by Jake Tapper
McChrystal’s remark was immediately seized upon by reporters as yet another shot fired in the Obama-versus-McChrystal troop showdown. White House officials were divided on the question of whether McChrystal was somewhat naive or downright manipulative. This wasn’t some offhand comment made to a reporter who happened to catch him in a mess hall at Bagram; McChrystal had flown to London, delivered a speech, and taken questions. And all the while, he was enjoying a spate of positive media: a profile on 60 Minutes had just aired, and a major story for the New York Times Magazine was in the works. The truth was that media coverage of the speech unfairly inflamed the matter, portraying McChrystal as having personally gone after Vice President Biden, and incorrectly reporting that he had referred to Biden’s plan as a proposal for “Chaos-istan,” when in fact the general had used that term specifically in reference to another study altogether.
McChrystal had gone to London to help bolster Britain’s support for the war. When later asked about his comments at the International Institute for Strategic Studies, he said that he’d intended to fully endorse President Obama’s stated policy as well as the deliberative process the president had commenced, and after the event, he’d felt he had succeeded in doing that. He was shocked when his remarks were interpreted as criticism of the vice president—in some reports, falsely so. But at this stage in the story, the truth was almost an afterthought: in politics, be they parochial or international, perception generally becomes reality.
During his predecessor’s term, President Obama had heard members of the Bush administration say, again and again, that they were listening to the commanders in the field. He didn’t much care for that. First, it wasn’t true: the Bush administration had constantly overruled generals’ requests for more troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. Second, President Obama firmly believed that the commander in chief had to be the one who set the mission. Now he was getting fed up with what was coming his way from the generals across the Potomac River and in Kabul. Their campaign was impeding a deliberative process, and the president would not be rolled.
On October 2, President Obama flew to Denmark to try to help his adopted hometown of Chicago win its bid for the 2016 Summer Olympic Games. (His effort failed; the nod went to Rio de Janeiro instead.) He summoned McChrystal to meet with him on Air Force One as it sat on the tarmac at Copenhagen Airport. For twenty-five minutes, one on one, the President made it clear to the general: We’re going to do this through our process, not via speeches or public relations. He told McChrystal that it looked untoward for him to be out there running an active media campaign while his commander in chief was attempting to make a resource decision. He also described the process that he wanted to pursue, in which he—the commander in chief—would review the situation in Afghanistan and Pakistan, the nation’s objectives in those two hot spots, and overall U.S. strategy. The general responded that he was entirely dedicated to the mission at hand. It wouldn’t be accurate to describe McChrystal as contrite, but the president believed McChrystal left their meeting more on the same page with him—and determined to keep a lower profile.80
The degree to which the prickliness between the two men over the previous six months had affected the American evacuation of Camp Keating can’t be precisely determined. McChrystal’s remark to Colonel George, about not wanting to close the bases in Nuristan prematurely for fear of getting ahead of the president, indicated that he was sensitive to the uncomfortable perceptions that had arisen. By the time of McChrystal’s London speech, plans were finally under way to close the camp, but the withdrawal date had already been postponed by some months. The damage had been done.
CHAPTER 29
Elevator Ride
It was a dilemma: Radio Kamdesh’s transmission tower and broadcasting devices were expensive pieces of equipment, but shipping them out would require even more helicopter sorties, draining even more resources. Portis was in favor of either abandoning or destroying it all. Brown and George wanted to reuse the apparatus, concerned that if it was left behind, the Taliban would commandeer it and utilize it for their own propaganda.
On September 29, the argument was resolved by God: lightning struck the radio tower and blew it apart.
On October 1, Portis and the leaders of the Bastards—Lieutenant Salentine and Staff Sergeant Kirk Birchfield—hopped on a helicopter headed for Observation Post Fritsche. The men at Camp Keating called such quick journeys to the top of the southern mountain elevator rides. The attack that Afghan National Police chief Shamsullah had warned of had not happened, but Portis still wanted to find out whatever he could, and he thought some of the folks in Kamdesh Village might be able to help him. He was also hoping to meet with some Kamdesh elders so he could learn more about the HIG–Taliban agreement to cooperate. But his main reason for this elevator ride was inventory: he was looking for equipment, knowing what sticklers Army bureaucrats were.
