Taking out a car full of knuckleheads was easy; a drone strike could do that with the press of a button. We wanted more. We needed a way in the door, to get inside the Taliban’s drug network. Capturing these smugglers could give us the leads we needed to start tearing down the Taliban’s supply chain in Kandahar and the rest of Helmed Province.
Our plan was straightforward, but it had many moving parts. We were going to intercept this passenger vehicle at a truck stop on the MSR just inside the Afghanistan border. This “truck stop” was nothing like the big, well-lit travel plazas we have in the States. Basically, it was a handful of shacks, a small family home, and a couple of gas pumps. The whole operation looked like it had survived the apocalypse, but just barely.
Because Pakistan and Afghanistan are such primitive countries, gas stops are few and far between. This truck stop, a gas station run by one guy and his family, was the only gas for hundreds of kilometers along this MSR. Whether you were traveling east or west, you had to stop for gas here or you wouldn’t be able to finish your journey. So the good news for our plan was that we were going to intercept a stationary vehicle and not try to stop a moving one—something that’s hard enough to do in the daytime, and even harder at night.
For this mission I was with the Reconnaissance Platoon, and we would be the backup plan to stop the vehicle if it blew 2nd Platoon’s barricade. Marc and I would also provide overwatch for the main assault force, albeit from over half a mile away. Second Platoon would land close to the truck stop at the precise moment our intel told us this car was going to arrive and would set up positions to capture the truck’s occupants once they stopped for gas.
I was the sniper team leader, and Marc was my spotter. First Platoon would remain airborne as a QRF (quick reaction force), prepared for any contingency—for example, if the bad guys in the car saw our Rangers coming toward them and instead of heading their warnings to stop, started to flee east or west along the MSR.
Since this mission would involve a total of six Chinooks—at least two of which would possibly remain airborne for an extended period—we were going to use a FARP our Army engineers had constructed close to the Pakistan border. These FARP sites are important pieces of the operational puzzle because, as our 160th SOAR buddies like to say, “When you’re out of gas, you’re out of business.”
While the Chinooks are good aircraft, they’re notorious fuel hogs. Load them up with a few Ranger platoons and all their heavy weapons and those birds suck down fuel like a drowning man sucks down oxygen if he makes it to the surface of the water. While some FARP sites—especially the ones our Marine Corps comrades build—are large and complicated, this one was pretty basic. It was literally just concertina wire surrounding some fuel blivets (big rubber bladders) in the middle of a huge patch of desert.
It might seem that two full platoons of Rangers assigned to take down one vehicle full of smugglers is overkill, but it goes back to our mantra, “Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.” As I’ve said, this was the time of the year when the Taliban moved their people, foreign fighters, weapons, and all the rest into and around Afghanistan. The vehicle we were after could be stopping for gas when a truckload of Taliban and foreign fighters were also at the truck stop. Those were the kinds of situations we needed to be ready for.
After the briefing, we assembled outside the TOC and checked our gear and our comms as we usually did. Our reconnaissance platoon had to hustle, as the plan was to have us launch first, land covertly about 10 klicks from the truck stop, and then move quickly to get to the objective area and set up overwatch positions for the main assault. We did our muster and a last check of our kit and weapons, and caught our ride to the airfield to board our 160th SOAR Chinooks.
It was a short ride—about a half hour—to our objective area. After we landed and streamed out of the Chinooks, our platoon leader formed us up and we started moving north at a brisk pace. Even in the green glow of our PVS-13 night vision goggles, we were reminded of how desolate most of Afghanistan is. We were at an elevation of several thousand feet, and the moonscape we walked across was devoid of life—no animals or vegetation of any kind.
We were about 2 klicks into a brisk but unhurried trek toward our objective area when our radios came alive. We got updated intel from KAF that the target vehicle was going to get to the truck stop ahead of schedule, and we needed to advance our timeline and get to our overwatch position now.
