by Dalton Fury
The team members made themselves comfortable, put on their NVGs, and almost immediately spotted a pickup truck one ridgeline over to their west, flashing its lights on and off, signaling someone, somewhere.
An AC-130 gunship was already on station, orbiting in a tight circular pattern. Pope smiled at Lowblow and keyed the radio hand mike, his altitude sickness forgotten. He directed the Spectre’s attention toward the ridgeline where the truck was sitting and blinking, and asked for the AC-130 to “burn” the area with their onboard infrared spotlight. The gunship quickly found its prey, and Pope cleared it hot. A couple of 105mm howitzer rounds boomed out of the plane, followed by some sawing chain gun action for good measure, and the truck was ready for the junkyard.
The half-dozen men of Kilo Team had managed to slip inside al Qaeda’s perimeter and were now the commandos farthest into the mountains. In doing so, they had found one heck of a location for their OP and had beautiful sightlines into al Qaeda’s longtime sanctuary. Even through the green tint of their NVGs, the view was breathtaking and intimidating. Throughout the night the two Delta snipers and one British commando would work fire mission after fire mission, directing air strikes on known and suspected positions, while the other three Brits protected their teammates from any unannounced enemy appearances.
A savvy reader might notice here Pope didn’t have a qualified ground force air controller with his team. A GFAC is the guy whom the military has blessed off on-certified-to talk to and control multiple aircraft at various altitudes and clear them to drop bombs on the bad guys. When MSS Grinch inserted, we only had two air force combat controllers, the Admiral and Spike, and even though one of the Brits with Pope on the Kilo Team was qualified, the vast battlefield begged for more. We requested two additional GFACs and they arrived in short order, but we had to wait for future infils to capitalize on their skills.
Pope had recognized that potential liability a very long time ago. As a Delta team leader he enjoyed great liberty as to what skills he wanted his men to learn or to sustain during their training at home. He could take them on a long-range sniper-hunting trip where the daily kills were gutted, skinned, cleaned, and roasted over an open fire. Or maybe take in a fun-packed off-road driving school where brightly colored soupedup Humvees were delicately maneuvered over boulders the size of sports cars. They could opt for some fingernail-biting level-5 technical rock climbing at some ritzy venue or even go kayaking bare-chested in the hot summer temperatures of the Texas Panhandle. Anything to make the Delta operator more valuable in an unforeseen future mission was available.
With the world of possibilities at his feet, Pope chose close air support training-fixed-wing CAS-and didn’t have to leave Fort Bragg to do it. For several weeks in a row, Pope and Kilo Team latched on to the Admiral, the air force combat controller attached to the reconnaissance troop, piled into ATVs, and headed for the local bomb-impact areas to sharpen up their skills. Needless to say, Pope wasn’t too popular for that, at least until they found themselves in a place called Tora Bora. The members of his team were fully versed in the finer points of terminal guidance operations. It’s not rocket science, but it might as well be. Pope himself, Lowblow, Jester, and Dugan were as valuable as any air force special tactics combat controller available. They knew it, and so did we, which is why Pope was told that he could make do without a GFAC.
Being able to have eyes up on the ridgelines, deep in al Qaeda’s lines, to see over and down into the next valley or across to the next ridgeline, was priceless. About a thousand meters to the east of Kilo Team, Jackal Team had found a position above the steep side of a long and twisting valley and enjoyed an awesome view for roughly a mile that pierced right through the middle of al Qaeda’s defensives.
With both Jackal and Kilo teams now in positions high up on two commanding ridgelines, the tide was turning.
The snipers determined their own locations to within ten meters by using their GPSs. Next, they used laser range finders to fix the location of the target they wanted to attack. This provided distance and direction, as well as a grid location. Before the data could be packaged inside a modified fire mission-or “solution”-and radioed to the pilots upstairs, the operators had to make one final, and very critical, calculation. The multimilliondollar aircraft above did not accept simple grid coordinates. So the data obtained with the laser rangers first had be converted to latitude and longitude coordinates, the same delicate frustration that Jester and Dugan had been dealing with for days up in OP25-A.
