The Only Thing Worth Dying For (35 page)

JD could see no Taliban, anywhere.

The guerrillas lugged the PKM machine guns up the slope, staying quiet and low so as not to silhouette themselves. Soon the guns were in place, tripods dug in and ammunition stacked, with Ronnie, Brent, and Victor standing by as JD arranged Bari Gul’s men in a security perimeter.

Dan, who had set up next to the guerrillas amid the boxes of ammunition, called Amerine, speaking in a hushed voice into his radio: “Support by fire is good to go, but we don’t see any enemy anywhere.”

In an infantry attack, the job of the support-by-fire element is to “soften up the target,” that is, kill the enemy defenders on and around the objective by surprising them with overwhelming firepower just
prior to the assault team’s attack. In this case, the enemy had not shown themselves, which made the assault all the more dangerous.

“This just became a movement to contact,”
*
replied Amerine, thinking,
Shit, we just lost the initiative.

“We’ve got you covered,” said Dan.

“Roger,” said Amerine. “We’re moving out.”

CHAPTER TEN

The Ruins

In preparing for battle, I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.

—General Dwight D. Eisenhower

Mike started his truck, shifted into first gear, and eased between the Alamo and the medical clinic onto the dirt road that led west out of Shawali Kowt. He looked over at Amerine in the passenger seat and Alex in the back of his pickup, then focused on Bashir’s guerrillas—each armed with an AK-47—in the truck twenty yards ahead. He wondered if their smiles and laughter were born from nervousness, bravado, or the prospect of meeting Allah in the next few minutes.

There were three trucks ahead of Mike’s, each with eight guerrillas, and two more close behind. Mag’s truck brought up the rear. Standing on top of the Alamo, Fox, Bolduc, Smith, and a handful of Bari Gul’s men watched the convoy disappear behind the buildings in town. Karzai’s security was now the responsibility of his two hundred remaining guerrillas, who had scattered onto rooftops and along the berm. Inside his command post with Casper’s spooks, Karzai was on the phone with reporters, diplomats, the Northern Alliance, his family, and intermediaries of the Taliban, all of whom were probing the statesman for news of his intentions now that he was, as he put it, “just outside Kandahar.”

Once the trucks cleared the town center, Mike could see fields on their left, desert and the berm on their right, and the deserted main road that headed over the bridge and on to Kandahar dead ahead.

Passing JD’s position on the berm, Bashir’s trucks followed the road west, then turned sharply south across unplanted fields toward compound one, the uneven terrain causing the vehicles to spread apart, with wide gaps between them.

When the first truck parked at the compound, the Afghans immediately dismounted and charged toward the hill, not waiting for the rest of the convoy. A second truck stopped, its guerrillas jumping out and running after the first group, followed by the third truck. These ragged clusters of men moved over the rough-hewn timber bridge that spanned the irrigation canal separating compound one from compound two, with Bashir running alongside and making no attempt to stop or organize them.

Bouncing across the field in their truck, Amerine and Mike watched the Afghans sprint over the bridge in a textbook guerrilla attack: lots of gusto and zero organization.

Mike threw up his hand in frustration. “There they go.”

“So much for the simple plan,” Amerine said.

“You have quite a mess there,” radioed JD as Mike parked next to the empty trucks. He, Amerine, and Alex got out and began to run forward.

“Roger that,” said Amerine. “We’ll go round them up—but it looks like our objective might be deserted after all.”

Just as Bashir’s lead group was halfway up the hill, unseen Taliban fighters opened fire on the guerrillas. The sharp crack of AK-47s was joined by machine guns; the guerrillas halted, then scattered and ran for cover wherever they could find it—in a ditch, up to the ruins, back behind compound two. At the canal, the Americans paused.

“At least we’ll have no problem catching up with them now,” said Amerine. “But where the hell is Mag’s truck?”

Mag, Wes, and Ken had been bringing up the rear when the truckloads of guerrillas at the head of the convoy had reached the fields and suddenly sped up, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. Unable to see where they’d turned off the road, Ken slowed the truck.

