Americans. Instantly, I was on guard.
Abu Haifem then led us toward the rear of the cave. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, dripping water into stone pools. When we passed the Americans on the right, I could see that their station was elevated on a kind of natural rock platform. The man guarding it kept a close eye on us as we passed, and I him. These were not regular military. Those I would have faced head on. But not these men. I could tell from the way they held themselves, like tigers coiled to spring, that they were Special Forces of some kind, or perhaps CIA. From the platform, I heard snippets of three languages: English, Arabic, and Russian. In spite of the testosterone of my twenty years, in spite of my time at war in Beirut, in spite of thirteen years of training, I knew instantly I was outmatched. In fact, it was possible these half-dozen men could take on the entire force of mujahadeen assembled in the cave. That was the signal they sent off. I could smell it.
Abu Haifem then led us through a passageway to a sandpit, a kind of cave within a cave.
“You can store the rockets here,” he said. “I will post guards.”
That evening, Aassun, Zeid and I sat with Abu Haifem and made a simple dinner of meat and rice. We gathered around a tiny fire built in a stone pit in the corner of the cave opposite the Americans.
“Tell me about them,” I said.
“Advisers,” he said. “They arrived a few weeks ago. Strategy, tactics. That is their game.”
“And the radar?”
“The Americans monitor the Soviet air traffic. It helps the mujahadeen stay clear of Soviet patrols. We can get to and from cover and from our base camps without detection.”
By base camps he meant the cave systems. Despite the Soviet’s superior technology and firepower, the mujahadeen had been able to hide in networks of natural mountain caves, staging small-arms and RPG attacks that bruised the Communist invaders. Some of the caves, such as the one we sat in now, were concealed behind rock formations and intricate gorge systems impassable even to the Soviet helicopters. Further, enough mujahadeen lived in the villages to prevent the Soviets from concentrating their forces on extended sieges on the Afghans’ mountain positions.
“Who is in charge?” Zeid wanted to know.
Abu Haifem nodded toward the raised rock platform. “See the big man talking on the radio phone? It’s him. He calls himself ‘Rick.’ We call him ‘Abu Fox.’”
In the dim light with his face covered, I could not tell much about the man. But when daylight came, I wanted to know who I would be dealing with, which American might have the most influence over what happened to our rockets.
“How will I know this ‘Rick’ tomorrow?” I said.
Abu Haifem peered at me across the flickering fire. “Look for the man with eyes like ice.”
4
I awoke the following day to the distant pounding of Soviet bombs and the low chop of rotor blades bouncing off the mountains as Mi-24 Hind helicopter gunships combed the valley floors for rebels. With their gun pods, rockets, and 100-kilo iron bombs, the Hinds were both fearsome and persistent. Unlike the bombers, which had to frequently return to base to refuel, the Hinds could hunt their prey for hours.
“We move mostly at night,” an Afghan fighter named Tariq told us over a breakfast of rice and goat. “The helicopters hunt in pairs and packs. We are sometimes able to bring them down with RPGs. But still, they rain death upon the mujahadeen and the villages. We call the choppers Shaitan-Arba.”
Satan’s Chariots.
That evening near sunset, Abu Haifem rallied a reconnaissance party: my five fedayeen, several mujahadeen, and four of the Americans, including Abu Fox. The Afghans meant to lead us to an area from which we might launch the SAMs at the Soviets. Range was an issue. The rockets we stole had a maximum range of just over four kilometers—only two miles. To fire at Soviet aircraft, particularly Satan’s Chariots, at so close a range—and to miss—would likely mean instant detection and certain death.
Outside the cave, the sky had taken on the colors of fire, but the frigid mountain air bit at my face and hands. Again, we had all dressed in Afghan clothing, every one of us with his face covered. In fact, because of the Americans, I had not uncovered mine since we arrived. I and my fedayeen had brought 9 mm handguns with us from Lebanon, but Abu Haifem issued us each an AK–47. I slung mine from my shoulder. Looking around at the recon group, I could see that the mujahadeen were similarly armed. Tariq was among them and had brought with him an RPG–7. The Americans also carried various assault rifles and, under their tunics, who knew what else.
