No Way Out

by Mitch Weiss

  Good move, he thought.

  14

  Staff Sergeant David Sanders

  He was new to the team, but this is where Staff Sergeant David Sanders had wanted to be all along. Even if that meant being in a remote valley far from home.

  It had been a long journey for Sanders from Hunstville, Alabama, to the Shok Valley. An only child, Sanders grew up in a community nicknamed “The Rocket City” for its close history with U.S. space missions. Located in the Tennessee River Valley, it’s an area nestled in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains with rivers, natural springs, and caves. As a child, Sanders loved to explore the outdoors, but had no interest in joining the military. That all changed with the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001.

  At the time, he was in high school. But watching the images of the death and destruction on U.S. soil made him want to get involved. So when, during his senior year, the United States invaded Iraq, he decided he was going to enlist. Caught up in the patriotic fervor, he knew he wanted to serve his country. Something inside told him it was the right thing to do.

  It was 2004 when he joined the Army Reserves as an intelligence analyst. He had completed one semester at the University of Alabama in Huntsville. But he decided to drop out. He wanted to go to war but was in a quandary. The unit he joined had already deployed a few years before and wasn’t slated to go again anytime soon. He discovered that reserve duty was pretty much meeting up and going to lunch on the weekends. So he went back to school for another semester and decided to go to Special Forces Selection.

  He came in on an 18X contract, which essentially guarantees a new recruit the opportunity to “try out” for Special Forces. After being selected, he was trained as an engineer and signed on with 3rd Special Forces Group well after they left for Afghanistan. The clerk, when he arrived at the headquarters on Fort Bragg, asked him if he wanted to deploy.

  “You ready to deploy now?”

  Sanders didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Okay. In ten days we’ll have you on a flight.”

  He was finally on the cusp of making it to a war zone to fight the terrorists who promised more attacks on the United States. It had taken him from July 2004 to November 2007 to get to the point where he could deploy. And he was relieved to finally answer the call.

  When he arrived in Afghanistan, he just wanted to fit in with the team. As the new guy in the unit, he kept his mouth shut and listened.

  He went on his first live mission in early January 2008. It was nothing exciting—a routine reconnaissance patrol. For three days, they drove in the desert. At one point, a truck broke down and they had to wait for a part to be dropped off. After they resumed the trip, they ended up in a village where they talked to some locals for a few hours. Then they turned around and headed back to the base. That was it. Most of his time was spent in a Humvee.

  The next mission was a little more exciting—and Special Forces–like, he thought. In the middle of the night, his team and commandos dropped into a village and busted an opium-processing facility. He knew that in Afghanistan terrorists helped finance their operations by selling drugs. The hills were some of the most fertile in the world for growing opium poppies, whose seeds were extracted to make the most addictive drugs on the black market. Opium is the source of many opiates, including morphine, codeine, and heroin. After the mission, when he had time to reflect, he thought: This is why I joined.

  But he knew that was just a warm-up for the Shok Valley. And now, as he was walking the trail to the enemy compound, he wanted to make sure he did everything right. It didn’t matter that he had only been there a short time. There was no room for error.

  15

  Walding

  Walding leaped off the helicopter and tried to take a knee in the rock-strewn wadi. As the rest of his element scrambled to join him, he scanned the high mountains that seemed to box in the valley floor.

  Well, this is going to suck, he thought.

  The valley cut a sharp V in the direction of the villages of Shok and Kendal. The mountains rose high into the sky, almost cutting off the sun, and the sheer rock faces offered no cover.

  The massive green Chinook helicopters and their smaller, faster Black Hawk cousins dropped off their “chalks” of Special Forces soldiers and commandos and soared back into the safety of the sky. Walding looked at the ground trying to cover his face as the dirt swirled around him. Once the echoes of the beating rotors faded, a silence fell like a blanket over the valley. It was almost spooky, Walding thought. He could hear murmurs from the others. The quiet was unnerving. But it was soon replaced by the command to move out.

