No Way Out

by Mitch Weiss

  Morales’s father, Luis Gilberto Morales, followed in his father’s footsteps. After graduating from North Carolina State University in Raleigh, Gilberto enlisted in 1976 and attended officer candidate school. As a young second lieutenant, he served as an artillery officer in the 82nd Airborne.

  His early days in the military were hectic. He had married his college girlfriend, Sharon Weers, a Colorado girl with bright red hair, and started a family. Like many military families, Gilberto’s moved from base to base. His first child, Luis Geraldo Morales, was born while Gilberto was stationed at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.

  During his early childhood, Morales and his younger brother spent a good deal of time at Fort Bragg, a sprawling military base in Fayetteville, North Carolina. One of the largest military complexes in the world, Fort Bragg was home to the 82nd Airborne and Special Forces, including the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School, which trains Green Berets.

  It also was where his grandparents had retired. They bought a house near Fort Bragg in Spring Lake and his grandfather became an important figure in Morales’s life. He filled young Morales’s head with stories about his exploits in the Korean War. And when he visited the base, Guillermo always seemed to be greeted warmly by soldiers who would laugh while they reminisced about their days in his unit.

  Morales was proud of his father—especially during “All-American Week,” when soldiers of the 82nd Airborne would conduct public training demonstrations on the base. Holding his mother’s hand, young Morales was spellbound at the sight of his father and other paratroopers dropping from the sky during training exercises. He knew from that moment he wanted to be in the Army.

  When he was a teenager, his father landed a job at the Pentagon and moved the family to Fredericksburg, Virginia. For Morales, it meant starting over. But shortly after enrolling at James Monroe High School, he met Katherine Barksdale—and his life changed. She was outgoing, a perky, pretty blonde. Morales was quiet but handsome, with thick biceps and powerful legs from running and playing soccer. He had a bright smile, and loved fast cars and action movies. They would sit in the bleachers and talk for hours about their friends and family. They dated off and on for the rest of high school, but inside, Morales knew she was “the one.”

  As he was nearing graduation in 1996, Morales had to decide about his future. There was no pressure from his family. They were always supportive. In his heart, he knew he didn’t want to go to college, and when a recruiter who had been trying to get him to enlist for years called, he knew it was time.

  Morales decided that if he was going to enlist, he wanted to be part of something special: an Army Ranger. While training would be long and arduous, Morales welcomed the challenge and was confident he could excel. He told himself over and over again that a Morales never quits, never fails.

  To get ready, he trained hard. He began running longer distances and lifting more weights. He wanted to be in the best shape of his life.

  He was eighteen when he reported to basic training in September 1996. And after basic, he joined the Rangers for even more training. The whole time, though, he thought of Katherine. Before he left, they had started dating again. And during the Ranger Indoctrination Program, known as RIP, he kept a photograph of her pinned inside his patrol cap. He didn’t have it laminated, so he covered the picture with Scotch tape to waterproof it. Whenever things got rough—whenever he felt so exhausted he couldn’t move—he would lift his hat and take a peek at the portrait of Katherine. And this would give him the inspiration to keep going.

  Ranger school was divided into three phases—each one three weeks long—and during his downtime, he daydreamed of Katherine. One day, he reached a conclusion: He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. So a few months after graduating Ranger school and joining the 1st Ranger Battalion, Morales headed with a buddy to a mall in Savannah, Georgia, where he was stationed. When they arrived, Morales told him he was going to buy Katherine an engagement ring. He picked out a gold band with a half-carat diamond, which he financed. If he was going to do it, he wanted a ring that stood out.

  On a chilly October night in 1998, he took Katherine on a dinner cruise on the Savannah River. Before he left the base to pick her up, he made sure he stuffed a small box with the ring in his pocket. During dinner, they made small talk, but the tough young Ranger was uncharacteristically nervous. Would she say yes? What if she said no? It would be embarrassing, especially in front of everyone on a cruise ship. As the boat slipped under the Savannah River Bridge, with the brilliant night skyline of the city in the background, he pulled out the box with the ring, reached for her hand, and knelt. When she saw the glittering stone, she jumped up and wrapped her arms around him. It was yes. They were married a few months later.

