Friendship is an elusive principle—in some cases, perhaps the most powerful binding force there is. It’s that way between many SEALs. But the Texan sensed it with Gulab. They’d forged a bond based on trust, which might last a lifetime. Such profound friendships may well be exclusive to fighting men, who have faced down death together, as these two most certainly had. And were still doing.
The morning passed slowly, and since there did seem to be some aerial activity, Marcus rigged up his radio emergency beacon and jammed it in the window, aiming skyward. He hoped that the batteries were still sufficiently strong to transmit the beam that would alert the US pilots to the glad news that he was still alive. Of course, he knew the main risk: that the guys would assume the beacon had been stolen by the Taliban and was now being activated to tempt US pilots down to low altitude in the area.
From their secret bunkers and caves, the tribesmen could unleash Stingers and try to down the aircraft. At this time, Marcus still did not know exactly what they had pulled off four nights ago, when they blew up the rescue helo coming to get the Redwings out of there.
He did, however, know that their favorite trick was to slam their missiles in through the open ramp of the helos, and blast the fuel tanks. This was a tactic at which they were skilled enough to frighten the bejesus out of any US pilot flying too low and too slow in search of a lost SEAL.
If the Taliban nurtured those kinds of ambitions on this morning of July 2, however, they were badly out of luck. The village elder must have reached Asadabad, because suddenly all hell broke loose on the mountains. In came the US fighter bombers, which literally bombarded the slopes upon which the Taliban camp was situated.
Marcus heard the bombs come in: big 1,200-pounders slamming into the granite, blowing apart huge rocks, knocking down trees, and generally rearranging the landscape. They were so tight on their targets, they nearly blasted the village of Sabray off the mountain. Roofs went flying into the air, parts of house walls caved in, there was dust everywhere, kids were crying, women screaming. Gulab and Marcus were crouched against the walls, inside, heads well down, awaiting the departure of the US planes.
As suddenly as it had started, the bombardment ceased. The US planes had not hit the village with a direct shot, but the peripheral damage was unavoidable. Doubtless it had softened up the Taliban and caused them endless casualties, as the Americans had definitely intended. But it also must have left them spitting with anger, and it was obvious that Gulab believed a sustained personal attack was imminent.
The people of Sabray, however, seemed to hold nothing against the Americans. They set to work, every man, woman, and child, clearing up the mess, replacing stones, fixing roofs and doors, trying to make their dwellings waterproof. By nightfall, they had restored order.
Soon after the evening meal, when the young kids had gone to bed, the most unimaginable electrical storm ripped through these mountains. Texans are no strangers to hurricanes and twisters back home, but it was a rainstorm the likes of which Marcus had never seen in his life. Great jagged bolts of lightning slashed across the sky, accompanied by gigantic claps of thunder, and the rain hammered against the escarpments and then cascaded down any downward route there was: gullies, cart tracks, dried-up riverbeds. The torrent that gushed through the middle of Sabray would have swept any living creature off the face of the mountain.
Outside the front door, the dirt-track road had been turned into a river, and the noise was deafening. The upper pathway down to the village was a waterfall. The whole sky above the high peaks was a weird electric blue. It looked like a prelude to the end of the world.
Gulab and Marcus sat with their backs to the thick rock wall constructed against the mountain. They’d suffered no damage in the US bombardment, and the building remained waterproof. Nothing leaked, and they weren’t swept away. But the rain belted down nonstop for six hours until 0300 in the morning. Because of the steep gradient, the floodwater went away fairly quickly, gushing down the mountain. In less than an hour, it had cleared.
Marcus had been harboring an unlikely plan that he would somehow walk over the Afghan Alps “like one of Hannibal’s friggin’ elephants,” and make it to the small US base at Monagee. But now conditions on the saturated mountain would plainly be treacherous, making such a journey out of the question. Also, he’d slept for many hours since midnight, and Gulab had decided against waking him.
