“Honestly, no,” Jared replied. “We have asked for anything and everything, Marines, Rangers, SEALs. Supposedly the CJTF-A [Combined Joint Task Force—Afghanistan] commander will make an ‘assessment’ soon. That’s all I know, so don’t say another word. Good call on holding this place.”
We had gotten intelligence that more than twenty Taliban commanders were in the area. One was Mullah Dadullah Lang and maybe Mullah Omar, the supreme Taliban commander. Matt’s team was too far away to confirm if either man was there. Jared told him to lay low and keep watching, hoping that the Taliban commanders would meet and we could hit them all at once.
Jared reported the possible meeting to Kandahar and Bolduc, but the commander wasn’t there. He was headed to Sperwan Ghar with the commander of U.S. forces in Afghanistan, Major General Benjamin Freakley. The general wanted to see the battle for himself.
The general’s helicopter dipped into the valley and landed in a cloud of dust that covered the entire hilltop. I heard Smitty humming Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” at the end of the hall as they got off the helicopter.
The general wanted a tour of the battlefield and to know what we needed. I always loved it when they asked that. Bolduc knew best how to deal with VIPs.
“Sir, let me be blunt. We need more resources,” Bolduc said. “This is an offensive push by the Taliban to seize Kandahar city, the first we have seen since the invasion. I know—I was here soon after,” he said.
“The Canadian task force has been hit hard to our north and cannot freely maneuver. They have one mechanized company out of the fight. When we assaulted and finally seized this position, we disrupted the primary Taliban command and control site south of the river and their hub of reinforcements. By doing this we destroyed or scattered a significant portion of their forces, preventing them from continuing to organize mass attacks. Our intelligence confirmed that the foreign advisors and Taliban forces had planned on letting the TF Aegis forces push south and rolling up their flanks. Now that we own this piece of key terrain, the Canadians can push out while we cover their flank and bring them some relief. The enemy will now have to fight us on multiple fronts and face to face. My men can hold this position for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours but not without heavy air cover and reinforcements. We simply need more resources.”
Bolduc worded it beautifully and set the wheels turning in the general’s head. But he had a major dilemma: it was highly unorthodox for a conventional commander to put his forces under the command of Special Forces. He eyed our group, bearded nasty men in tattered uniforms with banged-up equipment. He had to wonder if we would care for his men. But we train and lead indigenous forces on combat operations behind enemy lines. The commonsense factor said it was a perfect fit, but would he buy it? He grabbed Bolduc by the shoulder.
“You’ll have it,” Major General Freakley said.
With the decision made, the general boarded his Black Hawk helicopter, only to get word that it couldn’t depart. During the meeting, Matt, perched high above on Masum Ghar, had stolen the general’s Apache escort.
“Hammer 22, this is Talon 33, we have enemy at the following grid, possibly a Taliban commander. Can you assist, over?”
It was an opportunity the pilots couldn’t pass up.
“Roger that!” the pilots said, turning to get into firing position. I don’t think the helicopters made a full pass with the general on the ground before they pushed toward the target.
Matt carefully eyed the target, a series of compounds surrounded by a pomegranate orchard, with the range finder. The trees were so dense that it was impossible to see down into the compound. Matt watched a group of fighters duck down and rush into the orchard, weapons in hand, and fed their coordinates to the Apaches. The helicopters cut south, turned 180 degrees, and lined up on the orchard.
Everyone watched in anticipation as the lead helicopter fired eight rockets. Two fell short, but the remaining six landed directly inside the orchard, sending thick plumes of dust into the air. It looked like someone had kicked an ant nest.
“Yeah, baby,” Matt said over the radio.
Six men, all in black, carried the leader out of the orchard, his flowing white robes now caked in dirt and blood. The second helicopter, trailing the first, fired rockets, then guns at the group. The Apache’s cannon collapsed a section of the wall, which landed on several fighters seeking cover. One Taliban fighter kept his wits enough to fire an RPG. The pilot narrowly missed eating it as he banked out of the way. The rocket left a vapor trail no more than thirty feet in front of the helicopter’s nose. Other fighters set up a PKM machine gun and fired in a cone, hoping to lead the helicopter into the rounds.