  It was an exciting time in his life. He was married to his high school sweetheart and was being deployed overseas for training missions. In a three-year span, he was deployed to Botswana, Germany, and Egypt. He loved being a Ranger. They were a band of brothers; all young, in top physical shape, and poised for action. Eventually Morales moved up in rank to sergeant.

  But the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, changed his life.

  He watched news accounts of hijacked planes smashing into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. He was outraged when the buildings collapsed, killing thousands. He was angry when he saw a hijacked plane slam into the Pentagon. He knew that building—his father had worked there for years and he had visited many times. He was riveted to the television when newly elected president George W. Bush visited Ground Zero and promised to avenge the deaths of innocent Americans.

  And Morales began hearing the names Osama bin Laden, Al Qaeda, and Afghanistan over and over again. Like many Americans, he learned that Afghanistan had been taken over by the Taliban—Islamic extremists—and the Taliban allowed Al Qaeda to set up training camps for the extremists that attacked the United States.

  Morales knew it was a matter of time before the United States would strike back. So he began prepping about Afghanistan, because he was certain that one day, he would be deployed there to fight terrorism.

  He knew this conflict—the one the president called the War on Terror—was a noble one, much like World War II, where the “greatest generation” fought against evil. Unlike Vietnam, a conflict with no clear-cut objective that became more and more unpopular with the public as casualties mounted, the War on Terror had a clear goal with villains straight out of central casting. The most notorious: Osama bin Laden, a sullen, bearded, rifle-toting Islamic revolutionary who created the terrorist network known as Al Qaeda, which planned the attacks. In the aftermath of the destruction, America was united in a way that it had not been in years, and overwhelmingly supported invading Afghanistan to kill bin Laden and his terrorist followers and dismantle the Taliban government.

  If there was an invasion, Morales wanted to be part of it. That’s what soldiers do—fight in wars. It took a while, though, for Morales to be deployed to a war zone.

  In 2003, Morales was sent to Korea. As his yearlong deployment was winding down, he received orders to return to Fort Benning, Georgia. Disappointed, he bumped into a Special Forces recruiter in Korea who asked him if he wanted to join the Green Berets. Morales didn’t hesitate. He knew they were an elite group of soldiers who specialized in unconventional warfare, and that much like the Rangers, only a few were selected. More importantly, they were always being rotated in and out of Iraq and Afghanistan.

  To join Special Forces would be the ultimate challenge. He understood the rich history of the Green Berets, and the role Special Forces played in stopping the spread of communism, and how the focus had shifted to battling terrorism.

  In the late 1950s and early 1960s, Soviet- and Chinese-sponsored Communist insurgencies flared up against Western governments in Asia, Africa, and Latin America. Numerous failures by the CIA to counter these revolutions led President John F. Kennedy to turn to Special Forces, which was formed in 1952.

  K
ennedy was elected in 1960, in part because of his cold war stance. A hard-liner, Kennedy claimed the United States was losing the arms race to the Soviets in what the Democratic candidate characterized as a “missile gap.”

  A war hero and student of military affairs, Kennedy had developed an interest in counterinsurgency—the art and method of defeating guerrilla movements. He knew Special Forces soldiers were the ideal vehicle for implementing such missions, and began sending them to problem areas. One of the first places they were deployed: South Vietnam, where they were used to help fight North Vietnam guerrillas, known as the Viet Cong, who were threatening to topple the U.S.-supported regime in Saigon.

  Kennedy’s interest in Special Forces led to the adoption of a green beret as the official headgear of Special Forces. Preparing for a visit to the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg in October, 1961, Kennedy sent word to the center’s commander for all Special Forces soldiers to wear green berets as part of the event. The president believed that since they had a special mission, Special Forces should have something to set them apart from other fighting units.