So he had nothing to do except sit and contemplate the impossible while feeling sicker and sicker by the hour. Parasites in the water plus his weakened immune system were draining him. Marcus eventually took another dose of opium and knocked himself back out.
He didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky. He was frustrated at the world. He desperately wanted out of the village and at least wanted word that his people knew he was there and alive. He didn’t know for certain whether the elder had made it through. Everything hurt like hell, and less than a half mile away sat Ahmad Shah and the “Commodore,” trying to dream up ways to kill him right here, or, alternately, drag him over the border to Pakistan and decapitate him.
Marcus also could see that Gulab was worried about possible Taliban retaliation for the US attack the previous day. His friend was pacing and looking out the window. He’d also posted guards on the periphery of the village.
So as not to let Gulab’s mood completely unnerve him, Marcus took a walk around the village. Suddenly there was a near-frantic rush of footsteps behind him as Gulab came racing down the mountainside, calling loudly, “Marcus! Marcus! Run! Taliban are here!”
He almost dragged the SEAL. Marcus could tell this was urgent, and did everything he could to move faster. But he’d forgotten his rifle, and he pulled back to tell him of this omission. Gulab, who was clutching his own AK, looked at the American as if he’d finally lost his mind. But he kept going, dragging Marcus behind him, just the two of them, floundering toward the lower reaches of the village. It was unclear whether they were going straight through and then over the river to the secret cave, or whether they would make a stand in one of the strong stone houses on the lowest dirt street—hopefully one with some narrow windows, firing areas, from where they could cut down the enemy.
Behind them, among the higher buildings in the village, they heard intermittent gunfire—the sounds of troops firing randomly into the air. Marcus remembers stumbling down this steep hill. Jesus! he thought to himself. This could be Murphy’s Ridge all over again, and here I am with two full magazines in my gun harness and nothing to fire ’em with.
Gulab admits that it was a bitter disappointment to learn that Marcus had left his rifle behind, because the Talban might find it and take reprisals against the owners of the house where he had sought shelter. And then there was the reality that Gulab needed him to shoot before the Taliban destroyed them both.
But at that moment, his prime objective was to find cover, from where they could regroup, get organized, and make a stand. It was essential they get into a military-style redoubt before the Taliban had even a remote idea where they were.
Gulab remembers that race down the mountain, because it was there that he understood once and for all that Marcus, a highly trained member of the US Special Forces, had enough strength to move on his own and demonstrate his training as an elite soldier. Every loose gunshot they heard, he instinctively ducked down low to the ground yet still kept running. And each time Gulab turned to tell Marcus “Get down! Crouch! Run low!” he was already in position a split second before the Afghani.
They reached the lowest level in the village and rushed into a house owned by a friend. It was perfectly situated, with excellent views up the hill into the main residential area. Its walls were thick, with a couple of windows on the front facing the street.
Gulab helped Marcus sit down in a dark corner, virtually out of sight, and then he took off out of the house, running hard, back up into the area where the Taliban troops were still firing erratically into the air.
He dodged through
houses, through backyards, around the mosque. He skipped across the main street, skirted carefully past the adjacent homes, and lunged through the window of the house where Marcus had recuperated. Almost without breaking stride, he grabbed the Navy SEAL’s rifle, tucked a spare ammunition clip into his pocket, clambered back out the window, and then charged back down the mountain, this time using the outer pathway on the right flank, as the Taliban had drifted to the center, and appeared to be in some kind of conference.
No one saw him, and he half ran, half stumbled back down the steep slope, the way he had as a kid and the way his forefathers had done before him. He hit the door with his shoulder, handed Marcus his rifle, and told him gravely, “Taliban, Marcus. We fight.”
Right there began the transformation from injured American into battle-commander Marcus. He climbed to his feet and stared around the room, looking for a big, heavy chest of drawers that they could heave in front of the door and jam into position. Unhappily, there was nothing, just those huge, colored Afghan cushions. So they shoved them into place right in front of the door. Anything to slow down a forward rush into the room by a heavily armed enemy.