The fighters were pros—likely foreign fighters and mercenaries from Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, or Chechnya on whom the Taliban relied for tactical help. That probably meant the leader in white robes was very important. After the helicopters’ second pass, the fighters quickly ducked back into the orchard.
The pilots, now fully engaged, frantically tried to get a bead on the machine gunners. Unable to see them, they swung out into the desert, and Matt patiently talked them in again, watching as the group carried their leader into a covered building. Matt got the best grid he could and called it in with a precise description of the building. The first Hellfire missile streaked forward and hit the building; the second struck the edge of the orchard and collapsed two adjacent structures.
Matt was gearing up for another pass when the order came to call it off.
“Talon 33, this is Hammer 22, we got to go. We have a pickup and escort south of you. Thanks for letting us play. Hammer 22 out,” the pilot said.
The Apaches swung back around and fell into a loose formation with the brass’s now-airborne Black Hawk. As the three helicopters disappeared into the distance, another seemed to be coming straight for us. I looked at Jared and he just shrugged his shoulders. It was a Russian Mi-17 cargo helicopter painted all white with no nationality markings.
“Who the hell is that?” Bill and I asked in unison.
Matt asked the same question from his perch. No one knew who it was or what they were doing. Whoever it was, they flew like nothing else in the world was going on around them. The helicopter hovered and sank into the orchard near the now-destroyed building. Several men in full combat equipment similar to ours rushed out of the aircraft and formed a very tight perimeter, while others moved to where the missile had impacted and loaded several body bags onto the helicopter. Then the helicopter rose from the orchard and disappeared over the mountains. To this day, we have no idea what happened to the helicopter or the occupants. It just disappeared.
We did, however, find out that it was not taken well that we had “borrowed” the general’s escort aircraft and used most of their ammunition.
Chapter 19
TODAY IS NOT YOUR DAY
No arsenal or no weapon in the arsenals of the world is as formidable as the will and moral courage of free men and women.
—RONALD REAGAN
The first F-18s checked on station and dropped down into view. The roar of their engines was a welcome sign that help was arriving. I could hear Mike on the radio starting to identify targets and buildings that needed to be leveled.
Standing on top of Sperwan Ghar, I could see hundreds of compounds in the sea of green that offered the Taliban fighters good cover. We needed to build “white space,” or security, to patrol in around the hill because the Taliban had started to maneuver in smaller groups, making it harder to see them before they opened fire. They were learning very hard lessons and adapting quickly. This is what all insurgents do in guerrilla warfare. It reminded me of a snake slithering from dark spot to dark spot before it strikes. So we set about making fewer dark spots. The aircraft could destroy the structures. We’d focus on the thick, head-high marijuana fields, appropriately named the “fields of wrath.”
Dave and Brian took a patrol of a dozen ANA soldiers into the fields. I stayed on the hill and Bi
ll coordinated with Hodge’s team to set up machine guns to cover them. Despite being less than a football field away, we couldn’t see them once they entered the field. After a few minutes, thick gray smoke hung over part of the field, and the sweet smell of burning marijuana soon washed over us. Bill, Smitty, Zack, Jude, and Riley joked that they wanted to do the next “patrol.” The jokes soon turned to who was hoarding the snacks—Doritos, Funyuns, pizza—for when they returned with the munchies.
Grabbing my binoculars, I zeroed in on a small clearing, where I could see Brian and Dave pouring diesel fuel on the thick green stalks. The plants were like rubber and wouldn’t catch fire. When the fuel didn’t work, they tried flares, illumination mortar rounds, and incendiary grenades to little or no effect. The patrol had lit more than a dozen fires, but none did any real damage.
