Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Combat Ops by David Michaels Page B

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 seem ingly 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 that 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 fam ily 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, realiz ing 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 trans
    lator, 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