by Dalton Fury
Originally in Afghanistan as Gary Berntsen’s deputy, it had tickled George to be named the team leader of Jawbreaker Juliet. He wasted little time in telling us that he was pressing General Ali to support our move into the mountains, but the general was proving to be stubborn.
“You ready to meet Ali and make your pitch?” he asked as we shook hands.
Ironhead, Bryan, and I looked at each other with relief. We had been worried that we would have to smooth out some friction or turn a cheek or two to ensure a positive relationship between Delta and the CIA. There had been dark days when the relationship was fragile at best. Half the time it seems that interoperability success depends more on personalities than on shared agendas. George had put us at ease from the start with his genuine welcome.
George had brought to Jalalabad with him four or five other agency professionals and one Special Forces lieutenant colonel who possibly had the most rewarding and intriguing job in the army for someone of that rank. They were a bunch of first-round draft picks, and all would prove equally talented and cool. But CIA guys pestered me all day about my rank of lieutenant colonel, wanting to know what year group I was in and if I knew any of their buddies. I had to guess at what year group a newly promoted fake lieutenant colonel like me should be. Year group 85? Naw, hell, let’s try year group 86. Am I so screwed up already that it’s obvious I’m an imposter? I haven’t done shit yet, so how could they even suspect already that I’m not a lieutenant colonel? Not a good time to start second-guessing myself. But the spooks wouldn’t let up. Jesus Christ! How many of these CIA guys are gonna come in here and ask me about my rank?
We walked a short distance from the old schoolhouse to where a large red carpet had been laid out neatly on the dirt. A few colorful blankets were folded to comfort some, but there were not enough for everyone. The outdoor meeting was to be held within sight of the majestic mountains to the south, our future battle zone.
The general and his young aide, Ghulbihar, slipped off their worn leather sandals and effortlessly flopped down and crossed their legs. Following the lead of both George and Adam Khan in this sudden introduction to still another point of the Afghan culture, I fumbled with my cold-weather boots, trying to remove them without showing discomfort. Am I gonna have to take off these boots every time we talk? This is gonna get old fast!
Ali was facing southeast, oblique to the White Mountains and the glare of the morning sun forced him to squint. George flanked me on the right, closest to Ali, and was trying to sit as comfortably as possible for a big Texan. I had the seat of honor, directly across from the general, and Adam Khan was to my left. Ghulbihar, the general’s translator, was on the warlord’s right.
General Ali did seem tired, but we didn’t mention his press party the night before. He seemed shy and uncomfortable, almost as if the inevitability of the overall military situation had finally caught up with him. More Americans were coming into his land and he knew it. He leaned forward so that his oversized brown coat spread over most of his legs. A small notebook of dirty paper, a short stubby pencil, a handheld two-way radio, and two black cell phones were aligned neatly before him. One of the cell phones was standard CIA issue and the other was a foreign model.
Thirty feet away, just outside of hearing range, stood Ironhead and Bryan. Off to the side, Lieutenant Colonel Al of the CIA leaned comfortably against our red pickup, with an AK-47 slung crossways over his back, and several 7.62mm magazines bulging from his back pockets. I could feel their collective stares on the back of my head and knew they were pulling for me to not screw this up. They were itching to get up into al Qaeda territory but understood the first goal was to secure Ali’s trust and support.
General Ali’s wool muhj hat was propped back like a dog-tired Little League shortstop’s cap after an extra innings game, and his coat had a large black fur collar. He nervously rolled a long strand of pearl prayer beads between his fingers, occasionally switching them from one hand to the other. Ali’s mannerisms gave me every impression that he was a devout Muslim who was visibly uncomfortable with his new status as an American stooge.
George broke the ice and introduced Adam Khan and me. Ghulbihar translated Ali’s opening comments in very rough English, and Ali looked at me through the sun-induced squint. With a slight tilt of the head, he asked Ghulbihar something in a low tone.
The aide turned and asked, “Commandos?”
I nodded, and George interjected. “Yes. Tell the general these are the commandos I have been promising. Many more will come.” George looked over at me as if to ask, “Right? Please tell me it’s not just you five.” I nodded. “They will help us find bin Laden,” George added.
It was my turn, and I glanced at Adam Khan to be certain he was ready to translate. I wanted what I had to say to seem natural, although I had spent much of the night rehearsing in the dark. If I had to repeat myself, I feared that I would lose my place.
I did a quick personal inventory of my heartbeat and started to talk, and Adam Khan easily translated my words. Ali would softly mutter “Wo”—“yes” in Pashto—and scribble on the white pad every so often. The general rocked back and forth and his face betrayed him: He was very distraught at having American fighting men here.
Just as I finished, Ali responded in his language, “Americans should not be on the ridgelines.”
He barely let Adam Khan finish translating before launching into a lengthy lecture. Maybe he had been up last night, too, after hosting the press, and was as worried about this meeting as I.
Having reached a fast speaking rhythm, he seemed to forget that Adam Khan needed time to translate, but it was pretty clear that Ali was putting me on the spot. He looked me dead in the eye for the first time and said we were not up to the task, implying that Delta Force was not tough enough to fight al Qaeda in the mountains.
