Chapter 5
Ambush
ABDUL LATIF HAD BEEN BACK a week and his fellow jirga elders and he were concerned about the possibility of a surprise attack. They had also enlisted trustworthy lookouts in Anarbagh, watching the Jalalabad-to-Torkhum road, but there had been nothing to report. With the approaching end of August, however, much as Junaid had predicted, word began arriving from Jalalabad that a tank force was gathering near the airport, where at least a dozen Hind gunships were also stationed. Mujahideen commander Jalaluddin Haqqani came to Laghar Juy to discuss a plan to ambush the tanks.
Haqqani was a slender man whose turban seemed disproportionately large for his body. His long beard bore signs of frequent dyeing with henna, resulting in its few gray hairs becoming a bright tangerine color whenever the dye began to wear off. He seemed older but was generally acknowledged to be less than 40, Haqqani had made a name for himself under Maulwi Younus Khalis by leading his forces with great tenacity, rarely retreating from DRA or Soviet counter-attacks. He frequently traveled to and from Pakistan, where he maintained a residence and strong ties to the ISI as an effective funnel for weapons and money.
In Laghar Juy, Haqqani called together the local jirga and a few of the other senior mujahideen to strategize. As head of military affairs for the jirga, Abdul Latif was one of them, and he brought along Abdul Rahman, Ejaz, and Sikander to share in the planning. Haqqani’s force for this operation currently consisted of about forty men. He was counting on Abdul Latif to be good for five to ten additional fighters.
“The tank buildup near the airport is real. We have to destroy this force before it gets too large, even if it must be in Jalalabad,” noted Haqqani. “If they get to Hazar Now to defend the new garrison being established there, they’ll present a much bigger threat to the villages in this area. And all we’ll have left will be mountain caves. We have to stop them.”
Abdul Latif listened intently before making a proposal.
“Brother Jalal, what if we were to let them stream out of Jalalabad? They’d have to pass through Batawul, where there are plenty of small buildings and other natural obstacles. They’ll be forced to move in a column. We could then hit the trailing tank followed immediately by their lead tank. It would put the rest of them in some confusion, boxed in by the wrecked tanks and the natural obstacles to their left and right. If we can force them into such a fix, we could create a killing zone on the road.”
“That would be my approach, too, Abdul Latif,” responded Jalaluddin, “but the column will likely be escorted by helicopters, and even if it isn’t, their tank commanders will be able to call for them during any attack. They could be over Batawul in minutes.”
“It’s a possibility, of course, Brother Jalal,” Abdul Latif nodded, “but if we could create a nuisance barrage of RPG fire against any helicopter cover, they’d be drawn into responding or have to move out of range. Either way, they wouldn’t be protecting tanks. And as long as we’re prepared for helicopters, it doesn’t matter if they come as escorts or later after being called in. Besides, in less than twenty minutes, most of the damage would be done.
“We can station our primary force on the hills to the north and south of the road at Mar Koh near Batawul. If the helicopters withdraw to higher altitude, or move out, we can redirect our air defense force on the tanks, and if the helicopters remain engaged,” Abdul Latif suspended a shrug, “w’Allahi…we’ll bring them down.”
“Bring them down?” Jalaluddin was startled.
With a gleam in his eye, Abdul Latif described the encounter with the Hind on his way back from Pakistan.
“It isn’t easy, but if we attack the helicopters in groups of two or three of us, we’ll at least distract them, maybe destroy them. Either way our main force will be free to hit the tanks.”
Jalaluddin was amazed. “SubhanAllah! Abdul Latif. I uh…don’t suppose you can teach this skill?”
Abdul Latif grinned.
Jalaluddin paused to consider how to deploy his men to take maximum advantage of the proposal. His eyes didn’t take long to signal that a plan had taken shape.
