strengthen al Qaeda.
Ali had a lot on his plate, but was smart enough to reach out for help.
How did it go?” Ironhead asked, as if he could feel that the little conference had not proceeded as we had hoped.
“I think he will come around by the time the boys arrive. He’s skeptical. Doesn’t think we can handle this.”
“Well, Dalton, I guess we’ll just have to show him,” Bryan said with a smile.
“Yeah,” added Ironhead, looking up at the mountains. “But we can’t do it from down here.”
Adam Khan came running over to our Toyota. “The general is going to the front. Do you want to go?”
After the tea party on the Afghan rug, our savvy translator had asked General Ali about his forward command. Where was it? Who was in command there? It turned out the man in charge was his brother-in-law, Haji Musa, who also was his cousin, not uncommon within the Afghan culture.
Adam Khan seized the opportunity and immediately pressed the general to get us involved sooner rather than later, reasoning that if his brother-in-law was up there, then it should be safe for us to visit him. Surely, Haji Musa should be able to provide adequate security.
Uncomfortable with such forwardness, the general didn’t have anything to counter the argument, and since he was going to visit Musa in a few minutes anyway, he reluctantly agreed to take us along.
We grabbed our long guns, wrapped our scarves around our faces and blankets around our shoulders. Before the general reached the truck I asked Adam Khan, “Hey, what in the world was General Ali writing on that notepad when you were translating our message?”
“Nothing!” he said.
General Ali jumped in the passenger seat of our red pickup and I drove. A brown leather shoulder harness with a small ivory-handled revolver was half-hidden beneath his brown jacket. In the backseat sat one of Ali’s subordinate commanders, complete with AK-47 and handheld radio. The only way to distinguish a foot soldier from a leader was the radio. And the danger of everyone, friend and foe, dressing alike is that it increases the possibilities of a blue-on-blue engagement, that is,
Next to the commander sat the most valuable player of the tournament so far, Adam Khan. Ironhead and Bryan were perched like locals in the truck bed. Their guns were hidden but ready, and their eyes peered slightly above their colorful kaffiyehs. We headed for the front, and the general seemed to loosen up a bit. Obviously happy to be visiting his men, he commented, “What is mine is yours.” It was an Afghan custom to do what he could for his guests and I liked the sound of it.
The drive to the front was an adventure in itself. Bone-jarring terrain with intermittent but well-placed boulders kept our speed down. We squeezed through mud walls that scraped the side mirrors, dodged donkeys, goats, children, and negotiated two precarious valley walls and a deep dry riverbed. The ride was worse than a roller coaster. Ali was constantly on his radio, and his hands-on command style was impressive. There seemed to be no end to his providing directions and guidance and receiving reports. His complete involvement and total command made me wonder just how fast this whole thing would unravel if he were to buy the farm. The chain of command had General Ali at the top, but was rooted by a flat lateral line of combat field commanders. We had a lot riding on this one man.
After thirty minutes, we rounded a turn and came upon the astonishing place called Press Pool Ridge. Round tents in bright red, green, and orange covered the rocky knoll to our front. The best spots for a long-range camera on a tripod facing the mountains had been staked out long ago. White vans and SUVs were scattered everywhere, and there was a tangled forest of satellite antennas and spotlights, all ready to carry the nightly story to the world.
I put on the brakes. “We can’t go any farther,” I said to Adam Khan, without taking my eyes off the mass of folks only a hundred yards down the road. I asked him to emphasize to the general how important it was that we not to be seen by anyone outside of his fighters-particularly the media.
Ali responded that news reporters were throughout the area toward which we were heading, but he agreed that he also wanted to keep us out of sight. The tinted windows helped.
“General Ali says he needs to go up there to make an appearance,” Adam Khan explained. “The reporters expect it, and he needs to be seen by his men.”
“That’s cool, but we aren’t going with him. I’m not taking this truck up there with my guys in the back,” I responded. “The place is way too crowded.”
After a few seconds of discussion with Adam Khan, the general opened the door, stepped onto the rocky soil, and walked purposefully toward the mass of journalists. Sure enough, a heads-up reporter spotted the general and sounded the alarm. They all swarmed toward him.
We stayed put to watch, intending to wait for Ali’s return to the truck, but one smart reporter had not been fooled. In less than a minute, a white van backed from the line of parked vehicles and turned our way.
Time for some emergency driving, but as I tried to turn the truck around to leave, the white van sped up close to our rear bumper and a small, blond, middle-aged woman dressed in a midlength dark coat with a gray scarf wrapped around her neck jumped out and approached Ironhead and Bryan, whose faces were covered.
“Have you all seen Usama bin Laden?”
We took off, telling the subordinate commander with us to call General Ali and explain why we had ditched him. He would have to catch another ride.
In the mirror, I saw through our road dust that this reporter was not giving up easily. The van driver was in full pursuit, coming rapidly over the crest of the hill behind us. With Ironhead and Bryan holding on in the bed of the truck, I sped up.
“Adam Khan, screw this. Have your buddy there jump out at the next turn, raise his AK-47 to get their attention, and stop that van! We’ll keep going back to the schoolhouse.”
“Sounds good!” After telling the muhj commander what we needed, Adam Khan gave me a nod and I hit the brakes. The commander dismounted even before the truck came to a halt and stepped into the middle of the road with his AK-47 over his head to bring the pesky press van to a stop. I could hear Ironhead and Bryan let out sighs of relief as we left the reporter, her crew, and the guard to figure things out among themselves.
That night we gathered in the CIA’s corner room of the schoolhouse. Sergeant Major Ironhead, Bryan, and I sat with a few CIA officers, while Adam Khan, Ali, and the aide-translator Ghulbihar were on a tightly woven green and white Afghan carpet. On any battlefield, you can bet the CIA has the best accommodations available. On another carpet, in the center of the group, were several small green-tinted teacups. A steaming kettle and basket of nuts followed moments later.
The carpet and place servings were in stark contradiction to the techno spreads of the CIA military and civilian gear hugging the walls. Black and silver radios and antennas, various equipment stored in black boxes, night vision goggles, satellite phones, and extra AK-47 magazines were carefully positioned for quick use.
After dispensing with the pleasantries, Ali reiterated his desire to end this battle as soon as possible and committed to doing whatever it took. But he also warned that some local tribes claiming loyalty to him could easily be bought off and change allegiances.
George immediately brought up the increasing crowd of journalists and asked what the general planned to do about them. Ali answered that he had assigned an individual escort to every journalist to take charge of them while they were here. “I also have ordered more checkpoints to control the reporters and keep them away from here,” he said with confidence. My thoughts flashed back to the aggressive TV van that had been on our tail, and I believed the general might be overestimating his ability to control the ever-persistent press. The answer sounded rehearsed, too good to be true, and it was.
