even going home. It was my responsibility to make it work, build rapport as fast as possible, and win Ali over from the start. Sure, we were told the CIA would make the introductions and put everybody at ease, but then all eyes would be on me.
As the old cliche goes, you never get a second chance to make a first impression, and this had to be my personal finest hour. The senior CIA folks that I needed to talk to before the meeting were not even in Jalalabad, for they were, after all, the busiest Westerners around. I would just have to wing it.
I decided to put out my own message first, a decision that only served to fill my head with a dozen concerns. Would Ali oblige me without interruptions, particularly since a Pashto interpreter was a must? Would he take to us, or shun us? What needed to be said? Whatever I said had to have the powerful backing of the USA, needed to be direct and to the point, and had to be recognized as genuine by the Afghan general. Most important, any fancy rhetoric had to be backed up with action. Talk is cheap on the battlefield, and Ali knew that better than most. One thing was for certain in my mind:
The fabled Black Chinook is a slang legend inside the special ops community. If an operator makes an extraordinarily egregious error in judgment or physical performance, then regardless of who he is or where he is at the time of the infraction, a mysterious black helicopter will arrive to sweep that person away. When the Black Chinook shows up, the Special Ops community no longer requires the individual’s services. It was a nightmare every officer had worried about at some time or another. Tonight, I could almost hear those ominous blades whipping the air over my head.
I tried to catch some rack time, but the double dose of speed that I had popped during the long drive was still screwing with my system. Anticipating the meeting with Ali led to further restlessness, along with a bit of anxiety. As the others tossed and turned in a shallow slumber on the cold floor, I pulled out my small green notebook and a flashlight and scribbled a few more sentences. I wanted to get the words right, bottom line up front, get the point across, portray confidence, and have my act together. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of the CIA and General Ali on our very first meeting.
Just another CAPEX, I told myself, and I had to be as comfortable in front of Ali as I would be in briefing some minor VIP making a routine visit to the Unit back home.
I wrote, rehearsed the words in my head, erased, crossed out, scribbled some more, and rehearsed again. I had to take care not to make “perfect” the enemy of “good enough.” I committed the final version to memory, typed it up on the laptop, and e-mailed it back to the Bagram Air Base. The message read something like this.
Sir, this is the basic approach for my opening discussions with Ali this morning.
I’m Lieutenant Colonel Dalton Fury, commander of an American commando unit sent here by my country to help you fight al Qaeda forces and Usama bin Laden. We are here to fight next to you as a team with a common goal, to stand alongside you and share the same hardships, and face the same danger as your brave fighters. I was also sent here to help you and your people obtain a large amount of reward money from my country once the mission is accomplished. My mission is clear and simple, to kill or capture bin Laden. I cannot and will not accept any conditional surrender by bin Laden or surrender with special circumstances. One hundred percent nonnegotiable unconditional surrender. In the event bin Laden is killed, I must provide proof of his death to my country in the form of a photograph, fingerprints, or ensuring the remains are properly escorted to a higher authority. Failure to allow us access to the remains may delay any additional payment to you. Again, we are a team in this endeavor. My men and I do not seek glory, credit, or money-we just seek bin Laden. My men are ready now but before I can bring them forward to the front lines, I must have your complete assurances on three things. First, you must agree to embed my force within yours and provide mutual protection. Second, in order to ensure our forces do not inadvertently shoot each other, I need the assistance of five of your brave fighters to accompany us as we hunt down bin Laden in the Tora Bora Mountains. We will provide for their food and warm clothing while they are with us. I see these men as critical to our success and they will undoubtedly make you very proud. Finally, I must have your absolute word that if my men should come under attack while forward of your lines, you will do everything in your power to immediately dispatch a force to come to our aid.
END
FURY
Shortly after clicking the send button, I heard the local Afghans stirring in the kitchen area, preparing the morning meal. I had yet to fall asleep.
6 Green Eyes
You Americans cannot survive in these mountains against al Qaeda, just like the Soviets could not survive against us.
– GENERAL HAZRET ALI, DECEMBER 7, 2001
On any battlefield the CIA visits, which is, arguably at least, as many fields as the U.S. military has walked, their operatives bring along large black duffel bags filled with freshly printed hundred-dollar bills, neatly wrapped in cellophane. One of the things the Agency does best is buy friends.
In late November 2001, a week or so before we first arrived at Tora Bora, the CIA had decided to become pals with Hazret Ali, the influential Afghan warlord in the area, and a self-proclaimed general. To secure the friendship, George, the forward director of the small CIA Jawbreaker Juliet team in Jalalabad, brought along millions of U.S. dollars, conveniently packaged in $250,000 bundles.
General Ali, a proud leader in the region, had told George that to muster enough fighters to pursue bin Laden into the Tora Bora Mountains it would cost, oh, say about $250,000.
George looked over at one of his deputies sitting in on the meeting at Ali’s safe house and motioned for him to retrieve the duffel bag. Within a minute, the CIA operative was back and placed a brick of hundred-dollar bills about the size of a small microwave oven on the couch beside the general.
General Ali remained silent and stoic and never touched the money. He ended the meeting moments later and excused himself from his American guests. As soon as he moved out of sight, one of his subordinates entered and retrieved the cube-shaped package, cradling it like a newborn baby, and carried it downstairs to the first floor.
Another Afghan waited there, seated behind a single aged and wooden table with a notepad, a pencil, and a Dollar Store calculator. On his left was a large and faded stack of Pakistani rupees. The courier placed the quartermillion-dollar package on the right side of the table and delicately removed the plastic wrapping, and the moneychanger swapped the American dollars into local currency at a rate that was probably quite favorable to the general. The United States had just bought the services of another warlord.
On the morning of December 7, General Ali sent word over to the safe house to have our Delta party brought to his headquarters. We stood around on the green grass inside the walled compound for an hour or so as Ali’s men prepared the route so the convoy would not have any unpleasant surprises, as had happened with our entry into Jalalabad last night.
As we waited, Manny filled us in on the complex muhj areas of control, both politically and militarily. Picking his brain was time well spent. Word came midmorning for us to head south for the meeting. Empty of the heavy AK-47 crates, our two pickups easily slid into the middle of a muhj escort convoy and the three-hour drive was uneventful. Any doubt that Ali and his men were the law in this town was dispelled.
The sun was high in the sky, with very few clouds, providing a comfortably warm day for the trip, although a chilly wind with a sharp edge blew out of the north. It was impossible not to notice the majestic mountains and the deep, long, and dark shadows of dozens of steep ridgelines and spurs. The breathtaking view of the legendary Hindu Kush seemed endless.
Dark brown contour lines on our U.S.-issued 1:100,000 scale maps showed the steep elevations of the long and wide mountain range that stretched east to west. The eastern end was marked by the Khyber Pass, which had seen
