Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Combat Ops Read Online Free PDF Page A

chest, and it used to remind me that there was a larger purpose to my life and that quit ting and becoming depressed was too selfish. I’d be let ting everyone down. I had to go on.
    If you join the military for yourself, then you’re setting yourself up for failure. Kennedy had it right: Ask what you can do for your country. I’ve seen many guys join “for college” or “to see the world” or “to learn a trade.” Their hearts are not in it, and they never achieve what they could. Perhaps I’m too biased, but in the beginning, there was an ideal, an image of America that I kept in my head, and it reminded me of why I was there.
    Kristen Fitzgerald, standing among acres of lush farmland, her strawberry-blond hair tugged by the wind. She smiles at me, even says, “This is why.”
    Pretty cliché, huh? Makes it sound like I do it all for a girl. But she represented that ideal. A high school sweet heart who told me she’d always wait, that she was like me, that we were not born to live ordinary lives.
    My ideal was not some jingoistic military recruiting commercial or some glamorous Hollywood version of  war. I didn’t join because I wanted to “get some.” I wanted to protect my country and help people. That made me feel good, made me feel worth something. And as the years went on, and I got promoted and was told how good I was, I decided to share what I knew. I loved teaching at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. I couldn’t think of a more reward ing part of my military career.
    In fact, that was where I met Captain Simon Harruck, who’d been a fellow trainer despite his youth and who was now commander of Delta Company, 1st Battalion—120 soldiers charged with providing security for Senjaray and conducting counterinsurgency operations.
    I knew that when we got back, Harruck would try to cheer me up. He was indeed ten years my junior, and when I looked at him, oh, how I saw myself back in those days.
    But as we both knew, the ’Stan was unforgiving, with its oppressive heat and sand that got into everything, even your soul. I threw my head back on the seat and trusted Treehorn to take us home, headlights out, guided by his night-vision goggles.
    By the time we arrived at the FOB, Harruck was already standing outside the small Quonset hut that housed the company’s offices, and the expression on his face was sympathetic. “Well, we got three we can talk to, right?”
    I returned a sour look and marched past him, into the hut.

THREE

    The three prisoners were taken to a holding room. The CIA was sending a chopper down to transfer them to FOB Chapman in Khost, where some big shot from Kabul would come in to interrogate them. FOB Chap man was the CIA outpost where seven agents were killed years ago. I knew this time the bad guys would be strip searched, x-rayed, and then have their every orifice and cavity probed.
    Didn’t matter, though. I didn’t think they knew much. Zahed wasn’t fool enough to allow underlings to know his plans or whereabouts.
    The girl was taken to our small hospital, and we could only speculate on what would happen to her after that. She was damaged goods, a disgrace and dishonor  to her family, and they would, I knew, not want her back. A terrible thing, to be sure. She might be trans ported to one of the local orphanages and/or assisted by one of the dozens of aid groups in the country. She might even be arrested. I couldn’t think about her any more, and I’d made it a point not to learn her name. Her plight fueled my hatred for the Taliban and the local Afghans. No one cared about her. No one . . .
    I sent the rest of my team back to quarters. We’d debrief in the morning. I sat around Harruck’s desk, and he offered me a quick and covert shot of cheap scotch, saying we’d turn ourselves in later and receive our letters of reprimand.
    Harruck was a dark-haired, blue-eyed poster boy who made you wonder why he’d joined the military. He resembled a