  “Let’s go,” Walding yelled to his commandos.

  Walding, Morales, and Sanders led assault one forward. Behind them were Walton, Behr, Carter, Rhyner, and CK. They were the command and control element, essentially the brain, and Ford, Howard, Williams, and the others were in the last group.

  For the next several minutes, groups of American soldiers and their Afghan counterparts formed up into groups and began looking for a path up the mountain and into the villages. Overhead, Apache helicopters and F-15 jets were talking to the soldiers, trying to find them the best route up the mountain. As they crisscrossed the sky, the pilots searched for enemy fighters, waiting to pounce at the first sign of trouble.

  The walk from the landing zone to the path leading to the village took about thirty minutes. They moved forward in a line—commandos in their green uniforms were separated every few men by a tan-clad Special Forces soldier. ODA 3336 was in the lead. Farther down was ODA 3312, led by Lodyga. Their mission was to cover ODA 3336 as they scaled the mountain into the village where Ghafour was supposed to be hiding.

  The wadi looked more like a rock quarry than a place where people lived. If that wasn’t bad enough, Walding and his group ran up on a river of icy white water. Moving down the bank, they found a narrow two-by-four that offered the only dry way across. Walding stepped on it, testing to make sure it could hold him. But halfway across, he realized he wasn’t going to make it, and fell in the river. The water engulfed him all the way up to his chest, soaking his uniform and equipment and sending a chill through his entire body.

  Slapping the water in anger, he scrambled up the other side and waited for the others. Like ants marching, the other soldiers and commandos crossed one by one. Many were already wet and cold, and they didn’t want to risk hypothermia. But all knew that one well-placed machine gun would wipe them out. So they hurried across. Walding felt uneasy when they passed a building—more like a big goat barn—near the base of the hill under the village. It was empty.

  They took a few more steps and the blocking positions broke off, with Wurzbach leading one and Staff Sergeant Sean Mason the other.

  Sanders, Walding, and Morales stood at the base of the cliff, staring up. On top of towering cliffs overlooking the valley stood stout buildings made of rock, mud, and logs. More like castles than houses, some of the buildings were built straight into the cliff face.

  Morales glimpsed some people running with guns at the lip of the cliff. They wore the long shirt and baggy pants of the region and soon disappeared behind some rocks. Sanders and Walding pressed their scopes to their faces and scanned, in vain, hoping to spot the gunmen.

  “I can’t see anybody,” Walding said. Neither could Sanders.

  Not wanting to be stuck in the wadi, Walding led the first group up the trail. Sanders was at the rear as they started up the path—a switchback—that zigzagged up the mountain. This was their second attempt. The first route had been too steep. The second wasn’t much better. It was more like erosion levels than an actual trail. But it was the only way up to the compound. Wald-ing’s hands hurt, and he cut them on the jagged edges as he hoisted himself up with all his equipment. Shit. If we meet any resistance, we’re fucked. There’s no cover, he thought.

  As he climbed, Walding used his scope to peer at the compound. He hoped to get his bearings before he reached the outskirts of
the village. He wanted to see what they were facing. But from his current angle, it was impossible to see all the buildings. There were just too many of them—and some were hidden by layers of ridgelines that jutted out of the mountain.

  When he finally reached the top, he spotted a rock wall at the bank of a ditch on the edge of the village. Racing over to it, he and Sanders set up behind it and tried to catch their breath. The commandos fanned out around the Americans. Everybody was tired and wet. It had taken about an hour. It was grueling. But they had made it to the top.

  16

  Behr

  The valley floor was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  When the helicopters disappeared, so did the noise. Behr didn’t notice it at first. He was too busy staring at the rugged terrain, trying to secure his footing on the treacherous landscape. He had to watch every step. A twisted ankle was the last thing he needed on a mission, which could happen if he wasn’t careful. It seemed like rocks covered every square inch of the valley floor. There were beige-colored ones the size of baseballs and softballs and boulders, and others that looked sturdy until you stepped on them. Then the rocks would either sink in the muck by the fast-flowing river or would teeter back and forth, tossing soldiers who couldn’t keep their balance.

