by Ed Darack
The OpsO would also carefully integrate close air support into the Red Wings plan, ensuring that both fixed- and rotary-wing CAS assets would be available to ground forces, should they need them. Wood tapped Casmer “Pigeon” Ratkowiak, ⅔’s air officer, to outline the specifics of the air side of Red Wings, although unlike the combined-arms assault they practiced back in Twentynine Palms, close air support would be included as an on-call asset only, like the howitzers of Doghouse. The reserved and complex Ratkowiak, a Marine F/A-18D Hornet aviator with nine hundred hours in the cockpit who was also trained as a forward air controller, would ensure that Army AH-64s would be ready as rotary-wing attack assets, that Air Force A-10 Thunderbolt II “Warthogs” would be able to provide fixed-wing CAS, that Air Force C-130s would be ready to parachute-drop CDS (containerized delivery system) packs for resupply of food, water, ammo, and other vital matériel, and that Task Force Sabre’s transport and air ambulance Chinooks and Blackhawks were prepped for their roles as well. Pigeon was also ready to both advise and to deconflict with conventional aviation assets any SOF air platforms, such as the TF-Brown’s MH-47s and the devastating Air Force Special Operations AC-130 gunships.
Communication, one of the central pillars of tactical operations, would prove particularly critical for Red Wings. With input from Kinser based on his experiences throughout the greater Pech region, the OpsO thought it best for ground units to use the “Cadillac” of commo gear, the PRC-117, as the lieutenant noted that other radios, particularly the PRC-148 MBITR (Multi-Band Inter/Intra Tactical Radio—pronounced “Em-Biter”) tended to hit “blackout” points and often couldn’t generate enough power to “bounce” a signal out of the region’s deep valleys. While it was not typically used for Marine Corps combat operations, the lieutenant also had experience with the Iridium satellite phone (which he and other Marines of Blessing used to call home from base) and noted that it was prone to peculiar blackout points as well, only working semireliably in Blessing from one small courtyard near the base’s COC. Powerful, capable of using a broad spectrum of networks including satellite communication (SATCOM), and able to encrypt both data and voice transmissions, the 117 virtually never failed. Those who carried the 117, however, knew it as a beast—big, heavy, and a power drain, requiring the portaging of a number of heavy lithium batteries along with the phone-book-size unit to stay in “good comms” with the rest of the battalion—as opposed to the small MBITR, about the size of a box of spaghetti, and just a few pounds, even with a spare battery.
Wood planned every aspect of phases three to five in meticulous detail, and made himself available to Kristensen during the SEAL lieutenant commander’s planning of phases one and two, even offering some information about clandestine mountain operations he’d gleaned from Eggers. Kristensen struck Wood as an uncompromising tactician, every bit as committed to the success of Red Wings and the safety of those on the ground as the OpsO. While confident in the abilities of Kristensen and other NAVSOF planners for their phases of Red Wings, Wood did question a few of their decisions. First, Wood assumed that their reconnaissance and surveillance team would insert by foot, departing from one of the villages in the Pech Valley, such as Watapor, which lay just twelve hours distant for a strong team like Ronin (traveling through the mountains, not on established roads or large trails). But, he learned, they would insert by helicopter, fastroping onto a spot just over a mile from NAIs 2, 3, and 4 on the saddle between Sawtalo Sar and its sister peak just to its south, Gatigal Sar, certainly alerting Shah and his men of the close presence of American forces, Wood thought. Kristensen noted, however, that TF-Brown would conduct nighttime “decoy drops” during the week leading up to the actual insert date (which still hadn’t been determined, pending final SIGINT hits positively identifying Shah’s location), “acclimatizing” Shah and the locals to helicopter activity in the region. Furthermore, Kristensen explained, TF-Brown would conduct a two-ship insert, with one craft actually deploying the reconnaissance and surveillance team, while the other undertook a series of low hovers over areas outlying Chichal and Korangal Village, intending to confuse Shah and his cell. This was a standard, and proven, SOF technique; but Wood still felt uneasy about a helo insert for phase one. The prime reason he brought in special operations forces to begin with was to guarantee air for the main direct-action hit and subsequent cordon—and to do the hit with maximum surprise. With a helo insert for phase one, he felt, the bad guys stood a huge chance of learning of American forces arriving in the area before the recon team even hit the ground—and long before they would get “eyes on” the target from OP-1.
