As we approached, we reached up with our nonfiring hands, lowered our NVGs, and the world went lime green. With weapons at the ready, we sat as still as bronze statues when the trucks slowed to a halt.
Afghans scuffled around both sides of our truck and several voices barked orders or directions in deep native Pashto. From the front seat, Ski keyed his radio and whispered, “It appears some local commander is here, and they went to ask him if the truck can pass. Stand by.”
Long minutes passed as we attempted to regulate our breathing while listening intently for anything out of the ordinary, for there was cause for concern. The flashlights outside had become steady beams on the tarps and the supplies in the back. Suddenly, the truck rocked as a guard leaped up on the tailgate, squatted, and spoke to the others. There was no need for me to alert the boys that we were moments from a major showdown and possibly a gunfight. The situation had everyone’s undivided attention.
Risking being overheard by someone unseen in the darkness outside the truck, Ski keyed his radio again and softly whispered, “Sounds like we are okay. Local commander told them to let us through.”
I could feel the collective silent sigh of relief and relaxing of muscles as we eased an inch or two back into our sponge mattresses. We pressed ahead. Hydrated more. Wrestled the cans.
We reached the final checkpoint five hours into the trip, and things picked up. The sedan of militiamen zoomed around us on the shoulder of the dirt road and we stopped and waited inside our trucks tense with anticipation as the empty minutes ticked away. After about ten minutes of waiting, Ski saw red lights blinking the okay signal in the distance and we continued forward.
As we went by the checkpoint, only Ski and Shrek, in the truck cabs with the drivers, had the luxury of seeing the guards wrapped up snugly in blankets the militiamen gave them as gifts. Everyone was sitting around a small warming fire while one of the militiamen brewed up some hot tea to cut the sharp edge of the cold Afghan winter. They looked like one big happy family at a hometown cookout.
Three checkpoints behind us, so far so good, but we were not clear yet. It was imperative that the trucks continue looking innocent and routine because we had been warned of a heavy machine gun emplacement a few hundred meters above the mouth of the valley. We had to pass right under its nose, and once committed on that road, places to bang a U-turn would be scarce, particularly while being shot at. The trucks rolled on, unmolested. Our cover was holding.
Ski came up on the net. “Ten minutes.”
I folded my map, shoved it in my chest pocket, powered off my GPS, and stuck it in its pouch. I wouldn’t need either item because Shrek and Ski had coordinated for a CIA source, a local carpenter’s assistant, as a guide, and he was to be waiting for us.
I reached up to manipulate my NVGs, as I had done hundreds of times before, and the goggles fell off my helmet. “Shit! Of all the times, not now,” I whispered. A close look showed that the screws that attached the mounting bracket to the helmet had vibrated loose during the rollercoaster ride, and in the darkness the tiny screws were nowhere to be found. Coming to grips with the idea of having to rely on my own vision, on a hunch I sent out a net radio call asking if anyone had a roll of tape. A moment later a gloved hand appeared in the darkness clutching a roll of black electrical tape. Four wraps around my helmet and the goggles held like a charm.
The trucks finally stopped, end of the line. After seven brutal hours crammed in the trucks it was time to drop from the belly of our Trojan horse and, we hoped, catch the enemy sound asleep.
We quietly spread out along the valley floor, awed by the breathtaking sight of the large boulders in the valley and the steep walls of ridgelines to the east and west. As seen through the uneven shades of light green produced by the NVGs, the ridges seemed to extend as high as Jack’s beanstalk and we could not make out where the ridgelines’ highest peaks ended. As we took a knee and gained our bearings, it was obvious that our guide wasn’t going to simply walk us down the valley floor to the target building. No, we were going to have to climb a steep wall to get to Ahmed’s residence.
It took Shrek ten minutes to locate our guide, who wore a faded olive drab army jacket and a black facemask to protect his identity should a local happen to be awake and see us through a window or doorway. He had to live here, and protecting his identity was crucial. We followed him over rickety single-log bridges, in between tight adobe homes where both shoulders rubbed against the walls, up precarious ledges, and over large rock formations. He knew exactly where he was going. No doubt that this was his hometown.