“Let’s have sixteen men target helicopters and twenty to hit the tanks. The twenty should be split to have six at the rear of the column, four at the road intersection in Batawul between the river bridge and the Mar Koh hills, and ten at the hills themselves. The groups at the rear and on the hills should split equally on the north and south sides of the road. The four at the intersection should attack from the south side. The rear groups will wait under the river bridge and attack the rear tank after it passes. We’ll use the hit to signal the group at the intersection to knock out the nearest approaching tank, and let it sit there blocking any escape out of the intersection. The men on the hills will likewise use the rear tank’s destruction as the cue to attack the lead vehicle.
“For air defense, we’ll use the same hills, but Abdul Latif, place your men higher up and focus on their helicopters. Keep six on each side, dedicated to that. Put the remaining two on each side to create a rearguard in case of attack from the east. The rest of us will be at the roadside at the eastern end of Batawul to mop up escaping enemies.”
It was about as improbable as an eighty-year-old grandmother parallel parking a Ferrari. This ragtag Pashtun seems to have a real grasp of military tactics, mused Sikander, listening to the commander.
Sikander tried to focus on the mechanics of the plan. Unable to sustain a vacuum of conscience, however, he was drawn into contemplating the plan’s certain brutality. Sure, he could think in terms of tanks, helicopters, and grenades, but there was no getting away from what would happen to people. It would be no newspaper article, no TV documentary, nor one of those American war movies he’d seen at home. This would be real. It would be up close. He was on a path, not simply to witness real slaughter, but to engage in it.
His body trembled; a response he fought to bring under control. Each time he seemed to have done so, however, the trembling resurged, forcing him once again to fight it. Relaxing had never been such hard work.
Looking skyward, Jalaluddin noted the sun had passed its zenith and gestured to one of his young stalwarts. “Omar, call the azaan for zuhr prayer.”
Everyone, minus four lookouts, joined in the prayer, with Jalaluddin in the role of imam. When it was over, he gathered his entourage and bid salaams to Abdul Latif and his men, saying: “We’ll send word when we learn of the tank column’s movement.” Careful not to move in a single group, Haqqani withdrew himself and his people, trekking back to higher ground.
A few kilometers to the west of Laghar Juy up in the mountain slopes were the caves of the Spin Ghar, fortified with CIA help to enable storing of arms, supplies, and other equipment. Among them, the cave complex of Tora Bora was the preferred place to hide whenever an attack on local villages appeared imminent. The Soviets understood it would be foolhardy to try to dislodge an enemy from those caves as the occupants would either dig in or quickly disperse and regroup elsewhere. Haqqani and his force would be relatively safe there and could easily cross the short distance into Pakistan if need be.
Back home, Abdul Latif pondered the task he’d taken on. He was clear about what he had to accomplish. Scanning his boys, his eyes settled on Sikander and with his familiar, wry grin, he uttered, “Mujahid, it’s time we got you equipped and trained.”
Abdul Latif directed Abdul Majeed to take Sikander to the highest ground in the village where men would often go to practice small arms fire.
Sikander was to be trained to use the Kalashnikov AK-47. Abdul Majeed led the way to a nearby friend’s house where he asked to borrow the man’s rifle. Reassured that it would be returned to him, the young man reluctantly handed it over and Sikander and Abdul Majeed continued up the hill to a spot behind a ruined house.
“I’ll set up some targets and show you how to make the best use of this weapon,” Abdul Majeed said.
He disappeared behind a mud-brick wall, picked up some small rocks and set them
on the meter-high rubble that formed about two thirds of the back wall of the ruin. Returning to Sikander, he began with the most basic instructions by holding out an empty clip.
“This clip holds thirty rounds and here,” Abdul Majeed pulled out several rounds from his bandolier and started loading them in the clip, as he continued, “this is how you put them in. You try.”
Sikander took the clip and did as he was asked, finding it to be surprisingly easy.
“Then you insert it like this.” Abdul Majeed demonstrated how to push the banana-shaped clip into the underside of the weapon, its lower end curving forward. The clip slid in and latched. Once this was done, he pulled back the slide to load the first round.
“See?”