As I observed all this, I felt the bore of someone’s eyes and looked up to see Rick, the American leader, standing just a couple of meters away, gazing steadily at me over the shield of his white keffiyeh. Even at this distance, I could see that his eyes were the crystalline blue of a glacier, rimmed in thick red lashes. Something in his gaze bothered me. It was not aggression or defiance, but more like…knowing. Knowing more than he should. I held his stare for a moment then glanced away as Abu Haifem gave a signal to move out.
Our trek took us farther along the same goat trail that had deposited us at al-qa’idah the night before. I walked with Aassun and Abu Haifem, just behind the Americans. When the rock formations that concealed the main cave gave way to more open space, I saw a vast valley spreading below us, ringed on the opposite side by more jagged and barren mountains that speared the sky, their peaks frosted in snow. I wondered how the mujahadeen planned to take us through these trails without exposing us to the Soviets. Their primitive genius soon became clear.
Over the centuries, underground springs and the runoff from melting snow had carved narrow waterways into the mountain stone. Many of these had gone dry or mostly dry and, where the water still ran underground, had developed a sparse cover of desert scrub and bushes. Cleverly, the mujahadeen had dug a meter or two deeper into these natural cuts in the earth, creating “grooves”—pathways beneath the foliage under which a man could walk upright without being seen from the air.
“Pathways like this one connect many of our mountain bases,” Abu Haifem told us as we entered the first groove under a canopy of worm-wood and camel-thorn. “They are almost as good as the U.S. interstate system, yes, Abu Fox?”
The American glanced back over his shoulder, an enigmatic smile in his eyes. “Better,” he said.
The man unnerved me. I definitely did not trust him and suspected he wanted to take control of the rockets, or at least control what we did with them. As Redding had demonstrated perfectly, Americans never enter a situation unless they want to be in charge. There was no way I would let this American take charge of us.
Still, his watching manner pricked my curiosity. How did he see us? I wondered. What did he make of this small band of men who came all the way from Lebanon through Pakistan to help the Afghans with rockets stolen from Syria?
For a solid thirty minutes, we walked in the cover of the grooves, the light seeping slowly away. It was not yet full dark when we reached an outcropping from which we could see a wide madiq, a mountain pass, at least twenty kilometers away. I saw a dozen helicopters flying through the “V” away from us, insect-small in the distance, backlit by the fiery last light of the day.
“There is a Russian base on the other side of the pass,” Abu Haifem said. “The Sikhoi and the choppers—they all come into this valley from that direction. The MiG fighter jets are more unpredictable. They can come from anywhere.”
Aassun and Zeid emerged from the groove and joined us, gazing out across the sprawling valley. “The madiq is far out of SAM range,” Aassun said. “We will have to advance at least fifteen kilometers in the open.”
“The Soviets fly in groups,” Zeid said. “As soon as they pinpoint our firing position they will kill us.”
Abu Fox and his men, along with Tariq and the other mujahadeen, joined us at the valley rim. I delivered my battle plan to Abu Haifem. “We will take our fedayeen, plus two of your men, and five to seven rockets. The mujahadeen can carry
a doctoryov and RPGs. We will advance outside the grooves toward the madiq until we are well inside the SAM range. We will fire on the Soviets, bring down as many aircraft as we can, then fight our way back.”
It was a bold plan, and I delivered it proudly, knowing it meant near-certain death for us and whoever went with us. In my view, the Afghans were my Muslim brothers. If this mission was my appointed time to die, so be it.
“That is brilliant,” Tariq said. “I will go with you. Who else will come?”
But before anyone could speak, Abu Fox quietly raised his right hand. He then turned to me and dipped his chin slightly, a gesture of respect. “Your plan is a courageous one,” he said. “But why do you want to throw a rock at someone who is bigger than you, then run away and hope everything will be alright?”
My skin bristled but I remained silent. I knew it. I knew he would try to be in control.