  It was just another unexpected twist to the mission. Like many of the soldiers, Behr had studied the satellite images, which made the mountains appear ordinary. There was nothing to suggest just how steep they were, or how the surrounding peaks towered over the Shok Valley. That was the first thing that struck Behr after he jumped off the Chinook. You got to be kidding, he thought. They almost needed climbing harnesses and climbing rope and carabiners and even climbing holds to make it to their objective. These mountains were part of the Hindu Kush, with some of the highest elevations in the world. It should have been expected.

  But as daunting as the terrain was, it was more unsettling to Behr that he didn’t hear noise. Something just doesn’t feel right, he thought. There was a compound built into the mountains. It was a little after 7 a.m. From intelligence reports, he knew people lived there. He should be able to hear some clatter in the distance. Maybe the baaaaa of goats. Or villagers talking. Instead, the valley was still.

  As he moved toward the objective, Behr noticed that Carter was snapping pictures of the mountains.

  “Man, they’re beautiful,” said Carter, momentarily breaking the silence.

  Behr nodded in agreement. They were breathtaking—if you didn’t have to scale sheer rock faces with an automatic weapon and sixty pounds of equipment strapped to your back. Stay focused, he thought.

  When they reached the base of the mountain where the targets were located, the soldiers split into teams. Behr’s squad of Walton, Carter, CK, and Rhymer followed Morales, Walding, and Sanders up the terraces leading to the compound.

  The climb was strenuous, and they moved slowly and steadily as they edged up the mountain. Soon Morales, Walding, and Sanders disappeared from sight. Behr’s unit, though, was still struggling. And there were times when Behr didn’t know if he could take another step. But he kept pushing and pushing—just like he did during Selection. He wasn’t going to give up.

  They had been climbing for what seemed like an hour and were about halfway up the mountain when he heard Morales’s voice crackle over the radio.

  [Part 2]

  CONTACT

  17

  Morales

  The valley had erupted in an unrelenting wall of fire.

  A few minutes earlier, Morales had reached a position where he could see the village. Before he took another step, he glimpsed a man running between buildings with a sandbag over his shoulder—a sign he had an RPG. Seconds later, he observed three more people running—and they all had AK-47s.

  Man, I just went through this thing two weeks ago when I shot the dude in the gut, Morales thought.

  He knew what to do. He propped up his M4. Zeroed in on the targets. He took a second to warn his team: “I got three bad guys running with guns,” he said over the radio.

  Then Morales squeezed the trigger and fired several rounds, hitting two insurgents.

  Now his team was in the middle of a firefight—unlike anything he had ever experienced.

  “Holy shit,” Morales shouted.

  Bullets were flying everywhere, mostly coming from the surrounding high ground. Morales turned and saw Carter standing next to him. Instinctively, he slammed Carter against the rocks for protection. He knew they had to find cover fast because there was no protection where they were standing.

  “You climb up and I’ll cover you,” Morales told Carter.

  Morales kept firing while the team moved to a ledge above. I hope there’s cover up there, he thought. The attack was extremely well coordinated. He could hear the sharp, nonstop crack-crack-crack-crack-crack of AK-47s and PKM machines guns, and the thunder of RPGs exploding below. The rounds came from all directions. The insurgents had been waiting for them.

  In training, Morales was taught that in a firefight, you move forward not back. So when all the men were up on the ledge, he climbed to the next terrace. But when he made it, he glanced at Carter, who was trying to drag a soldier in a tan uniform. The soldier was facedown in the dirt. Bullets were kicking up dirt near them.

  Morales’s heart was racing. What the fuck? he thought.

  18

  Behr

  Behr had been in firefights before but nothing like this. The attack was something out of a Hollywood war movie. The barrage was sustained, coordinated, and professional. It was coming from mud-colored buildings on ledges forty feet directly above them. It was coming from ridgelines on a mountain directly across the wadi. It was coming from every direction. Bullets whizzed by their heads and impacted within inches of their feet. His team was clearly in the enemy’s crosshairs.

