Silence.
Jim walked away. One of the soldiers, Sgt. Adrian Cone, approached him. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “It is miserable here. No one is working together. Everyone needed to hear that.”
Two days later on March 11, twenty of the newly recruited Chowkay arbakai set off on the dirt path that led through Chinaray and up the steep valley to Martyr’s and Dishka’s peaks. A few donkeys followed them laden with food, water, tents, and blankets, as well as weapons and ammunition. Jim and his men watched over them as they moved out.
They are going to get hit, he thought.
Jim had taken extensive precautions to ensure that other American units in the area did not mistakenly attack the Afghan force, but he was sure the Taliban would strike.
The arbakai were going to build observation posts on the two mountains. There they would absorb insurgent attacks otherwise directed at the qalat. Jim knew the arbakai would not survive without heavy weapons and ample ammunition. But his requests for extra ammunition and PKM machine guns still had not been approved. That left him one option: he gave the arbakai two U.S. military M240 machine guns along with thousands of rounds of ammunition. It was unorthodox, but it would keep them and us alive.
CHAPTER 30
AS JIM AND HIS comrades, Afghan and American, were fighting to expand tribal security in Chowkay, back in the relative safety of COP Penich, Lt. Roberts took out a pen and began printing in small, neat letters: “I, Thomas Christopher Roberts, want to make the following statement under oath.”
Things were not right with the world, according to Roberts. He wanted to be in Afghanistan, he wrote, to “conduct operations that benefit the people and destroy terrorism.” However, he claimed indignantly, he was being asked to do things that were “immoral or illegal.”
Roberts was not sure of his facts, but in six scattershot paragraphs, the newly minted West Point lieutenant lodged a number of suspicions, allegations, and complaints.
One of the problems, he said, was that Dan had asked him to give the ALP fuel. This was a common practice by Special Forces teams across Afghanistan, but Roberts believed it was wrong, so he refused to do it. Another concern, he said, was about reporting fifteen workers present on COP Penich when at the time there were only three. Roberts did not realize that those numbers also covered the workers at Chowkay.
Then Roberts turned to Jim. He claimed that Jim had failed to report his own injuries after the January 16 IED so that “his concussion would not be means for him to leave the country.” Roberts also stated that he had once detected alcohol on Jim’s breath—it was in the evening of February 16, the same day that Jim, Dan, and a small team including nine arbakai climbed twenty-five hundred feet into the Shalay valley and captured a high-value Taliban target. “I did not smell alcohol on him before this time, but this was the first occasion I have been around him after heavily perspiring,” Roberts wrote. Jim was “walking abnormally because of the dismounted movement” and was offered pain medications by the camp medic. Roberts said he “suspected Major Gant of being intoxicated and under the influence of pain medication.”
Roberts noted that I was at COP Penich but had not been put on the daily situation report, or SITREP. “No one knew where she came from, only that she lives with Major Gant and he refers to her as his wife,” he said.
For whatever reason, Roberts had decided not to raise his concerns directly with Jim. But it was clear from what he wrote and confided in others that he feared getting in trouble and decided instead to point the finger. “I cannot work in this environment any longer without being asked to do something immoral or illegal.”
Shortly after that, Roberts quietly dispatched his sworn statement up the chain of command. It landed at the Bagram headquarters of Special Operations Task Force–East, headed by Linn, who was then Jim’s boss. Within seconds, the information went viral, causing an almost apoplectic reaction by the military hierarchy, according to a senior member of the command.
Immediately an email flew in from Col. Richard Kim, the U.S. Army commander and battlespace owner in charge of Konar and surrounding provinces. The message was sent with an exclamation point, indicating high priority. “We have to get this guy off the battlefield,” Kim wrote, according to the senior member of Linn’s command. Minutes later, Schwartz called, followed by Brig. Gen. Christopher Haas, who had taken over in July 2011 from Brig. Gen. Miller as head of CFSOCC-A. Next came a call from the office of Gen. John Allen, who had replaced Petraeus as the top U.S. commander in Afghanistan.
