before he turned another corner. I jogged ten meters, reached the corner—and a long row of houses stretched before me.

  He was gone.

  But then I looked down into the dirt, tracked his boot prints, and heard a child’s cry coming from one of the houses.

  I jogged forward, eyeing the prints, heard the noise once more, turned and rushed toward the nearest front door, pushed it open, and burst into a small entrance area.

  It all hit me at once:

  The smell of sweet meat cooking . . .

  A small kitchen area to my right with a worktable and some fresh flowers in a vase . . .

  A woman cowering behind that table with a young girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and a boy, maybe eleven or so, their eyes bulging, the girl beginning to weep. The mother pulled the children closer to her chest.

  And there, at the back of a room, another man, well-trimmed beard, turban, but with sideburns that seemed very Western. He put a finger to his lips, then pointed down the hall, where he suggested my Taliban guy had gone.

  Then he held up a hand. Wait.

  He shouted back into the hall. “All clear now. You can come out . . .”

  I shifted to the left side of the room, moving toward the wall, and watched with utter surprise as this local guy who’d already volunteered to help me kept tight to the wall, gave a me a look, and then, as the Taliban fighter moved forward, my new ally tripped him.

  And that was when I moved in, leaping on his back and knocking him face first onto the dirt floor. He tried to reach back for a pistol holstered at his waist, but I grabbed his wrist while my new friend grabbed the fighter’s other arm. With my free hand I tugged out a pair of zipper cuffs, and we got him bound in a few seconds.

  I rose, leaving the fighter still lying on the floor, and eyed the family. In a moment of weakness I lowered my shemagh. “I’m sorry,” I said in Pashto.

  “It’s okay,” said the man in English. “I know who this guy is and who he works for. I’m glad you’ve captured him.”

  “Where’d you learn English?”

  He grinned weakly. “It’s a long story. I’ll help you get him up, so you can be on your way.”

  I pursed my lips at the wife and children. The wife shook her head in disapproval, but the girl and boy seemed fascinated by me. I shrugged and got my prisoner ready to move, confiscated his weapon, and led him outside.

  When I turned back, the entire family was standing there beside the front door, watching me. I raised my shemagh to conceal my face and gave them a curt nod.

  As I led back my prisoner, I cursed at myself for sending my boys off alone and without communications to capture those other men. We should have paired up. And we were taking an awful risk operating without comm. What the hell was I thinking? The frustration, the rage, and a bit of the guilt had clouded my judgment.

  And what was worse, by the time I made it back to the bazaar and started down the main road toward the Hummer, I spotted a bonfire in the middle of the road.

  But it turned out to be our Hummer.

  I started running forward, forcing the prisoner to do likewise.

  Another crowd had gathered to watch the infidel truck burn, and our mechanic driver was lying in the dirt with his hand on his forehead, bleeding from a terrible gash.

  Kundi was there as well, and he marched up to me with several cronies drifting behind him. He spoke so rapidly in Pashto that I couldn’t understand him, but he gesticulated wildly between the bazaar, the truck, and the people gathered. Then he pointed at me, narrowed his gaze, and this much I caught: “Time for you to go home.”

  “No,” I said sarcastically. “We’ve come here to save you.” He eyed the flaming truck, the stench of melting rubber threatening to make me gag. “Thanks for the welcome.”

  I pushed past him and led my prisoner over to the mechanic. “What happened?”

  “They pulled me out. We can’t fire till they fire at us. They didn’t have any guns, then suddenly I’m lying on the ground. I don’t even know who hit me . . .”

  Brown, Hume, and Treehorn came charging back down the street. No luck, no prisoners.

  “Sorry,” Hume said. “The other three got away.”

  “Because they got help,” said Treehorn. “They’re working for Zahed, but they live here.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, it’s good times.” Then I shoved the prisoner toward Treehorn and shifted into the middle of the street. I pointed to the fallen mechanic and screamed at the top of my lungs, “WHO DID THIS?”

  The locals threw their hands in the air, then dismissed me with waves and started back toward their shops. Nolan hustled over to the mechanic and hunkered down to treat him.

  Kundi came forward once more. “Where is Captain Harruck?” he asked in broken English. “I want to talk to him.”

  “He’s busy right now.”

  “You tell him I want to talk.” Kundi turned away and started back toward the bazaar.

  “So I guess we’re walking,” Brown said, staring grimly at the burning Hummer.

  I began to lose my breath. I wanted to move all the women and children to a tent city just outside town, then call in an air strike and level the entire place and tell them we were turning it into a parking lot for a Wal-Mart Supercenter.

  Then we’d go to Zahed and say, This will happen to your village if you don’t turn yourself in. I couldn’t understand how helping these people would help us win the war. I was willing to bet that even that guy who’d helped me would stab me in the back if push came to shove.

  I was ready to leave, but of course the mission had just begun.

  FIVE

  We reached the edge of town, where in the d
istance two more Hummers bounced across the desert like mechanical dragons wagging long tails of dust. I squinted and saw that one truck contained the rest of my team, while the other was carrying Harruck. In about five minutes they reached us and screeched to a stop.

  “Man, they were fast,” said Paul Smith from the other truck. “They ditched their ride and scattered like roaches. We asked around. No one’s talking. They’re all too afraid to say anything. No shock there.”

  “All right,” I said, then took a deep breath and crossed to Harruck as he hopped out of the cab. “We shot one, got one.”

  “What the hell, Scott? You shouldn’t have followed them into town, for God’s sake! Maybe you can operate outside the ROE, but I can’t. And I won’t. I’ve spent a long time trying to work something out with them.”

  “With who? That guy Kundi? He’s a scumbag who will burn you. Come on, Simon, you already know that. They’re all opportunists, scammers, users . . .”

  “Which means we have to play them just right, Scott. Just right. We need to be the ones they think they can trust.” He glanced at my men, feeling the heat of their gazes. “Look, we’ll talk about this later.”

  “They burned our Hummer,” I said as he turned away.

  He whirled back. “What?”

  “They beat him up and burned our Hummer.” I cocked a thumb at the mechanic, now sporting a bloody bandage on his forehead. “Nice, isn’t it . . .”

  “What the hell did you expect?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Do me a favor, just . . . for now . . . don’t try to help . . .”

  Harruck’s company suffered seven dead and fourteen injured. We killed about eight or nine around the base, with more dead in the mountains, but the Taliban recovered those bodies before we could confirm the kills.

  Harruck’s snipers were confident that at least four more had been taken down. The fires had been put out, and Harruck already had crews cleaning up the mess by the time he returned from town and nearly broke down the door of our billet. “Let’s go,” he snapped.