He was a gifted shooter with his own unique style of drawing his.45-caliber pistol that was indiscernible to the naked eye, but if he slowed his draw stroke down a bit and allowed a good view of his technique, you wouldn’t believe it. It was shocking how much faster he could lift the pistol from the holster and place two hardball rounds inside the space of a dime of a target forehead by using his patented unorthodox draw. We slung a boatload of brass downrange together, and I was usually still looking for my front sight post when Jim was already policing up his spent brass.
However efficient I became as an operator was a direct reflection of Jim’s extraordinary training skills, his patience, and his genuine friendship. I consider myself darn lucky.
Around noon, our friend Colonel Al stopped in to our humble corner room for a visit. He brought news that the initial reports received about the BLU-82 being a dud had been untrue. I guess with all the hard sell, almost everyone had expected an explosion of earthshattering intensity. Even better, Al said that back at the Pentagon and in Langley, Virginia, the home of the CIA, the Daisy Cutter was being hailed as a spectacular success.
All of us who had watched its impact agreed, however, that even if the bomb had not been a mechanical dud, it had been a psychological dud among our allies. The CIA folks out here who had been charged with selling the bomb’s capabilities to General Ali knew the fireworks had been so lame that it had shaken the general’s confidence in American technology. I’m not sure what exactly Ali had hoped to witness, but the BLU-82 obviously was not what he expected.
In fact, that morning he had summoned his subordinate commanders for an impromptu war council. Originally, he had planned to exploit the expected devastation of the Daisy Cutter with a ground attack up the mountain as soon as the debris stopped falling. That ambitious plan was now off the table.
Further, Ali told his men they could no longer rely on giant American bombs to get the job done, and that they needed to make do with the situation at hand and find ways to salvage something of today’s planned attack. He ordered several tanks to move forward and promised them 82mm mortars in support.
An Afghan fighter burst through the doorway, holding his little radio in the air. He told the general that their fighters at the front were once again pleading for him to stop the bombs from landing on them. Another of Ali’s commanders fidgeted nervously, his body language clearly signaling his desire to get out of the meeting.
It was hardly a surprise. Ali’s men dressed like the enemy. Hell, we dressed like the enemy! No one could tell us on a map where anyone was located, and everyone looked alike, so how could the bomber and fighter pilots be blamed for any confusion? They were doing their best with the information they had. So, this blue on blue, or friendly-fire, engagement was simply the fog of war. It wouldn’t be the last incident. Unfortunately, America lost face with our allies every time it happened.
Precision was needed in the dangerous business of calling in those air strikes, so the sooner we got our guys going, the better.
Still, General Ali remained surprisingly upbeat and appeared highly motivated in the presence of his lieutenants at the meeting. George, the senior CIA man on the scene, had been noticeably frustrated by the BLU-82 debacle and then was further chagrined by the new blue-on-blue incident, but Ali told him to lose the long face and promised that his army would win the day.
For two days, George and his Agency operatives had been promoting this bomb drop as the singular event of the young campaign, maybe even the decisive point that would clear the way for Ali to advance en masse and roll over al Qaeda. Now, despite what Washington was hailing as a success, the CIA chief here was quite logically concerned about the Agency’s credibility with Ali. From my point of view, George still held all the cards. The BLU-82 was one minor event in one minor battle, and there would be many more ups and downs before the fighting was done in Tora Bora. I sensed that Ali knew that as well.
Our special intelligence interceptors, set up inside the room that separated Ali’s bedroom from our room, eavesdropped around the clock on all al Qaeda’s transmissions, so bit by bit we learned that the BLU-82 had been much more effective than originally thought. The enemy was overheard repeatedly calling out in anguish, crying, obviously hurting bad and requesting help from others located a valley or two away. Frantic calls from one fighter outside the blast area to his brother, and then to a third brother, went unanswered. Even if it was off the intended mark, the big bomb had put a big hurting on al Qaeda. It had left them bloodied, weakened, and introduced them to the rare feeling of being vulnerable. It was definitely time to reinforce success with a full-scale attack.
Jester, Dugan, and four muhj started their journey for OP25-A at 1500 hours. The two Delta operators were close friends, in many respects cut from the same cloth, but were exact opposites in just as many ways.
Jester was famous for pushing even the relaxed grooming standards enjoyed by the Unit and consistently received flak from some less flexible superiors. He proudly grew a thick blond Fu Manchu mustache, a facial hair style that gave him the look of a 1970s porn star. But he had an extraordinary intellect that forced a person to really have his act together before entering a debate with him on almost any subject. Best of all, Jester’s sniper skills were second to none. He could tell you the ballistic characteristics of every cartridge in the book, read the winds blindfolded, and manipulate a laptop computer with the knowing touch of a repair geek.
Dugan, a former Georgia high school state wrestling champion, was the brawn of this unlikely pair. I think he was born with a scoped boltaction rifle in one hand, a turkey call in the other, and wearing a jujitsu gi. Often during hunting season back home, he skipped breakfast with us in favor of prowling outside the compound in one of the training areas, calling turkeys and tracking deer. He never missed a day in the gym, with the result being a perfectly shaped body, biceps the size of cannonballs and a chest that was like a power plant.
Their trip started out with a half-hour pickup truck ride to a rendezvous point where they met up with two teenage boys and a couple of shabby donkeys to provide porter duties for the long uphill move. The snipers strapped their heavy rucksacks to one of the animals and loaded the other with a couple of cases of MREs and water cans to resupply the Green Berets already in the OP.
Our snipers followed the donkeys and young guides and watched with disgust as one of the boys constantly smacked the trail donkey’s backside with a big switch. With every whack, the donkey was building a grudge. About halfway to the OP, they stopped for a short break.
The teenager with the switch was about five feet behind the same donkey he had been whipping when the animal suddenly raised her tail high and her rear end exploded with a gush of the most awful green diarrhea imaginable. The stinking, liquid crap bathed the boy from the waist to the top of his bare feet. The two Delta snipers tried to hold back their laughter so as not to embarrass the switcher, but that was impossible, and the totally humiliated kid started beating the donkey hard before Jester and Dugan stepped in to calm him down. The Delta boys needed that poor donkey. Anyway, they thought the animal had done the right thing.
An hour later the snipers arrived at OP25-A and met up with the current team which was in place there, a Special Forces A Team augmented by an air controller, about a halfdozen men led by Warrant Officer Dave. The group had been handling a majority of the close air support missions for the past two days,
There is no doubt that the Green Berets wanted to slug it out with the al Qaeda fighters, too, but had been prohibited from taking one step closer to the battlefield beyond their position four miles away. That emphatic order had come straight down the pipe from their commanding officer, Colonel Mulholland. They were restricted from moving forward, but somebody had to.
With Delta now in town, the Green Berets knew the handwriting was on the wall: They would no longer be running the show, although official word to turn over control had not yet reached them. It was understandably not an easy pill for those professionals to swallow, although it was just the wheel of war, rolling along.
The two Delta snipers immediately recognized the effect of their arrival at that desolate little place, but there was a war to fight, and the elite Green Berets were having to take a major hit to their pride. Some handled it well, such as the air force combat controller who had worked with Delta in some previous assignments. He didn’t really care who was in charge. The team leader at the observation post, Dave, and one other Green Beret would prove to be enormous assets. Others were ready to simply call it a war, and remained well to the rear of the OP, goofing off and bitching like all good GIs, and just waiting to exfil. Hobbled by headquarters and unable to take the fight to the enemy, they had good reason to grumble, and I could not really blame them.
By the end of the day Jester and Dugan had taken charge.
