Operation Dark Heart (29 page)

After a loose session of war stories and jokes over dinner, the colonel and I ended up alone at the table when the others went up to get dessert.

He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at me for a minute. “Airborne,” he finally said. “I’ve been impressed with your actions over the past four months. You’ve redeemed yourself.”

“Sir, thank you … I think.”

“You’ve done an outstanding job,” he told me. “I’ve never seen a spook do as much as you.”

I was surprised. “I’m just trying to do my job, sir,” I said, answering honestly. “I’m here to get things done.”

There was something about Colonel Negro that inspired you to speak frankly. He had a good bullshit meter. “And,” I added, “I’m having the time of my life.”

Colonel Negro smiled. “You’ve really forced me to reassess my view of case officers. In fact, I’m so impressed with you, I’m putting you in for an award. Tim is working on that now.”

I was caught off guard. “Thank you, sir.” I thought back on my checkered past with DIA. “DIA would never do something like that.”

Colonel Negro nodded and smiled again. “I understand,” he said, “but it’s that very attribute—always pushing to achieve the mission—that I want to see you recognized for.”

“Sir,” I said, “you don’t need to do this. I do appreciate it, don’t get me wrong, but your recognition is fine. I just enjoy working for you and supporting the LTC.…”

We both looked up. The rest of the troops were returning with ice-cream bars for the colonel and me. As the conversation turned to complaining about the crappy Porta-Johns, I thought about how this was one of those best-of-times, worst-of-times periods.

The bad: Dark Heart, a major initiative of Task Force 180 that we believed would have hit at the core of the Taliban and al Qaeda, had been killed off—at least for the time being. I still hoped, with John Ritchie helping me, that it was just suspended and would be reconsidered later, but right now, it was dead in the water.

The good: working for Colonel Negro and the LTC. And here, Colonel Negro, a commander whom I respected more than just about any other officer I had served under, was looking to reward me for work that I honestly felt was just a part of my job.

I also thought about Kate, another first-class part of my stay in Afghanistan, but one that came with, well, issues and probably an expiration date.

Despite our crazy work schedules, we were managing to spend time together. We stole moments for intimacy. The heavy-duty stuff, yeah—but even the simple stuff, like junior high all over again. Watching movies or sitting in the truck near the flight line, holding hands and listening to the local radio station, with jets taking off and landing. Nothing adds to romance like the smell of burnt JP-4 jet fuel coming off the runway, I guess.

In that harsh environment, it’s amazing how the touch of another human takes on greater importance. Also acts of kindness. Once I left the tent at 2:00
A.M.
with a killer sinus headache, and she came by to check on me when she came off her shift at 7:00
A.M.
I returned the favor by always making sure that she had enough cigars, even when she couldn’t make a convoy to get them herself.

By far, she was the best shotgun who rode with me on my convoys. She was fearless, as far as I could tell. Probably because of her rugged Alaskan upbringing. No matter where she was—on a convoy, on foot in and around Kabul—she was always on top of the situation. I got a kick out of the fierce way she would direct the troops to secure perimeters around a convoy when we had a tire blow (which was fairly often). She didn’t take any shit from anyone.

I was drawn to her energy and her enthusiasm. She had become popular with the ***** team and although I didn’t push her in their direction, it was a natural fit. Her ability to keep her cool and think quickly under stress was something that would serve her well if she decided to try and join the ***** program. I thought she’d make a great HUMINT case officer and offered to write her a letter of recommendation and get her plugged into a recruiter if she wanted.

She wasn’t sure. She told me that she had her “own plans” for her life. She never spoke to me about them in specific detail—just general stuff. She was on the road to being promoted to staff sergeant at the very young age of twenty-three and she was thinking about going to Fort Huachuca to become an instructor after she completed her combat tour. The kids coming through the school would have greatly benefited from her knowledge, no doubt about that, but I figured she would get bored quickly and long to be back in the shit within thirty days.

Her only real shortcoming was her youth. She was so damned confident that her life was going to turn out the way she had planned it. I’d been there: promoted young, thinking I knew more than I actually did. So then you have to learn some tough lessons. In fact, if there was anything painful about our relationship, it was to know what she didn’t yet realize—that control is an illusion.

That realization comes with age, and we never talked directly about the nearly twenty-year age difference between us. There were glimpses, like when we commented to each other about how fate had put us out of sync by two decades. There was real love between us. She admitted it to me, and I to her. It reminded me of a line from Shakespeare’s
Merchant of Venice
that I’d memorized in high school. “For love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit.” I quoted it to her once. She thought it was cute. I knew it was true.

So, with all its pretty follies, the clock was ticking on our romance, even as the autumn turned into winter and our time together kept us warm. We both had other people and other issues in our lives that we’d have to eventually deal with.

I would also learn just how illusory my control over my life really was.

*   *   *

It was the reality of going back to our real lives that was coming into focus. Even more so when it came time for the presentation of the Bronze Star.

It came at Colonel Negro going-away party. His tour of duty was up, but he turned his good-bye party into an awards ceremony. Like most things he touched, he was making sure it wasn’t about him but about the team he had put together. He wanted to reward us.

The ceremony was at the small covered outdoor-barbecue area sandwiched between the plywood B hut (we called them Haji Huts since local Afghans built them) that the LTC staff used for its recreation building and the State Department’s white trailer that was to serve as President Karzai’s secret residence if there was a revolt or coup.

The event was pretty informal. We all stood around eating Sun Chips, Pringles, and well-cooked hamburgers, washing them down with high-quality, German, alcohol-free beer.

