by Dalton Fury
In Delta Force, the uniform standard is largely personal choice. Sure, some things are required, such as the color of fatigue top, needed to recognize friend or foe while moving through dark back alleys and shadowy hallways, or the specific equipment that must be carried by each team member. But comfort and efficiency are the most important factors in dressing for close combat. Bloused pants, shined boots, and starched fatigues are hard to find inside Delta. As long as an operator can do his job on target—slide down a rope from a hovering helicopter, enter the breach, eliminate the threat efficiently, and dominate the room—why should I care if he wears a Mickey Mouse patch or one from his local hometown bail bond service? Time is precious and we spend it on the important stuff and take great care not to get run up a tree by the proverbial Chihuahua.
In Delta, big-boy rules apply.
As things came together, we broke another operator, Ski, away from a staff job he had been assigned to do at Bagram to go down to the Jalalabad safe house and give Shrek some company. Ski was more than happy to get away from the computers in order to have the possibility of some action. A Green Beret in his previous life, Ski’s jet-black hair hung unevenly from under his wool hat, reached his collar in the back, and hid his forehead and even his eyebrows in the front. His beard was so thick that it ran up his cheeks to just below his eyes. When he spoke, it almost seemed as if a ventriloquist were nearby, because if you were hard of hearing, the only indication that he was talking was the jerky up-and-down movement of the Marlboro cigarette between his lips.
Shrek and Ski sent back photos and exact grid coordinates of Mr. Gul Ahmed’s residence, and our intelligence shop confirmed it was the same building we originally suspected based upon our conversations with the CIA and the Alabama Green Berets. With that information, it was time to launch.
Shrek also had solved the mystery of a strange and eerie monument that had defied identification by our imagery analysts.
Standing just to the east of the Ahmed home was a large rock formation that appeared naturally left after thousands of years of flowing river water following centuries of melted winter snow snaking down from the mountains. The large rock was roughly the size of eight tractor-trailers all turned on their noses, with their tails straight up, and glued together at their sides. It appeared on the imagery as a giant rectangular cube with rounded edges.
A worn footpath wound around the rock and ended at the top, where a small mosque was under construction. The doorway was visible on the east side, a design that allowed an entering Muslim to face to the west—toward Mecca, birthplace of the Prophet Muhammad—to perform his daily prayers.
Outside the square mosque were the mounded, rock-covered graves of al Qaeda fighters killed during the previous battle of Tora Bora. They were at peace in paradise now, exactly what they wanted. There were at least fifty individual graves, complete with individually carved tree trunks and makeshift limbs of various lengths pointing skyward. Six to ten feet high, these staffs were adorned with red, green, white, tan, or blue scarves, flags, or torn pieces of clothing that the fallen warrior had worn in battle. The colored banners and pennants fluttered and waved peacefully in the wind.
It crossed our minds that Usama bin Laden might actually be buried in that graveyard, which was already well known locally as an al Qaeda monument and was becoming a popular stop for Muslims desiring to pay their respects to the martyrs.
It was logical that if Ahmed had provided shelter for bin Laden, and if the ailing al Qaeda leader had succumbed to his wounds and expired, then moving his body several hundred feet to this memorial was not out of the realm of possibility. We pulled out photo imagery from the past year that showed the mosque was constructed several months after the battle.
This thought, however intriguing, quickly moved into the too-good-to-be-true category. It would have been virtually impossible to hide a burial site of bin Laden that was so accessible to tourists and the faithful.
Nevertheless, the place was a stark reminder of the cost of war. We were happy that these Tora Bora fighters had paid the ultimate price.
First blood was spilled on our mission before it really got under way. At midafternoon, we piled into some pickup trucks for the short drive out to the MC-130 Combat Talon aircraft that was waiting for us on the asphalt runway, with her engines already turning. When one of the pickups took a sharp turn, a large piece of equipment shifted in the cargo bed, smacked a young operator named Rip square in the nose and catapulted him out of the bed of the truck. His Kevlar helmet and body armor protected him upon impact with the runway.
