"The Russian army had hundreds of thousands of troops here and lost. Now it's the Americans," said a second Talib, who refused to identify himself. "If they increase their force to 100,000 or 200,000, we'll never lose our morale. We will continue our jihad. The more soldiers they send, the happier we become."
Some accuse the Taliban of press-ganging villagers into the fight. But the Ghazni Talibs claim that eager volunteers swell their ranks by 10% a month, and insist that they turn many away.
"There is no need for all of them," Ahmadi said, and the second Talib added with a confident smile: "There isn't so much logistic support available either."
Despite efforts by the U.S.-led military coalition to disrupt Taliban commanders' ability to direct military operations from a distance, the guerrillas appeared to be in regular contact with their leaders, and acted on their orders.
After a back road rendezvous, the Talibs' van headed for the two-lane highway that links Afghanistan's two biggest cities, Kabul and Kandahar. Our driver paused a minute to let a convoy of Polish troops pass in Humvees.
Soldiers swiveling in turrets scanned us through their gun sights, but the troops kept moving slowly northeast to the relative safety of the city. We headed in the opposite direction, toward Qarabagh district, notorious for kidnappers.
Militants often ignore the steady traffic of military helicopters clattering overhead, or patrolling ground troops, and brazenly set up daytime checkpoints to search for foreigners, aid workers and government employees.
In July 2007, militants abducted 23 South Korean Christian aid workers along the highway as the bus they were on passed through a district bazaar. Two men were killed; the others were later released.
By a roundabout route, trundling through the stubble of harvested fields and across streams fed by snowmelt from mountains on the horizon, we reached a village within clear sight of a small white observation blimp floating on a tether above a Polish base.
A pair of Talibs, their faces obscured by head scarves, met the van with fingers on the triggers of their Kalashnikov assault rifles. After a quick frisk and a handshake, they escorted us by motorcycle to a large compound with towering mud-brick walls.
The building hardly had the feel of a besieged guerrilla hide-out. The small reception room had new white curtains, clean cushions for guests to recline on and a well-kept wool rug. A few framed photos of family elders decorated the white-painted walls.