I started to get nervous and called them back. I knew that sooner rather than later the Taliban would see them in the field and attack. Just before they got back on their trucks, a few fighters started shooting. A small attack compared to the previous ones, it lasted less than a minute when we opened fire with the machine guns on Sperwan Ghar. Afterward, Victor grabbed me. “Turan, the Taliban commander wanted more troops but another commander to our south said no.” I smiled and thanked him. The short message told me a lot. After less than a week of fighting, the enemy was now fragmenting, and we knew that more fighters were staging south of us. Hodge and Jared heard the same thing. Jared started to plan an operation for the following day. He wanted a team to go recon Zangabar Ghar, a small set of hills to our south. He was sure the enemy was using it as a landmark when they came across the river, and we had taken intense fire from there.
After Brian and Dave got back from the patrol, Bill insisted that we get the guns clean, redistribute ammunition, reinforce positions, eat some chow, and then try to rest.
“Listen up, you know the pattern,” he told us. “We’re going to get hit soon.”
We all went to work on our guns. Dave cleaned his big Browning .50 cal first. Then I stripped the machine gun next to my door. I brushed out the dust and oiled every part. When I had finished, it sparkled and the action worked smoothly. I finished about the same time as Brian. Sitting around the truck we got a treat: silence. We’d not enjoyed silence for more than a week and none of us dared interrupt it.
The Taliban had spotters constantly watching us, but in the thick fields and deep irrigation ditches it was impossible to see them. Occasionally a Taliban spotter peered over the thick stone walls. An attentive ANA soldier noticed movement in a small courtyard not far from the hill. Calling Taz over, he pointed the spotter out and Taz alerted me. I figured that if we killed the spotters, we’d be able to blind them one by one and instill enough fear that they would decide it wasn’t worth attempting.
I sent Dave and Riley to take up a sniper position on the hill with sight lines to the operative compound and wait. Brian took over duties on the Ma Duce. Dave set up the sniper rifle and peered through the Leupold scope. Scanning the courtyard, he could see several pomegranate trees and a gray T-shaped hand pump for a well. He settled in to wait. After a short time, his patience was rewarded when the spotter’s head popped over the wall. Riley called in and said they had him; Dave confirmed the range.
“Wait one,” I radioed back. “Watch him closely and tell me what he does.”
Grabbing my machine gun, I fired a short burst into a nearby field.
“He just popped up and then hunkered down,” Riley said.
A few seconds later Riley came back with what I needed to hear.
“Captain, he has a radio.”
“Drop him,” I said.
When Dave was ready, I fired another burst. The spotter popped up again and Dave fired. The round hit high. Chambering another, he fired again. This time it hit the spotter. The 7.62 match-grade ammunition entered through the neck and traveled in an arc, exiting his back. The body dropped in a heap behind the wall. He’d never report our movements again. Dave returned to the truck, smiling like a Cheshire cat, and we again relished the quiet.
He had no more than crawled into the turret when the whoosh of an RPG cut it short. I glimpsed two Taliban fighters carrying a launcher seconds before the rocket flew over Dave’s head and exploded just behind my vehicle, right outside the window where the command post was located. The dirt-filled ammunition cans we had propped inside the empty window frames gave rudimentary protection at best, but they prevented small shrapnel from hitting anyone in the post.
Dave dropped into the turret. “Move, move, move!” he yelled as he thrust a round into the chamber of the .50-caliber machine gun.
Brian started the truck and threw it in reverse just as another rocket exploded in front of the berm where the truck had just been parked. Contact reports of attacks on the vehicles flooded the radio. The Taliban were trying to destroy our gun trucks. They knew that the trucks had the most firepower and were essential to our defense of the hill. The fire grew more intense.
I took a bead on where I had seen the movement—a small three-windowed mud building quaintly tucked in between two larger compounds. I took a breath, exhaled slowly, and kept my eye on the building. One of the windows had a small red curtain, and I had seen two men carrying either a mortar or a recoilless rifle past it. I knew the ammunition bearers would be next, carrying sacks of mortar or recoilless-rifle rounds.
The first figure ran past and I squeezed the trigger, sending up a spray of sticky oil; I’d forgotten to wipe off the excess after I’d finished cleaning the gun. Wiping my face, I pulled the machine gun into my shoulder. It rocked rhythmically as I made adjustments to the sights. Brian fired repeatedly at the same point. I aimed just past the opening where I knew they would either run into the bullets or try to hide once they knew there was fire coming at them.
