Kill Bin Laden

a foreign model.

Thirty feet away, just outside of hearing range, stood Ironhead and Bryan. Off to the side, Lieutenant Colonel Al of the CIA leaned comfortably against our red pickup, with an AK-47 slung crossways over his back, and several 7.62mm magazines bulging from his back pockets. I could feel their collective stares on the back of my head and knew they were pulling for me to not screw this up. They were itching to get up into al Qaeda territory but understood the first goal was to secure Ali’s trust and support.

General Ali’s wool muhj hat was propped back like a dog-tired Little League shortstop’s cap after an extra innings game, and his coat had a large black fur collar. He nervously rolled a long strand of pearl prayer beads between his fingers, occasionally switching them from one hand to the other. Ali’s mannerisms gave me every impression that he was a devout Muslim who was visibly uncomfortable with his new status as an American stooge.

George broke the ice and introduced Adam Khan and me. Ghulbihar translated Ali’s opening comments in very rough English, and Ali looked at me through the sun-induced squint. With a slight tilt of the head, he asked Ghulbihar something in a low tone.

The aide turned and asked, “Commandos?”

I nodded, and George interjected. “Yes. Tell the general these are the commandos I have been promising. Many more will come.” George looked over at me as if to ask, “Right? Please tell me it’s not just you five.” I nodded. “They will help us find bin Laden,” George added.

It was my turn, and I glanced at Adam Khan to be certain he was ready to translate. I wanted what I had to say to seem natural, although I had spent much of the night rehearsing in the dark. If I had to repeat myself, I feared that I would lose my place.

I did a quick personal inventory of my heartbeat and started to talk, and Adam Khan easily translated my words. Ali would softly mutter “Wo”-“yes” in Pashto-and scribble on the white pad every so often. The general rocked back and forth and his face betrayed him: He was very distraught at having American fighting men here.

Just as I finished, Ali responded in his language, “Americans should not be on the ridgelines.”

He barely let Adam Khan finish translating before launching into a lengthy lecture. Maybe he had been up last night, too, after hosting the press, and was as worried about this meeting as I.

Having reached a fast speaking rhythm, he seemed to forget that Adam Khan needed time to translate, but it was pretty clear that Ali was putting me on the spot. He looked me dead in the eye for the first time and said we were not up to the task, implying that Delta Force was not tough enough to fight al Qaeda in the mountains.

Adam Khan caught the tempo. “Al Qaeda is dug in with many supplies and weapons. Many fighters willing to die for martyrdom. You Americans cannot survive in these mountains against al Qaeda, just like the Soviets could not survive against us. What makes you think you Americans can do what the Soviets couldn’t do in ten years of fighting?”

Ohhhh… Blindsided. I had not expected that response. Think fast, stay cool!

“Adam Khan, please tell the general that the men I bring are America’s finest commandos,” I said. “They are skilled in mountain warfare, and they are hardened and deadly.”

Ali allowed me to continue, just adding a few more Wo’s. When it was obvious that I had finished, he answered.

“I was an engineer when the Soviets were here. I helped build the caves and know all of them. They occupied this same land where we sit; they [the Soviets] never penetrated past the foothills and lost many Russkies. It is too dangerous for you Americans. It will be very bad if one of you is killed.”

So that was it. He was scared about what would happen if an American got killed. “I will be blamed,” he confirmed, and looked at George.

I stayed on course. “Take me and the few men here that arrived with me to the front lines today. Let us show you that we can hold our own. Tomorrow, I will have forty more commandos ready to fight, not drink tea.”

Ali responded, “It is not good to attack right now.” With a shrug, he added, “This place is different than Mazar- i-Sharif.” That was the first Afghan city to fall to the Northern Alliance, with a lot of help from the United States, after 9/11. Ali was obviously among those who, despite the heavy fighting there, considered the victory to have been somewhat of a cakewalk.

The general pressed us hard for more bombing. “The Arabs are going to die in their caves. Many are living in the same trench lines on the mountainsides that were used when we defeated the Russians. My fighters are spread out in the mountains, near the caves. They cannot escape. We have all sides blocked.”

George broke in. “We can’t bomb forever. We have given you money, weapons, and equipment to attack, yet you refuse. Now we are giving you our best fighters. If you don’t begin soon, thousands of American soldiers will be covering this entire area.”

Whooaa. George had put his finger on a sore spot, but he meant business and was running this show.

“The Arabs will fight to the death,” the general responded, trying to sound convincing, “I don’t want to sacrifice all my men to get to them.” Showing a slight frustration, he added, “Ten thousand fighters won’t be enough to get them out of the trenches.” Ali was agonizing over George’s harsh words, which were almost accusing him of either corruption or cowardice.

I threw in a portion of understanding to help take the edge off things. “General, we can bring more bombs here to help, but we must get closer to the enemy to kill more, and to win this battle.” High-level bombing cannot do everything by itself. Boots on the ground can pinpoint the payloads.

Almost conceding the argument, the general said, “My people must be first, in the end.” Hometown pride. He wanted his forces to carry out the first wave of the final assault. That was fine with us.

I turned and pointed to the mountains behind me. “We must get on the back side of those ridgelines to see the caves and trench lines, to shoot al Qaeda where they eat, sleep, and hide,” I said. “Give us what we ask for and you will be pleased.” That was it. I ended my side of the conversation.

Ali looked down, shrugged his shoulders again and sighed, ending our meeting. “Momkin,” he said, a Pashto term of indecision, meaning “possible” but always used for “maybe.” It was a frustrating word that we would become very familiar with over the next ten days.

After the little powwow, we learned that the CIA had already bankrolled the general to the tune of several million dollars, money that had been spent to rent his leadership, his men, and his courage. George was irritated that it was not spent to buy equipment.

Ali had feared that when we showed up at his headquarters, we would be accompanied by a massive amount of American tanks, jeeps, and troops. So our discreet arrival pleased him. Both Cobra 25 and the CIA folks wore traditional Afghan clothing and brought nonmilitary style vehicles, and we had followed that lead. Local clothing and vehicles, not American military issue, were the flavors of the day. He had been delighted with our stylish Afghan outfits.

And we had to consider the careful political balancing act he had to perform. If he lost face with the tribal leaders, the Shura, his supporters might think less of him and brand him as unfit and unable to handle the problem by himself. If rival tribes got wind that foreign commandos were being brought in to help his fight in his own backyard, it could prove the end of his reign, if not skillfully handled.

But on the other hand, he knew the muhj advance had stalled completely along the northern foothills, and like it or not, he needed help. Around-the-clock bombing, intermittent foothill skirmishes, and the monitoring of al Qaeda’s unsecured radio calls for a week had convinced him of several things.

First, his enemy was organized and well equipped, having stocked hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition, crates of RPGs, a dozen or so SAMs, piles of foodstuffs, and even enough firewood to last the harsh winter.

Second, because the Russians never conquered these mountains during the Soviet War, Ali now faced a highly motivated foe that had already beaten a superpower. As far as the enemy was concerned, they were invincible soldiers of God, with Allah in their corner.

Finally, and something most troubling to Ali, al Qaeda possessed the ability to reinforce and counterattack any muhj advance. Skirmish after skirmish over the past week had only served to bloody the noses of the muhj and