Adam Khan caught the tempo. “Al Qaeda is dug in with many supplies and weapons. Many fighters willing to die for martyrdom. You Americans cannot survive in these mountains against al Qaeda, just like the Soviets could not survive against us. What makes you think you Americans can do what the Soviets couldn’t do in ten years of fighting?”
Ohhhh. . . Blindsided. I had not expected that response. Think fast, stay cool!
“Adam Khan, please tell the general that the men I bring are America’s finest commandos,” I said. “They are skilled in mountain warfare, and they are hardened and deadly.”
Ali allowed me to continue, just adding a few more Wo’s. When it was obvious that I had finished, he answered.
“I was an engineer when the Soviets were here. I helped build the caves and know all of them. They occupied this same land where we sit; they [the Soviets] never penetrated past the foothills and lost many Russkies. It is too dangerous for you Americans. It will be very bad if one of you is killed.”
So that was it. He was scared about what would happen if an American got killed. “I will be blamed,” he confirmed, and looked at George.
I stayed on course. “Take me and the few men here that arrived with me to the front lines today. Let us show you that we can hold our own. Tomorrow, I will have forty more commandos ready to fight, not drink tea.”
Ali responded, “It is not good to attack right now.” With a shrug, he added, “This place is different than Mazar-i-Sharif.” That was the first Afghan city to fall to the Northern Alliance, with a lot of help from the United States, after 9/11. Ali was obviously among those who, despite the heavy fighting there, considered the victory to have been somewhat of a cakewalk.
The general pressed us hard for more bombing. “The Arabs are going to die in their caves. Many are living in the same trench lines on the mountainsides that were used when we defeated the Russians. My fighters are spread out in the mountains, near the caves. They cannot escape. We have all sides blocked.”
George broke in. “We can’t bomb forever. We have given you money, weapons, and equipment to attack, yet you refuse. Now we are giving you our best fighters. If you d
on’t begin soon, thousands of American soldiers will be covering this entire area.”
Whooaa. George had put his finger on a sore spot, but he meant business and was running this show.
“The Arabs will fight to the death,” the general responded, trying to sound convincing, “I don’t want to sacrifice all my men to get to them.” Showing a slight frustration, he added, “Ten thousand fighters won’t be enough to get them out of the trenches.” Ali was agonizing over George’s harsh words, which were almost accusing him of either corruption or cowardice.
I threw in a portion of understanding to help take the edge off things. “General, we can bring more bombs here to help, but we must get closer to the enemy to kill more, and to win this battle.” High-level bombing cannot do everything by itself. Boots on the ground can pinpoint the payloads.
Almost conceding the argument, the general said, “My people must be first, in the end.” Hometown pride. He wanted his forces to carry out the first wave of the final assault. That was fine with us.
I turned and pointed to the mountains behind me. “We must get on the back side of those ridgelines to see the caves and trench lines, to shoot al Qaeda where they eat, sleep, and hide,” I said. “Give us what we ask for and you will be pleased.” That was it. I ended my side of the conversation.
Ali looked down, shrugged his shoulders again and sighed, ending our meeting. “Momkin,” he said, a Pashto term of indecision, meaning “possible” but always used for “maybe.” It was a frustrating word that we would become very familiar with over the next ten days.
After the little powwow, we learned that the CIA had already bankrolled the general to the tune of several million dollars, money that had been spent to rent his leadership, his men, and his courage. George was irritated that it was not spent to buy equipment.
Ali had feared that when we showed up at his headquarters, we would be accompanied by a massive amount of American tanks, jeeps, and troops. So our discreet arrival pleased him. Both Cobra 25 and the CIA folks wore traditional Afghan clothing and brought nonmilitary style vehicles, and we had followed that lead. Local clothing and vehicles, not American military issue, were the flavors of the day. He had been delighted with our stylish Afghan outfits.
And we had to consider the careful political balancing act he had to perform. If he lost face with the tribal leaders, the Shura, his supporters might think less of him and brand him as unfit and unable to handle the problem by himself. If rival tribes got wind that foreign commandos were being brought in to help his fight in his own backyard, it could prove the end of his reign, if not skillfully handled.
But on the other hand, he knew the muhj advance had stalled completely along the northern foothills, and like it or not, he needed help. Around-the-clock bombing, intermittent foothill skirmishes, and the monitoring of al Qaeda’s unsecured radio calls for a week had convinced him of several things.
First, his enemy was organized and well equipped, having stocked hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition, crates of RPGs, a dozen or so SAMs, piles of foodstuffs, and even enough firewood to last the harsh winter.
Second, because the Russians never conquered these mountains during the Soviet War, Ali now faced a highly motivated foe that had already beaten a superpower. As far as the enemy was concerned, they were invincible soldiers of God, with Allah in their corner.
Finally, and something most troubling to Ali, al Qaeda possessed the ability to reinforce and counterattack any muhj advance. Skirmish after skirmish over the past week had only served to bloody the noses of the muhj and strengthen al Qaeda.
Ali had a lot on his plate, but was smart enough to reach out for help.