The hill with the ruins was four hundred yards behind them to their left; the berm with the support-by-fire team was one hundred yards behind them on their right. They had overshot the spot in the fields where the lead element had turned off, and Ken was now steering around a bend in the road that brought them within plain sight of the enemy. Seated in the truck’s bed, Mag and Wes heard bullets whiz overhead.

“Out of the truck!” Mag yelled to Wes. Grabbing their rifles, they jumped out as Ken continued to drive, hunched low behind the dashboard, searching for a way to get to compound one that was visible two hundred yards to their left. Behind the slow-moving truck, Mag and Wes used the tailgate for cover as they jogged along in a hunched position.

“We need to turn around and get some solid cover!” yelled Wes. “This truck is a fucking bullet magnet.”

“Do you see where the fire is coming from?” Mag shouted back.

“No! Somewhere ahead of us.”

Mag yelled to Ken, “Where they at? Where they at?” But Ken didn’t respond. The truck almost stopped, and Mag briefly thought Ken was going to get out and use the truck for cover as well, but instead he turned onto a road that looped to their left across the fields toward the rally point and their comrades. Sucking in exhaust and keeping their heads down, Mag and Wes continued to jog with a weapon in one hand and the other gripping the tailgate.

The truck picked up speed until the two men were running to keep pace. They sprinted thirty yards before they had to let go of the tailgate. “Fuck!” yelled Wes as the truck sped away. Mag fell forward, rolled a couple of times in the middle of the road, came to a stop, and shouted “Motherfucker!”
¹

At the support-by-fire location, JD watched the guerrillas who had been charging toward the ruins react to the gunfire. The lead group, including Bashir, broke left and continued their ascent, traversing to the northeast corner of the ruins and disappearing into a crumbling
section of the wall. The others scattered to the right, diving into the trench that ran vertically up the side of the slope, parallel to the road that continued onto the bridge: It appeared that this trench line had originally been dug as outer defenses for the hilltop fortress. After approximately ten seconds under fire, the entire guerrilla force had broken its attack and was now hunkered down, out of sight.

JD’s split team had identified the positions of the Taliban as soon as they had opened fire, and JD immediately radioed a SALUTE (Size, Activity, Location, Uniform, Time, and Equipment) report to Amerine: “We see two enemy positions by the orchards along the river to the west of the bridge and one enemy position on the ridge across the river to the south of the bridge. They are engaging you guys with small arms and light machine guns. No idea how many there are.”

“Roger,” said Amerine. “Can you see what my guerrillas are doing on the hill?”

“I have visual on three groups of guerrillas; you own the hill. They aren’t really taking much fire, but they sure are keeping their heads down.”

To reach the Taliban in the orchards on the near side of the river, and on the ridge more than a thousand yards away on the other side of the river, JD’s team pointed their guns into the sky and used plunging fire—shooting the bullets in a rainbow-like arc—at more than 650 rounds per minute. As the bullets landed they kicked up dirt that JD tracked with his binoculars, directing the men to “walk” the fire onto the heads of the enemy.

The Taliban on the other side of the river, who had been firing their light machine guns at the guerrillas, were now staying low or had retreated from their gun emplacements—or were dead—but the Americans continued to rake their positions with bursts of gunfire. There was still enemy AK-47 fire, however, coming from the orchards.

“We’re encountering some light resistance,” Amerine radioed to Fox back at the Alamo, his calm voice contrasting sharply with the echo of machine-gun fire. “Some of our guerrillas have holed up in the northeast corner of the fort and we’re trying to get the rest to move up.”

Spitting out the dirt he’d eaten during his somersault along the road, Mag darted behind some low rocks with Wes—the only cover they could find. Bullets were crackling in the air, but all Mag could think about was taking a piss. Lying on his side, he got his pack’s waist strap undone and dug below his pistol belt in search of the zipper, his hands fumbling with fear and adrenaline. By the time he unzipped his fly, it was too late; urine was streaming down his legs.

Wes didn’t notice—he was too busy trying to scope out the best route to rejoin their teammates without getting shot. He decided on the straight-line approach.

Looking back at Mag, he said “Let’s do it!” and started running across the open field toward the compound some two hundred yards away. Mag zipped back up and charged after him. “I am gonna kick Ken’s ass,” he growled.

