Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man (24 page)

The general pressed us hard for more bombing. “The Arabs are going to die in their caves. Many are living in the same trench lines on the mountainsides that were used when we defeated the Russians. My fighters are spread out in the mountains, near the caves. They cannot escape. We have all sides blocked.”

George broke in. “We can’t bomb forever. We have given you money, weapons, and equipment to attack, yet you refuse. Now we are giving you our best fighters. If you don’t begin soon, thousands of American soldiers will be covering this entire area.”

Whooaa
. George had put his finger on a sore spot, but he meant business and was running this show.

“The Arabs will fight to the death,” the general responded, trying to sound convincing, “I don’t want to sacrifice all my men to get to them.” Showing a slight frustration, he added, “Ten thousand fighters won’t be enough to get them out of the trenches.” Ali was agonizing over George’s harsh words, which were almost accusing him of either corruption or cowardice.

I threw in a portion of understanding to help take the edge off things. “General, we can bring more bombs here to help, but we must get closer to the enemy to kill more, and to win this battle.” High-level bombing cannot do everything by itself. Boots on the ground can pinpoint the payloads.

Almost conceding the argument, the general said, “My people must be first, in the end.” Hometown pride. He wanted his forces to carry out the first wave of the final assault. That was fine with us.

I turned and pointed to the mountains behind me. “We must get on the back side of those ridgelines to see the caves and trench lines, to shoot al Qaeda where they eat, sleep, and hide,” I said. “Give us what we ask for and you will be pleased.” That was it. I ended my side of the conversation.

Ali looked down, shrugged his shoulders again and sighed, ending our meeting.
“Momkin,”
he said, a Pashto term of indecision, meaning
“possible” but always used for “maybe.” It was a frustrating word that we would become very familiar with over the next ten days.

After the little powwow, we learned that the CIA had already bankrolled the general to the tune of several million dollars, money that had been spent to rent his leadership, his men, and his courage. George was irritated that it was not spent to buy equipment.

Ali had feared that when we showed up at his headquarters, we would be accompanied by a massive amount of American tanks, jeeps, and troops. So our discreet arrival pleased him. Both Cobra 25 and the CIA folks wore traditional Afghan clothing and brought nonmilitary style vehicles, and we had followed that lead. Local clothing and vehicles, not American military issue, were the flavors of the day. He had been delighted with our stylish Afghan outfits.

And we had to consider the careful political balancing act he had to perform. If he lost face with the tribal leaders, the Shura, his supporters might think less of him and brand him as unfit and unable to handle the problem by himself. If rival tribes got wind that foreign commandos were being brought in to help
his
fight in
his
own backyard, it could prove the end of his reign, if not skillfully handled.

But on the other hand, he knew the muhj advance had stalled completely along the northern foothills, and like it or not, he needed help. Around-the-clock bombing, intermittent foothill skirmishes, and the monitoring of al Qaeda’s unsecured radio calls for a week had convinced him of several things.

First, his enemy was organized and well equipped, having stocked hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition, crates of RPGs, a dozen or so SAMs, piles of foodstuffs, and even enough firewood to last the harsh winter.

Second, because the Russians never conquered these mountains during the Soviet War, Ali now faced a highly motivated foe that had already beaten a superpower. As far as the enemy was concerned, they were invincible soldiers of God, with Allah in their corner.

Finally, and something most troubling to Ali, al Qaeda possessed the ability to reinforce and counterattack any muhj advance. Skirmish after skirmish over the past week had only served to bloody the noses of the muhj and 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,
friendly
fire. We would really have to be careful once we got into combat.

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.
We’re starting to click
, I thought, and he said something else.

“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?”
Well, that isn’t necessarily a surprise question
, they thought.
But does she realize that we are Americans?

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.
This is ridiculous. How are we supposed to fight this war if we have to hide from the damned reporters?

“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.

Well, that trip sure went less than well: The press is closer to the front line than we are. We abandoned our general and got chased away by a blonde in a TV truck. Some warriors we are
.