Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Combat Ops (12 page)

“So you’ll look the other way on that, too.” “I’m just taking my time. So should you . . .”

“Scott, this whole damned country is full of thugs and gangsters. You’ll run out of fingers to point. So let’s move on.”

Harruck took his tray to another table to join the rest of his officers. Anderson was at a nearby table, and she came over to me and said, “Have you seen the site yet? We’re breaking ground for the school.”

I shook my head.

“You look finished here. Why don’t you come out and take a look?”

I shrugged and followed her outside. She had a civil ian car, a Pathfinder, and she drove me over to the con struction site, where at least fifty workers were placing broad wooden footers in the ground. Several concrete trucks were parked behind us, and piles of rebar and pal- lets of concrete blocks were stacked in long rows.

“All these guys that you hired . . . they’re from the village?”

“Some from this one . . . some from the others . . . but we’ve had a little problem, which is really why I brought you out here . . .”

“You weren’t trying to soften me up? Turn me into a humanitarian or something?”

“No. I need you to be a killer.” “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I figure you’re intel or spec ops or something . . .” “I’m just an adviser.”

“Right . . .”

“Six. It’s going to be beautiful when we’re done. And the police station will be right out there. See the stakes?”

I shielded my eyes from the glare and noted the wooden stakes that outlined the L-shaped building.

“Yeah, we’re going to build it, and they’ll come and blow it back up.”

“You mean Zahed?” I shrugged.

“Maybe not. I think Zahed is forcing the workers to give some of their pay to the Taliban. And I think when the school and the police station open, he’ll try to con trol the police. He’ll close down the school, too, but not right away—if he thinks he can make a buck.”

“What makes you think he’s blackmailing the work ers?”

“At the end of the week when they’re paid, three men come around, and they form a line. I’ve seen them giv ing some of their money to those guys.”

“You pay them in afghanis?” “It’s the only way.”

“Tell you what? The next time that happens, come find me. I’ll have a talk with them.”

“Thanks.”

“Why didn’t you bring this to Captain Harruck?”

“I did. He told me that it wasn’t any of my business what the workers did with their money.”

“Maybe it isn’t.”

“I just . . . I don’t like it. Feels like we’re in bed with the Taliban.”

Nolan was telling me I had an urgent call from Lieu tenant Colonel Gordon . . .

Bronco had come onto the base and was screaming at me to have my two bulldogs chained up and to stop fol lowing him . . .

And a young captain I’d trained myself at Robin Sage, Fred Warris, was standing at my door, waiting to speak to me.

In fact, he was in the same training class that Har ruck and I had taught, which I initially thought was a coincidence. I’d heard that Warris had gone on to become a Ghost leader, so his presence outside my billet was suspicious . . . and strange.

I lifted a palm as all three men vied for my attention, but Nolan shouted:

“Sir, like I said . . . it’s urgent. Something about your father back home.”

Nolan told me the call had come from the comm center, so I ran across the base, leaving the shouters behind. I reached the center and discovered that Gordon was on a webcam and seated at his desk back at Fort Bragg. He wanted to talk to me “face to face.”

I shuddered as I sat before the monitor and tried to catch my breath. “Sir . . .”

His voice echoed off the steel walls of the Quonset hut. “Scott, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about your dad. He’s in the hospital, intensive care. He’s had a heart attack.”

“Who called you?”

“We got word from your sister.”

“Wait a second . . .” I cocked my thumb over my shoulder. “Warris is back at my . . . how long ago did this happen?”

“I’m not sure. Last night? Yesterday afternoon, she didn’t say.”

“And so you’ve sent Warris to relieve me?”

“Actually, I didn’t. I sent him to serve as a liaison officer between you and Harruck.”

“A what?”

“Well, we wanted to limit your contact with Captain Harruck. The general’s deeply concerned about the situ ation there. The idea was that all communications with Captain Harruck would go through Captain Warris. But now I’d understand if you want to take an emer gency leave and go home.”

A vein began throbbing in my temple. “Sir, I’d like to talk to my sister before I make that decision.”

“I understand. And I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Sir, I’m sorry about Captain Warris being here. He’s too valuable to be a liaison officer.”

“Mincing words with the old man?” Gordon smiled. “I know you think this is bullshit, but I gotta do some thing to defuse what’s going on out there. Harruck’s pounding hard, so we’ll let Warris act as the go-between.”

“I don’t need a go-between.” “Apparently, you do.”

I glanced around, groping for a response, anything, but then I just sighed in disgust. “Yes, sir.”

“Why don’t you take the leave right now, Scott?” “Because . . .”

He sat there, waiting for me to finish.

“Because I still want to believe that my mission means something, that capturing the target will make a differ ence, and that the United States Army hasn’t sold its soul to the devil.
Sir.
”

He averted his gaze. “If there’s anything I can do on my end to help, just let me know—and I’m not just talk ing about the mission.”

I couldn’t hide the disgust in my voice. “All right, sir. I’ll be sending some coordinates about a field. I want some satellite imagery on it.”