Sikander nodded, finding none of this challenging, except pondering the lethality of each round and what it might mean as the terminal entity of a hapless soldier’s life.
Abdul Majeed continued. “Let’s try hitting some rocks and knocking them off that wall. Aim so that the back sight here—” he pointed to the rear V-shaped sight, “has the front sight in the middle. If you’re within fifty meters of your target, be sure to aim for the body.”
“Why?”
“Because the recoil can lift the barrel slightly. If it does, it’ll give you more of a chance that the next bullet will hit the target. Both could hit the mark, but if your first shot isn’t lethal, then your second one has a chance. Remember also, that for long range shots you need to lift the barrel slightly to compensate for the bullet’s dropping along its path.”
Sikander marveled at the nuanced understanding that nearly seven years of battling the enemy had given the mujahideen. He longed to be fully trained and accepted as one of them.
Firmly gripping the rifle, he lay on his belly, took aim at the first rock, and for the first time in his life, squeezed a trigger. The rifle emitted three rounds in what seemed an instant. The rock didn’t budge and evidenced no encounter with a bullet.
“No, no!” Abdul Majeed chided. “You didn’t take time to aim and you held that trigger too tightly. Huh! You’ll lose a lot of rounds too quickly if you do that! And you won’t hit anything…except maybe your own friends!” His eyes creased above a scathing grin.
He’s enjoying this! Sikander mused.
Soon, the world’s easiest-to-learn assault weapon had claimed its latest adherent. Not only was Sikander knocking rocks the size of cantaloupes off their perches from fifty meters, he was also able to control his trigger finger’s touch to let off just one or two rounds.
When this basic level of skill had been reached, Abdul Majeed walked over to a higher part of the boundary wall. With a small pebble, he scratched out the approximate outline of a human form with the oval representing the head at about the correct height. Within the outline, he drew a rough circle corresponding to the heart.
“Now we’re going to practice controlled fire on one specific part of the body. You choose, Sikander.”
Sikander chose the head. Abdul Majeed picked up the rifle, took aim, and fired. The first shot made its mark below the neckline, while the second hit just inside the upper edge of the face oval. “Not bad,” Sikander muttered.
“See what I mean about the recoil lift? Now you try.”
Sikander took the weapon and lay down on his belly again. He felt its weight and balance and took aim as he’d been instructed. The first shot missed the face below the right ear but the second one was just above where the nose might have been. “Very good!” lauded Abdul Majeed, gleeful at his student’s progress. He didn’t seem to mind a bit that Sikander’s second shot was better than his own.
“All right now, most of the time your targets will be moving. So like you had to lift the gun slightly to compensate for a bullet’s dropping, you’ll have to aim slightly ahead of a moving target. That’s something you judge.”
The two of them continued practicing until finally Abdul Majeed declared, “Sikander, there’s nothing more I can explain to you. You’ll learn better now by practicing with the weapon. Let’s hope you and everyone else survive the practice!”
Sikander allowed himself a cheerful grin as they strolled down the hill back to Abdul Latif’s home after returning the borrowed rifle. Henceforth Sikander would be practicing as often as he could borrow a weapon.
It was common for Noor and Rabia to be over with Razya, helping with simple chores. With Sikander’s standing as a new mujahid established, he found himself transitioning from the status of a melmasthia guest in Abdul Latif’s household into an accepted family member. Noor, however, took pains to keep Rabia from much interaction with Sikander. Rabia was her only daughter and she didn’t want any hint of impropriety. No amount of acceptance of Sikander would ever transform him into a mehram, and as long as that was the case, whenever Noor and Rabia were there, he would have to maneuver awkwardly around the home to avoid coming into too close proximity to Rabia. For her own part, the characteristically independent teenager, simply glanced down, turned away or pulled her dupattha a little further forward when Sikander was present but otherwise showed no hint of shyness.
The wait for enemy tank movements seemed endless. During this time, a delegation of two mujahideen, Aamir and Yassir, arrived from Pakistan, bringing more weapons, among them several AK-47s. Sikander was delighted at the prospect, at last, of becoming the proud owner of one.
