Combat Ops

by Tom Clancy

  The rest of my team made faces as I followed him out and across the base, feeling like a cherry about to be trounced on by his CO, yet also resenting how upset Harruck had become. He had to take his anger out on someone, I guess. I acknowledged that he was the CO there, and though I didn’t answer exclusively to him, I should respect his authority despite my far greater experience. I could easily get Keating to override him, but once I did that, our friendship would be over.

  He collapsed into his chair. I took the one in front of his dusty desk. You could still smell the ash and cinders from the mess hall wafting in through the open window, and a small fan pivoting to and fro on the desk didn’t help. I stared at the fan a moment, then took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “So, okay, buddy, let’s have it.”

  When I opened my eyes, he was pouring me a drink, then one for himself.

  I took the shot, downed it quickly. He did the same, swore, then said, “I need a miracle.”

  “I thought we were going to fight.”

  He shrugged. “I know where you’re coming from. But I need to be honest with you—it looks like removing Zahed from power could do more harm than good.”

  “Simon, unless you can get my orders revised, I’m here to do one thing.”

  “You haven’t met the district governor here, have you?”

  I shook my head. “Just read about him in the briefing. He’s another model citizen.”

  “Well, yeah, if you recall, the guy’s name is Naimut Gul. He came in here last year and promised these people the world, told them the Afghan government would help. He didn’t do anything except take their money. He’s like a Mafia kingpin, and his word means nothing. When the people think of the government, they see him. He’s in bed with some of the warlords up north, and it’s pretty damned clear he’s on the payroll for opium production.”

  I snorted. “And he’s the guy we’re trying to support. He’s the good guy.”

  Harruck cursed through a sigh. “Look, Zahed’s a ruthless killer. His men are Huns. But the canals that are here, the bazaar? He financed all of that, had his people build it all. The Taliban brought in the natural gas tanks and have been talking about getting power lines hooked up.”

  “And Kundi, our big landowner, supports all of this,” I said.

  “Here’s the thing. And I’ve been thinking about this all day. If you take out Zahed too early—before I can get something going here—then they’ll still hate us and align us with the government.”

  “They’ve already done that.”

  “Not all of them. If we can build them their school, their police station, and dig them a new well—and we deliver on those promises—then the timing will be perfect to remove Zahed and maybe even bring in a new governor. I’ve heard talk of that, too. Start off with a clean slate.”

  I sat back and tried to consider everything without getting a migraine. “You want me to believe it’s all that simple.”

  “I’ve got nothing else, Scott. I can’t walk out of here as a failure.”

  “The legacy, huh?”

  “This entire company is depending on me to help them complete the mission. We’re not even close yet.”

  “What if your mission is bullshit?”

  “It’s not.”

  “My people seem to think that if we take out the Taliban leadership, we’ll be in a better position to help these civilians—not that I agree with that, either. I mean look . . . how are you supposed to build a school with no assets and constant attacks from them?”

  Harruck lowered his voice. “Maybe we can work with them.”

  I started laughing. “Last night I untied a girl from a pool table, and you’re telling me you want to work with these people?”

  “Money talks.”

  “Simon, if you go there, then you’re no better than them. I’m telling you.”

  “My back’s against the wall.”

  A knock came at the door, and the company’s executive officer, Martin Shoregan, peeked inside. He was a lean black man and highly articulate, clearly being groomed to lead a company of his own. “Sir, sorry to interrupt. Dr. Anderson is here from the ARO.”

  Harruck bolted out of his chair. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do you want me to—”

  “Send her right in!” he cried.

  I glanced up at him. “Do you want me—”

  “No, please stay.”

  The door opened, and in stepped a woman in a greenstriped high-bodice dress with a swirling skirt and wide shawl draped over her head. Blond hair spilled out from the front of the shawl, and she grinned easily at us as I rose to meet her.

  “Captain Harruck?” she asked, looking at me.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m Captain Simon Harruck.” He proffered his hand. “And this is a friend.”

  She shook hands with Harruck, then smiled at me. “Well, hello, friend. I guess if I get your name, then you’ll have to kill me?”

  I shrugged. “Call me Scott. Where are you from? Australia?”

  “Sydney. Very good. You?”

  “I’m not here.”

  She liked that. “Right . . .”

  Harruck told her to take my seat, and I didn’t mind. She was easy on the eyes.

  The two exchanged a few more pleasantries, and I learned that they’d spoken on the phone for many months. She said she was finally able to gather the resources and that the Afghanistan Relief Organization (ARO)—along with more than a dozen other relief groups—was ready to work with Army engineers on the construction of the school, police station, and solar-powered well. All of the agreements had been struck with the district governor and other elders, and they should be able to break ground within a week. Funding was finally in place.

  “This is the news I’ve been waiting to hear for eight months now,” said Harruck, his voice cracking. He glanced over at me and nodded.

  I didn’t hide my skepticism. “Dr. Anderson, I assume the Doctor is for Ph.D.?”

  “That’s right. My brother’s the medical doctor in our family. My degree is in agricultural economics and rural sociology. Call me Cassie.”

