crest, which was the less valued piece of real estate.
Understanding the importance of command presence on the battle-field, Zaman got to the hilltop and stayed there. Ali departed to return to the schoolhouse. Now Zaman had direct access to the al Qaeda fighters remaining in the area, and the subordinate commanders of the embarrassed and departed General Ali stood around dumbfounded and frustrated, unable to do anything.
The taking of Hill 2685 by the mujahideen on December 11 would prove to be a very critical point in the overall battle, for Zaman was nothing if not a sly opportunist.
Earlier in the day, on his way to the dual press conference and then the front, Ali had radioed the schoolhouse to request that we send a couple of Americans forward to direct bombs while his men attacked toward the prized hilltop. As much as we were willing to support his offensive, we had learned our lesson the hard way about sending a small team out there with the muhj because it was a safe bet that, come nightfall, they would again be left behind.
So this time we were ready with a full package, and Jim and MSS Grinch took off for the foothills. If they could link up with one of Ali’s subordinate commanders, they could then push up the ridge to the contested high ground, from where they could call for precise fire on the retreating al Qaeda forces.
That was they way it was supposed to work. Few things in Tora Bora ever went as planned.
Our first attempt to infil the combat-savvy men of MSS Grinch had met exactly the problems we by now almost routinely anticipated. The narrow road to the front was one snag after another and the usual traffic jams slowed the infil down to a snail’s pace. Al Qaeda would have had to be blind not to have seen Jim’s convoy coming their way.
Then, our boys ran smack-dab into a mass of journalists and cameramen at one of the forward checkpoints. The muhj guides knew that under no circumstances were the American commandos to be discovered by the press, so they stopped our convoy to discuss the options.
Time seemed to stand still, and when the sun set behind the mountains and darkness overtook the area, the guides simply decided that the best plan would be for nobody to go anywhere. They had no idea where exactly Jim and the boys needed to be dropped off anyway.
Jim was fit to be tied. He wanted desperately to press on alone with MSS Grinch, to ditch the guides and just drive on through the press area, but patience had to be the better part of valor. Jim knew that if we took center stage, we would be giving the proverbial middle finger to our hosts. No matter how frustrating, we had to do this with the muhj.
My boss had made it clear that our mission was to keep General Ali moving, continue to generate momentum for his assault, and help create the conditions for his success. The guides at the front had quite another idea; they refused to continue, and that was that.
With a lot of angry muttering about having to miss still another opportunity, the powerful MSS Grinch, twenty- five Delta operators and skilled British SBS commandos, were forced to turn the convoy around and head back to the schoolhouse without even having seen the enemy. Ali had failed to coordinate his intentions with us, and now he paid the price for that mistake. That night, Zaman was king of the hill.
When George of the CIA, Adam Khan, and I went over to the general’s lackluster quarters, we found a totally exhausted Ali. Wearing a clean set of snow-white pajamas, the general this time opted not to even sit up when we entered his dark room, but instead remained on his side, with his head on his pillow and a green and brown wool blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His words were slow and labored. There was little light in the room, which had a leathery, musty smell about it. He was totally whipped and discouraged.
The general said he was concerned about his fighters’ stamina. They were tired, bloody, and cold, and he was not sure how long he could keep them motivated to fight. It was a veiled plea for help and exactly what we were looking for. We pounced on the chance.
“General Ali, now is the time,” I said, trying to encourage him. “I know you and your men are tired, but so is al Qaeda.”
The general nodded his head slowly, almost as if he was too tired to give it any more thought.
“He is right, General; bin Laden is very vulnerable right now. We can’t let this opportunity to end this thing slip away,” George added. “You need to order your men to support Dalton’s men… or I will have no other choice but to bring thousands of Americans to do the job for you.”
We made it as clear as we could. If he wanted to maintain the bombing, and the general certainly did, then he needed to get a handle on things and impress upon his subordinates the importance of getting us onto those damned mountains at night. The cover of darkness would keep the press off our rear ends, provide us unimpeded movement along the narrow road, and get us close enough to accurately direct bombs onto al Qaeda’s positions.
We had to
After the little pep talk, Ali realized the importance of getting on with it, and issued some short commands to several aides waiting outside the doorway. As we nodded to signal our pleasure with Ali’s ability to make tough calls, we couldn’t help but notice the aides were visibly uneasy with the orders. The general just seemed happy to get back to sleep.
With that good news, we reset MSS Grinch’s mission. They would depart at 2300 hours local, eleven o’clock, on that same night when they had already been stymied once. The convoy would now reach the drop-off point about midnight. That gave the boys a few hours to kill, so they warmed themselves with blankets and body heat, wolfed some cold MREs and powdered Gatorade, and made last-minute equipment adjustments before going out again.
All of us had arrived in Afghanistan with zero visibility as to exactly what type of fighting force the Eastern Alliance Afghan Opposition Group might be. We had assumed they possessed some fundamental sense of organization, professionalism, and skill of arms, and we expected some level of motivation to get the job done. But after encountering repeated debacles, it was clear that our new friends were anything but an organized, well- equipped, professional allied army.
It was just over two months since 9/11, and for the most important mission to date in the global war on terror, our nation was relying on a fractious bunch of AK-47-toting lawless bandits and tribal thugs who were not bound by any recognized rules of warfare or subject to any code of military justice short of random executions or firing squads. Moreover, the muhj showed little advancement from slingshot technology beyond some handheld walkie- talkies and a few aging Soviet battle tanks.
It was their turf, their fight, and for their glory, but it sure seemed that they should have been doing a lot better.
Afew minutes before MSS Grinch loaded the trucks for their second attempt at reaching the mountains, Adam Khan showed up after talking to the locals and some muhj fighters. The value of this guy’s ability to converse in fluent Pashto cannot be overstated. To me, he was an asset more valuable than a boatload of BLU-82s and an armory of AK-47s; he was the glue that was holding the entire scheme together.
Apparently, the CIA wasn’t the only player with cash to spend. Bin Laden’s minions were said to be dishing out $100 bills like candy to every local in the region. Adam Khan reported the locals said he had bought off every villager, even before we arrived, and that the recipients of his largess included some of our assumed allies.
Shortly after midnight, the radio in our corner room came alive. MSS Grinch had finally infiltrated the Tora Bora Mountains, linked up with the designated group of muhj, and was moving out. Adam Khan went with them.
They soon reached the Milawa base camp, a place that was reputed to have once been the home of Usama bin