The men had originally planned to walk up the mountain, but then Salentine noted that the chopper was going up to Fritsche anyway, so what the hell, why shouldn’t they just take an elevator ride? It was hard to argue with that logic. Portis walked in to the operations center and told Bundermann and Shrode where he was going; while he was gone, Bundermann would be in charge of ground forces, and Shrode would supervise the implementation of close air support and mortars.
The trip from Keating to Fritsche normally took just a matter of seconds, but on this occasion, an insurgent fired on the bird. He scored a direct hit.
“The fuel line’s been shot out,” said the pilot, who immediately took evasive action and left the valley in the rearview mirror, taking with him Portis, Salentine, and Birchfield. They soon enough landed at Forward Operating Base Bostick, safe but disconcertingly far from their troops. Whether or not he meant to do so, the enemy had succeeded in once again depriving the men of Camp Keating of their commander.
“Bad” Abdul Rahman had wanted to attack Combat Outpost Keating on September 30, but he knew that spies had tipped off the Americans. So he waited.
Hundreds of Taliban warriors had been living in the mountains, watching and waiting to pounce. They saw that despite having been tipped off, the Americans did not bring in more troops or equipment to fortify the base.
Rahman noticed, too, and decided that no more patience was required. They would attack before dawn on Saturday, October 3.
On the night of October 2, Jonathan Hill and Eric Harder zoned out in the barracks, watching a Time-Life documentary about World War II. The Bastards complained a lot, but God, it would have been awful to be in World War II, they agreed. Down in the dirt, with no shoes, the Americans got shredded by German artillery as they stormed the beaches of Normandy. “Those guys basically walked into the valley of hell,” Hill said.
They made similar observations about Vietnam after they popped in a bootleg DVD of Apocalypse Now. It was a little trippier than the actual footage from World War II, of course, especially the part where the deranged Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore told his men it was safe to surf in the Nung River, even as they were taking artillery rounds from the Viet Cong.
After watching both DVDs from start to finish, Hill and Harder called it a night.
Specialist Michael Scusa and Specialist Mark Dulaney were up until about 2:00 a.m., shooting the breeze and talking about their plans. Per usual, Scusa wouldn’t stop gabbing about his son, Connor, and how big he was getting. Sometimes the guys would tell Scusa to shut up about his wife and son already, but he wouldn’t.
Specialist Michael Scusa. (Photo courtesy of Jon Hill)
When Scusa entered the Army, he looked so young—with his thick glasses and boyish face—that the first thing his sergeant told him was that he seemed like he was wearing his big brother’s uniform. One of his fellow joes in the Bastards, Specialist Jonathan Adams, thought of Scusa as having walked right out of a remake of Revenge of the Nerds, he was so awkward and dorky. But they all came to respect his calm, measured approach to combat, his kindness, and his work ethic. A
nd his devotion to his family: Scusa was going on leave in a few days and couldn’t wait to see his wife, Alyssa, his mother, and his little boy.
He and Dulaney were planning on applying for the Warrant Officer Flight Training program, and while on leave, Scusa intended to get some books that the two of them could use to study for the admissions test. They would be Army pilots together, remaining in a combat arms environment but no longer based in hellholes like Camp Keating.
Noor Din was a truck driver when the Taliban fell in 2001. After that, he signed up to become a police officer to help his country. Din saw Nuristanis rejoice at the arrival of the development dollars that the United States spread around for roads and schools. He also saw Nuristan and the local Kamdesh District become a battlefield as the American presence was challenged by insurgent groups. He saw the grief, the anger, when U.S. troops killed innocent Nuristanis. Their apologies—whether in the form of words or cash—were never enough.
