by Dalton Fury
Not surprisingly, whenever Americans and muhj tried to interpret the same map, there was significant disagreement over the correct grid. Jester took out his compass and shot an azimuth to the center of the ridgeline in question, then using the polar plot method—distance and direction—he determined a usable set of grid coordinates, and a confirmation round marked the target. The combat controller gave his solution to a B-52 bomber which dumped twenty-five bombs on the spot. Airburst fuses exploded the weapons before they hit the ground in order to kill not only the al Qaeda fighters caught in the open but also those tucked into holes.
The muhj cheering that was overheard on the OP25-A radio couldn’t be mistaken. The strike opened the way for the muhj to break the stalemate, and they charged up Hilltop 2685 in a surprising display of aggressiveness. They did not stop until they had killed every al Qaeda brother with a heartbeat on the ridgeline and had captured the last of the Three Knuckles.
Then they ruined the moment by spending the next hour looting the dead al Qaeda fighters of equipment, weapons, and ammo. With the pillaging done, the victorious and joyful muhj headed back home for the night. What a waste.
Although the muhj had once again failed to hold the captured terrain, they had by clearing the field opened another opportunity for us to inflict still more damage on the bin Laden forces. Before the al Qaeda fighters could put their heads down for some much needed sleep with the retreat of the muhj, the boys in OP25-A took control of the airspace again.
Most of the Green Berets bedded down for most of the coming night, while Jester, Dugan, and the air force controller began another twelve straight hours of guiding bombs and providing targets to the stalking warplanes. At one point, OP25-A simultaneously controlled nine aircraft, which were stacked like blocks, and called them in one at a time to attack the enemy positions, cave entrances, foot trails, and fighters still in the open.
Several times, the special intelligence interceptors at the schoolhouse heard the agonizing cries of pain and despair coming over the al Qaeda radios. The pitiful pleas were just the kind of feedback we needed, and as the bombers gave way to the AC-130 gunships and night fighters, “multiple hot spots and personnel” were reported and engaged.
After destroying three enemy vehicles, the boys saw enemy foot soldiers fleeing down a ridgeline and immediately cleared the Spectres and F-14s to engage. It was the end of the jihad, and everything else, for those guys.
Success did not come without some hiccups.
A CIA owned-and-operated unmanned aerial vehicle known as the Predator entered the Tora Bora airspace and started unleashing rockets on al Qaeda targets. Without any heads-up from our friends next door, the unknown bird caught our boys as a complete surprise. They had no idea about the identity of the aircraft, which had the call sign “Wildfire” and was being driven by a computer joystick in the hands of an operator far removed from the battlefield. It was certainly welcome, but it took a while to figure out what the hell it was.
Besides the unexpected appearance of the Predator, the night was filled with a good bit of confusion, which can be expected on any fluid battlefield. Multiple aircraft entering and exiting the airspace resulted in a few bad target locations. One aircraft identified Ali’s few T-55 tanks as belonging to al Qaeda, and another plane mistook the position of OP25-A as being occupied by enemy fighters.
Back at the schoolhouse, we monitored each call for fire and matched it with the colorful enemy radio intercepts. Each new bomb generated another broadcast, which in turn helped fill out the developing picture: Al Qaeda forces were withdrawing south, into secondary positions.
We identified on the map a linear terrain feature that they had to traverse and worked the grids to each end of the target line. Once the information was relayed to OP25-A, they snagged all available aircraft and relentlessly hammered the area.
Besides the CIA’s armed Predator, we also received excellent support from a second one, although it carried no guns. The roving aerial camera spent eight hours helping to identify targets and providing immediate feedback after the targets were struck. This camera-carrying Predator had a direct feed to the AC-130U gunship, and was a true combat multiplier.
Few believed that the success the boys up at OP25-A had enjoyed the night before could be outdone, but on December 11 the close air support they controlled in tandem with every type of aircraft in theater—AC-130 H and U models, B-1s, B-52s, F-14s, F-15s, F-16s, F-18s, and Predators made this the mother of all sleepless nights. The boys in OP25-A were the envy of the half-dozen Green Berets who watched the light show from several miles away in OP25-B.
After handing over airspace control to their buddies across the battle-field at 0500 hours on December 12, the exhausted boys at OP25-A passed out.
Ski and his India Team, which had stayed at OP25-A the previous night, had packed their gear and headed back to the schoolhouse. Without the luxury of the donkeys, their rucksacks weighed over a hundred pounds each, since they had brought along five days’ worth of food, batteries, and water. A couple of Toyota pickups met them at the original drop-off site and gave them a lift the rest of the way.
With things developing fast up in the mountains, we began cashing in some of the flexibility that we intentionally placed in the plan.
India had a day to rest and prepare for reinsertion the next day as part of another large unit, this one to be led by reconnaissance troop sergeant major Bryan. The team assumed part of his odd nickname, B-Monkey, and became MSS Monkey. It was nearly the mirror image of MSS Grinch.
