Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man (37 page)

We left the guides behind and moved forward to the last known location of our evading teammates. Al Qaeda opened up, but although the heavy firing seemed all around, it actually was going over our heads since we were in a low position.

The mortars finally debuted with their whumping launches and wild explosions. It was a totally scrambled scene, and impossible to define. Was al Qaeda at our front, back, or sides? Or were there some friendly muhj out there actually engaging al Qaeda, with us caught in the middle? Then, it also could have been al Qaeda fighters firing at each other in the confusion of darkness, or friendly muhj shooting at other friendly muhj.

The one good fact was that al Qaeda obviously didn’t know that a whole bunch of Delta boys was in their midst, which gave us the edge. But we didn’t want to get into a shooting war with al Qaeda at this point, because the last thing you need when trying to recover friendly forces is to get bogged down in a direct firefight with the same folks your boys are trying to evade.

Alpha Team, led by Crapshoot, was given the nod to take four assaulters and scout the area forward. Getting some eyes up on the high ground might let us sort out the enemy positions so we could bring the AC-130 gunship into the game if the cloud conditions were safe.

Additionally, by gaining altitude, Alpha Team hoped to get Hopper,
the Admiral, and Adam Khan up on the FM radio. Crapshoot led his group into the night without hesitation, and I watched with pride through my NVGs as their dark green silhouettes moved into the unknown.

Crapshoot soon split his team and sent Juice and Brandon to the very top of the hill to settle into an overwatch position, prepare to call in close air support, and try to reach the missing guys on the radio. Meanwhile, he took Blinky and Mango, and the three of them curled beyond the hill to take a position from which they could assist the evading guys if one or more of them should be wounded and need to be carried.

From the schoolhouse, the special intelligence interceptors gave us a running commentary on al Qaeda’s shortwave radio calls that were being monitored in Arabic, Urdu, and Farsi.
*
It was clear the enemy knew that someone was still in the neighborhood and not everyone had left the field for the night. Fortunately, Skoot, the top interceptor himself, was along on our mission and listened to the various enemy groups attempting to find us. None of this was too alarming, until Skoot picked up a transmission that they were readying the RPGs.

Was that newly arrived QRF attempting to infiltrate the mountains in their helicopters?
This was unlikely, but certainly possible, particularly since radio communications with the schoolhouse was sporadic and we wouldn’t have known that such an assault was in the works. But it would have been a suicide mission. There was no place to land among the tight crags, and to hang up there long enough for the boys to fast-rope down would make the noisy helicopters sitting ducks for al Qaeda shooters.

The more likely scenario was that the nervous al Qaeda gunners were planning to waste their precious RPG rounds by firing at the relatively high-flying AC-130 gunship that was still droning above, waiting for the clouds to clear. This was something we observed on numerous occasions during daylight hours, when the enemy tried to reach a bomber at 30,000 feet with a shoulder-fired grenade with a range of only several hundred meters.

We had more to worry about than the enemy’s RPG stockpile. Like whether al Qaeda was readying to assault us, or if Alpha Team was walking
into an ambush, or if things were going to hell for the three Americans still on their Warpath escape-and-evasion trek through bad-guy territory.

On their way down the ridge, Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan came upon a small group of muhj hiding behind an old, burned-out tank, hoping that their fighting was done for the night. Our boys were not keen about approaching the muhj at night after a major engagement, particularly since the muhj had shown nothing but fear of al Qaeda’s reputation for night fighting. There was a definite possibility that the muhj might mistake them for al Qaeda and open fire.

Hopper and the Admiral took the lead, since they were wearing the best NVGs money could buy. Adam Khan and the few muhj fighters still with them fell in to the rear. Hopper then realized the line was out of order. If he happened upon a local with a nervous trigger finger who barked out any command in a language other than English or Russian, then Hopper would be woefully unprepared to calm the challenger. That could spark an unintended firefight. So he shuffled the line and moved the muhj to the front while he, the Admiral, and Adam Khan stayed within earshot.

It turned out that the retreating muhj had positioned small groups of fighters to control passage along the ridgeline trails, and General Ali issued a new password to his fighters every day. When they challenged the approaching group, it took only a few seconds to realize the password the escorts were trying to use was wrong. As AK-47 bolts slammed forward and the rifles were being raised, it was Adam Khan’s turn at bat. He had to try to talk their way through before anyone started pulling the trigger.

Accusations of being al Qaeda were thrown around, but once the muhj at the checkpoint finally recognized that they were all on the same side, they immediately changed their tune and began to demand money. Adam Khan bargained a toll of one hundred American dollars, to be paid later by General Ali. Adam Khan was biting his lip in fury, but it would have been a waste of time to admonish the checkpoint personnel over a bit of bribery, which was a common custom in tribal warfare.