Things had been pretty methodical up to now, but all of a sudden they got frenetic. Our platoon sergeant led us on a virtual dead run for the 7 or 8 klicks we had to cover to get to our overwatch position. Meanwhile, 2nd Platoon, the assault element, was still at the FARP site. They had to gas and go in a hurry to get to the truck stop in time.
We got to our overwatch position and set up quickly. The MSRs snaking through Afghanistan are pretty basic, but this one was really basic. It was the type of road made by hand with stone and dirt and centuries of consistent use. It followed the contour of an ancient mountain range that was reduced to hard rock monoliths, maybe 400 to 500 feet tall.
As we settled into position along the ridgeline, I checked my wrist compass and followed its bearing to the horizon. Sure enough, there were headlights. As I said, Marc was spotting for me for this mission, and he put his LRF (laser ranger finder) to work.
We started to build a mental “range card,” which is a basic military drawing of the area around us.
“Distance to target area?” I asked Marc.
“I have seven-eight-zero to the nearest trucks,” he said. Marc didn’t bother saying “meters.” In our abbreviated way of communicating, just giving the number of meters was our default mode of communicating distance. My eyes followed his, and I slued my IR (infrared) laser to where I thought he meant.
“Yep, that’s the one,” he confirmed.
“What distance do we have to the truck stop itself?” I asked.
Marc worked the problem for a moment. “Eight hundred to the part I can see. It’s eight-fifty to this hut-looking thing. What’s that even for?”
Marc was a cheerful guy, and you wouldn’t guess we were doing anything more than checking out a deer stand before hunting season. As was true in almost every mission we went on in Afghanistan, there was some random structure with no discernible purpose. Try as we might to fully understand the Afghan culture, their ways were not our ways.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll call that tangle of trucks the parking lot. See anything near this goat pen?” I asked. I pointed again with my laser, circling an area I wanted his eyes on.
“Goats?” Marc responded with a chuckle, as he found my laser spot. “Hmm … just goats, seven-nine-five. Call it eight hundred meters, Balls.”
That seemed good enough for me. We ranged a section of road between us and the truck stop and quickly memorized that distance as well.
I was carrying my bolt-action Mk-13 mod 2, our “big gun.” It fired the .30 caliber cartridge. Because I knew I might have to stop a vehicle quickly, this large cartridge was just the ticket. I also knew that any shots I had could be a half-mile. To give you an idea of what kind of stopping power this shell has, the .30 caliber is the go-to round for hunters going after moose, elk, and bighorn sheep. I knew I had the right weapon to stop a passenger vehicle.
Our overwatch position was about 800 meters from the near side of the truck stop, and while we were well concealed, we had a pretty much unobstructed view of the action. The rest of the Recce Platoon was watching our backs to ensure we weren’t ambushed from behind or overrun by Taliban coming out of nowhere. It was “Hope for the best, but plan for the worst” on steroids. But having said that, the reason we were in Afghanistan was to decimate the Taliban. It would be a good thing if they attacked our position. We just needed to be ready and ensure it wasn’t a fair fight.
A few meters away, Marc was backing me up with his .30 caliber during close-in fighting as far as putting out rounds in a hurry. This is by way of saying that if the
truck stop turned out to be full of Taliban or foreign fighters and it hit the fan, the enemy would have to think twice before trying to rush our position.
I flashed back to our intel brief and instantly identified the vehicle we were told to intercept. It was a Toyota pickup, probably the most common kind of vehicle used in Afghanistan, and it was entering the truck stop from the east. It had four passengers in it. At the same time, we could see 2nd Platoon rushing to get into position to encircle the truck, make it stop, and grab its passengers.
Just like that, our plan was falling apart. The target vehicle was moving slowly, and 2nd Platoon was using its 250-lumen tactical lights to signal the car to stop, but it didn’t. It didn’t stop at the truck stop at all but just kept moving. Time for Plan B, and we were it! Our Recce Platoon sergeant was on the net with Major Dan trying to get clearance for me to shoot the truck, ideally through the engine compartment, and stop it.