  Kennedy called the green beret a “symbol of excellence. A badge of courage. A mark of distinction in the fight for freedom.” Soon it became synonymous with Special Forces and, with Kennedy’s support, new outfits began to emerge, including Morales’s unit: 3rd Special Forces Group.

  Special Forces had become an iconic symbol of battle-hardened soldiers fighting communism, thanks in part to Barry Sadler’s hit song, “The Ballad of the Green Berets,” in 1966. With lyrics like: Fighting soldiers from the sky. Fearless men who jump and die, the tune became a recruiter’s dream. The same year, John Wayne starred in a movie about Green Berets “fighting commies” in the jungles of Vietnam. It was based on the best-selling nonfiction book by Robin Moore, The Green Berets.

  The group’s stellar reputation continued to grow over the years, and with wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the military was depending more and more on Special Forces to hunt insurgents and train Afghan and Iraqi soldiers. But constant deployments were taxing what was a relatively small force, making it imperative that more Special Forces soldiers be trained more quickly.

  At the heart of Special Forces were the small, twelve-member teams known as Operational Detachment Alpha (ODA). Each team had a commander who was an officer, an assistant commander who was a warrant officer, and a noncommissioned officer in charge. In addition, the teams usually had two weapons sergeants, communications sergeants, medical sergeants, engineering sergeants, and an intelligence sergeant.

  Designed to spend months deep within hostile territory, the units had to learn how to survive on their own without extensive resupply from the outside. They were cross-trained in one another’s specialties, and many spoke at least one foreign language.

  So picking the right men was critical.

  To even be considered, Morales had to prove he was worthy. The only way to do that was by attending Selection at Fort Bragg. Selection was brutal. It was a series of exhaustive tests over a three-week period to determine which soldiers had the physical and mental toughness to wear a green beret. Morales knew he would be tested for strength, endurance, intelligence, and if he showed that he could handle the pressure, would be picked and move on to Special Forces training known as the qualification course.

  Morales sailed through Selection, and spent a year in training before being deployed to Afghanistan in 2006. During that nearly yearlong tour, he saw little action—just one firefight when insurgents launched an RPG at Humvees in a convoy.

  Most of the time, 3rd Special Forces Group and Morales’s ODA were stationed at a forward operating base in Gardēz, helping train the Afghan National Police. Gardēz was a city of seventy thousand inhabitants built along a river in a mountain valley at an elevation of about 7,600 feet. Like most of Afghanistan, the area was poor. The population was overwhelmingly Pashtun, and Gardēz was a stronghold of the Taliban. In addition, the inhabitants were divided into tribes—many of which were involved in feuds with each other that dated back generations. Rival warlords still maintained private armies in the area.

  To Morales, it seemed that his team had spent most of the year visiting villages, trying to collect intelligence, and quelling potential tribal disputes. Keeping the peace. Not the most exciting deployment. He was surprised that the team wasn’t going out on missions to hit targets.

  But that all changed during his second tour, which began in September 2007. The makeup of ODA 3336 changed. Scott Ford had become the noncommissioned officer in charge. He was a no-nonsense, tough-as-nails leader—just what the team needed. He preached the basics: Be prepared. Do things the right way during training and maneuvers. It will keep you alive in the field. And he was quick to get in your face if you fell out of line. Kyle Walton was the new team captain. Like Ford, he was aggressive. A West Point graduate, he had served several tours in Iraq.

  Now the team had a new philosophy: They were going to be aggressive.

  They were going to plan missions to go after the bad guys.

  That’s why they were in Afghanistan in the first place.

  Kick ass.

  Take no prisoners.

  Morales liked the new tone.