Three hundred meters, three hundred fifty, three hundred seventy-five, there!
I fired a six- to nine-round burst each time, and it finally put me on my mark. The rounds penetrated the wall, and there was a commotion behind it. I must have caught them resting on that side. A figure came into view on his knees and fell forward, clutching his chest, then slung violently backward. I depressed the trigger fully and counted to ten. Nearly an entire can of ammunition went streaking through the gun. I was running low, maybe twenty rounds left. Finding a target wasn’t easy, and now that I knew where they’d hidden, I wasn’t going to let them escape. I fired another whole can into the wall. Soon, Dave started to pound the hut with the Ma Duce.
Out of ammunition, I yelled to Brian to cover me while I ran for more.
“Grab me some too,” Dave shouted.
Letting the machine gun hang in the gun mount, I sprinted for the cache in a nearby ditch. An ANA machine-gun position to my right rattled as I ran. Sliding into the four-foot-deep channel, my knees rebelled. Pain shot through my joints, and I felt old.
The machine guns brought me out of my funk. I snatched four boxes of ammunition, climbed out of the ditch, and took a step when I was overwhelmed by intense heat and pressure. I lost all sense of control and balance.
An RPG or recoilless rifle had exploded somewhere near my left front, hurling me violently back into the ditch. I landed on my left shoulder, followed by the rest of my 230-pound frame and another 50 pounds of equipment. I couldn’t feel my shoulder anymore. I clutched it with my right hand just to make sure it was still there.
My helmet, sunglasses, and headset were gone. The strap on my left shoulder holding my body armor was shredded and the plates hung cockeyed across my chest and back. I couldn’t focus—everywhere I looked I saw stars. I gagged and coughed out the dust and smoke, struggling to get enough oxygen into my lungs. Dave’s .50 caliber sounded muffled even though I was only a few feet away.
I commanded my left knee to bend so I could roll over, stealing a quick glance at it. I expected to see it shredded. I winced as it bent but knew that meant it was still connected. I tried to spit some of the grime out of my mout
h but couldn’t muster enough saliva to do it.
I struggled to focus. Then panic set in. I didn’t want to die. “NO!” I said repeatedly to myself as I clawed at the wall of the ditch, trying to see over it.
Every movement felt like slow motion. I expected to see Ole Girl in flames just like Greg’s truck. Peering over the edge, I saw Dave banging away in the turret. My eyes filled with tears, half from the pain and half with relief. I even chuckled as I laid my head in the powdery dust and again thanked my creator. Crawling back down into the ditch, I found my helmet. I couldn’t hear a damn thing.
Seeing my team still fighting gave me strength. They now stood in the face of fierce fire with only rifles; the ammunition for their machine guns was long gone. I needed to get to my truck. Rolling over the lip of the ditch, I crawled out and started back toward my truck when a round from an enemy machine gunner hit me just above my kidney. Pain shot through my body. It felt like a ball-peen hammer on the end of a semi-truck traveling at one hundred miles an hour slamming into me. I was too deaf to hear my own screams.
I fell flat on my face, helpless.
“This is it,” I thought. “Today, I die.”
I realized that everything I loved was going to be taken away. I could see Brian, hand extended. He had crawled through the cab to my side of the truck. Still deaf, it took me a second to read his lips.
“Come on, you can make it. Come on!” he said, motioning for me to come with his gloved hand. What I could not see or hear were the wisps of dust kicked up by rounds hitting the earth around me.
I didn’t want to die.
I wanted to go to him. I drew my knees to my waist and crawled as low as I could, focusing on his reddish freckles. I watched as Dave kept firing and prayed I could make it to the safety of my vehicle.
When I got to the side of the truck, I stuck out my sweat-soaked hand. Brian grabbed it and pulled me into the truck with what seemed like superhuman strength and turned me onto my back. I squirmed around, trying to stop the piercing pain and find some comfort. This truck was home, and for a split second, I felt safe.
Jerry Bradley & Kevin Maurer Page 23