The accusations against Jim arrived at a particularly tense time for the Special Operations commands of Haas and Schwartz. On March 11, the same day that Roberts made his sworn statement, Army Staff Sgt. Robert Bales was detained at his base in the southern province of Kandahar for allegedly slaughtering sixteen Afghan civilians in a methodical killing spree. Bales was a member of the same Fort Lewis–based conventional Army battalion as Roberts, and was similarly assigned to work with Special Forces teams conducting village stability operations. The incident sparked more anti-American demonstrations, leading the U.S. military to again suspend combat operations in Afghanistan. Internally, it was a leadership crisis for Haas and Schwartz, whose commands Bales fell under.
Based upon Roberts’s statement, Linn decided to conduct a “probable cause” search of Jim’s living quarters and those of his teams at both COP Penich and the qalat at Chowkay.
ON MARCH 12, SOLHEIM flew into Chowkay for a planned visit to see the progress Jim and his team were achieving with local security forces in the Safi tribal area. His helicopter churned up a cloud of dust as it set down in a newly built landing zone guarded by arbakai just outside Jan Dahd’s compound.
The team had rushed to flatten the ground and cover it with gravel to create the landing zone, anticipating high-level visits soon by Haas and Allen.
Jim greeted Solheim as soon as he got off the chopper. “What’s up, Jim?” Solheim asked casually.
“Hey, what’s up, man?” Jim replied.
Solheim knew Jim was in trouble, but instead of pulling his fellow major aside and giving him a heads-up, he chose to say nothing. It was a stab in the back that would later surprise and anger Jim. Instead, he and his senior enlisted man, Sgt. Maj. Brian McCafferty, appeared relaxed and positive as they walked over to have tea with Jan Dahd, and then spoke with several Afghan officials who were involved with the local police and who stopped by the compound.
For Jim, Dan, and the rest of the team, it was a proud day. The fact that a U.S. military helicopter was now landing at the home of the tribal leader was a sign of recognition for the Afghans—both Jan Dahd and the Safi tribesmen working to protect their area—and underscored the importance of their efforts. And as far as Jim knew, no other Special Forces team in eastern Afghanistan had embedded twice in Afghan villages and lived in qalats guarded only by themselves and their arbakai. The rapid momentum achieved with the Safi tribe was resounding proof that Jim’s strategy was working.
Later Jim led Solheim across the hillside to the qalat and introduced him to his men. They ate lunch with Sadiq and Abdul Wali, who was back from the hospital in Asadabad and had a cast on his wounded leg. “I got shot in the leg, too!” Solheim joked, pulling off his artificial limb and laughing.
Solheim appeared genuinely impressed by what he saw during the three-hour visit. “You are living the life,” he told Jim.
Solheim had agreed to hold a ceremony at the qalat to present Jim and Dan with Purple Heart decorations for their recent combat wounds. But shortly before his departure, Solheim excused himself to make a phone call. When the time came to give out the Purple Hearts, he prevaricated. “I am prepared, right now, to present you and Dan with your Purple Hearts,” he said. “But just know we will do the ceremony again, because Lieutenant Colonel Linn wants to come out and give it to you. He will fly out in the next couple of weeks,” he lied. “So we can do it twice, or we can do it once.”
Jim had turned down several Purple
Hearts and did not really want the latest one. When he dropped me off at COP Penich, he had commented that he was reluctant to accept the award, knowing other recipients had suffered far more crippling wounds.
“Fuck that, let’s just wait,” Jim replied.
Then he walked Solheim back to the secured landing zone, shook his hand, and watched his helicopter take off.
AT NINE-THIRTY THE NEXT morning at Bagram, Brig. Gen. Haas quietly launched an Article 15-6 investigation “into the alleged misconduct of MAJ Gant, CPT McKone, and by Operational Detachment Alpha 3430(G) personnel and augmentees at VSP Chowkay and VSSA Penich.” Haas appointed Lt. Col. Robert Kirila to conduct the investigation.
A slight man with short-cropped hair, Kirila had just arrived in Afghanistan to become Schwartz’s deputy. The forty-three-year-old from Norfolk, Virginia, had graduated from the University of Richmond with a bachelor’s degree in Spanish and later commanded a battalion in the 7th Special Forces Group, which focused on Latin America. Once when he was the company commander in charge of Special Forces training at Robin Sage he forced the students and cadre to work on July 4, even though training was finished, according to a former Special Forces officer familiar with the incident. A drinking party ensued and several members of his command were punished.
