The Only Thing Worth Dying For

by Eric Blehm

  At this checkpoint, close to Tarin Kowt Pass, they discovered a single Afghan sitting on an old Soviet ammo crate, so stoned on hashish that he didn’t seem to notice them until they were getting out of their trucks. Out of the Afghan’s reach, a few AK-47s and a couple of RPG launchers were leaning against the checkpoint barricade.

  Through their translator, Mike and Brent learned from the man that the other guards had gone into town for some food. Bari Gul stood back and observed, displaying his dissatisfaction with a grimace as Mike questioned the Afghan. “What if the Taliban come?” he asked, pointing toward the road. “How will you warn the town?”

  The Afghan smiled, walked over to his AK-47, and fired a burst of rounds into the air.

  “Gotcha,” said Mike.

  “We gotta get these guys radios,” Brent said.

  “And get them to lay off the weed,” said Mike.

  Back in the compound, Mag and Charlie had just finished the CIA’s first interrogation of the mission: a young Taliban who had deserted outside Kandahar. Charlie had given Mag, who was a fairly new intelligence sergeant, the job of making the deserter feel at ease—smiling a lot, offering water—while the spook asked questions about enemy movements and the locations of key al-Qaeda and Taliban leaders.

  Now, in the warmth of the afternoon, Mag noticed he was beginning to smell like “yeti.” Grabbing a bucket of water, he stripped down to his boxers in the sunniest corner of the courtyard. As he soaped up, the man he’d helped interrogate walked over to the other side of the bucket and began to take his clothes off.

  “Whoa, hold on there,” said Mag. “Interrogation’s over.” The Afghan continued to strip. “Only one bucket of water here, amigo,” Mag said.

  Now naked, the man sat down cross-legged on the concrete, reached into the water with a cup, and started bathing, grinning up at Mag as if he were an older brother.

  “Looks like you’ve got yourself a little buddy,” Ronnie hollered from his seat on a box of water bottles in the living room. “Maybe he’ll scrub your back, big fella.”

  Mag casually waved his middle finger in Ronnie’s direction.

  Amerine was also in the courtyard, writing in his journal and enjoying this camaraderie between his men before he had to return to Karzai’s side. He glanced up when Dan emerged from the command post carrying his laptop, which he handed to Amerine.

  A message had just arrived from Task Force Dagger. Amerine read it, then slowly wrote one word in his journal: “Madness.” He looked at the Green Berets around him: men who had saved a town; men who had done everything right by their country and by their mission; men who, by doctrine and by damn, did not need to be babysat. He could not recall a single instance in the history of Special Forces when a battalion headquarters had joined an ODA on the field of battle. Now Colonel Mulholland was doing just that, sending a fifteen-man battalion headquarters staff, called a C-team—which normally commanded three company B-teams who themselves oversaw six A-teams each—to co-locate with ODA 574.

  Fifteen headquarters guys to oversee a team of eleven? thought Amerine. He envisioned senior officers tripping over each other, fighting for a way into the war, and shook his head in disgust. Madness.

  The two pickup trucks Amerine had in his possession were barely enough to move his team, Karzai, and the CIA—if they ditched all their equipment. Bringing in the C-team meant they would all have to stay and fight and die if the Taliban was able to overrun Tarin Kowt’s pitiful defenses.

  He hoped Task Force Dagger would pay close attention to his return message:

  Acknowledge intent to infiltrate 15-man battalion HQ SOCCE [Special Operations Command and Control Element]. Request delay of infiltration for the following reasons: 1) ODA does not possess sufficient vehicles to transport ODA/CIA and additional PAX [passengers] from SOCCE. 2) Tarin Kowt defense is precarious. As per previous SITREPs, Karzai’s usable forces number fewer than 100 and counterattack is likely. In the event of retreat, we would not be able to transport all personnel. 3) ODA 574 is doctrinally capable of conducting operations without additional personnel at this time. 4) Karzai does not want any more Americans on the ground because it might jeopardize his credibility among the tribal leaders whom he is negotiating with. ODA 574 requests delay until additional vehicles are acquired and defenses better established and Karzai’s credibility is further established.1

  Mag was looking over Dan’s shoulder when the response from Task Force Dagger came in a few minutes later: “…SOCCE will infiltrate as planned.”