The size of the recon team also bothered Wood. NAVSOF planners chose to insert just four men for phase one. The OpsO would also learn that the four had never operated in the Korangal and Sawtalo Sar area. From Kinser’s briefs, Wood knew that each small nook of the Hindu Kush held its own unique challenges, from the standpoints of terrain, weather, and the locals—and the challenges of the Korangal area revealed themselves to be of deadly serious proportions. Wood felt that the best chances of success came with a team of six, as he originally planned with Eggers and Team Ronin. Comms posed another issue; when asked about their communications gear, Tom learned that they would in fact not be carrying a 117, but an MBITR with a “Sat Fill” allowing the small five-watt radio (as opposed to the 117’s twenty watts) to utilize SATCOM with encryption. As a backup, the recon team would use an Iridium satellite phone, not a piece of comm gear Tom would approve for any of ⅔’s operations, particularly after hearing Kinser’s experiences with the unit at Camp Blessing, just eight air miles from Sawtalo Sar. Also related to potential communications problems, NAVSOF chose to command their phases of Red Wings from their COC in Bagram. While the SEALs would place liaisons at the JAF COC housing the Marine command—to ensure no “blue on blue” (fratricide) incidents, and to help coordinate any rescue attempt, should one be needed—Wood regarded this as an absolute, and potentially disastrous split of Red Wings’ command and control, not only a bifurcation of the employment of C2, but a physical separation of the two command elements. Regardless of his trepidations, however, Wood knew of the successes of NAVSOF teams, particularly in Afghanistan, and understood that their tactics, techniques, and procedures differed from those of conventional forces. Still, the details of the first two phases irked the fiery Marine Corps officer. He’d raised all his concerns with NAVSOF, but they seemed to have their strategy squared away—and the details of phases one and two were theirs to plan, not Wood’s. This just isn’t the way to put together an op, he thought. But it’s the only motherfucking way we can do it in this operational environment. Tom, whose father fought in Vietnam as a Marine—and who designated the Marine Corps University as his sole beneficiary should he die in Afghanistan—felt as if he was selling his soul to the “joint devil” just to get something as basic as air support (that he’d have with a snap of a finger and without any compromise in a MAGTF). Wood briefed the mission to higher command, directly to Kamiya himself. The major general asked just a few questions before approving the mission. Now the op just needed the final, decisive SIGINT hits, then Red Wings would launch.
“Bradley, we got something good here.” Kinser approached Corporal Justin Bradley, a six-foot-five-inch, 270-pound wall of concrete of a Marine from the mountains of northern Montana, on 22 June. “Just got word from higher that some big, high-speed op with Navy SEALs is goin’ down and we’re tasked with the inner cordon and security of the direct-action hit on some terrorist cell.”
“Sounds pretty cool, sir,” Bradley, the twenty-three-year-old leader of First Platoon’s First Squad replied in his typically relaxed drawl.
“I’m gonna hand-select the best of the platoon’s Marines for this—making twenty total, including me. It’s gonna be a fastrope insert somewhere in the upper Korangal or even the top of Sawtalo Sar, so we’re gonna have to get qualled [qualified] for fastrope.”
“But, sir, everyone in the platoon’s already qualled,�
�� Bradley responded with confused exasperation.
“Army doesn’t recognize our quals. We’ll have to go to Asadabad to get the qual, then we push out from there for the op.”
By that evening, Kinser had collected his group of nineteen that included Bradley; Bradley’s close friend from boot camp Corporal Cody Fisher (squad leader of Third Squad); William “Red” Davidson, a feisty expert in Marine Corps martial arts never without a golf-ball-size wad of tobacco between his lower lip and gum; the reserved but witty Lance Corporal Christopher Burgos; the utterly selfless Navy Corpsman HM3 Luis “Doc” Anaya; and Lance Corporal Kevin Joyce, who hailed from the Navajo Nation town of Window Rock, Arizona, and was the grand-son of one of the fabled Code Talkers of World War II.
The team of twenty arrived at Asadabad late in the afternoon of 24 June, just as Westerfield prepared to snap the final pieces of Shah’s intel picture into place. Having deciphered the extremist’s identity, his associates, his financial backing, and his general patterns of movement, Westerfield just waited on the last critical SIGINT hits to reach his desk so he could process the information and then enable the recon team to get their eyes on the exact set of homes and/or farmhouses to positively identify Shah.