Schwartz, meanwhile, drafted two memos based on Roberts’s statement that outlined the alleged wrongdoing of Jim and Dan.
“I have received a report of serious allegations regarding your conduct as the ODA 3430G Team Leader,” he wrote about Jim. ODA 3430G was the formal designation for Jim’s team, whose call sign was “Tribe 34.” The G stood for “Gant.” “The allegations include, but are not limited to alcohol consumption, misuse of pain medication, misappropriation of government funds, misuse of fuel, falsifying documents and a potential inappropriate relationship with Ms. Ann Tyson.”
At his headquarters in Jalalabad, Solheim rallied a team and prepared to move against Jim. Solheim told other officers he felt betrayed by Jim. He assigned Sgt. 1st Class Markus Eckart and Staff Sgt. Bryant Brown to conduct a “health and welfare” inspection of Jim’s room—the shipping container that had been moved with the rest of his team’s equipment from Mangwel to Penich. Then he called on Capt. Fleming, the leader of ODA 3412 who had already been assigned to take over for Jim in Chowkay, and ordered him to have his men armed and ready.
At 2:50 a.m. Kirila left his quarters in darkness and boarded an aircraft for Jalalabad. At 8:45 a.m. on March 14, Kirila, Solheim, and the rest of the team flew by helicopter to COP Penich.
CHAPTER 31
THE FOUR DAYS I spent at Penich waiting to return to Chowkay were dreary ones. Back behind the outpost’s barb-wired walls and dirt-filled Hesco barriers, I felt completely removed from Afghanistan. Only the mountains reminded me of where I was, so I spent hours each day writing while sitting on a wooden chair outdoors, where I could see snow-capped peaks in all directions.
Imran was even more miserable than I was, having been left behind as the youngest brother while Abe and Ish moved with Jim to Chowkay. Shunned by Roberts, he spent hours each day alone in a large wooden hut he had shared with his brothers at Penich. One day I went to the door and knocked. “Come in,” a quiet voice called. The room was only dimly lit, and Imran was sitting on the floor with his back resting against the wall, doing nothing. His eyes looked hollow and sad.
“I feel like I am in prison,” he told me. I decided to try to cheer him up. Every day, when we were feeling especially stir-crazy among the monotonous routines of the camp, we would go out for a walk together. One windy afternoon, we played basketball with Chevy, the eleven-year-old orphan boy who had come with us from Mangwel. Another day, we took a long stroll in a drizzling rain, pacing round and round the perimeter of the camp, like caged zoo animals. We avoided the chow hall, with its blaring televisions and bland, canned food. One day, as a treat, Salim, the cross-eyed cook, boiled a chicken in a heavy cast-iron pressure cooker—the same type of cookers that were sometimes used to make IEDs. “This chicken came from my house—not the market,” he told us proudly. We drank the soup heartily. In the evening, we played cards. I ended up staying in Ish’s small back room, which attached to Imran’s, at night because the shipping container was so terribly lonely.
Imran wore his heart on his sleeve, and we talked about his furtive relationship with his fiancée, who lived in Jalalabad. Given the cultural taboo on dating, Imran rarely saw her, but they spoke on the phone. I gave him some advice. In return, Imran translated a Pashto love poem for me. He also gave me an Afghan cell phone so Jim could call me. Little did I know then how critical that phone would be.
ON THE MORNING OF March 14, shortly before 9:00 a.m., I received an urgent call from Jim.
“Ann, Solheim is flying into Penich. You need to stay in the room,” Jim said. “He will be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Okay. I’ve been staying in Ish’s room, so I’ll be there,” I told him.
“Whatever you do, move now,” Jim said. “I’ve got to go. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Something about his tone and Solheim’s unexpected visit made me nervous. As a precaution, I gathered all my notebooks and computer and hid them in Ish’s room. Then Imran helped me replace the padlock on the door of the shipping container, leaving my backpack and cameras inside. I went to Ish’s back room and closed the door.