A handheld $150 Garmin GPS that accomplished that conversion process was one of the cheapest and most important tools on the battle-field. The aircrew punched in the coordinates and released the smart bomb, which followed its own internal GPS and impacted within a few meters of its intended location nine out of ten times.
Throughout the night, both Kilo and Jackal teams worked in tandem to control bombing runs. Enemy fighters not bright enough to maintain a low silhouette were prime targets, as were the cave entrances into which other fighters scurried. Either way, the designated targets eventually disappeared in massive orange-and-red explosions.
The cease-fire had allowed al Qaeda to reposition a Russian-made.50-caliber DShK heavy machine gun on a prominent ridgeline just south of the new observation posts, and its presence stalled the muhj. After some rudimentary coordination in Russian with the muhj commander to pinpoint the gun, Hopper and Jackal Team worked up a fire mission.
Promising to advance to the next ridgeline if the DShK was not in the way, the muhj commander backed up with his men and watched the Jackals bring in several bombers and an F-18 fighter that demolished the enemy gun emplacement with thundering explosions.
With the successful infil of MSS Grinch, things slowed significantly for the boys up at OP25-A. All of a sudden Jester and Dugan found themselves out of a job and bored. They requested permission to return to the schoolhouse to prep for reinsertion somewhere else.
Instead, we told them to stay put until we were certain Grinch was solidly positioned, and to allow the second group, MSS Monkey, time to get established. We also weren’t comfortable with the unreliable radio communications as the boys moved deeper south, and Jester and Dugan provided a valuable radio-relay asset.
In addition, the muhj commander who was with them at the OP had become a great source of information about what was happening at the front with Ali’s other fighters. That information would have otherwise been unavailable to us, and we used it to corroborate General Ali’s situation reports during the nightly fireside chats.
After directing their final bombs of the battle for a while, the hardworking boys in OP25-A reluctantly released control of the airspace to their mates in MSS Grinch, several miles away. The JDAMs and MK-82 bombs rained down.
As had become customary, al Qaeda radio intercepts provided immediate feedback. More good news for our side. Requests for the “red truck to move wounded,” frantic calls from a fighter to his commander relaying “cave too hot, can’t reach others,” and discussions of surrendering were all heard by Skoot and his signals interceptors at the schoolhouse.
Even with this indisputable insight about the terrible state of the enemy, the Afghan muhj were not changing their ways. We were still unable to impress upon them the importance of remaining on the battlefield and not giving up hard-earned terrain by retreating back down the mountain each evening. As per standard procedure, the muhj had marshaled about midmorning at the base of the mountains, slowly moved up the rocky trails in an uneven zigzag pattern, ripped a few dozen 7.62mm rounds each through their AK-47s, and launched a rocket or two toward al Qaeda, then promptly called it quits for the day.
The example we had set was hard to argue with, and a pleased General Ali was becoming a believer. His spirit was returning following Zaman’s shady antics with the phony al Qaeda surrender and with the slaughter that our boys were pouring onto the enemy. Ali was succumbing to the pressure from George and the rest of us and would soon tell his fighters to prep
are to stay in the mountains with the American commandos and take the initiative away from bin Laden.
With the boys of MSS Grinch needling through al Qaeda’s weakened lines generally from the northeast, it was time to put our second group of operators-MSS Monkey-into the fight from the other side of the battlefield.
With Bryan in command, they were to link with the Green Berets at OP25-B, get a quick situation update, and then push south higher into the mountains. They would provide observation farther along the Wazir Valley, which marked the western edge of the battlefield.
The straight-line map distance from the schoolhouse to the linkup point was a mere ten kilometers, about six miles, but the uneven and brutal terrain the pickups had to follow turned it into a three-hour trip. Lieutenant Colonel Al furnished a local guide to navigate the trip, and also paid for donkeys to be waiting at the rendezvous so MSS Monkey could use the pack animals to ascend after the pickups had to stop.