  First, though, they had to train Afghan commandos who would accompany them on missions. For two months, Morales’s team taught the commandos the basics of warfare. It was an accelerated course that covered everything from intelligence gathering to driving Humvees in convoys. His unit had taken the commandos on several missions, and they faced some resistance. But no one was killed or wounded.

  Morales knew those missions paled in comparison to the planned Shok Valley operation. This would be a real test for the commandos—maybe even for his team. He knew how Ford and Walton felt about Operation Commando Wrath: It was a potential death trap.

  And so after all these years, here he was, at the airfield surrounded by his fellow soldiers and commandos. Waiting for word about whether the most dangerous mission of his career was a go. He was ready to light up a cigarette when he saw Walton heading in his direction. And as soon as he glimpsed Walton’s face, he knew the answer.

  3

  Specialist Michael D. Carter

  Rummaging through his camera bag, Specialist Michael D. Carter wanted to make sure he had all the equipment he needed for the mission.

  His Nikon D2X?

  Check.

  His Sony PD170 video camera?

  Check.

  His batteries?

  Check.

  It was all there, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Maybe it was because the Special Forces guys had forced him to “strip down” his bulky equipment bag filled with cameras. They laughed when they spotted it, and told Carter he didn’t need all that gear—not where he was headed. Not when he was going to be climbing up a mountain to reach an enemy compound built on top of a cliff.

  Carter wasn’t exactly sure where he was headed. He only knew it was someplace called the Shok Valley. But he could tell from glancing at the guys—the way they were pacing and chain-smoking cigarettes—that this was no routine mission. He could sense it was dangerous, and it just figured. This was his last assignment before heading home. That’s just the way it goes sometimes. The luck of the draw, Carter thought as he stood near the flight line waiting to board a CH-47 Chinook, a twin-engine, heavy-lift helicopter used to move troops, artillery, supplies, and equipment on the battlefield.

  He had been in a “homeward-bound state of mind” when another combat cameraman, Staff Sergeant Corey Dennis, contracted pinkeye. Carter was his replacement, and he didn’t mind accompanying troops one last time. He had been in Afghanistan for nearly a year, and enjoyed his job. He had gone on dozens of missions, taking photos and videos of soldiers “at work in the field,” and providing pictures and video to help combat commanders plan missions.

  Carter was hardworking, and his commanders thought highly of the tall, wiry, quiet, clean-cut Texan with the r
ound glasses. With cameras dangling around his neck, he looked like a throwback to another era—not someone from the digital age. But Carter was part of a lineage of photographers whose roots stretched back more than 150 years.

  Photographers had been on battlefields since the Civil War when Mathew Brady supervised a corps of shooters to follow troops and document the war on a grand scale. In the 1860s, photography was still a relatively new art form, and many of his photographs captured the “terrible reality and earnestness of war” with stark, sobering shots of corpses rotting in farm fields after battles. At the time, it was startling for the public to view such images.

  After the Civil War, the military discovered that photography could be a useful tool. To many, combat cameramen are the unseen frontline warriors and their work can be viewed on nightly news shows or while watching one of the many documentaries containing archival combat footage.

  But Carter’s job was more than just documenting history. It was dangerous. A member of the 55th Signal Company, Carter knew each embed was risky. Since 2003, nearly a half-dozen combat cameramen had been awarded the Purple Heart, and more than thirty soldiers had received the Bronze Star during missions in Afghanistan and Iraq. Carter had been lucky. He hadn’t been in any major firefights and he didn’t want his luck to change now. Not when he was so close to the end of his tour.

  He took a deep breath and sighed, then snapped a few frames. He had arrived at the base a day earlier, and didn’t get much sleep. Now, with all his nervous energy, he was trying to find a way to kill time before boarding the Chinook. His job was nothing like the movies, where combat cameramen always seemed to be jumping on helicopters or riding in Jeeps, darting from village to village, taking photos of firefights that would somehow end up on the front pages of major American newspapers. In contrast, Carter rarely said a word as he snapped pictures in relative anonymity.

  And he liked it that way.