Having come through Yaqub’s village, the two men had been persuaded to bring gifts from Yaqub’s family. They also conveyed Yaqub’s expectation of them returning to Pakistan with the confirmatory ring, among other engagement presents for Hinna.
Abdul Latif had obtained the ring during a day trip to Jalalabad near the end of August, immediately after returning from Pakistan. Like the recently sewn engagement outfit for Hinna and other gifts for her family, the ring awaited delivery and with Aamir and Yassir’s return, that could now be accomplished.
Even so, he had expected to be done with the ambush by now and with the engagement-sealing items still languishing with him, the embarrassment of receiving gifts before formally sending those from his own side to the girl’s family was hard to bear. The only mitigation would be to make the gifts from the groom’s side all the more attractive.
Abdul Latif invited Aamir and Yassir to stay the night with him. The following morning after breakfast, the guests made ready with their mules outside Abdul Latif’s home. Abdul Latif formally handed them the bride’s ring, the engagement dress, a few small items of gold jewelry, and a small cloth wrap containing two hundred dollars.
Both Afghans and Pakistanis often found it useful to deal with each other in American dollars and by selling commodities in the bazaars in Peshawar, typically captured from Russian soldiers, Abdul Latif could readily obtain the currency.
He could also be confident that the travelers wouldn’t abscond with the gifts. It would have been an invitation to be hunted down and killed by some of the most prolonged and painful killing methods ever practiced. Abdul Latif felt he had a nose for shadiness and neither Aamir nor Yassir fit the profile.
As Sikander watched, he gestured to Abdul Latif to speak to him alone. The two of them stepped back inside Abdul Latif’s house and into the main room.
“Brother, I’ve been wondering if it might be possible to get a message back to my family. They should know that I’m well and unharmed and performing inshaAllah a worthy mission. These people are returning to Peshawar and I’d like them to take my message with them.”
“How would you propose to get it delivered?”
“I think if you were to send a note back to Junaid and put my note to my parents inside that note, then perhaps—”
“Perhaps Junaid would be able to deliver your letter physically to the mailbox and avoid revealing his identity or your location?” Abdul Latif stroked his ample beard.
“Something like that,” Sikander agreed, pleased with his mentor’s understanding. “Junaid seems to have enough pull with the police to avoid suspicion in case there’s s
ome kind of watch on our house.”
Abdul Latif strode toward the solitary tall metal cabinet against the wall of his main room, retrieving a notepad and pencil from its top shelf. He tore off a sheet and handing the pencil and the sheet to Sikander, he gestured toward a small rough table bathed in daylight. “Prepare the letter and let me have it when you’re ready.”
Sikander quickly penned the letter and handed it to Abdul Latif. Having confirmed that it lacked any security issues, Abdul Latif placed it in a sewn silk envelope and handed it to Aamir for Junaid’s attention. With gifts for the bride and her family, sufficient provisions for the journey, and Sikander’s letter, Aamir and Yassir were soon on their way back to Pakistan.
A day after the visitors left, word came from Anarbagh that some two-dozen tanks would be coming out of Jalalabad the following day heading toward Hazar Now, as Jalaluddin had anticipated. Omar, Jalaluddin’s apprentice, was dispatched to Laghar Juy by horse to signal the launch of their ambush plan. Fortunately, it had been well rehearsed and Abdul Latif had already taught the mujahideen designated for air defense the self-destruct ruse with RPGs. Omar immediately sought out Abdul Latif and told him that it was time to gather his men and get going.
Without delay, Abdul Latif directed Abdul Rahman to take the women and children to Tora Bora. After making sure they were safely in the caves, he was to circle back to join the main force in Batawul. Most of Jalaluddin’s men were waiting in Anarbagh so they had no need to race to an attack position with the same urgency as Abdul Latif, who had to cover thirty-five kilometers from Laghar Juy.
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