As a police officer, Din tried to help the Americans. For years, he told the U.S. soldiers every time he heard about an imminent attack. The information would come to him from locals, and sometimes he would pick it up while listening to walkie-talkie chatter. Whatever intelligence he could muster, he would share: which village the insurgents were coming from, which spot on which mountain they were plan to fire from.
This attack had been coming for days, he knew—ever since word spread that Camp Keating would soon be closing. At that moment, the clock had started ticking down.
And now here it was, zero hour.
The Taliban fighters came to Urmul in the dead of night. The women and children of Urmul fled, as did many of the men, after being cautioned not to alert the American soldiers in the camp just a few hundred yards away. “We don’t have any problems with you,” the insurgents told the villagers. “We have a problem with the Americans.”
At 4:00 a.m. on October 3, 2009, close to three hundred mujahideen—led by “Bad” Abdul Rahman and scattered over the three mountains and throughout the village of Urmul—turned to Mecca and conducted morning prayers. Then they grabbed their guns and got into position.
Faruq and some others went to the Afghan National Police station about a hundred yards to the northwest, outside Combat Outpost Keating. The insurgents shot and killed two policemen; the third policeman on duty fled. The enemy fighters set up a base there. Other mujahideen went to the Urmul mosque. Many more were still in the mountains, where pine, cedar, fir, and oak trees stood like sentries, providing the Taliban plenty of cover. Fifty-three Americans were in the camp. Most would be sleeping. Maybe ten or fifteen would be on guard.
Ishranullah lurked in the hills, excited. On a number of occasions in the past, he’d been disappointed when the Taliban ran out of ammunition and couldn’t do anything for weeks. This was not one of those times. The Taliban had truckloads of ammunition. This attack had been planned and coordinated for weeks.
“There were a lot of foot soldiers from all the surrounding villages,” a man from Nuristan would later remember. “Each village volunteered a bunch of soldiers. They thought they were doing jihad, that COP Keating was occupying their land, occupying their area. They thought they were doing a service to their area. They were very, very proud.
“They thought, Let’s send a message. The message was: Tell the United States you don’t mess with us. It was a suicide mission; a lot of the fighters knew they weren’t coming back.”
Those who weren’t involved knew they’d better make themselves scarce if they wanted to live to see another day. As the sun started to rise on the valley and the mujahideen prepared to attack, Noor Din, the police officer, left Urmul and fled north to Mandigal. He did not warn the Americans.
Din’s boss did. Afghan National Police chief Shamsullah approached the camp and spoke with an interpreter whom the U.S. troops referred to as “Ron Jeremy” because of his resemblance to that mustachioed adult-film star.
Red Platoon was responsible for guard duty that night. Shortly before 6:00 a.m., the new shift relieved the guys who had been on watch since midnight. Private First Class Nicholas Davidson came a few minutes early to replace Corporal Justin Gregory near the camp’s entry control point, in the gun turret of the tower of the shura building. Gregory was giving Davidson the lowdown—“There are fresh batteries in the radios, the ammunition is over here”—when Ron Jeremy ran over to them.
“The Taliban are here!” he said, urgency in his voice. “They’re coming!”
Gregory grabbed the radio and called the tactical operations center. “Hey, TOC, this is ECP,” he said—short for “entry control point.”
“Yeah?” responded Private First Class Jordan Wong, the radio operator for the camp’s headquarters.
“Ron Jeremy just ran in and said Taliban are here,” Gregory announced. “You got anything on cameras?” There were PTZ (“pan, tilt, and zoom”) security cameras all around the borders of the camp, sending feeds to the operations center.
“I’ll check it out,” said Wong.
Ron Jeremy then ran to the operations center, where he approached Sergeant Jayson Souter, the Headquarters Platoon NCO in charge of fire support.
“The police chief just came to the gate and told me there are four hundred Taliban hiding around the camp, and they’re getting ready to attack!” the interpreter exclaimed.