Our medic, Durango, went to work to stop the facial bleeding and mend the wounds enough to get him on the plane, although I think Rip did not know where he was for a few minutes. After we loaded and took off, I made my way over to Rip, who was staring straight ahead, stoic as ever, and holding a bandage on his nose. His dark beard was matted with the thick red blood, adding even more menace to the long wavy hair and piercing eyes. I bent over to his ear and yelled to be heard over the engine roar. “You gonna make it?”
Rip nodded vigorously in the affirmative, clearly in no mood for small talk.
“It’s no big deal if you can’t go on. We can leave you on the plane and they’ll bring you back,” I yelled.
Rip snapped his head up, locked on to my eyes and yelled, “I’ll be okay, and I’m good to go!”
His manner said more than his mouth. I did not need to hear the words, because his look had delivered the message loud and clear: Do not dare to leave me out of this mission! I’m going all the way to the target. It was exactly what I expected. I slapped him on the shoulder, smiled, and let him be.
It was still daylight when our Combat Talon touched down in Jalalabad, where Ski and Shrek waited at the end of a secluded taxiway. We offloaded our gear and moved it immediately to the cargo trucks, then Shrek and Ski gave the team leaders a final intelligence dump. We arrived at the airfield with the assault plan, but were depending on Ski and Shrek to figure out how to get us there.
They told us that we would have to negotiate three known roadblocks to reach our destination in the mountains. The first two were expected to be relatively benign, just several militiamen and tribal thugs shaking down commuters for whatever tolls they could get. This assumption came from some local Afghan militiamen hired by the CIA, who believed we could move through those two points if we just held our breath. The checkpoint guards would not act as long as there were no indications that our trucks contained anything more than ordinary supplies being hauled to the needy somewhere in that region. Even with these assurances, we remained concerned. In commando-speak, such locations were referred to as “friction points,” and caution was required.
Shrek and Ski had come up with some ingenious planning to get through the third roadblock, which was more complex. A small sedan would travel with us but stay far enough from our convoy to keep the signature low. In the car would be four Afghan militiamen who were on the payroll of the CIA and had been trained by the Green Berets. Once the trucks were two thousand meters short of the roadblock, the sedan would speed around us to the checkpoint, the militiamen would jump from the car with their guns raised, and demand the guards drop their weapons or else. If a gunfight broke out, we would reinforce them. If, instead of gunfire, we saw three flashes of a red lens flashlight, it was safe to proceed. Sounds simple, doesn’t it?
Ski and Shrek would be in the truck cabs because they looked more local than the rest of us. We wanted them not only to look local but to also smell like filth because they would need every bit of that indigenous charade for this to work.
With the plan in place, we had no worries.
The ever-thoughtful Ski amazingly had found about twenty thick foam mattresses in a variety of colors, which were welcome additions to our trickedout cargo trucks. We expected a good amount of bouncing and jerking from side to side on the trip as the trucks navigated streambeds studded with boulders the size of basketballs, washed-out pathways, an
d gigantic potholed sections of war-ravaged roadway.
Another addition came from our new troop sergeant major, Stormin’, who obtained a half-dozen cases of bottled water and several empty five-gallon water cans for use as portable urinals during the trip. The guys were always thinking.
By the time we were ready, we reckoned that our trucks were at least as comfortable as the Trojan gift horse.
While we had discussed the final plan, the boys positioned the equipment and inspected the rigging of the tarps. We couldn’t afford any light holes that might compromise us as we drove through busy downtown market streets or crossed through the few expected rural roadblocks and checkpoints that defined tribal lines, for a Trojan horse operation is all or nothing.
If compromised, the gig is up right then and there. One has little choice but to come out swinging and hope for the best. If this happened, we would unass the truck as quickly as possible, eliminate any threat, and hightail it to the nearest building and own it. Once inside, we would turn it into a stronghold by occupying the roof and covering all windows and doors. Then a radio call to our teammates and Rangers back at Bagram would bring us the beautiful, thundering sound of the 160th SOAR birds.