  Shit, I have to find cover, he thought.

  Behr kept firing his rifle as he looked for protection. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Walton and CK, who’d found shelter in a crevice along a thirty-foot-high rock face that ran the length of the ledge. But when Behr tried to fit in, he discovered there wasn’t enough room for all of them. His lower body was exposed, and bullets kicked up dirt near his feet.

  At that point, Behr knew he would get hit in the foot or leg if he stayed there. This isn’t going to work.

  So he made a quick decision: He stepped out from the wall, took a knee, and started shooting his M4 in the direction of the heaviest fire while he turned his head from side to side looking for cover. But there was no safe spot—at least as far as he could see.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  Here he was, in the open—a perfect target, he thought. And that’s when he felt a sharp pain in his pelvis—a sensation that sent shock waves through his entire body. It was excruciating and Behr had a high threshold for pain. In training, a sergeant had used a fifty-thousand-volt Taser on him and other recruits to show how effective it was in controlling unruly people. Behr held up better than most recruits; he didn’t drop to the floor like some of the others. But this pain was different. It was the equivalent of being Tased and smashed on the hip with a baseball bat at the same time. He was prostrate on the ground while bullets continued to fly over his head.

  “Oh, shit. I just got shot,” he screamed.

  He wasn’t sure anyone heard him over the noise. But at that moment he knew he was “combat ineffective.” He was useless. Unable even to lift his rifle, Behr was bleeding profusely. His whole body still reverberated from the shot, and he couldn’t move his right leg at all. An hour into the mission and only minutes into the firefight, his limb was dead—and he knew the round had hit a dangerous part of the body. The pelvis contains a number of arteries, including the femoral. If the femoral had been severed, he would die within minutes. Was he bleeding out? He couldn’t be sure. Shurer would know, but he was down in the wadi with Ford. And with the heavy fire, would Shurer even make it up the hill to treat him? Just then, he
heard a voice.

  “Hey, Dillon,” Carter said. “Hang in there, man. It’s going to be okay.”

  Carter grabbed Behr under his left shoulder and tried to move him out of the line of fire. But within seconds, Behr felt another sharp pain—this one in his right biceps. He had been shot again. Unlike the pelvic wound, though, this round went straight through without hitting bone. Still, his biceps was bleeding and would need to be treated.

  A moment later, Behr heard Morales’s voice. “We need to get Ron up here. Fast,” he said.

  19

  Carter

  After they dragged Behr to safety, Carter turned his head from side to side, looking for cover. But again, nothing. Murphy’s Law. What could go wrong will go wrong, Carter thought. He had a point. This was his last mission. And while he had been in combat before, it was nothing like this. This was serious shit.

  He knew he was in trouble when, after climbing up on the ledge, he couldn’t find any cover. He was in the open. With bullets impacting the dirt and ricocheting off the rocks, he fired his weapon at insurgents scurrying around above him. It was all happening so fast.

  When he spotted Walton and CK trying to huddle against a rock wall, he ran in their direction. But when he was a few feet away, he saw CK crumble to the ground. Blood was spilling from his neck and head. He had been hit by at least one round and wasn’t moving.

  “Holy fucking shit,” Carter yelled.

  He turned around and instinctively started firing his rifle. He didn’t know if his rounds were even hitting anyone. But he was angry and continued to unload to protect their position.

  Without warning, he felt a bullet rip through his rucksack. At first he thought he was shot. He felt liquid dripping down his back, and thought it was blood. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he shouted. But when he began frantically touching his back to feel for the wound, he discovered it was water, not blood, soaking his uniform. The round had penetrated the side of his rucksack, piercing his camera bag. It smashed his camera, batteries, and water bottles. (It felt like warm water because the bullet heated up the bottles.) But his equipment may have saved his life.