Bryan took the normal complement of direct support personnel with him—combat medic Dirty, communicator Shen Dog, combat controller Spike, and a tactical signal intelligence collector. Besides the snipers of Ski’s India Team, MSS Monkey included Charlie Team assaulters—team leader Catfish, as well as Stalker, Nitro, Hobbit, and Shamus. We tasked MSS Monkey to relieve the Green Berets currently in OP25-B, then press on deeper into the mountains to help seal the western Wazir Valley.
Although shorted a bit on their stay in the mountains, these Green Berets had performed superbly as they passed control of the airspace back and forth with OP25-A. They were ordered to pack up their gear, meet the relieving MSS Monkey personnel at the base of the foothills, and use the same vehicles that had brought our boys forward to return to the schoolhouse.
Outfitted with the best night vision equipment money can buy, we preferred to infiltrate at night, but Ali’s men still could not be persuaded to stick around and guide us through the friendly checkpoints. Money could buy many things in Tora Bora, but could not lessen the muhj’s fear of the dark. They pretty much refused to do anything after sunset other than eat, sleep, and shiver, preferably somewhere very safe, and were certainly not about to capitalize on the cover of darkness to get in among the enemy. As far as the muhj fighters were concerned, we could take our state-of-the-art NVGs and own the night all we wanted. . . just leave them out of it.
Ali and Zaman, the two rival warlords, became changed men once they saw the extraordinary effects of the bombing from the night before and heard a couple of reports that bin Laden was under duress and possibly ripe for the kill.
Ali and Zaman, locked in their own battle for status, were still trying to trump each other to secure favor with the press. Neither missed an opportunity to second-guess or complain about the other man’s tactics or the other warlord’s unwillingness to engage in heated battle when the recorders and cameras were running.
Returning from Jalalabad, General Ali drove right past the schoolhouse and headed directly for the front, pausing dramatically at Press Pool Ridge to update the eager reporters about his intentions to finish bin Laden that day, God willing, of course. Zaman was close on his heels.
The big lights popped on for the TV crews, and dozens of sleepy and unshaven reporters—both Western and Eastern—stuck their small tape recorders or hand mikes almost into the mouths of Ali and Zaman, who held simultaneous interviews only thirty yards apart. And, as had b
ecome customary, the media representatives listened with enormous enthusiasm and expectation as the warlords pledged that their men were on the attack.
And they were, in a crazy sort of way, with little coordination between the two forces. They moved on separate routes, and fought up ridgelines for the prize of owning Hilltop 2685.
It was a foot race with dramatic political overtones. With the effective bombing overnight, and the boys in OP25-A delivering new bomb loads during the day, the enemy had been unable to fully reoccupy its positions, and after trading small-arms and rocket fire with al Qaeda remnants, elements of both warlords reached the high peak within thirty minutes of each other.
But Zaman’s people got to the top first and were quick to let Ali’s men know who owned the high ground. With a quick and interesting tactic, as if this game had been played on other hilltops, they cleverly expanded their perimeter on top, not so much to protect against an al Qaeda attack as to keep Ali’s men lower on the military crest, which was the less valued piece of real estate.
Understanding the importance of command presence on the battle-field, Zaman got to the hilltop and stayed there. Ali departed to return to the schoolhouse. Now Zaman had direct access to the al Qaeda fighters remaining in the area, and the subordinate commanders of the embarrassed and departed General Ali stood around dumbfounded and frustrated, unable to do anything.
The taking of Hill 2685 by the mujahideen on December 11 would prove to be a very critical point in the overall battle, for Zaman was nothing if not a sly opportunist.
Earlier in the day, on his way to the dual press conference and then the front, Ali had radioed the schoolhouse to request that we send a couple of Americans forward to direct bombs while his men attacked toward the prized hilltop. As much as we were willing to support his offensive, we had learned our lesson the hard way about sending a small team out there with the muhj because it was a safe bet that, come nightfall, they would again be left behind.
So this time we were ready with a full package, and Jim and MSS Grinch took off for the foothills. If they could link up with one of Ali’s subordinate commanders, they could then push up the ridge to the contested high ground, from where they could call for precise fire on the retreating al Qaeda forces.
That was they way it was supposed to work. Few things in Tora Bora ever went as planned.
Our first attempt to infil the combat-savvy men of MSS Grinch had met exactly the problems we by now almost routinely anticipated. The narrow road to the front was one snag after another and the usual traffic jams slowed the infil down to a snail’s pace. Al Qaeda would have had to be blind not to have seen Jim’s convoy coming their way.
Then, our boys ran smack-dab into a mass of journalists and cameramen at one of the forward checkpoints. The muhj guides knew that under no circumstances were the American commandos to be discovered by the press, so they stopped our convoy to discuss the options.
Time seemed to stand still, and when the sun set behind the mountains and darkness overtook the area, the guides simply decided that the best plan would be for nobody to go anywhere. They had no idea where exactly Jim and the boys needed to be dropped off anyway.
Jim was fit to be tied. He wanted desperately to press on alone with MSS Grinch, to ditch the guides and just drive on through the press area, but patience had to be the better part of valor. Jim knew that if we took center stage, we would be giving the proverbial middle finger to our hosts. No matter how frustrating, we had to do this with the muhj.