“Gentlemen,” Tim called out. “It’s time for the awards.”

While Colonel Negro had told me he had nominated me for the Bronze Star, I didn’t know it had been approved. I figured it would eventually be awarded when I got back to Clarendon.

Then he called me forward.

After I came up, I turned to face the group to the right of the colonel. He smiled and nodded at Tim, who read off the citation. Phrases stuck in my mind: “commitment to mission accomplishment in the most extreme circumstance … performance in a combat zone.” As I stood there, all the things that I’d seen and been part of in the last four months came rushing back: the 105-degree arrival, the combat convoys, the ****** interrogation, the away missions, the raid on the telecommunications center, the IED and near ambush, Mountain Viper and Dark Heart … all rolling around in my head as the words were read. The emotions were raw and settled at the same time. I was grateful to be alive and to be doing what I’d always wanted to do. Everything was happening for a reason. It was a strange dichotomy of being in a crazy situation but also doing what I had been trained to do in the most challenging of operational environments.

As Tim completed reading, I stood at attention as Colonel Negro pinned the medal on the left side of my chest. Medals are always pinned on the left over the heart. The Bronze Star—awarded to service members in combat—was a one-and-a-half-inch star suspended from a red, white, and blue ribbon. On the reverse, it read
HEROIC OR MERITORIOUS ACHIEVEMENT
along with a place to have my name engraved, although no one I knew got their medals engraved.

* **** *** **** ** **** ** ** ***** **** ** ***** ***** ********* ***** * ******** ** *** ****** ** **** ***** **** *** ******* ************ **** **** ***** The text describing my actions that led to the Bronze Star would also have to be sanitized to take out the top-secret info.

Colonel Negro said a few words, telling the group what he’d told me at dinner—that I had restored his faith in spooks and how I had effectively integrated the clandestine HUMINT capabilities into the operations of the command. Then I said a few words, noting that I believed that this war, not the Iraq war, was the real war because this was where 9/11 had started and we had to make sure that another 9/11 didn’t come from this region of the world.

“Thanks to all of you for helping me accomplish the missions. My main job is to make you all successful,” I told them. I turned to Negro. “And, sir, I appreciate every opportunity you have provided me to fight the war and to serve you and the cell—it’s truly been an honor.”

There was scattered applause from the group, and I nodded thanks to them.

“Tony, thank you,” Negro said and then turned to the group. “OK, let’s go finish those hamburgers.” With that, the award ceremony was over.

I looked around at the group I’d been working with. This medal ceremony was just a brief pause for me—for us.

I had the feeling that the eye of a hurricane had just passed over.

18

MADRASSAH

IT quickly became clear that 1099 was under enormous pressure to produce quick results. Within the first forty-eight hours of its official arrival, even before it had a chance to move into the “Death Star,” it was already being pressed to make progress, even though its forces weren’t ready. They hadn’t even assembled their helicopters. They were still all lined up on the tarmac in large pieces, and the task force was still operating out of **** ***** *** old Russian-built structure. Though they were supposed to instantaneously come up with bin Laden.

It was not pleasant to watch.

I had wrapped working in our 180 space and had just sent the final CONOPs off to Clarendon at about 2300, shortly after 1099 hit town. I decided to go over and check in with Colonel Keller to see how their efforts were progressing. It was the last week of October; there was a crispness in the air that comes with autumn, and the moon was just over half full as I walked the quarter mile from the 180 compound to the growing 1099 compound. I showed my badge to one of the Rangers who was pulling guard duty at the outer perimeter. He looked at it with a penlight and waved me through.

I had never seen the **** ***** * building so full. It was packed with people in constant motion, all scurrying around like ants, with purpose and diligence. I moved through the crowd as if I were invisible to them all, making my way to the Ops Center and a huge 10-foot-by-8-foot display screen that showed the current intel. That night, there was feed from a Predator drone orbiting around a fixed spot of interest.

I stopped for a minute to try to figure out what the hell the Predator was looking at.

Colonel Keller came over. “We’ve got some information from the CIA that Hekmatyar and his deputies are meeting in this madrassah right now,” he said, looking up at the screen, and then turning his gaze back to me. “Can you get someone up there right now to check it out?” He gave me the location.

Jesus. There? Not in a hurry.

“It’ll take two to three days to get one of our clandestine teams up there,” I said.

Colonel Keller looked unhappy. Clearly, the geography of Afghanistan hadn’t sunk in with him yet. “We’d like to get your guys to confirm the meeting. We’re uncomfortable with a single source. There is no way to get there tonight?”

“I don’t trust single sources, either.” I paused for a moment to phrase my words carefully. “Colonel, my best guess is three days,” I said, “and I don’t recommend you guys do anything against that target at this point because we just don’t know. I think we should stand down.”

He relented. “I agree. We can’t do an air assault. Our assault helos are still being off-loaded from the C-17s. The only option is to bomb it, and I’m not going to recommend that we do that.”

“Great,” I said. “Let me go over and call the house from my desk at 180. I’ll give this to Randy and have him confirm the time it will take to get the guys in there.”

Colonel Keller looked relieved. “Let me know tonight what the bottom-line estimate is to get your folks to put eyes on target at this location. And I still need the list of your assets in country.”

“Sir, will do. I’ll be back at oh two hundred with an update.” That was settled. I left to go back to the 180 tent, get the estimate for Keller, and grab a cigar with Kate.

I got Randy on the phone, and we spoke at the secret level about the location. He said he could get one of the Afghan teams there in probably two days. I requested that he start planning to dispatch them, and that I’d be seeing Colonel Keller to get final confirmation to send them.