“No problem. Scott, I got your back.” “I know that, sir.”

That was a lie to make me feel better. It wasn’t his fault, really. As everyone had said—the situation was complicated.

I will be flying in from Napa tomorrow. Did you try to call Nick or Tommy?”

“Not yet.”

“They should know more. How’re you doing? You don’t sound too good.”

“Just having one of those days.” “Where are you now? Classified?” “Not really. I’m back in Afghanistan.”

“It’s the war that keeps on giving.” “Will we ever finish there?”

I snorted. “Maybe next week.”

“Why don’t you retire, Scott? You’ve done enough. Do like Tommy. Work with your hands. You love the woodworking just like Dad. And you’re good at it, too. Get into the furniture business or something. Gerry says niche markets like that are the future for American man ufacturing.”

“Tell Gerry thanks for the business analysis. And retirement sounds pretty good about now. Anyway, I’ll try calling you tomorrow night. Let me know how Dad’s doing. Okay?”

“Okay, Scott. I love you.” “Love you, too.

I sat there, closed my eyes, and remembered sitting next to my father while he read Hardy Boys books to me. Frank and Joe Hardy, teenaged detectives, could solve any mystery, though finding one Mullah Moham med Zahed was beyond the scope of even their keen eyes and deductive lines of reasoning.

Suddenly, I shivered as I thought of Dad lying in the coffin he had built for himself in our woodworking shop behind the house. He’d been so proud of that box, and the rest of us had thought it so creepy and morbid of him, but then again, it was fitting for him to design and build his “last vehicle,” since he’d spent most of his life in the auto plant.

I was numb. The reality of it all wouldn’t hit me till later.

“Mind if I listen in?” asked the young captain.

Here we go, I thought. “Yeah, I do.” I pursed my lips and looked fire at “the kid.”

“Hey, Captain Warris,” called Ramirez from the doorway. “Come on, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the guys.”

Warris took a deep breath and scratched the peach fuzz on his chin. “All right . . .”

I waited until he was out of earshot, then took a step forward. “See this? Get used to this. This is me in your face.”

Bronco frowned. “I didn’t figure you for a cowboy.” “I’m not.”

“And I figured you’ve been here before.” “I have.”

“Then maybe you have an idea of what you’re dealing with here . . . or maybe you don’t. Like I said, just lock up your dogs, and you and I will be just fine.”

“Okay.”

I stepped back from him, took a deep breath.

“Where are you from?” “I’m a Texas boy. You?”

“Ohio. So you’re the cowboy.”

“And you’re the farmer. I think what you need to do is listen to the CO here. He’s got it together. He under stands the delicate balance of power.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not my mission.”

Bronco checked his watch. “You got a minute. I’ve got some friends I want you to meet . . .”

“Who are they?”

“Men who will provide, shall we say, enlightenment.” “Oh, I’ve got that up to here.”

“Trust me, Joe. This will be worth your time.” I thought about it. “I’m not coming alone.”

He looked wounded. “You don’t trust me. It’s not like I work for the CIA or anything. Look, we’re just going into the village. You’ll be fine. My car’s right over there.”

“This is important to you?” “Very.”

“You think it’ll get me out of your face?” “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

Maybe I was feeling suicidal, but I told Ramirez to entertain Captain Warris until I returned. I drove off with Bronco to a part of the village I hadn’t visited before, where the brick houses were more circular and clustered in a labyrinth to form curving alleys that opened into 
courtyards full of fruit trees and grapevines. In the dis tance lay great fields of wheat, sorghum, and poppy, and off to my right was a mine-sweeping team along with their dogs working the field where Kundi said it was okay to drill the well. At least Harruck hadn’t been a total fool about that. And for all intents and purposes, he could have those minesweepers check the area where Kundi had refused to drill . . . but he wouldn’t . . .

Bronco parked along a more narrow section of the road, then led me onward into the dust-laden shadows of the warren.

Several old men with long beards were trailed by chil dren holding a donkey by its reins. The animal was car rying huge stacks of grass to feed cattle penned up in the south. Farther down the street, I spotted one of Har ruck’s patrols questioning a young boy of ten or twelve wearing a dirty robe. The soldiers looked like high-tech aliens against the ancient terrain.

We reached a narrow wooden door built into a wall adjoining two homes and were met by a young man who immediately recognized Bronco and let us in. He spoke rapidly in Pashto to the boy, who ran ahead of us.

The courtyard we entered had more grapevines and several fountains along a mosaic tile floor; it was, per haps, the most ornately decorated section of the village I’d encountered. To our left lay a long walkway that ter minated in a side door through which the boy ran. We started slowly after him, and I detected a sweet, smoky smell emanating from ahead.

I was dressed like a regular soldier and still packing my sidearm. I reached for the weapon as we started through the door, and Bronco gave me a look:
You won’t need that.

“Force of habit,” I lied.

Light filtered in from a windowless hole in the wall as we came into a wide living area of crimson-colored rugs, matching draperies, and shelving built into the walls to hold dozens of pieces of pottery, along with silver trays 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 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.”