Combat Ops

by Tom Clancy

  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 Treehorn 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.

  I started reflecting on everything: my pathetic relationships with women, how I’d tortured poor Kristen for so many years, how she kept lying to me and saying this was the exact relationship she wanted, long-distance and infrequent, when I could see the ache in her eyes. What kind of a life had I made for myself? Was I truly happy? Were all the missions and the sacrifices really worth it?

  Like I said, I was really feeling sorry for myself.

  Any operator who tells you he has no doubts, that he is fully committed to the choices he’s made and the sacrifices to come, is, in my humble opinion, lying. There will always be the doubts, and they were, at that moment, all I had left.

  I’d estimated the car’s speed at about thirty miles per hour and had counted off about thirty minutes, give or take, so I figured we’d gone about fifteen miles when the car came to an abrupt halt, the dirt hissing beneath the tires.

  More chatter from the driver and passenger. The zipper cuffs were digging into my wrists and my shoulders were on fire by the time they opened the door and yanked us from the car. We were guided about twenty steps away, and then one man said, “Stay.”

  “Boss, I say we make a break for it. I’d rather get shot trying to escape.”

  “Relax, brother. We’re going to be okay.”

  “Dude! We’re not okay!” he shouted.

  That drew the reaction of the men. I heard a thump, Treehorn groaned, and I hollered, “Treehorn, you okay? You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He gasped. “They just whacked me!”

  The wind was tugging at my loose shirt and driving the sack deeper into my face.

  We weren’t in the village, and we hadn’t crossed the mountains. I was sure of that. We would’ve felt the mountain road, heard the engine groaning. The road had been relatively flat.

  Suddenly, the sack was ripped off my head, and I was blinded by the glare. It took a few seconds of squinting for my eyes to fully adjust.

  Treehorn stood next to me, squinting as well.

  They’d taken us west down A01, the main road, to a little truck stop area where several tractor-trailers were lined up. I wasn’t sure if the place was a gas station or what, but I definitely knew we’d headed west because off to the east I could see Kandahar in the far distance and a plane taking off from the airport.

  Without a word, the two men got back in the car, threw it in gear, and left us standing there on the side of the road, our hands still cuffed.

  “What the hell?” Treehorn gasped.

  I whirled, faced the truck stop. A small, blue booth stood near several large trees whose limbs were being thrashed in the wind. I wondered if that was a phone booth, so I gestured with my head and Treehorn and I started walking over there, the wind kicking sand in our faces.

  From behind several of the parked trailers came a half dozen more gunmen, AK-47s swinging to come to bear on us.

  “Oh, great,” I said. “And I just thought they were playing a prank on us.”

  “Remind me to laugh later,” said Treehorn. “Or at least before they kill us.”

  From behind the gunmen came a familiar face that left me with a deep frown.

  Shilmani.

  And then, from behind him, came Kundi, the village headman and land owner, shaking his head at us.

  I called to Shilmani and quickened my step toward them. “What the hell is this?” I added.

  “Please, Scott, it is very unexpected.” Shilmani’s eyes were bloodshot, and blood was dripping from one of his nostrils.

  “You guys better release us right now,” said Treehorn.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “No,” said Kundi, shaking his finger at us. “We talk first. Right here.”

  “Shilmani, tell this asshole if he wanted a meeting, he could have asked for it.”

  Shilmani glanced away, and, his voice cracking, said, “Burki is dead.”

  My mouth fell open. “Say again?”

  “Burki was just shot and killed. Right after you left. My cousin betrayed us. He told Kundi everything—about us hiring you to kill Zahed.”

  I remembered the conversation I’d had with the old man that Bronco had taken me to see:

  “Kundi is your son, and your son negotiates with the Taliban.”

  “Of course. I fought with Zahed’s father many years ago. We are both Mujahadeen. The guns we used were given to us by you Americans.”

  Of course Kundi was loyal to Zahed. Like father, like son.

  I widened my eyes on Kundi and started toward him. The half dozen guards he’d brought along cut me off—but what was I going to do with my hands still cuffed? “You killed Burki?” I asked the old man. “Wasn’t he your friend?”

  Shilmani translated. Kundi threw up his hands and rattled off something about betrayal. I thought I caught a word of that.

  “He says Burki was altering the deal on the water. It was not Zahed who had changed the terms of the agreement.”

  “Do you believe that?” I asked Shilmani.

  “No, I do not. I was there when Zahed’s man came and told us about the new terms.”

  “Tell him to let us go. Tell him if doesn’t let us go, I’m going to make a few phone calls, and there’s going to be a lot of trouble. And we’ll cut off access to the well, that’s for sure . . .”

  Shilmani took a deep breath and reluctantly translated.

  Kundi’s eyes grew wide and maniacal. He marched up to me, got in my face, his crooked yellow teeth bared. “You . . . go home . . .”

  I felt like saying, Let me go and I’ll catch the next flight out. To hell with the politics, this place, the mission. To hell with it all.

  But the bastard challenged me, managed to capture me, even, and I wasn’t going to take any more of his bullshit. So what I did say was, “I’m not going home until I either capture or kill your good buddy Zahed.”

  Shilmani translated.

  Kundi stepped back. The gunmen lined up.

  “What the hell, boss?” groaned Treehorn. “Are they getting ready to
shoot us?”

  Kundi heard the whomping first. He whirled around, lifted a hand to his brow.

  Then I heard it. We all did. Two choppers: a Blackhawk and an Apache screaming in from the east, from Kandahar.

  “We’re late getting back,” I told Treehorn.

  “Good deal,” he said.

  Suddenly, Kundi waved for his men to retreat behind the trailers. They ran off, as did the old man, who was shouting back at Shilmani.

  “I’m sorry, Scott. Really. I am,” cried Shilmani. “And Scott, maybe you can help me! They took my daughter! They took my daughter!”

  With that Shilmani bolted off.

  It was interesting trying to explain to the Blackhawk crew how we’d managed to get our sorry asses kidnapped, and I called ahead to Harruck to have someone pick up our Hummer—that was, providing the villagers hadn’t set it on fire. Turned out they hadn’t.

  During the chopper ride back to the FOB, Gordon contacted me to say that while they’d been scanning for Green Force Tracker Chips they’d picked up a brief signal from Warris’s GFTC. Intel indicated that he was being moved, and Gordon had pinpointed the entrance to yet another tunnel complex.

  It was time to make our move for a rescue.

  “So you got yourself taken prisoner,” said Harruck, producing two glasses for us. It was going to be straight whiskey this time and it was barely past noon.

  We sat in his office, me still rubbing my wrists, him intent on filling our drinks to the brim.

  I took mine and sucked it down like a man who’d found an oasis. The burn nearly made my eyes roll back. After a long exhale, I said, “I’m so over this.”

  “You and me both.”

  “It’s tearing us up. All of us.”

  “It is. You ever think it’d be like this? I mean when you first joined up?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course. I was totally stoked about the futility of war.”