It now seemed like a near-death experience, when time slows to a crawl. Where’s the damn authorization to shoot? I thought. I watched the truck through my scope, and I could see that its headlights would soon fade behind the large rock outcropping between me and their route through the truck stop. If I waited until I could see them again, 2nd Platoon would be in my line of fire, and shooting at the truck would present too great a risk of me creating a friendly casualty. I considered—then rejected—the idea of just taking the shot without permission and dealing with the consequences later.
All this was going through my head while I was building and rebuilding my shot and adjusting my math. Marc was looking through his optics and feeding me the minute corrections he saw as the truck continued to travel. And every second I’m thinking, We’re gonna lose this sucker.
As I’m hoping, praying, for the authorization to shoot, I’m breathing in cycle, timing each inhale and exhale, ensuring that I’m ready to fire at a split-second’s notice when the call comes. Seconds stretched into minutes as I waited for the call. As the truck’s lights began to fade from view like a setting sun, I began to give up hope. It’s too late …
“Shit, lost him,” Marc said under his breath. He was mirroring my own thoughts.
Suddenly, my earpiece came alive. It was Major Dan. “Sierra is cleared to engage vehicle,” he said.
My right ear was bare, and I had my right cheek pressed against the stock of my rifle. I was inhaling and exhaling evenly, slow and steady, trying not to disturb my crosshairs focused on the target.
I was looking at a wall of granite, a grainy black and green monolith in my night vision scope. I knew the car was there, and I knew how fast it was going. I’ve practiced this shot more times than I can count, but on a stationary target, and one that was only about 400 meters away. We had started tracking this vehicle at 1,000 meters, and now it was rolling, unseen, toward my cross hairs at 840 meters. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale …
I was trying to get the lineup just perfect and put my cross hairs on a spot on the road behind the mountain. I knew the truck would be the same distance away as the gas station, and I knew from studying the map where the road was behind the mountain, so I pictured exactly where that should be, measured in my scope, and placed my crosshairs on that spot. Marc and I had already calculated vehicle speed, and I could see the point in my mind. If we had calculated correctly, my bullet would meet the target vehicle at 840 meters.
I was dialing in my scope elevation when I heard my platoon sergeant key his mic. I knew what he was going to say—that we no longer had eyes on. I squeezed the trigger before he could utter the words I didn’t want to hear as my own thoughts came to the fore: We didn’t load up two full platoons of Rangers to do nothing.
The recoil of my .30 caliber sent the big rifle back into my shoulder hard, while the scope accelerated toward my eye. But I never lost my sight picture, and I saw my cross-hairs fixed on where I knew the target was all the way through the violent recoil. By the time my rifle settled, 190 grains of copper-jacketed lead should have dipped below the false horizon between us and the target. Never losing my sight picture was an indication I had gotten off a good shot.
I was confident the round had gone where I wanted it to—into the engine block of the target vehicle.
The net cleared and I simply said, “Sierra, shot, out.” There was an eerie silence for what seemed like an eternity before I heard a calm voice say, “He’s slowing down.”
Then another voice: “Roger, looks like he’s stopping … break … we have four pax exiting the vehicle.” (Pax means persons.) “Now the hood’s up.” Marc and I formed a mental picture of the vehicle’s passengers staring into the engine compartment of the stopped vehicle, trying to figure out why their car had stopped.
Another voice broke in on the net. “Must have engine trouble.”
Marc cast me an incredulous look that I could barely see in the dark, but I could read his thoughts: You did it!
I could hardly believe it. Sure, we train for it, we’re confident, and we do think we’re pretty damn good. But we also calculate first-round-hit probability. Over half a mile, in the blind, on a moving vehicle, and that .30 caliber bullet had to go straight through the aluminum engine block of that smuggler’s vehicle and make the engine seize.