  “Well, Cassie, you’re a smart woman, and you understand the political situation here.”

  “I’ve been working in this country for three years now. So, yes, I’m keenly aware of what’s happening. The ARO has made significant strides despite all the corruption.”

  “I understand, but you don’t see this as a terrific waste of resources?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re going to provide all these services for the local community, but when we leave, the Taliban will move back in and destroy them, or exploit them, or hold them ransom. We should neutralize the enemy first, build a militia, then provide these people with an infrastructure only after they can protect themselves.”

  She looked at Harruck. “Your friend’s a bit of a cynic.”

  “His mission has become slightly different than mine, but I think we can all work together to make this happen.”

  I raised my voice, if only a little. “Simon, do you think by helping these people you’ll really build their trust? We’ll always be foreigners.”

  “I need to try. At least for the children.”

  I took a deep breath. “I have a mission.”

  “I understand. But would you be willing to talk to Keating? Maybe just buy us some time?”

  “That’s the one thing they’re telling me I don’t have.”

  “Will you at least try?”

  I shrugged, then turned to the door.

  “Scott, I respect your opinion, and I’m going to need your help. Let’s do this together.”

  I couldn’t answer, and I’m glad I didn’t.

  “Nice to meet you . . . Scott,” said Anderson.

  My grin was forced, and she knew it.

  I returned to quarters and sat around with the rest of my men, who were cleaning weapons. Hume and Nolan were busy dissecting the Cross-Coms for any more clues and ha
d speculated that high-energy radio frequencies were probably to blame. I told them to keep working on it and shared with everyone what Harruck planned to do.

  “He’s just painting a bigger target on this town and pissing off the Taliban,” said Brown. “The local government’s corrupt. That’s a given. So these people have come to trust the Taliban, who’ve kept their word. Now we’re supposed to get them to trust us more by giving them more stuff, and we’re supposed to think that once we’ve bought their trust, they’ll help us capture the Taliban.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “But what’s wrong with that picture?”

  Treehorn started laughing. “The Taliban ain’t going to let that happen.”

  “Harruck actually said we might have to work with them.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Ramirez, who set down a magazine and turned his frown on me.

  “See, Harruck knows that if we build the school and the rest of it, the Taliban will attack, so how do you get them off your back?”

  “You take out their leader, disrupt their communications, and demoralize them,” said Matt Beasley, who’d been very quiet the past few days. I could now hear the frustration in his tone.

  “That might work, Matt, and you can bet we’re going to try. But that’s not Harruck’s plan.”

  Ramirez made the money sign with his fingers.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “They’ll try to cut a deal.”

  “Well, then, what’re we supposed to do?” asked Ramirez. “Harruck’s offering a handshake while we’re putting guns to their heads.”

  “Look, he can’t do that openly,” I said. “Imagine the headline. Bottom line is the taxpayers need an enemy they can believe in—just as much as a hero.”

  “All this is making my brain explode,” said Treehorn. “I need a bullet and a target. I’m easy to please. The rest of it is bullshit.”

  “Captain, I know Harruck’s your friend,” began Ramirez, “but we weren’t sent here to build a school. If this is a good old-fashioned militia training op, I can deal with that, too. But we can’t be tiptoeing around and still get our job done.”

  “I know. And there’s no reason we should get caught up in all this. I want to go back out there tonight, gather more intel, and proceed on mission.”

  “We’ve got the drones but still no way to talk to them,” said Hume. “Waiting on new gear. Could be a few more days.”

  I cursed. “Then we’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Radios, binoculars, NVGs, it’s not like we didn’t train that way,” I said.

  “You going to tell Harruck?” asked Treehorn.

  “No choice. We still need company support. He wanted me to call Keating and delay our mission. I don’t know about you guys, but I’d rather get the job done and get the hell out of here as soon as possible.”

  “So just lie to him,” said Treehorn.

  I thought about that.

  And I wondered if maybe I was just being a selfish bastard, but my guys felt the same way, so I lied and told Harruck no go. Our mission remained unchanged. We needed to find and capture Zahed.

  “Don’t you understand?” he asked me, raising his voice when I returned to his office later in the day. “This is eight months’ worth of work finally coming together, and you want to screw it up just to nail that fat bastard who’ll be replaced by his second in command! If we don’t reach some kind of an agreement, nothing will happen.”

  “They didn’t send me here to debate the politics, Simon. They sent me to get a guy, and you can’t blame me for doing that. I understand your mission here. All I’m asking is that you understand mine. If I can capture Zahed and they get him to talk, he could turn the tide for us.”

  “Okay, yeah, I get it now. I understand how you’re going to incite them and create an even more volatile situation, as evidenced by today’s attack. And at the same time that I’m trying to earn the locals’ trust, you’re pissing them off by hunting down one fool who in the grand scheme of things means nothing. He’s a local yokel. You’re making him sound like Bin Laden.”

  I balled my hands into fists. “You’re assuming that I can’t demoralize them, that I can’t get the whole leadership party, that no matter what I do it’s going to be status quo over there.”