Souter passed the word to Staff Sergeant James Stanley, who was relieving Sergeant Gallegos as sergeant of the guard. Stanley then radioed the news to everyone on guard.
Ron Jeremy next ran over to Staff Sergeant Kevin Daise, who was sitting by the burning barrels near the latrines. “Hey, Sergeant Daise,” he said. “The locals said the Taliban kicked them out of town.”
“Okay,” Daise replied. But how seriously was he supposed to take this warning? There had been so many false alarms over the past few months.
After telling him that the enemy was in Urmul, Ron Jeremy proceeded into the latrines to hide.
“Allahu Akbar,” the holy warriors said as they prepared their mortars, their B-10 recoilless rifles, their RPGs, their Dushkas.
God is great.
Declared one insurgent in the hills, in his own tongue, “The prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, says if you throw an arrow toward the enemy, it is as good as freeing a slave for the sake of Allah.”
They recorded these and other exclamations on video, for later posting on YouTube, as part of their propaganda campaign.
“We are ready with the help of Allah,” said another. “Bring me the ammunition.”
Five fifty-eight a.m.
It began.
CHAPTER 30
“Wish Me Luck”
The mortar pit didn’t have a computer, so in these early-morning hours Daniel Rodriguez had to go elsewhere to work on the online correspondence course he was taking to earn points for a promotion. Since he was friends with Docs Cordova and Courville, he headed for the computer at the aid station. Cordova was studying calculus and physics online through Pikes Peak Community College, but this morning, he was slacking: he was in his bunk, having dozed off while reading Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers. Rodriguez spent a while on his correspondence course, then surfed the ’net looking for possible vacation options in Australia; he had some leave time coming.
The first RPG hit the aid station, and Rodriguez didn’t need any help identifying what the explosion was. He stopped what he was doing and put on his helmet and a non-Army-issued protective vest—one that actually didn’t contain any body armor but was much more comfortable than those that did—just in time for the next blast. Cordova and Courville were now awake; they came from the back of the aid station, where their bunks were.
Rodriguez usually carried an M4 carbine, but this morning he had opted instead for his lighter 9-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. Now he cursed himself for that decision, which had been rooted entirely in sloth. Wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers, he headed for the door, stopping on the way to look back at Courville and Cordova. “W
ish me luck,” Rodriguez said. He then went to the door, prepared his 9-millimeter to fire, and sprinted out into the open.
The bullets were coming in sporadically, punctuated by occasional RPG bursts, and Rodriguez zigzagged across the grounds to the laundry, then to the showers and the piss-tubes. His first, human instinct had been, of course, to stay in the aid station, but his sense of duty propelled him to the southwestern corner of the camp, to Mortaritaville, to his team: Breeding, Kevin Thomson, and a new guy just a few days into his tour at Camp Keating, Sergeant Janpatrick Barroga.
As Rodriguez ran to the right, he caught a glimpse of the incoming small-arms fire from the Switchbacks in front of him, sparks in the dawn’s dim gray. The bullets, shrapnel, and rocks on the ground sounded to him like popcorn kernels bursting. The gravel hit his legs as he ran at full speed; it felt like hail going in the wrong direction, from the ground toward the sky. He had once dreamed of being a college football player, Rodriguez, but this was an altogether different kind of running for the end zone.
Rodriguez was near the Humvee/guard post known as LRAS-1 when he started firing back toward the Switchbacks with his pistol. He had only fifteen rounds, but he used every last one of them as he sprinted breathlessly toward his team and up the stairs to the mortar pit.
The first blast woke them up, but they remained in bed.
“Was that incoming or outgoing?” asked Hill.
“Outgoing,” said Harder. Neither of them opened his eyes. They were both exhausted from staying up late watching those DVDs, and one big explosion wasn’t all that odd a sound to hear as dawn broke at Camp Keating. They figured Breeding was just firing a mortar.