How did it go?” Ironhead asked, as if he could feel that the little conference had not proceeded as we had hoped.
“I think he will come around by the time the boys arrive. He’s skeptical. Doesn’t think we can handle this.”
“Well, Dalton, I guess we’ll just have to show him,” Bryan said with a smile.
“Yeah,” added Ironhead, looking up at the mountains. “But we can’t do it from down here.”
Adam Khan came running over to our Toyota. “The general is going to the front. Do you want to go?”
After the tea party on the Afghan rug, our savvy translator had asked General Ali about his forward command. Where was it? Who was in command there? It turned out the man in charge was his brother-in-law, Haji Musa, who also was his cousin, not uncommon within the Afghan culture.
Adam Khan seized the opportunity and immediately pressed the general to get us involved sooner rather than later, reasoning that if his brother-in-law was up there, then it should be safe for us to visit him. Surely, Haji Musa should be able to provide adequate security.
Uncomfortable with such forwardness, the general didn’t have anything to counter the argument, and since he was going to visit Musa in a few minutes anyway, he reluctantly agreed to take us along.
We grabbed our long guns, wrapped our scarves around our faces and blankets around our shoulders. Before the general reached the truck I asked Adam Khan, “Hey, what in the world was General Ali writing on that notepad when you were translating our message?”
“Nothing!” he said.
General Ali jumped in the passenger seat of our red pickup and I drove. A brown leather shoulder harness with a small ivory-handled revolver was half-hidden beneath his brown jacket. In the backseat sat one of Ali’s subordinate commanders, complete with AK-47 and handheld radio. The only way to distinguish a foot soldier from a leader was the radio. And the danger of everyone, friend and foe, dressing alike is that it increases the possibilities of a blue-on-blue engagement, that is, friendly fire. We would really have to be careful once we got into combat.
Next to the commander sat the most valuable player of the tournament so far, Adam Khan. Ironhead and Bryan were perched like locals in the truck bed. Their guns were hidden but ready, and their eyes peered slightly above their colorful kaffiyehs. We headed for the front, and the general seemed to loosen up a bit. Obviously happy to be visiting his men, he commented, “What is mine is yours.” It was an Afghan custom to do what he could for his guests and I liked the sound of it.
The drive to the front was an adventure in itself. Bone-jarring terrain with intermittent but well-placed boulders kept our speed down. We squeezed through mud walls that scraped the side mirrors, dodged donkeys, goats, children, and negotiated two precarious valley walls and a deep dry riverbed. The ride was worse than a roller coaster. Ali was constantly on his radio, and his hands-on command style was impressive. There seemed to be no end to his providing directions and guidance and receiving reports. His complete involvement and total command made me wonder just how fast this whole thing would unravel if he were to buy the farm. The chain of command had General Ali at the top, but was rooted by a flat lateral line of combat field commanders. We had a lot riding on this one man.
After thirty minutes, we rounded a turn and came upon the astonishing place called Press Pool Ridge. Round tents in bright red, green, and orange covered the rocky knoll to our front. The best spots for a long-range camera on a tripod facing the mountains had been staked out long ago. White vans and SUVs were scattered everywhere, and there was a tangled forest of satellite antennas and spotlights, all ready to carry the nightly story to the world.
I put on the brakes. “We can’t go any farther,” I said to Adam Khan, without taking my eyes off the mass of folks only a hundred yards down the road. I asked him to emphasize to the general how important it was that we not to be seen by anyone outside of his fighters—particularly the media.
Ali responded that news reporters were throughout the area toward which we were heading, but he agreed that he also wanted to keep us out of sight. The tinted windows helped. We’re starting to click, I thought, and he said something else.
“General Ali says he needs to go up there to make an appearance,” Adam Khan explained. “The reporters expect it, and he needs to be see
n by his men.”
“That’s cool, but we aren’t going with him. I’m not taking this truck up there with my guys in the back,” I responded. “The place is way too crowded.”
After a few seconds of discussion with Adam Khan, the general opened the door, stepped onto the rocky soil, and walked purposefully toward the mass of journalists. Sure enough, a heads-up reporter spotted the general and sounded the alarm. They all swarmed toward him.
We stayed put to watch, intending to wait for Ali’s return to the truck, but one smart reporter had not been fooled. In less than a minute, a white van backed from the line of parked vehicles and turned our way.
Time for some emergency driving, but as I tried to turn the truck around to leave, the white van sped up close to our rear bumper and a small, blond, middle-aged woman dressed in a midlength dark coat with a gray scarf wrapped around her neck jumped out and approached Ironhead and Bryan, whose faces were covered.
“Have you all seen Usama bin Laden?” Well, that isn’t necessarily a surprise question, they thought. But does she realize that we are Americans?
We took off, telling the subordinate commander with us to call General Ali and explain why we had ditched him. He would have to catch another ride.
In the mirror, I saw through our road dust that this reporter was not giving up easily. The van driver was in full pursuit, coming rapidly over the crest of the hill behind us. With Ironhead and Bryan holding on in the bed of the truck, I sped up. This is ridiculous. How are we supposed to fight this war if we have to hide from the damned reporters?