A chill wind ruffled my keffiyeh as I wrestled down my pride and resolved to hear this infidel out. I had learned that listening to your adversary gives at least the appearance of wisdom. You can always shoot his ideas full of holes once he has spoken.
Abu Fox smiled at me with his eyes, then laid out a plan in which my fedayeen would advance within SAM range as I had suggested, but in two teams—one with two men and one with three, five rockets split between us. Meanwhile, a large mujahadeen force would establish three anti-air-craft artillery emplacements, setting a multisided trap. This had been tried before and easily defeated by the Soviets, who could simply pick off triple-A gunners from their superior range. But now the mujahadeen had rockets. When the Soviets saw their own aircraft tumbling from the sky in flames, Abu Fox theorized, their reaction would be panic.
“The Soviets always come first with helos acting as scouts, taking out any mujahadeen that fire on them,” he continued. “They believe they know the range of all weapons currently in use by the mujahadeen. They believe they can come within three hundred meters without fear and hold an area. This time, we will let them come.”
According to Abu Fox’s plan, my fedayeen would let the choppers pass, allowing them to advance close to the mountains where the mujahadeen would lie in wait, holding their fire. While the Soviets grew comfortable that no attack was coming, we would wait for other, larger prey to fly into the valley.
“When the bomber comes, the fedayeen will let it advance past the SAM positions, then fire their rockets,” the American continued. “Take out the first aircraft in range and the last, then take out one more. The second the helos try to return fire, the mujahadeen will hit them with DShKs and Quad 50 to create a diversion allowing the fedayeen to withdraw before the Soviets detect their positions.”
Abu Fox then turned and addressed me directly. “Again, your plan is very courageous. But let us consider this plan, in which our enemies are the only ones to die.”
5
The American’s logic hit me in the face like a brick, demolishing everything I had ever learned. It was my first encounter with western military strategy, and I instantly saw a stark difference:
The jihadist thinks “me.” A man used to liberty thinks “us.”
The jihadist thinks about avenging a village. A man used to liberty thinks about saving a country.
The jihadist counts his own death as a given, even as an integral part of the plan. The western strategist plans to kill the other guy, then go home and smoke a cigar.
I could not argue with this thinking. Still, my testosterone screamed at me to trump the American’s plan with a better one. But as Abu Fox regarded me over his keffiyeh, I thought for a moment that I saw in his eyes an olive branch.
Using blue flashlights to illuminate the grooves beneath the worm-wood, the recon group made its way back to the cave. Night sounds now skittered and whispered along our path. In the distance, the yip and whine of some kind of wild dog. The wind felt pregnant with snow, but I ignored the cold and trudged silently along behind Aassun and Zeid. Alternately, I berated myself for not having topped Abu Fox’s plan—and for having shown myself such a small thinker and poor tactician.
Soon, the cave came into view, but as I walked toward it, I felt an arm fall across my shoulder.
“I need to talk to you.” It was Abu Fox.
I stiffened, instantly on guard. “What about?”
Aassun and Zeid stopped and turned around, but I could not see their eyes in the thick darkness.
“Let’s walk over here,” he said, indicating a high stone outcropping that overlooked the valley. “It will be more private.”
I stepped away from Abu Fox and toward Aassun, placing my left hand on his left shoulder. “Wait here,” I said, hoping he would catch my serious tone even though he could not see my eyes. Then, keeping my right hand poised near my knife sheath, I walked with Abu Fox into the winter darkness.
The American lit our path with a blue beam. We reached the edge of a cliff fortified by tall, vertical rock formations that stood like stone sentinels. Abu Fox stopped abruptly, turned, and sat down on the ground in front of me. It was a gesture of submission and it surprised me. Warily, I lowered myself into a squat—not sitting, ready to spring in any direction. Then Abu Fox surprised me again: he laid the flashlight on the dirt between us, lifted his right hand, and uncovered his face.
In the Muslim world, if a woman unveils her face to a man, it is an invitation to greater intimacy. Among warriors, if a man unveils his face, it is either a step toward mutual trust or he is showing he is not afraid of you.