They were allowed to pass, but within the next thousand meters the
team had to get by two more checkpoints, and each time Adam Khan was forced to negotiate through the extortion. When it was finally over, he “forgot” to remind Ali that the general owed those guys some money.

We later learned they were not even Ali’s men, nor were they all particularly loyal to the other Jalalabad area warlord, the slippery Haji Zaman Ghamshareek. Some were not on either side, but were just armed fencesitters who would play for the highest bidder and demand bribes of passersby.

While Adam Khan made deals and Hopper watched everything that was happening, the Admiral tried the radio again, manipulating his satellite antenna to increase the range, and was finally able to reach the schoolhouse and update their situation.

Crapshoot’s team also picked them up on the transmission, determined that they were close by, had not been detected, and were unhurt. Within about fifteen minutes, they all linked up south of Mortar Hill. Only two muhj were still with them. Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan had spent more than two hours covering some two thousand meters over incredibly unforgiving terrain, under fire much of the time and at constant risk. When we finally reached the little group, I’m not sure who was happier to see whom, because I honestly had thought we wouldn’t find them alive.

I’m not sure how many pounds of bombs the Admiral called in during his excursion, but the local field commander was amazed the following morning at how accurate the bombs had been and how the Admiral could get them so close to the friendly positions without causing casualties among the wrong people. It would have been nice if that local commander had stuck around the battlefield a little longer the previous night.

Then there was the sterling performance of Adam Khan. Sure, he was a former marine and understood normal military tactics and procedures, but he also was a former civilian. How would he react when left behind enemy lines with two American commandos? He could not have performed any better.

With the successful recovery of our teammates, we refocused on whether to continue on after bin Laden. It was tempting, but the more Ironhead, Jim, Bryan, and I discussed the situation, the less prudent the idea seemed.

To push forward unilaterally meant that we would be going it alone, without any muhj guides or security. Without a local guide’s help in identifying friend from foe, we would have to treat anyone with a weapon as hostile, even a possible friendly muhj. Otherwise, we would risk being stitched with machine-gun fire, because we knew al Qaeda was roaming about. Dropping one of the general’s fighters by mistake would sour our developing relationship with Ali and compromise much of the careful work done by George and his team.

Then there was the problem of the checkpoints. We did not have the luxury of prior coordination to pass through them, and how many might be out there was anyone’s guess. In addition, we were unsure of their loyalties. While on their E&E, Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan had no choice but to negotiate their passage, but a full assault force of more than thirty Delta operators would not bargain passage through makeshift Afghan tollbooths.

One final variable was that our higher headquarters had repeatedly directed us
not
to spearhead any assault on bin Laden’s cave sanctuary. Our job was to facilitate the muhj advance, follow closely behind, and be in a position to exploit their progress. That was bullshit. Even if it was not in the approved script, should the battlefield dynamics dictate that Americans move to the front and lead the attack, well, Delta was more than willing to oblige.

Only days earlier, I had looked General Ali in the eye and given him my word that we would share the danger but not the glory. I promised that we would move into the mountains to drop bombs and assist his advance. It just was not that clean. Were we only to occupy the schoolhouse grounds and not really fight unless we all happened to be in bin Laden’s cave at the same time? All things being equal, this concern had little weight.

Jim, Bryan, and Ironhead spoke their pieces and offered suggestions and options. They remained noncommittal whether to press on or to withdraw to the schoolhouse to coordinate an assault with Ali’s forces and dedicated bomber support the next day. I could feel their eyes on me.

Again, it was my decision. I stood there for a moment before reaching for the handset and calling Ashley, who was now at the schoolhouse. I passed him our intentions. We were coming back.

I was uncertain if Sergeant Major Ironhead agreed until he simply said, “Good call, sir.”

I’m still not so convinced that it was. My decision to abort that effort to kill or capture bin Laden when we might have been within two thousand meters of him still bothers me. In some ways I can’t suppress the feeling of somehow letting down our nation at a critical time.

On our way back to the schoolhouse the boys up at OP25-A tracked our movement through their long-range spotting scopes. They weren’t the only ones watching. Skoot intercepted an al Qaeda transmission: “Don’t wait for the lights, just fire.” They didn’t even come close.

I laid my M-4 assault rifle against my ruck next to the gray wall. I removed my black Kevlar helmet and the attached NVGs and gently laid them on my cardboard sleeping mat. The flimsy door creaked open as I bent over to take off my black assault vest and I saw Lieutenant Colonel Al silhouetted by the yellow flickering light of the kerosene lamp. He was shaking his head slowly, and I could faintly make out his slight grin.

“Man, you guys are some brave-ass mothers,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Coming from a Special Forces officer and longtime member of the CIA’s Special Activities Division, it was quite a compliment.