Imran was in the larger connected room. About ten minutes later, after Solheim’s helicopter landed, Imran went out to see what was going on. He came back, a shocked look on his face.
“Ma’am, they broke the lock on your room,” he said in a hushed voice. “They are in there taking pictures. They have gloves on.”
My whole body tensed.
This is it. The black helicopter has landed, I thought.
Jim had warned me about this moment many times. Remember this: whoever does me in will be wearing a U.S. Army uniform, with a Special Forces tab.
Now I had to break the news to him.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. Imran quickly stepped back into the main room.
“Everyone turn over your cell phones. Now!” announced a stern male voice. It was Navy SEAL chief Kasey Heiland, the American advisor to the district government, who had recently arrived on the camp. The cigar-smoking SEAL had only been on one mission with Jim, a live-fire training event near Mangwel. Every inch of the walls of the hut he and others lived in was plastered with pictures of naked women.
I stayed in the room and kept my Afghan cell phone, hiding it under some clothes. The moment after I heard Heiland leave, I called Jim.
“They broke the lock and are searching our room,” I said in a whisper.
There was a pause on the line.
“It’s over,” he said. “You know that, right?”
“Yes, I know.”
“It will be okay. Just tell me what happens. I have to talk with Dan.”
“Okay.”
I hung up the phone.
JIM CALLED DAN INTO our room on the Chowkay qalat.
“They are coming after us, brother.”
Like Jim, Dan was shocked and angry, but not necessarily surprised.
Then Jim called COP Penich. Roberts answered the phone.
“I have to talk to Kent right now,” Jim said.
“Just a minute,” Roberts said. After a few seconds, he came back on the line. “Sir, he will call you back.”
A HUNDRED CALCULATIONS RACED through my mind.
My passport, backup drives, and cameras are in that room. I have to get them. There is no reason to hide now. I have nothing to lose.
I steeled myself and walked out of the room and down the gravel path to our shipping container. Sgt. Maj. McCafferty stood in front of the door, blocking my way.
“We are conducting a health and welfare inspection of the camp,” he said, not moving.
“My bags are in that room,” I said.
“We are conducting an inspect
ion.”
“I am getting my things.”
I stepped forward and he let me pass. Inside the room, two uniformed men with gloves were searching, taking photographs, and tearing the room apart. They had gone through my clothes, which were under the bed, and flipped through photo albums including a sentimental one of me growing up—eating blackberries from a pail with my brother as a five-year-old in Seattle, playing with my sisters as a third-grader in Ireland—that I had given to Jim before he left for Afghanistan.
“This is just like something out of a movie!” one said to the other.
I slung my backpack and cameras over my shoulders and walked out, incredulous that they did not stop me.
Then I went back to Imran’s hut. A soldier standing outside told me everyone was supposed to stay out of their rooms. I ignored him and went in anyway.
I phoned Jim again and told him what I had seen. We agreed that neither of us would answer any questions.
Then I went back to gather more of my things. This time I ran straight into Solheim at the door of the shipping container.
“Hello. How are you?” I said, and shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Solheim said. “You can pack your bags. We are going to be taking you to Jalalabad later this afternoon.”
“All right,” I said, and went to get one of my duffel bags from under the bed.
Soon afterward, I noticed the inspectors had left our room and moved on.
I called Jim again.
“They left the room. Do you want me to get anything for you?”
“No, it’s too late,” he said, knowing the room had already been photographed. His computer was there, his medical records, his writings. There was a bag of empty alcohol bottles in the room that had accumulated over months; Jim never openly drank in Afghanistan, out of sensitivity for the Muslim prohibition on alcohol use, and did not throw the bottles in the trash, where Afghans might see them. In addition, there were controlled medications, including pain pills, a small quantity of steroids, and some sleeping pills. Two photographs of Jim and me were on the wall. One showed us cleaning weapons after training. In the other, I was posing playfully with Jim’s M4 carbine and AK-47 rifles. Below the photograph, I had written in Greek the admonition of Spartan wives as their husbands left for war: H —“Return with your shield or on it.”
American Spartan Page 35