“Breed, your mission is to lead a team north from the Arwal valley. Through the northern passes into Tajikistan. You will plan for three months on the trail. You will follow the caravans wherever they lead. You will map the caravan routes, plot the enemy’s bases. Locations of drug supply, processing and distribution. Arms trading. Training of enemy personnel. I want you to write the book. Make me an expert on the trade.”
My heart pounded at the thought of three months in the mountains. Avoid contact at all costs. Spend a hundred percent of the time spying. It was a brilliant mission.
“I’m keen to get started, Sir. I assume you will allow me to do the detailed planning.”
“Of course. Take any three men you choose.”
“Keller, Lenson, and Hancock.”
The general smiled. “I expected no less.”
“They are the best.”
I took my team down-range. We hiked through the Arwal, the Kagur, all the river valleys. We moved like ghosts in the mountains. Followed the Taliban. For three months, we lived off pre-positioned caches of supplies. Water, food, ammunition, fresh clothing. Hiking in the Hindu Kush inflicts wear and tear on the most durable uniforms. Regular tumbles on rocky slopes can leave you half-naked until you reach the next resupply cache.
More than once, Taliban found our trail and we had to shake them. I don’t think they cottoned onto what we were doing. They were not onto us long enough to see the larger canvas of the mission.
On one occasion, we ran head-on into a Taliban patrol. There was no warning, we collided. I passed both their point man and their slack before any of us realized what had happened. I shot their number three man, and Keller shot both their number one and number two. In the fight that followed, we killed eight Taliban without suffering injury ourselves.
When the GPS told me we’d reached Tajikistan, I took a deep breath and stepped over the line. The air smelled no different. The earth and rock were no different. We pushed deeper.
Photographs, notes, annotated maps. I wrote the book General Anthony wanted. All the way from Kunar to Tajikistan and back.
When we returned to Bagram, General Anthony spent a month debriefing us. The debriefs were the strangest I’d ever experienced. We turned over all our material to the general. All the originals, no copies. Then he sat with us individually and as a group to review the after-action reports.
No one from the general’s staff was present. No adjutant, no G-2, no one. We conducted private, top-secret briefings for the general. Tutorials on the drug and weapons trade in Afghanistan.
When we finished, the general took away all the material and sent us out again.
“This time,” the general said, “you are going to China.”
“The Wakhjir Pass.”
“A low-intensity drug smuggling route.” The general planted his hands on his hips. “An artery conducting opium from Afghanistan to western China. The mission is not limited to the pass. You are to identify all the routes in use. Take as much time as you need.”
The general drew an X on the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. “This will be your last pre-positioned supply point. We cannot send air resources into China. If you get caught there, you are on your own. No dog tags, no identifying unit patches or badges of rank. Nothing.”
“Roger that, Sir.”
“Breed, this is top secret. Your mission is to make me an expert on the drug traffic between Afghanistan and China.”
That mission almost killed me. The Chinese caught wind of us and maneuvered to seal the border. We fought two engagements. Escaped through Pakistan-controlled Kashmir. There must have been collaboration between the Chinese, Pakistanis, and the Taliban. For the better part of a week, we dodged hunter-killer units in the mountains.
Did they know we were American? They must have. We were the only ones with the interest and the balls to be there. Our first mission into Tajikistan drew no attention. The mission into China rang some bells.
I wrote the book.
Personally briefed the general.
We never spoke of the missions again.
Now, eight years later, I pick my way over the rocks. Trampled stones form a narrow trail—barely suitable for mules and goats. On either side of the track, a carpet of pointed rocks and treacherous scree. I consider rigging a safety line, dismiss the idea. Taliban regularly cover this ground unassisted.
The disturbing conversation with General Anthony takes me back to those long patrols.
I watched to see what developed from the missions. You never forget a pair of journeys that occupied eight months of your life. Six months on the trail and two months of rigorous debriefs for the general’s eyes and ears only.
US forces conducted more drug interdiction missions. Ambushes and air strikes on caravans. The attacks never made a dent in the opium traffic. A full-blooded effort could have stopped four out of ten loads coming through the Hindu Kush. I doubt we stopped two out of ten.
I had other missions on my mind. My team conducted nightly direct action raids on high value targets. I attributed our lackadaisical performance against the drug trade to a bureaucratic failure in the big green machine.
Why am I thinking about them now? Certainly my experience conducting those operations is the reason the general sought me out.
I can’t escape the feeling that a circle is being squared.
16
The Caravan
Kagur-Ghar
Tuesday, 1600
The sound of gunfire no longer echoes from the bridge. We need to follow the trail lower, and find an off-ramp that takes us north. All I see below are craggy outcrops of stone, boulders as big as Humvees, and dense pine forest. Flowing mercury, the river snakes through the valley.
The trail we’re on is narrow, at the edge of a rocky face. It plunges precipitously to trees at the base of a deep ravine. I lead our group in a loose file. Trainor follows close behind. Lopez and Grissom