That was when Marcus took over. The SEAL team leader rammed a magazine into his Mark 12 with deft expertise. Then he demonstrated his own defensive position in the left-hand window, standing crouched in the corner, with the rifle sights aimed up the hill.
Marcus then moved Gulab back, to the right, and showed him how he wanted him to fire from that window, but to be ever ready to step back, swivel left, and fire straight at the back door, blasting apart anyone who shoved his way in and tried to shoot him in the back.
He checked Gulab’s magazine, checked his own, and then announced a readiness to “rock ’n’ roll.”
Two men against maybe fifty, but the American soldier acted throughout as if they would beat them. Gulab could tell that Marcus thought they’d turn them back.
The houses in lower Sabray were quite close, and if one or more Taliban tried to come down the circuitous path through the village, they would have to pop out between buildings, right in front of their eyes.
They checked the cushions in front of the door and jammed themselves in the window frames, machine guns ready, classic infantry defensive positions, awaiting an offensive move from the enemy. They could hear the raiders high above these lower streets, and now they both heard a barrage of shooting and wondered whether there was an exchange of fire between the Taliban and the villagers.
Since both sides used the Russian Kalashnikov, Gulab couldn’t tell from listening who was shooting what. However, he knew there were several armed men behind the walls of many village houses, ready to open fire, in ruthless defense of the American guest.
Marcus and Gulab were in warrior stance gazing up the hill. Any member of the Taliban force heading directly to this house, down either route, would inevitably die. The Afghan-US team was locked in, and locked on, firing from behind solid, stone walls; both expert, trained firefighters.
And there was an air of confidence about Marcus. It was as if Gulab was seeing him in his true environment at last, and this was an awesome sight, one huge US Special Forces commander, primed for action, well positioned, and spoiling for a battle. And for almost a half hour, it seemed that he would get his wish. The gunfire increased high above them, but it sounded very random—not the controlled aim-and-fire of highly trained troops. Gulab guessed that the Taliban troops had simply rushed out of the woods and begun a short campaign to terrify the women and children of Sabray—and grab or shoot Marcus if they could.
The two of them stayed in position for another fifteen minutes, and then, quite suddenly, the gunfire died away, and there was silence save for the normal sounds of village life. Gulab knew that Ahmad Shah’s thugs had left, but out of caution, the pair remained in position for another half hour.
As two military officers, ordinarily Marcus and Gulab would each seek a debrief, but, of course, neither could speak to the other. But they were both thinking the same thing: someone had tipped off the Taliban about where Marcus was being sheltered, and Shah had decided on a swift strike. When charging into the house failed, they retreated, perhaps not wishing to encounter controlled gunfire from the Navy SEAL and the mujahideen commander, for not many nights had passed since the Taliban had suffered a baptism of fire from a four-man American insertion team.
This left the home team feeling more optimistic, but when they finally emerged from the temporary redoubt, they proceeded very cautiously, as if unseen eyes on the far hillside were watching through stolen Russian glasses. Also, they could not be certain that Ahmad Shah had not posted marksmen on the outskirts of the village—men who just might gun them down if they attempted to get back to the house.
For this reason, Gulab elected not to go back up but instead to make their way farther down the mountain, away from the village, and wait to see what developed. It was his firm view that Maluk had made it to Asadabad, and that the Americans were now well briefed, and were preparing to come in and get their man.
So once more they set off down the slope, and again Gulab could see that Marcus was in terrible pain. One of his men had joined them and helped him down, with the Texan’s huge arms wrapped around their shoulders.
They reached the opium field and rested for a bit. The SEAL was staring at this unique piece of flat ground, contemplating what they all knew: that if the US rescue team landed, it would do so right here on the one piece of flat ground in the entire area.
None of them wanted to go too far away, and they made their way up into the hillsides, where the vegetation was thickest and where most of the rays of the hot sun could not penetrate.