  “The captain is taking care of this situation just fine,” said Mag. “We don’t need the brass in here—they’re just going to get in the way.”

  The men of ODA 574 were unaware that Colonel Mulholland had been pressured by his superiors to get higher-ranked officers on the ground in Afghanistan. On October 23, only three days into the ground campaign, General Franks had received a phone call from Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld.

  “Are you sure those Special Forces teams have senior-enough officers in command?” Rumsfeld had asked him. “It seems to me the Northern Alliance generals won’t really listen to young captains and majors.”

  “Mr. Secretary,” said Franks, “in a few weeks the warlords will think of those captains and majors as their sons. Our youngsters are very good at what they do.”

  “You are the commander,” Rumsfeld said. “But keep an eye on it.” 2

  General Franks had immediately leaned on Colonel Mulholland, telling him to infiltrate higher-ranked officers into the ODAs’ positions with the most important leaders of the Northern Alliance, or Franks would bring in generals from the conventional Army.*

  Mulholland knew it would be a disaster if conventional Army generals started getting in the way of his A-teams, so he appeased Franks by sending in 5th Group’s three battalion commanders, with one significant caveat. Though called Special Operations Command and Control Elements, these SOCCE headquarters elements would act primarily as liaisons and military advisers to the guerrilla leaders, while Mulholland, still in Uzbekistan, would retain ultimate control over the A-teams.

  Mulholland did grant the SOCCEs tactical control (TACON) over the ODAs, which meant that the SOCCE lieutenant colonels could adjust the physical locations of teams to prevent “battle space” issues, such as two teams ending up in the same valley or attacking the same target. They did not, however, have the authority to intervene in the teams’ missions. Thus the ODAs would continue to operate semi-independently. Regardless, placing a battalion headquarters element with an A-team upset a time-honored Special Forces doctrine and went against its very purpose. ODAs are composed of experienced, mature operators sanctioned to run campaigns far from the flagpole, with minimal bureaucracy injected only when absolutely necessary.

  When Amerine learned of this novel command structure an hour after his “request for delay” had been denied, he couldn’t decide whether it was genius or lunacy. At the very least, the presence of a lieutenant colonel who outranked him but had no operational control over his team would be very awkward.

  Dan carried his laptop back over to Amerine, who was sitting on a crate across from JD, musing over this turn of events and dreading the possibility that it would be Lieutenant Colonel Queeg joining them.

  “There’s more,” Dan said. “We’re getting Second Battalion’s HQ—Lieutenant Colonel Fox.”

  At least it’s not Queeg, thought Amerine.

  “Fox will assume the role as Hamid’s senior military adviser,” Dan said. “Looks like you can take off one of the hats you’ve been wearing. They want you to focus on organizing the guerrillas and doing the fighting. No offense, sir, but no more sipping tea with the tribal leaders. It’s back to instant coffee and dirty water with the rest of us.”

  Amerine laughed, but he also felt a pang of sadness. In the past month, he and Karzai had become friends. They trusted each other.

  Together they had risked their lives and the lives of their men and, thus far, they had succee
ded. Amerine would continue to come to Karzai for clearance on air strikes and to discuss ongoing guerrilla operations, allowing him to maintain the momentum of the mission, which was paramount not only for Karzai but also for the war. And he had always known that additional A-teams and a B-team would arrive after Tarin Kowt fell—yet this still felt like a premature end to their partnership.

  Amerine sat down on the floor of Karzai’s modest receiving room and, borrowing one of Karzai’s favorite lines, said, “I have news.”

  He briefed him on the new command structure and told him a little about Lieutenant Colonel Fox, who would take over as Karzai’s military adviser.

  “What does this mean, Jason?” asked Karzai. “Are you leaving? Is there a problem?”