That intel came, by way of the Army’s SIGINT teams, late in the evening of 24 June: on 26 June, Shah and members of his small cell would move to a location denoted simply as “11,” a farmhouse set a few meters off the Super Highway on the edge of some trees at the opening of a broad, gently sloping field on the northwest aspect of NAI-4, almost exactly two hundred meters to the south of the designated helicopter landing zone “Swift.” This is perfect, Westerfield thought, within direct line-of-sight of OP-1, almost exactly one mile from, and 250 meters lower in elevation than, the observation post. They’ll look right down on it. “Gotch-YOU!” Westerfield uttered menacingly as he poked his index finger onto the yellow-circled 11 on his Predator imagery sitting on his cluttered desk.
But at that point, the battalion really only had a plan set to go and intel that indicated Shah’s likely position on the night of the twenty-sixth. Wood and Westerfield knew all too well how the innumerable variables governing mission execution changed—changed—and changed again and again. The first changes would come just as Westerfield’s SIGINT rolled in: Task Force Brown, while able to support the reconnaissance and surveillance team, the direct-action hard-hit team, and Golf Company’s outer cordon, now wouldn’t be able to also support Kinser’s inner cordon unit—the timing just wouldn’t work. BUT, the moon would be shedding just enough illumination on the twenty-sixth—a day earlier than Wood initially projected to be the earliest launch date for Red Wings—to utilize Task Force Sabre’s Chinooks. Kinser and his team would still qual for Army fastrope, but conventional Chinooks, known by their call signs as the “Big Windys” would insert them, not the MH-47s. But then, just as two Chinooks roared into Asadabad on 25 June, word came that Sabre’s birds were too “tasked out,” and couldn’t support the insert of the twenty Marines. Kinser couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Sir, do we convoy back to Blessing now?” Bradley asked the lieutenant.
“I’m trying to get a grasp of what the fuck is going on here. At our level, we only have limited visibility on the overall mission,” the lieutenant said, then pondered for a moment. “I bet we walk in. The Chinooks go back to Bagram, we wait for a night convoy to Blessing, and then we walk into the Korangal or Shuryek as part of a blocking position. Fuck, I don’t know.” And then, perfectly on cue for what Kinser jokingly began calling “a saga of combat governed by stream of consciousness,” Kinser’s company commander radioed him that an intel pop indicated fifty ACM fighters had just passed through the border and were headed toward a terrorist training camp about two and a half miles to the northeast of the village of Matin. “That’s across the Pech River, way up on the side of some pretty steep mountains,” Kinser said to Bradley, who stared at the lieutenant with a smirk.
“Fifty terrorists, huh, sir?” the squad leader said as he wiped a slick of sweat off his brow. “Thought you said they usually run in teams of around four to eight at a time, never more than twelve.”
“That’s right. Fifty . . . come on. That intel is bullshit. The ACM do this all the time; they talk to each other over their ICOMs, saying that fifty or one hundred fighters have just arrived, fresh with training and arms from Pakistan, and that they’re planning some big attack—knowing full well that we’re listening to ’em. It’s just their ghetto-ass version of psyops [psychological operations], trying to scare us. It raised my hair the first time I heard it, but I learned to pretty much dismiss that trash after a few weeks of hearing it.” Kinser shook his head. “Guess the Army SIGINT guys picked up on that chatter, and now we got no choice but to move on it. So we wait to hear if one of the CAATs [Combined Anti-Armor Team, a convoy of heavy-weapons-fitted Humvees and troop transport Humvees] will pick us up and insert us. Then we go on a hunt for an enemy that doesn’t even exist. Fuck.”
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant Kinser,” Bradley began, trying to hold back laughter. “At least we have each other,” he enunciated slowly, moving his head back and forth as he gazed skyward.
“Go fuck yourself.” Kinser couldn’t help but laugh with everyone else. “And gimme one of those cigarettes, dammit,” he barked.
Within an hour, Kinser learned that his team wouldn’t be inserted at the base of the mountain by convoy after all—but by the very Chinooks on which they’d planned to practice fastroping. “So they can’t support us for this op, but I guess the consolation prize is they insert us for a goat rope in the hills on their way home. Hey, at least we’re in the mountains and we have guns. Fuckin’ love this shit. Bradley, get everyone ready to load up.”