A minute later they were at the vehicles, bent over and sucking wind. Mag glanced up to see Amerine beckoning to him; with a grunt, he jogged over, forcing himself not to look at Ken, who was standing beside their truck. Wes joined Mike at the corner of the compound wall, where he was peering around it to the west. There the road met the bridge—the likely avenue for an attack. The last two truckloads of guerrillas were by their vehicles, awaiting orders.

Still breathing hard, Mag knelt beside Amerine next to the canal.

“What happened?” asked Amerine.

“I’ll fill you in later. Now’s not the time.”

“All right,” said Amerine, puzzled. “JD’s boys are keeping the enemy pinned down. There seem to be positions in the orchards along the river and on the ridge to the south. Our guerrillas are in the ruins and all over this hill. I am going to run forward to compound two and assess the situation, then we’ll get the rest of these guys moving.”

He radioed JD. “See anything new?”

“Negative.”

“Nothing at the ruins?”

“Nothing but our guerrillas keeping their heads down. Looks like they aren’t going anywhere.”

“Keep that fire coming,” Amerine said.

“I’m putting the CCP [casualty collection point] at this wall,” Ken called out to Amerine, “with the trucks.”

“All right. I’ll come back for you in a bit.” Amerine turned to Mag. “You’re coming with me.”
*

“If we aren’t back in five minutes,” Amerine informed the rest of the assault team, “Mike is in charge; try to reach me by radio and give JD a SITREP. Watch that western flank. If you come under direct attack, let me know and we’ll come back with some of the guerrillas.”

Heads bobbed in unison as the men checked their watches. Crossing the bridge over the irrigation canal, Amerine and Mag arrived at the southeast corner of compound two. Mike and Wes ran to the western side of compound one in time to see a truck speeding across the open ground a half mile to the west. It was well out of range, but Mike went ahead and fired off two grenades from his carbine’s launcher that landed far short as the vehicle disappeared into an orchard. Realizing that there could be more trucks out there, and that a full charge from that direction was a possibility, he yelled to Ken, “Radio JD and have him send some of our G’s out to that third compound across the road. Have them watch our western flank.”

Meanwhile, Amerine and Mag were surveying the sloping hill they needed to ascend in order to reach the objective. The sun was low in the west, casting long shadows that revealed a subtle cleavage near the slope’s center all the way up to the ruins.

“Stay here,” said Amerine. He walked out about thirty yards into the open, standing at full height in spite of the bullets passing overhead.

“Those are bullets, sir!” Mag shouted.

“Yeah, but they can’t see me here!” Amerine yelled back. “I’m in dead space. This is where we’ll push the rest of the guerrillas up the hill.”

Amerine jogged back behind the wall of compound two. “I want
to get you and Alex up there so he can put bombs on these assholes shooting at us.” He pointed out some high ground directly west of the ruins, which appeared to offer the best overlook for spotting the enemy. “You’ll be exposed once you get out there. While you’re executing that, I’ll get Mike and Wes to help me push the guerrillas up the hill, round up the ones who are pinned down in the trench, and we’ll occupy the ruins. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Mag, following Amerine back across the canal.

Still watching the western flank with Mike, Wes suddenly said, “Who the hell is
that
?” Looking toward the north, Mike saw a group of guerrillas running south on the other side of the road and into the open desert—led by Seylaab, with his aqua robe flowing behind him. “It’s our guerrillas,” he said, “and they’re with that crazy interpreter.”

Mesmerized, both men watched Seylaab bolt across the open terrain directly toward the river and the bridge, in plain sight of the enemy, and run to the top of the small hillock where the eroding walls of compound three were located. With his rifle at his hip, Seylaab emptied his entire clip, on full automatic, in the direction of the bridge.

“I’m telling you,” Mike said to Wes, “that guy thinks he’s John Fucking Wayne.”

Mag and Alex moved out first, crossed the canal to the second compound, and jogged up the dead space, which got them three-quarters of the way up the hill. Then they sprinted at an angle to the west, ascending and traversing the right side of the hill, arriving at the northwest corner of the ruins without drawing fire. At this elevation they could see that the trench continued to the top, running directly to the high exposed ground they would use as an observation post.