  “No, I’m not leaving, and this is a very good thing,” said Amerine, keeping his reservations to himself. “Task Force Dagger is increasing its support to our campaign in the south. It means we’ll get all the resources we need to end the Taliban.”

  “What will your role be?”

  “I will focus on my team and your guerrilla fighters, but I’ll consult with you regularly on all air strikes and guerrilla operations. We will maintain this momentum.”

  Karzai nodded. “I also have news.”

  Karzai’s spies had told him that Mullah Biradar, the Taliban military chief overseeing operations in five of Afghanistan’s southern provinces, including Uruzgan, Herat, and Kandahar, had dispatched assassins from Kandahar to kill Karzai and his U.S. supporters. He had offered a bounty of 5 million Pakistani rupees (around $55,000) for any American, double for Karzai.

  “Good to know,” said Amerine.

  “There is also talk in Kandahar of another large force of Taliban preparing to come and retake Tarin Kowt.”

  Amerine raised his eyebrows. “How large?”

  “Ten thousand men,” said Karzai with a smile, doubting the intelligence himself.

  “I think by now the Taliban have learned they cannot roam the countryside in large convoys. Do your spies report any movement? I haven’t heard anything from our reconnaissance reports.”

  “It is all talk right now.”

  “We’ll increase reconnaissance,” said Amerine. “Just in case.”

  From Karzai’s command post Amerine went to the CIA’s house to inform Casper of Lieutenant Colonel Fox’s arrival.

  “I don’t know how we’re supposed to move everybody,” Amerine said. “We don’t even have enough vehicles for our two groups; add another fifteen men and we’re in trouble if we need to get out of here in a hurry.”

  Casper shook his head. “Do your superiors realize the situation?”

  “I conveyed it to Task Force Dagger. Nothing we can do about it. They’re coming in, so we’d better find a place for them to sleep.”

  Amerine stepped toward the door, then turned back around. “Hamid tell you the latest?”

  “The assassins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Five million rupees,” Casper said, pausing for a long beat. “Not bad.”

  ODA 574’s team room looked like a rudimentary Internet café, with Alex, Dan, and Wes all busy working the war on their laptops. The men’s faces glowed blue in the darkness.

  Amerine sat down beside Alex. “Anything going on?” he asked.

  “Actually, yes. F-18s spotted a very large camp north of Kandahar,” said Alex, indicating an icon on the digital map glowing from his computer.

  “I wonder if that could be related to the ten thousand Taliban that Hamid just informed me are rumored to be coming our way to retake Tarin Kowt.”

  Uncertain whether the captain was serious, Alex cocked his head sideways and told Amerine that a JSTAR* had also reconned the camp and reported what the pilots thought was a helicopter.

  “A helicopter?” said Amerine.

  “Well, take it with a grain of salt. Even JSTARs aren’t really great in this kind of terrain with single objects like that.”

  “Any way of knowing if it was one of ours?”

  “I checked as best I could, and nobody knows of any operations going on in the area.”

  Amerine stared at the screen. “If a helicopter landed there, then something weird is going on. See if you can get a B-52 to those coordinates and have it stand by in the area. I’ll go talk to Hamid.”

  A concentration of troops like that didn’t come around often; it could be a very stupid move by a Taliban commander. By now the Taliban should have learned that large gatherings of men or vehicles made excellent targets for American bombs. Or it could be noncombatants. Refugees, perhaps, fleeing Kandahar. But with a helicopter? If it was a helicopter. There had been zero reports of Taliban movements via air, and if one was parked somewhere, Amerine felt that it would have been completely camouflaged.

  Walking back across the street, Amerine reentered Karzai’s command post and took his seat beside Karzai. “We spotted a large camp,” Amerine said, referring to his map, “approximately ten miles north of Kandahar, near this mountain range. The weird thing is that a helicopter was spotted there by one of my recon aircraft. It wasn’t a coalition helicopter. And I’m pretty sure we knocked out all of the Taliban air force early in the campaign. Always a chance, though.”

  “That is strange,” said Karzai. “I will send men to find out what is there.” He issued a series of commands to a messenger sitting near the door, who jumped up and left the room.