I had a Toyota truck back home, and a picture of my truck’s engine compartment flashed into my head. I pictured the places the round would need to strike to stop the target vehicle so quickly. Did it hit a harmonic balancer? Did it bore straight through the aluminum engine block? It must have buried in the motor somehow, because a miss or a near-miss would have sent frag into the cab, or else made enough light and noise that the drivers would know they were being shot at.
If I had been off a little and hit the oil or cooling system, an oil or coolant leak would eventually disable the smuggler’s vehicle, but its occupants might still be able to drive all the way to Kandahar in the cool night. If I had been farther off and hit a tire, it wouldn’t go flat for a mile, and with their momentum they could roll even farther than that. There weren’t any other options, so the only conclusion we could draw was that the engine must have seized.
In all humility, I began to thank my lucky stars, but my platoon sergeant quickly shook me back into reality.
“Sierra, did you just shoot a truck you couldn’t see and stop it with one round?” he asked. Saying he sounded incredulous would be a gross understatement.
“Yep!” Marc chimed in, quicker than I could think of what to say. “That’s why we call him Balls.”
Marc was right. There were no lucky stars to thank; we were trained to exacting standards by the best instructors in the world at both the U.S. Army Sniper School and the Special Forces Sniper Course. We were in the business of the impossible, and we were expected to be able to make shots like this.
We maintained our overwatch position while 2nd Platoon secured the truck stop and the area around it. Soon the radios came alive with abbreviated Ranger commands.
“Mike Alpha Two-Three, move up and lock them down,” the Alpha Company Platoon Sergeant barked, referring to 2nd Platoon’s third squad leader.
The commands continued. “Mike Alpha Two-Four, move your guns north and south and lock down that MSR,” referring to the weapons squad leader, who was in charge of all of the company’s crew-served and anti-tank weapons.
“Two-Two, push out security.” The assault platoon was already moving to form a large semicircle around the objective area, and now they were being told to expand it. “Send some guys to One and start helping them clear those big rigs!” One was the first squad. We never knew what a big rig would contain—anything from Taliban or foreign fighters to weapons destined for the wrong hands.
We’d practiced this kind of maneuver many times before, so there was no need for the squad leaders even to click an acknowledgment.
Seconds after these commands were uttered, I watched as 1st Squad and 2nd Squad moved to surround all the vehicles at the truck stop while the machine gun teams moved to the perip
hery of the truck stop to cover the other squads.
Perched at our observation point, we looked through our NODs as Mike Alpha Two-Three moved his squad up to the stopped smuggler’s vehicle. Within seconds, they had the car’s passengers covered with their infrared lasers.
We watched—and also picked up the radio chatter—as the third squad leader and his Afghan interpreter began to question one of the smugglers—the one, I was to learn later, who was in charge. The Ranger standing next to the squad leader turned his red overt (meaning visible) laser on this smuggler while the squad leader and his interpreter shouted commands at him.
Finally, after enduring a barrage of questions, the man being grilled told his interrogators that their car had just stopped!
I turned to Marc, and even in the dark I could see his toothy grin as he gave me a light punch on my left shoulder.
“Must be a piece of junk, just like your truck back home.”
Marc convulsed in silent laughter, and I managed to muffle a chuckle.
I always caught hell for my old Toyota truck, and here it was again.
At the truck stop, 2nd Platoon was now searching the big rigs, the gas shacks, and the family home. All they found were a few tons of sugar, candies, and snack cakes (Pakistan’s version of Little Debbie cakes). The assault force wrapped up their questioning—and unwrapped quite a few snack cakes, too. We quickly came to the conclusion that the only way to label this mission—now and forevermore—was “Sugar Shack.”
We got the word to get ready for exfil. We were perched in our rocky overwatch position, and I knew there was no way to get down to the truck stop below and link up with 2nd Platoon. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I was disappointed. We were eager to see the results of our handiwork. I wanted to know if I could take home that totaled engine compartment of the vehicle I’d stopped dead in its tracks and mount it as a trophy, but I knew better than to ask.
When the Killer Man Comes Page 8