“Okay, Girl Scouts! We’re about to go on a helicopter ride into the mountains in Afghanistan. How ’bout that? Check your weapons—condition one!”With a snap-click of a charging handle, each grunt checked that his weapon was condition 1: magazine inserted into the weapon’s well (or rounds in the feed trays of squad automatic weapons and M240s), round in the chamber, bolt forward, weapon on safe—ready to fire with a flick of a thumb on the fire selector. Drenched in sweat, the grunts hauled their gear up the loading ramp of the big Chinooks, the torrid blasts of jet exhaust knocking the wind out of some as they passed by the sides of the burly aircraft. Inside, the thwack-thwack-thwack of the chunky rotors spinning at idle added an almost soothing effect to the banshee whine of the engines and gearbox. Strapped down to the red webbing of the benches running the length of the “bird,” the grunts heard the engines spin up as the rear ramp rose off the ground a few feet, allowing the ramp gunner to drop his M240 light machine gun into its mount, then arm it with a hasty ker-CHUNK heave on the bolt. The side gunners armed their 240s as well, locking 7.62 mm rounds into place, and as two Task Force Sabre AH-64 Apache gunship escorts screamed past their flanks, the Big Windy pilots coaxed the two beasts into the air, as smoothly as a couple of helium balloons rising in a gentle morning breeze. As the helicopter’s rotors dug into the summer sky, lifting the Marines above the dusty landscape, cool puffs of air swirled through the side gun hatches. The Marines lifted the fronts of their helmets, getting a few spates of relief—Kinser measured the temperature inside the Chinook with a small thermometer attached to his flak jacket: 121 degrees Fahrenheit, and it was barely noon.
The grunts strained their necks to catch a glimpse out the rear of the Chinook. The door gunner, his restraint strap perfectly measured (and double-checked), sat with his legs dangled off the edge of the ramp, scanning side to side, looking for tracer rounds arcing up toward the craft from the ground. The Apaches, swinging back and forth relative to the straight flight line of the Chinook, kept even closer watch for ground threats through their targeting optics. Between the two ribbons of exhaust, the Marines could trace the path of the turquoise Kunar River as it struck west toward Nangarhar province, then once over the confluence of the Pech and the Kunar, the aircraft banked
west, into the steep-walled Pech Valley. Kinser, forever in love with the ground “side of the show,” felt mildly envious of military aviators, getting to see the complex landscape from an eagle’s perspective, day in and day out. At an altitude well below the highest ridges and summits of the mountains framing the narrow Pech, the side and ramp gunners now craned their necks upward as well as side to side, as with each thwack of the helicopter’s blades, they drew farther into territory roamed by the enemy, an enemy often intimately familiar with all those ridges and peaks under which the Chinooks streaked.
Their target sighted—a single mud-brick-and-stone building on the side of a grassy slope—the pilots spun the craft around, dropped each Chinook’s loading ramp as the rear gunners detached their 240s, and the aviators gently connected the edges of the ramps with the steep slope. “MOVE—FUCKIN’ GIRL SCOUTS! Get out and hold perimeter!” Bradley roared over the stentorian scream of the jet engines. The grunts bolted onto the steep ground, spellbound at the expertise of the Army aviators—the rearmost aspect of the aft rotors spun just feet above the slope, the Chinooks’ landing gear dangling in the air; only the helicopters’ ramps made contact with the ground. Overhead, the Apaches carved tight arcs through the sky, the pilots always keeping their eyes on the ground below, ready to unleash their crafts’ 30 mm canons and 2.75-inch Hydra rockets on any threat that popped up.
“Damn, that’s fuckin’ amazing,” Burgos muttered to himself at the sight of the Chinooks “backed into” the mountain, the rotor wash blowing small tornadoes in the long, flowing, green grass. “How the hell do they do that without crashing?” he asked Kinser.
“Very carefully, that’s how. They’re fucking badasses. Wish they could support us for that op we were gonna do.” With twenty cases of MREs and fifty cases of bottled water off-loaded, the Chinooks’ pilots spun the engines up and eased the two birds back into the heights, disappearing into the eastern distance with the Apaches, leaving only the sounds of gentle breezes on the airy slope—and some ringing in the grunts’ ears.