  It was nearing dusk when Karzai summoned Amerine back to his compound. “I sent two men with a satellite phone and they spotted nothing.”

  “The camp is definitely there,” said Amerine. “Are your men still in the area?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have them look around some more.”

  Alex had located a B-52 that had been on the way to bomb a cave complex in the north—not an urgent mission—and diverted it to a holding pattern over the camp, where the plane had been circling for over two hours. Back with Alex, Amerine told the airman, “Release that B-52. Karzai’s people couldn’t find the area, and we need better confirmation.”

  Alex nodded, and the bomber continued on its previous mission.

  Early the following day, Karzai showed up at ODA 574’s compound. He seemed concerned.

  “I received word from my men north of Kandahar,” he told Amerine. “They did not reach me until just now.”

  “Yes?” said Amerine.

  “They found the camp. They reported no helicopter, just refugees—mostly families from Kandahar, running from the bombing and anticipated fighting in the city. They have camped near a group of Bedouin from the Kuchi tribe.”

  “We did not engage the target,” said Amerine, goose bumps rising on his arms. Something hadn’t felt right about the encampment; had they struck it the night before, many civilians would have been killed.

  “That is good news,” said Karzai, visibly relieved. “Thank you.”

  Later that morning, Dan received another e-mail from Task Force Dagger: “Acknowledge your concerns. SOCCE delayed temporarily. Pax are reduced to three: Commander, plus two. Stand by for infil date.”

  “Hmmm,” said Amerine. “I wonder why the change of heart?”

  Unbeknownst to Amerine, Casper had called his CIA superiors, who contacted Task Force Dagger and told them that there were not enough vehicles in Tarin Kowt to transport the men already on the ground. By sending a headquarters staff, they were putting Americans at unnecessary risk unless they could bring along their own vehicles.

  The message apparently had more bite when it came from the upper echelons of the CIA. The SOCCE had been scaled back from fifteen men to three, with Fox’s arrival now scheduled for November 26. The remainder of the SOCCE had to procure vehicles and coordinate an airlift, which would take more time.

  Once Amerine had left to update Karzai, Dan speculated that Amerine had somehow manipulated Casper into blocking the headquarters infiltration. “Captain knows how to work it,” he told Mike.

  The next day, November 22, was Thank
sgiving, and the teams in the field had been promised a turkey dinner with all the trimmings—code-named Operation Turkey Drop. Nobody was more excited than Dan Petithory.

  Thanksgiving was one of his favorite holidays, and he hated having to miss his mom’s spread on Turkey Day—the stuffing, gravy, buttery mashed potatoes. When the men opened up their airdrop and found that it contained a couple of magazines, some bags of Starbursts, a few cans of yams, and a frozen-solid ham, Dan thought it was a joke. Then reality sank in: Nothing else was coming.

  “This is bullshit,” he muttered, and stomped away from the cooking area of the courtyard. He returned with his laptop.

  “Sir,” he said to Amerine, “permission to bitch to Task Force Dagger for this pathetic holiday meal?”

  “Sure, give them what for.”

  They went inside the command post, where Amerine watched Dan type a SITREP titled “You’ve Got to Be Kidding Me.” The first line read: “So, what are you eating for dinner tonight?”*Amerine laughed.

  “You trust me?” asked Dan.

  “I trust you,” Amerine said. “Then you better walk away. This might get ugly.”

  On Sunday morning, November 25, Dan’s mother slid out of bed, careful not to wake her husband, Lou. Barbara Petithory removed the cotton gloves she’d worn over a thick coating of moisturizer for the night—a prescribed treatment for the stress-related psoriasis that had sprung up after 9/11. From the moment she’d received a call from Danny in Kazakhstan, she’d known he was going to war.

  While coffee brewed, she stepped onto the front porch of their Cape Cod–style home in Cheshire, Massachusetts, to check the thermometer and adjust the American flag draped from its angled staff near the front door. Tidying up the flag each day was like fixing Danny’s collar on his way out the door to school—she could not pass a flag without thinking of him.