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the foreigner.”
    “You know something? I think I’m already there,” I told him.
    Ramirez pursed his lips and gestured that we leave. I called back to the family, said our good-byes, then ambled out into the street, as Ramirez got on the radio and hailed the Hummer driver.
    “What do you think?” he asked as we started around the corner. “Waste of time?”
    “I don’t think so. He doesn’t like Zahed.” “Yeah, seems like there’s more to it.”
    “And maybe we can use that to our advantage.”

    Around eleven P.M. local time I got a satellite phone call from Lieutenant Colonel Gordon back at Fort Bragg. He’d just arrived in the office and was telling me that his morning coffee tasted bitter because I had yet to capture Zahed.
    Then, after he finished issuing a string of epithets regarding the call he’d just had with General Keating, he cleared his throat and said to me point-blank, “Is Cap- tain Harruck going to be a problem?”
    “I don’t know. To be honest with you, Colonel, I think higher’s just throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks, and we’re all just part of the plan.”
    “Well, you listen to me, Mitchell, and you listen to me good. We both know this COIN mission is complete and utter nonsense. It’s politicians running the war. You don’t secure the population and let the enemy run wild. We ain’t playing defense here! And we can’t have that. As far as I’m concerned, it is not a good day to be a Tal iban leader in the Zhari district. Do you read me?”
    “Loud and clear, sir.”
    “New Cross-Coms are en route. Meanwhile, you do what you need to do. Next week at this time I’d like to be powwowing with the fat man.”
    “Roger that, sir.” “And Mitchell?”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Is something wrong?”
    “No, sir. I’m fine. Talk to you soon.”
    I’d thought he’d heard me cracking under the pres sure, but later on I realized that my heart was just dark ening, and the old man could sense that from a half a world away.

    At about three A . M . local time, in the wee hours, we left the base in a Hummer driven by Treehorn. Harruck made no attempts to stop us. I’d assumed he’d been told by Keating that he should not interfere with my mission. Instead of driving out into the desert, toward the mountains, we headed off to the town, so that the Tal iban now watching us from ridgelines and the desert  would assume we were just another village patrol.
    Once in town, we went to the bazaar area, where sev eral vendors had their old beater pickup trucks parked out behind their homes/stalls.
    We split into two teams and entered the homes behind the stalls, accosting the shop owners and demanding their keys at gunpoint.
    The old merchants saw only a band of masked wraiths with deep, angry voices.
    Within five minutes we had two pickup trucks on the road, and the old men who could blow the alarm were gagged and tied. They might guess we were Americans, but we spoke only in Pashto and were dressed like the Taliban themselves.
    I sent Jenkins back with the Hummer, and though he was bummed to remain in the rear, I told him I needed a good pair of eyes on the base . . . just in case.
    We drove out to the main bridge over the Arghandab River, dropped off Brown and Smith, then crossed the bridge, heading along the mountain road that wound its way up and back down into the valley where Sangsar lay in the cool moonlight. The town reminded me of the little villages my grandfather would build for his train sets. He had a two-car garage filled with locomotives and cars and towns and enough accessories to earn him a spot on the local news. When he passed, my father sold it all on eBay and made a lot of money.
    The Taliban sentries watching us through their bin oculars probably assumed we were opium smugglers or carrying out some other such transport mission for Zahed. In fact, we were not stopped and reached the top of the mountain, where the dirt road broadened enough for us to pull