Regardless of what we did after being compromised, if we weren’t within sprinting distance of the target, we were likely facing mission failure, something that we and our commanders did not look upon too favorably.
One thing was certain. We would not come out of those trucks with our hands up in surrender.
We settled in for a long trip as our little convoy made its way south from the airport and left the city limits, packed like sardines in a can, moving only from one ass cheek to the other to ease the discomfort. It was impossible not to think of how many of us would be hit if a burst of AK-47 rounds stitched the side of the truck and ripped through the protective walls that had been cobbled out of thin metal and cloth tarp. Enemy bullets aside, we were at the mercy of our Afghan driver’s total lack of offroad skill. He consistently seemed to aim for the dark spots in the road and drop two tires into every pothole in the broken asphalt or intentionally bounce over every big rock.
After the first of an expected seven hours traveling at the pace of a one-legged snail over the severely rocky roads, we were certain that we were developing lower back pains for life. Some of the guys fiddled with pieces of their weapons, and the bottled water went quick because we all knew to hydrate for the expected climb that night. The urine cans were wrestled back and forth.
The boys, focused on the mission, could spend but a few moments thinking of their wives and kids back home before automatically switching back to mentally review the various mission contingencies briefed and rehearsed during the planning phase. I’m sure some of them took time to secretly curse me for getting them into this, but I ignored that, keeping my attention glued to the map that I held in one hand and the Garmin GPS in the other.
As we approached the first checkpoint, our communicator, Gadget, manipulated his satellite antenna to the appropriate azimuth and angle, then whispered into his mike. “Wrangler Zero-One, this is Rascal Zero-One. Checkpoint one, over.”
His call was monitored by the Joint Operations Center back at Bagram, where our current location was plotted. Important information should we run into trouble. Help was several hours away, and the Ranger cavalry could only fly to the rescue if they knew where we were.
As expected, the first checkpoint proved fairly simple to pass. The guards stopped us and questioned the Afghan driver as to where the supplies were headed. We glanced at each other as the white beams of several flashlights danced over the tarps and supplies while our driver awaited permission to proceed. Beside him in the front passenger seat, Ski held his breath, as did all of us hiding back in the belly of the horse. In less than a minute, we were on our way.
Several uneventful hours later, we arrived at the second checkpoint, which separated two tribes that had been feuding for centuries in Nangarhar Province. These guards probably would be more aggressive and might decide to help themselves to a small portion of our cargo, which would reveal our perfidy.
As we approached, we reached up with our nonfiring hands, lowered our NVGs, and the world went lime green. With weapons at the ready, we sat as still as bronze statues when the trucks slowed to a halt.
Afghans scuffled around both sides of our truck and several voices barked orders or directions in deep native Pashto. From the front seat, Ski keyed his radio and whispered, “It appears some local commander is here, and they went to ask him if the truck can pass. Stand by.”
Long minutes passed as we attempted to regulate our breathing while listening intently for anything out of the ordinary, for there was cause for concern. The flashlights outside had become steady beams on the tarps and the supplies in the back. Suddenly, the truck rocked as a guard leaped up on the tailgate, squatted, and spoke to the others. There was no need for me to alert the boys that we were moments from a major showdown and possibly a gunfight. The situation had everyone’s undivided attention.
Risking being overheard by someone unseen in the darkness outside the truck, Ski keyed his radio again and softly whispered, “Sounds like we are okay. Local commander told them to let us through.”
I could feel the collective silent sigh of relief and relaxing of muscles as we eased an inch or two back into our sponge mattresses. We pressed ahead. Hydrated more. Wrestled the cans.
We reached the final checkpoint five hours into the trip, and things picked up. The sedan of militiamen zoomed around us on the shoulder of the dirt road and we stopped and waited inside our trucks tense with anticipation as the empty minutes ticked away. After about ten minutes of waiting, Ski saw red lights blinking the okay signal in the distance and we continued forward.