Which is this?
A sharp wind whistled around the rock formations, blowing Abu Fox’s keffiyeh forward so that it framed his face. In the blue light, I could not see much except that he wore a moustache and beard—and that he was smiling.
I did not return the favor. “What do you want?”
“How deep are you stuck in all this?” he said.
My mind flipped through possible meanings of all this: The Afghans. Armed struggle. Jihad. It did not matter; the answer to all was the same.
“All the way,” I said.
In the darkness, Abu Fox peered at me for a long moment. “Are you sure about that?”
It was as though this American had somehow seen into my heart to the moments of weakness when I wished I could lay all this down. Quickly I looked away at the wind-whipped chasm below us, afraid that if I kept looking at this man, he could somehow pull my secrets out through my eyes.
“There is a life out there for a man like you,” the American said. “You are so young. You haven’t even tasted life yet. In my country, people like you are highly regarded. You speak many languages, understand many cultures. You bring something that people born in America don’t have—something my government would pay well for.”
Looking away into the valley, I kept my face perfectly still. But my heart took up a terrible pounding. This infidel was proposing the outrageous, asking me to cross over. I would be an apostate, on every faction’s most wanted list. I would lose my home, my country, my safety.
And yet, I was seized by a searing, overwhelming desire to say yes.
It was a secret longing and not just of mine, but of many young Middle Eastern men. To stretch toward freedom, to enjoy life outside the suffocating bondage of government and rules and family taboos. To pursue a career. Learn for learning’s sake. Take a woman to dinner.
I had done all these things, but not in pureness of heart. Always with an agenda: my jobs were a front. I learned but only to advance jihad. Except for Fatima, I lured women so that I could later use them as party favors. I had been raised to hate America and had hated her all my life. But I had also seen the freedom Americans enjoyed and now burned to taste it.
Abu Fox did not move or speak. If he could see into my mind enough to be so bold, I wondered, could he now see the battle raging inside me?
I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it again as, suddenly, the teaching I was weaned on rose up inside me like a cyclone. The pull of Islam was stronger than my storm of
desire, purer than the lure of freedom. Since my boyhood, I had breathed it, drunk it, dreamed it. My faith was all I knew, and I also knew I was naked without it. A hundred sura now exploded through my mind, filling every secret niche of doubt, cutting off my shameful desire as though shearing off a rotting limb.
Abruptly, I stood and looked down at Abu Fox. “This conversation is over. I have nothing to say to you.”
The American gazed up at me. “I understand,” he said, his eyes glinting faintly in the blue light. “Maybe before you leave this place, you’ll let me know what you really want in life.”
I turned my back on him and walked toward al-qa’idah.
6
That night, I lied to my men about Abu Fox, saying the American only wanted to make clear his country’s commitment to aiding the mujahadeen. If they knew the American sensed in me someone who might be turned, they themselves might begin to doubt me.
The next morning, we gathered in the cave and finalized the plan. The mujahadeen would carry the rockets and other weapons in the grooves. From that point on, we would have to carry them by ourselves in the open. Aassun, Samir, Zeid, Hassan, and I would travel by night to set up the rocket positions, guided by an American team who would monitor us with long-range night vision devices and, with their bird’s eye view into the valley, guide our progress with voiceless radio signals. Finger-tapping meant “keep moving.” Whistling meant “stop.” Scratching noises in the transmitter meant “hold your position until advised.”
We would make most of the trek to the rocket positions through the night, then stop and make camp, before completing the final leg of the journey before first light. Meanwhile, the mujahadeen would receive separate guidance to set up their triple-A positions around the pass. From al-qa’idah, the Americans would monitor incoming Soviet aircraft and coordinate the attack by radio.
Our action signals during the attack would be verses recited aloud from the Koran:
We made behind them a dam and before them a dam: Incoming aircraft. Stand by.
The Blood of Lambs: A Former Terrorist's Memoir of Death and Redemption Page 23