My boss had made it clear that our mission was to keep General Ali moving, continue to generate momentum for his assault, and help create the conditions for his success. The guides at the front had quite another idea; they refused to continue, and that was that.
With a lot of angry muttering about having to miss still another opportunity, the powerful MSS Grinch, twenty-five Delta operators and skilled British SBS commandos, were forced to turn the convoy around and head back to the schoolhouse without even having seen the enemy. Ali had failed to coordinate his intentions with us, and now he paid the price for that mistake. That night, Zaman was king of the hill.
When George of the CIA, Adam Khan, and I went over to the general’s lackluster quarters, we found a totally exhausted Ali. Wearing a clean set of snow-white pajamas, the general this time opted not to even sit up when we entered his dark room, but instead remained on his side, with his head on his pillow and a green and brown wool blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His words were slow and labored. There was little light in the room, which had a leathery, musty smell about it. He was totally whipped and discouraged.
The general said he was concerned about his fighters’ stamina. They were tired, bloody, and cold, and he was not sure how long he could keep them motivated to fight. It was a veiled plea for help and exactly what we were looking for. We pounced on the chance.
“General Ali, now is the time,” I said, trying to encourage him. “I know you and your men are tired, but so is al Qaeda.”
The general nodded his head slowly, almost as if he was too tired to give it any more thought.
“He is right, General; bin Laden is very vulnerable right now. We can’t let this opportunity to end this thing slip away,” George added. “You need to order your men to support Dalton’s men… or I will have no other choice but to bring thousands of Americans to do the job for you.”
We made it as clear as we could. If he wanted to maintain the bombing, and the general certainly did, then he needed to get a handle on things and impress upon his subordinates the importance of getting us onto those damned mountains at night. The cover of darkness would keep the press off our rear ends, provide us unimpeded movement along the narrow road, and get us close enough to accurately direct bombs onto al Qaeda’s positions.
We had to be there! It was useless providing a grid location to the muhj or pointing out where we wanted to go on a map because the muhj didn’t read maps. A better technique would have been just to stand behind the schoolhouse and point to the ridgeline where we wanted to be dropped off. Even more practical would be to drive as close as we could get, then point to the correct spot and have the guides determine the best route to walk there.
After the little pep talk, Ali realized the importance of getting on with it, and issued some short commands to several aides waiting outside the doorway. As we nodded to signal our pleasure with Ali’s ability to make tough calls, we couldn’t help but notice the aides were visibly uneasy with the orders. The general just seemed happy to get back to sleep.
With that good news, we reset MSS Grinch’s mission. They would depart at 2300 hours local, eleven o’clock, on that same night when they had already been stymied once. The convoy would now reach the drop-off point about midnight. That gave the boys a few hours to kill, so they warmed themselves with blankets and body heat, wolfed some cold MREs and powdered Gatorade, and made last-minute equipment adjustments before going out again.
All of us had arrived in Afghanistan with zero visibility as to exactly what type of fighting force the Eastern Alliance Afghan Opposition Group might be. We had assumed they possessed some fundamental sense of organization, professionalism, and skill of arms, and we expected some level of motivation to get the job done. But after encountering repeated debacles, it was clear that our new friends were anything but an organized, well-equipped, professional allied army.
It was just over two months since 9/11, and for the most important mission to date in the global war on terror, our nation was relying on a fractious bunch of AK-47-toting lawless bandits and tribal thugs who were not bound by any recognized rules of warfare or subject to any code of military justice short of random executions or firing squads. Moreover, the muhj showed little advancement from slingshot technology beyond some handheld walkie-talkies and a few aging Soviet battle tanks.
It was their turf, their fight, and for their glory, but it sure seemed that they should have been doing a lot better.
Afew minutes before MSS Gr
inch loaded the trucks for their second attempt at reaching the mountains, Adam Khan showed up after talking to the locals and some muhj fighters. The value of this guy’s ability to converse in fluent Pashto cannot be overstated. To me, he was an asset more valuable than a boatload of BLU-82s and an armory of AK-47s; he was the glue that was holding the entire scheme together.
Apparently, the CIA wasn’t the only player with cash to spend. Bin Laden’s minions were said to be dishing out $100 bills like candy to every local in the region. Adam Khan reported the locals said he had bought off every villager, even before we arrived, and that the recipients of his largess included some of our assumed allies.
Shortly after midnight, the radio in our corner room came alive. MSS Grinch had finally infiltrated the Tora Bora Mountains, linked up with the designated group of muhj, and was moving out. Adam Khan went with them.
They soon reached the Milawa base camp, a place that was reputed to have once been the home of Usama bin Laden, and had been attacked by bomb after bomb. On the opposite side of the ridgeline stood about a hundred muhj—Zaman’s men.
* Author Derek Leebaert in his book to Dare and to Conquer discusses this unique characteristic of Delta’s selection process.
* The good relations between the United States and the United Kingdom developed since the turn of the twentieth century continue today. This is particularly true among military outfits and has proven a tremendous asset in the ongoing war on terror. See http://www.strategicstudiesinstitute.army.mil/pdffiles/PUB633.pdf.