Ironhead took on the job of getting Bryan and his mates safely to the linkup, then bringing the vehicles and the exfilling Green Berets back to the schoolhouse. As the squadron sergeant major, Ironhead could have gone anywhere he wanted to. He could have been with one of the two flanking OPs, or he could have jumped in with MSS Grinch or Monkey. But it wasn’t his style to get in the way when the boys had work to do, and he chose to stay back at the schoolhouse, likely to keep me from doing something stupid. I took that as a compliment and was more than thankful for his adult supervision. However, as the hours turned to days and the temperature dropped, I could see the sergeant major becoming restless.
One of the junior CIA officers, Drew, desperately wanted to be involved in the action, and the young operative cautiously asked George, “Can I be in charge of the movement, so I can get my spurs?” George honored the request. Drew was to be in charge of the Afghan guides and handle the interface to get the Delta boys safely to the linkup.
Having Drew in charge on the trip did not bother Ironhead or Bryan a bit, as long as the mission got done. Besides, the two seasoned Delta operators enjoyed having him along to deal with the locals, because neither of the Afghan guides spoke or understood a word of English.
Four hours into the trip, they found themselves stopped inside a gated compound, unsure of where they were. Nasty terrain and cutback trails, when coupled with pathetically sorry directions, had led MSS Monkey to a standstill. If that was not bad enough, the two Afghan guides disappeared.
A couple of Monkey boys who spoke some elementary Russian managed to talk with some newly arrived Afghans who had picked up some rudimentary Russian while interned in a Soviet prisoner-of-war camp in the 1980s.
Bryan was a little irritated, and made his way over to Drew, “Okay, where are we?”
Looking at the screen to his handheld GPS, Drew nervously responded, “Here.”
“Say again,” Bryan asked, with raised eyebrows.
“Here!” Drew repeated.
One of the Russian-speaking Afghans approached, as if to help, but really to offer a deal. “One of the guides thought you needed more donkeys. If so, his uncle, the elder that lives here, can rent you some. Do you want them?”
“No!” Bryan snapped.
Everyone got back on the trucks to continue to the linkup point, already several hours late and with several hours to go.
They had tried without luck to reach the Green Berets at OP25-B, but once again the terrain negated the radio. Unbeknownst to any of us, those Green Berets had grown tired of waiting and decided on their own to move back to a more secure location in the mountains for the night.
So there were no Green Berets at the rendezvous point, which meant that the entire day had been wasted. There were no donkeys either. MSS Monkey had to turn the convoy around and would try again tomorrow.
14 Bomb Like There Is No Tomorrow
We are surrounded by the American commandos from above.
– AL QAEDA RADIO TRANSMISSION,
DECEMBER 14, 2001
MSS Grinch took over the lion’s share of the work and continued to push deeper and higher into the mountains. The assaulters from Alpha and Bravo teams protected the rear and flanks while the Jackal and Kilo sniper teams swapped the duty of controlling the airspace and directing the persistent bombing.
Besides killing al Qaeda, we expected that the bravery of Jim and the boys would be contagious among their muhj brethren. Some of the muhj responded, albeit reluctantly and hesitantly, but most of them still went home at night.
On the morning of December 13, Jester and Dugan received the word they had been waiting for up at OP25-A. They would be able to return to the schoolhouse as soon as MSS Monkey became operational over at OP25-B on the other ridge. They were no longer calling in the warplane strikes as our people pushed deeper into the mountain stronghold, but stayed in touch with the developing action. They passed along the bad news that the weather conditions on the mountain were bad and getting worse.
The snow was creeping down from the highest peaks at an astonishing rate of about five hundred feet per day, and the wind was slicing across OP25-A in excess of fifteen miles an hour, plummeting the temperature to a painful level with the wind chill. OP25-A was totally exposed to the bad weather, literally bald of any foliage or trees for protection from the wind, and they had no sleeping bags.
It prompted the Green Berets to build a warming fire. The only tree within sight was seven hundred meters away back down the hill, and a few of the Green Berets took off with a block of C4 explosives, dropped the tree with the demo and dragged their kill back up to the OP.