  “That’s right, because that’s the way it’s been here. If we’re going to change anything, it has to be big and swift, and we need to do it together—if we leave them out, we’re doomed to fail.”

  I couldn’t face him any more and looked to the door.

  “Scott—”

  I took a deep breath. “I understand now why you didn’t become a Ghost.”

  “Don’t be this way.”

  “Sorry, I’m not like you, Simon. I’m a soldier.”

  “Wow, what the hell was that?”

  I faced him and spoke slowly . . . for effect. “What I see here is us building another welfare state, socialism at its finest, but remember what Margaret Thatcher said: ‘Socialism only works until you run out of other people’s money.’ I’m not ready to negotiate with these bastards.”

  “Captain,” he snapped. “I’ll be contacting the general. I’ll take this all the way up. There’s just too much at stake here. Nothing personal.”

  “That’s fine. You won’t like the answer you get. We’re doing a recon tonight. I’ll need company support. I’ll expect you to provide it. Check the registry, Captain.”

  SIX

  Without our Cross-Coms, satellite uplinks and downlinks, and targeting computers, we were, for all intents and purposes, traditional old-school combatants relying on our scopes and skills. We did, however, have one nice toy well suited for Afghanistan: the XM-25, a laser-designated grenade launcher with smart rounds that did not require a link to our Cross-Coms. Matt Beasley had traded in his rifle for the XM-25, saying he predicted that he’d finally get a chance to field-test the weapon for himself. His prediction would come true, all right . . .

  I couldn’t deny the fact that long-range recon from the mountains would gain us only a small portion of the big picture. We needed HUMINT—human intelligence— which could be gathered only by boots on the ground . . . spies walking among the enemy.

  The guy I’d captured back in town was worthless. He wouldn’t talk, make a deal, nothing. Harruck handed him off to the CIA and wished him good riddance.

  So at that point it was both necessary and logical that I try to recruit the only local guy I knew who was seemingly on my side.

  I won’t say I fully trusted him—because I never did. But I figured the least I could do was ask. Maybe for the right price he’d be willing to walk into the valley of the shadow of death and bring me back Zahed’s location. The Ghosts gave me an allowance for such cases, and I planned on spending it. I had nothing to lose except the taxpayers’ money, and I worked for the government—so that was par for the course.

  Ramirez and I got a lift into town, and dressed like locals with the shemaghs covering our heads and faces, we had the driver let us off about a block from the house. Ramirez would keep in radio contact with our driver.

  I wouldn’t have remembered the house if I didn’t spot the young girl standing near the front door. She took one look at me, gaped, then ran back into the house, slamming the door after her. Ramirez looked at me, and we shifted forward. I didn’t have to knock. The guy who’d helped me capture the Taliban thug emerged. I lowered my shemagh, and he didn’t look happy to see me. “Hello again.”

  “Hello.”

  I proffered my hand. “My name is Scott. And this is Joe.”

  He sighed and begrudgingly took the hand. “I am Babrak Shilmani.” He shook hands with Ramirez as well.

  “Do you have a moment to talk?”

  He glanced around the street, then lifted his chin and gestured that we go into his house.

  The table I’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by large colorful cushions spread across newly unfurled carpets. I’d learned during my first tour in the country that Afghans ate on the floor and tha
t the cushions were called toshak and that the thin mat in the center was a disterkahn.

  “We didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” I said.

  “Please sit. You are our guests.” He spoke rapidly in Pashto, calling out to the rest of his family down the hall.

  I knew that hospitality was very important in the Afghan code of honor. They routinely prepared the best possible food for their guests, even if the rest of the family did without.

  As his family entered from the hall, heads lowered shyly, Shilmani raised a palm. “This is my wife, Panra; my daughter, Hila; and my son, Hewad.”

  They returned nervous grins, and then the mother and daughter hustled off, while the boy came to us and offered to take our shemaghs and showed us where to sit on the floor. Then he ran off and returned with a special bowl and jug called a haftawa-wa-lagan.

  “You don’t have to feed us,” I told Shilmani, realizing that the boy had brought the bowl to help us wash our hands and prepare for the meal.

  “I insist.”

  I glanced over at Ramirez. “Only use your right hand. Remember?”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  “You’ve been here before,” said Shilmani. “I mean Afghanistan.”

  I nodded. “I love the tea.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Will you tell me now how you learned English?”

  He sighed. “I used to work for your military as a translator, but it got too dangerous, so I gave it up.”

  Ramirez gave me a look. Perhaps we were wasting our time and had received the no already . . .

  “They taught you?”

  “Yes, a special school. I was young and somewhat foolish. And I volunteered. But when Hila was born, I decided to leave.”

  “They threatened you?”

  “You mean the Taliban?”

  I nodded.

  “Of course. If you help the Americans, you suffer the consequences.”

  “You’re taking a pretty big risk right now,” I pointed out.

  “Not really. Besides, I owe you.”

  “For what? You helped me capture that man.”

  “And you helped me get him out of my house. I was afraid for my wife and daughter. In most cases it is forbidden for a woman to be in the presence of a man who is not related to her—but I am more liberal than that.”