The route was physically exhausting. We had started this journey at the Bagram Air Base, which was 5,000 feet above sea level. By the time we reached the target house we would have gained another 1,500 feet in elevation, and the steep climb was made more difficult because we were all carrying loads-weapons, ammo, water, radios, explosives-weighing anywhere from sixty to one hundred pounds. As the troop commander, I typically carried the lightest load, but even my chest was screaming for oxygen as we moved up the near-vertical slope, softly picking up each foot and delicately placing it in front of the other. The boys seemed to be handling the ascent with ease. I’m a mere mortal, but they were animals.
About two hundred meters from the target, Shrek and the guide moved to the far side to provide security. At fifty meters, we paused to catch our breath, give Shrek time to get into position, and radio our location back to the base.
A distinct humming sound rode the night air, the familiar buzz of an AC-130 gunship that was burning holes in the sky directly above us. Gunships make us happy, but this time the presence of the aircraft caused a worry because it could be easily heard by anyone on the ground. By circling around the target area too soon, the aircraft risked compromising us and also alerting Gul Ahmed, and either development might prompt him to squirt. He was not stupid. This time, the services of the gunship could wait.
Our U.S. Air Force combat controller, Jeff, raised the AC-130 and directed it to clear the airspace and to go loiter a few miles away. As the plane faded from earshot, we once again settled back to dead silence.
Still, there was another bird stacked up there. A Predator drone circled 9,000 feet over our heads, out of hearing range, but with its infrared camera locked on the target buildings. The images flashed back to the JOC and gave the Delta commander and the entire task force staff seats almost as good as ours. On a large screen, they could easily make out twenty dark figures around the four structures.
Shrek made a final radio call. “Be advised, the guide thinks Mr. Ahmed will attempt to jump out a window and run for another home.” The guide’s timely reminder was no big deal, since that is always an obvious possibility. We stood and departed our last covered and concealed position, and moved up the hill to introduce ourselves to Gul Ahmed.
The home was typical of a middle-income Afghan farmer, and through our NVGs we saw chickens scooting calmly around the dirt yard, several goats that were frozen in confusion about the intruders, and a big donkey that stood dead still, as if it were trying to hide its presence.
We had chosen for this mission to employ mechanical breaching to gain entry; we would simply open an unlocked door or use a sledgehammer or ax, but refrain from using explosives. No need setting off a loud boom that would announce our presence to everyone in the area. The doors were expected to be of the standard, flimsy type and were likely only secured with a light chain. They were there mostly to keep prying neighbors out and animals in, and we breached them by a quick manipulation of the loose chain or a simple mule kick.
Charlie Team silently entered the front door of the main residence without anyone the wiser, but just inside the door stood a large water buffalo that knew these specters did not belong there. The big animal spooked and made a beeline for the front door, with the big horns nearly impaling a Delta operator.
After clearing that immediate room, the team flowed through the open doorway to the left. Inside was a large bed fashioned from tree trunks and rope, and the unmistakable outlines of two humans beneath a blanket. One of the boys kicked the bed and both figures quickly bolted upright, a confused man and a naked woman staring into the darkness. The man was our target, Gul Ahmed, and the boys easily subdued him, but his partner began screaming uncontrollably, and her keening wails started a chain reaction of shouting throughout the entire two-story log structure and then spilled to the other structures.
Within two minutes of the breaches, the sweet sound of victory squawked through my earpiece. “One-One, this is Charlie-One, PC [Precious Cargo] secure,” reported Grumpy, the Charlie Team leader.
I called back, “This is One-One, I understand PC secure, over.”
“Roger, we got him, building three, bottom floor secure. I need some assistance on the second floor.”
Grumpy was mature, quiet, and unassuming, a no-bullshit kind of guy who had been in Delta for seven years and had a general disdain for the chain of command. He told it like it was and didn’t pull any punches, not even for