Everyone gathered around to warm themselves, but kept the radios close. An AC-130 gunship circling above reported that it had spotted several fires near the established free-fire zone, and the pilot described seeing six to seven individuals near a fire. The snipers were just about to clear the AC-130 hot to engage when Dugan suddenly asked Jester, “Hey, do you think they are talking about us?”
The two of them and the Green Berets forgot all about the cold for a moment and frantically dug out their infrared strobe lights and turned them on to let the Spectre know there were friendlies around this particular fire.
Skoot and his tactical signal interceptors had been going 24/7 since they arrived four days earlier. They were an incredible asset to have on the battlefield, so we attached one of his operatives to move with MSS Grinch and another to MSS Monkey. The other two worked under Skoot’s watchful eye at the schoolhouse.
Skoot was a tall, athletically lean, Bill Gates type with wire frame glasses and wavy blond hair. He had an incredible energy level and a sense of humor that helped keep everything in perspective throughout the fight. Each time a bin Laden transmission was intercepted, Skoot would jump up from the cold, hard floor, yank off his headphones and come tearing into the corner room to give us the news. His positive attitude was contagious.
Skoot worked his guys in shifts, and they either grabbed a few minutes of sleep when they could or when they were forced to go down for a few winks. It was necessary to rest the brain because of the mindnumbing nature of intercepting and interpreting al Qaeda conversations in real time, taping and replaying conversations for translation, and trying to identify al Qaeda’s many radio frequencies. They kept netting information out of the air, confirming that the enemy’s morale and will to fight was slipping, while their vulnerability increased.
Skoot came running into our room the morning of December 13 with new intercepts that strongly suggested al Qaeda was preparing to make a final stand. Morning enemy radio calls requesting “big and small land mines” were overheard. Another al Qaeda commander was overheard confidently stating “victory or death” before telling of plans to reposition a couple of hundred brothers. Al Qaeda fighters had no idea that they were passing critical battle damage estimates and targeting information to us each time they keyed their radio. News of each cave or tunnel that was dropped by bombs was relayed from one group to the next on the terrorist net. They weren’t the voice of
bin Laden, but it wouldn’t be long before his lack of stomach for the fight surfaced.
General Ali was getting his second wind and stopped by our room on his way to the front on the morning of the thirteenth to express his thanks for the ruthless bombing. As I followed him out to his truck and waiting fighters, the general smiled and gave a gesture like cutting someone’s throat, running his hand palm down and fingers extended across the front of his neck. He believed victory was close at hand.
Ali’s cocky rival, Zaman, had left the day before, upset and embarrassed at the outcome of the surrender negotiations, and we had not heard from him since. The general did not know whether the warlord would continue the fight.
Actually, Zaman was having even more trouble at the moment.
After seeing how professional the first eight British commandos were out with our forward teams, we were tickled when four more came rolling in. But before heading to the schoolhouse, the commandos and a British intelligence operative had a meeting with Zaman in Jalalabad, during which they sternly voiced their displeasure with his antics. He obviously was not giving our closest allies their money’s worth and the Brits felt it was time to adjust the warlord’s attitude.
We had been pondering the idea of pairing up some of our operators with Zaman’s men just to keep him honest and on track. We even considered marrying up the Green Berets with Zaman’s forces, although we knew that request would be squelched back at Task Force Dagger headquarters. The entrance of the additional Brits took care of this issue nicely. They would hook up with the stumbling Zaman and keep his feet to the fire.
MSS Monkey departed for OP25-B again just before dusk on December 13 with two new Afghan guides, and neither spoke a lick of English. Having traveled part of the route once already, the navigation was much easier, but the terrain remained painfully rugged. It gets dark quickly in Tora Bora. Dusk gives way to total darkness in a blink. Within an hour and a half after leaving the schoolhouse, MSS Monkey was moving through early nighttime hours that were already pitch-black. With al Qaeda having been pushed back and their frontline mortar position destroyed, our force had the luxury of using their vehicle headlights, but the guides still managed to screw things up. They stopped in the middle of a dry streambed while the Afghans began yelling and screaming at each other about the correct route.