As we went by the checkpoint, only Ski and Shrek, in the truck cabs with the drivers, had the luxury of seeing the guards wrapped up snugly in blankets the militiamen gave them as gifts. Everyone was sitting around a small warming fire while one of the militiamen brewed up some hot tea to cut the sharp edge of the cold Afghan winter. They looked like one big happy family at a hometown cookout.
Three checkpoints behind us, so far so good, but we were not clear yet. It was imperative that the trucks continue looking innocent and routine because we had been warned of a heavy machine gun emplacement a few hundred meters above the mouth of the valley. We had to pass right under its nose, and once committed on that road, places to bang a U-turn would be scarce, particularly while being shot at. The trucks rolled on, unmolested. Our cover was holding.
Ski came up on the net. “Ten minutes.”
I folded my map, shoved it in my chest pocket, powered off my GPS, and stuck it in its pouch. I wouldn’t need either item because Shrek and Ski had coordinated for a CIA source, a local carpenter’s assistant, as a guide, and he was to be waiting for us.
I reached up to manipulate my NVGs, as I had done hundreds of times before, and the goggles fell off my helmet. “Shit! Of all the times, not now,” I whispered. A close look showed that the screws that attached the mounting bracket to the helmet had vibrated loose during the rollercoaster ride, and in the darkness the tiny screws were nowhere to be found. Coming to grips with the idea of having to rely on my own vision, on a hunch I sent out a net radio call asking if anyone had a roll of tape. A moment later a gloved hand appeared in the darkness clutching a roll of black electrical tape. Four wraps around my helmet and the goggles held like a charm.
The trucks finally stopped, end of the line. After seven brutal hours crammed in the trucks it was time to drop from the belly of our Trojan horse and, we hoped, catch the enemy sound asleep.
We quietly spread out along the valley floor, awed by the breathtaking sight of the large boulders in the valley and the steep walls of ridgelines to the east and west. As seen through the uneven shades of light green produced by the NVGs, the ridges seemed to extend as high as Jack’s beanstalk and we could not make out where the ridgelines’ highest peaks end
ed. As we took a knee and gained our bearings, it was obvious that our guide wasn’t going to simply walk us down the valley floor to the target building. No, we were going to have to climb a steep wall to get to Ahmed’s residence.
It took Shrek ten minutes to locate our guide, who wore a faded olive drab army jacket and a black facemask to protect his identity should a local happen to be awake and see us through a window or doorway. He had to live here, and protecting his identity was crucial. We followed him over rickety single-log bridges, in between tight adobe homes where both shoulders rubbed against the walls, up precarious ledges, and over large rock formations. He knew exactly where he was going. No doubt that this was his hometown.
The route was physically exhausting. We had started this journey at the Bagram Air Base, which was 5,000 feet above sea level. By the time we reached the target house we would have gained another 1,500 feet in elevation, and the steep climb was made more difficult because we were all carrying loads—weapons, ammo, water, radios, explosives—weighing anywhere from sixty to one hundred pounds. As the troop commander, I typically carried the lightest load, but even my chest was screaming for oxygen as we moved up the near-vertical slope, softly picking up each foot and delicately placing it in front of the other. The boys seemed to be handling the ascent with ease. I’m a mere mortal, but they were animals.
About two hundred meters from the target, Shrek and the guide moved to the far side to provide security. At fifty meters, we paused to catch our breath, give Shrek time to get into position, and radio our location back to the base.
A distinct humming sound rode the night air, the familiar buzz of an AC-130 gunship that was burning holes in the sky directly above us. Gunships make us happy, but this time the presence of the aircraft caused a worry because it could be easily heard by anyone on the ground. By circling around the target area too soon, the aircraft risked compromising us and also alerting Gul Ahmed, and either development might prompt him to squirt. He was not stupid. This time, the services of the gunship could wait.