Marcus found a soft spot under some kind of a bush and discovered a crop of blackberries growing all around him. He just lay there on his back, eating them voraciously. He was trying to relax, despite the fact that they were almost surrounded by Taliban troops ready to shoot him dead if they got half a chance. Without getting their heads blown off by Gulab, that is.
The three of them sat there for a while, but there were infinitesimal sounds in the trees, deep in this woodland territory—the slightest snap of a distant twig; an unnatural swish of a high branch; movement in the still, windless grasses and ferns—where there should have been none.
Gulab considered the Taliban were closing in on them, and he whispered to Marcus in Pashtun, “We must go now.” Somehow the American understood, and he reached for his rifle and turned over. But he hesitated and for some reason turned around and stared up the hill. And there, sitting on a rock, staring down at them, was Ahmad Shah.
They both knew precisely who he was, and for a moment, Gulab froze. Marcus instantly leveled his rifle into firing position, and he had it aimed straight for Shah’s forehead. He was very obviously giving serious consideration to pulling the trigger, which, from where Gulab sat, was a rather short-sighted plan.
Shah was surrounded by his army, and their boss was being threatened by the wounded American they had been seeking for four days. They were leaning forward now, more visible in their trees, with even more Taliban infantry moving up into the area.
Marcus and Shah stared at each other. The terrorist chief knew he was essentially a dead man if any one of his men opened fire. Either Marcus or Gulab would blow him away, but in the ensuing minutes, the Taliban would probably mow down both of them—and probably the entire village—furious at having lost their beloved leader.
So there they were in a tense Mexican standoff. Within seconds, they all knew that no one was in much of a position to shoot anyone without causing untold damage. Ahmad Shah lowered his rifle and, looking directly at Marcus, gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
That was a signal for a brief conference. Gulab finally stood up, nodded back at him, and then set off up the hill, walking, he knew, into the teeth of very great danger. Because now they could shoot him and then shoot Marcus, one at a time. If nothing else, that would avoid the kind of massacre that would e
nd any goodwill the Taliban still had from the people of Sabray.
Ahmad Shah was identical to the image in the grainy photograph issued to the Redwings by the SEAL ops room: a glowering, hate-filled fanatic, with wisps of red in his beard—an Afghan bent on destroying the US occupying force and his own Kabul government, more or less in that order.
Marcus stared right at him, straight down the barrel of his trusty Mark 12, and gave serious thought to pressing the trigger and taking him out. But SEALs are not cowboys. They don’t shoot from the hip, at least not regularly, and Marcus weighed the consequences. If he shot him, Gulab would immediately hit the dirt and shoot as many Taliban as possible. But there were dozens of them in the trees, and in the end, they’d win, what with Gulab and Marcus being trapped on open ground on a downslope. And then, contemplating the loss of their beloved leader, they’d surely march into Sabray and take out the entire population in their anger and disappointment.
The American decided not to shoot, but he never took his eyes off Shah or lowered the rifle. In fairness, Marcus will confirm that his adversary never flinched; he just kept right on staring back with that look of absolute hatred on his face.
Suddenly Shah turned to Gulab, and what passed between them can only be guessed, but it was probably a lot more hatred. Marcus stayed right where he was, the Mark 12 trained on Shah’s head. And then he saw Gulab stand up, his head held high, and walk out toward Shah, right under the gunsights of the enemy.
He thought then, as he thinks now, that Gulab displayed a very rare act of gallantry. It reminded him of Mikey, and, in a way, it was equally moving. Marcus had been on his own in this strange place, thousands of miles from home, with so many people wishing him dead, and there walked this man who had saved his life and had stood powerfully between the SEAL and his sworn enemies.
He was a still a man to whom he could not speak, but who had cared for him as if he were his own brother. He was, by any standard, Marcus’s beloved savior. And now once more he walked into the jaws of death for the wounded American.
The Lion of Sabray Page 13