Lions of Kandahar (18 page)

Nearby, Jared had some good news and bad news. He told me everything was on time and the Air Force was dropping more than twenty thousand pounds of water, fuel, repair parts, ammunition, medical supplies, and rations. Riley and Steve had also ordered boxes of baby wipes, rubbing alcohol, and rags to scrub the heat rash and sores. I could see Jared smile against the glow of his computer screen. The bad news was ISAF might delay the start of the mission. He didn’t say why. It wasn’t confirmed, and until it was, he was going to stick to the schedule. We had to be in position before they could launch the attack.

With only thirty minutes before the bird arrived, Jared, Hodge, and I separately confirmed one another’s math and walked to check
the drop markers and signals, a series of infrared strobe lights arrayed in a predetermined shape. Bill made sure the team was ready and everyone had their nods and “go” bags, small backpacks with food, ammo, and other essential equipment, just in case one of the pallets decided to fall on top of a truck.

The pilot’s voice came over the radio.

“Talon 30, Talon 30. This is Archangel 51.”

Jared reached for the handset. The MC-130 was inbound. The specially designed aircraft could fly in any weather and was made for low-visibility operations.

“Archangel 51, this is Talon 30. Go ahead.”

“Talon, we have a few things for you. Are you ready for drop?”

“Roger that, Archangel.”

Jared went through the checklist in his lap. The aircraft flew over us to confirm the drop site and spot the marker on the ground. It would have to make two passes to put the cargo out. The calm, cool air turned electric with tension. Brian sat at my truck on the trail edge of the drop zone with the signal ready. I could hear the heavy hum of the plane’s four turbine engines closing in, and I caught a glimpse of the open tailgate on the aircraft.

“Talon 30. This is Archangel. We have you spotted. Half drop, ten bundles next pass. How copy, over?”

We were on our toes now. As the bundles came out, we had to confirm full chutes. If a chute didn’t open, a one-ton pallet was crashing to earth. A few minutes later, the plane made the fifteen-mile circle over the drop zone. The crew confirmed its course and requested that we light the infrared signals.

“Talon 30. This is Archangel. Markers identified. Drop in ten seconds.”

“Execute, execute, execute.”

As quickly as the turbine engines roared directly over head, they were gone. I could hear the muffled popping of parachutes opening.
Brian shut the signal off. I scanned above: one, two, three, six, eight, and ten. Ten good chutes. I contacted Jared and Hodge on the radio.

“Roger, we confirm ten chutes,” I said.

The massive square platforms creaked and swayed as they drifted down directly in front of us, and we felt the
crump
of their weight hitting the earth. Jared reported all ten pallets were touchdown.

“Bill, give me a status,” I called over the radio.

“All good here, Captain, including ANA.” I still held my breath. We were only half finished. The MC-130 was approaching again. Without a word, Brian cut the markers on when he heard the engines.

“Talon 30. This is Archangel. Markers identified. Last drop in ten seconds.”

“Execute, execute, execute.”

Again the roaring engines were followed by the popping and whipping of the chutes. One, two, four, seven, nine … nine.

“I count nine only nine,” I said, my stomach in a hard knot.

“Shit, I don’t see it,” Dave said.

“Neither do I,” said Brian and Bill simultaneously.

Jared spotted the two-thousand-pound pallet a few seconds later. It was a hanger—a pallet that comes out late or is hung up on something and breaks free to fall cleanly to the ground. I heard all the pallets hit the ground and finally relaxed. Jared called the bird and thanked them for a perfect drop. I had conducted dozens of these aerial resupply missions in my career, but none had gone this well. Almost every one of the pallets had landed upright and literally right in front of us on the dry side of the riverbed. I stood on the edge of the ridge and looked down directly at the top of a cargo pallet twenty feet below.

“Thank you God,” I said quietly. I knew we were being protected and cared for.

“Amen, brother,” Bill said.

Now we needed to move fast. The busy work had to be done to break down every pallet and distribute the supplies. We knew what we had ordered, but sometimes the bundles don’t get loaded, or they break or get stuck in the bird. Bill and Jeff, 26’s team sergeant, decided to unload the most critical supplies—ammunition and fuel—first, so that they, at least, would be secured if we got into a fight and had to leave the area. We were down to only a little more than a basic load of ammunition, about two hundred rounds each, but the resupply brought us up to a full double load. Since we are such a small unit, we have to gain fire superiority quickly, which requires the fast expenditure of about a third to a half of our stores. The enhanced loads were very welcome.

Next, we started on the fuel. We hand-carried twenty fuel cans to the fifty-five-gallon drums on the pallets and filled each one using a hand crank. The work took us all back to Special Forces selection, the first step in becoming a Green Beret. During one of the exercises, you have to carry fuel cans through the central North Carolina pine forests. It’s backbreaking work that seems on the surface like hazing to eliminate the weak. In some part it is, but in fact the task challenges you to work together as a team in tough conditions.

Meanwhile, Chris, the mechanic, had gathered up the repair parts—heavy jack, leaf springs, hoses, lines, and tools—and had already started repairing the damaged trucks. I found him covered in hydraulic fluid and oil underneath truck number 3’s hood.

“How long we looking at, Chris?” I asked.

He spit and wiped his mouth, smearing the spilled fluid across his cheek.

“With all the vehicles on both teams, maybe a day, Captain. I can’t really tell,” he said.

Bad news, but given that ISAF might delay the operation, Jared didn’t seem overly concerned with the repair time when I informed him. He wanted to take a day to recon the valley, rest, and wait for word on Team 36, Bruce’s team, which was coming from Kandahar
on a shorter route with the ANA’s weapons company. The Afghan unit had about twenty men with heavy machine guns, recoilless rifles, and 82-mm mortars that provided tremendous firepower.

After we left, Bruce had waited in Kandahar for the second half of his team to arrive, and most of the guys spent about twenty-four hours on the ground before setting off. It took them about three hours to link up with us at the edge of the Red Desert, a fact that seemed to piss off Hodge in particular, given the bone-jarring days of stuck vehicles, heat rash, and aching muscles we had all suffered.

After four hours of unloading supplies, we finally got to the water, which we made sure was distributed equally between the American and Afghan trucks. The Afghans had learned about water conservation the hard way after spending a day without it, and as we hauled cases of water to their trucks, I hoped they’d listen to us next time. But their jugs were already full of river water. If any one of us had done the same without purification tablets, we would have been in the hospital within twenty-four hours.

The sun was still low on the horizon when we finished packing the supplies away. I laid my freshly washed shirt and socks on my truck and crashed in my seat. I woke three hours later baking in the sun. My shirt and socks felt like soft cardboard. Since the ridge offered us some protection, most of us left our shirts off. Tattoos and scars decorated my teammates’ bodies. Skulls, tribal designs, the names of loved ones were scrawled on our biceps, backs, chests, and legs side by side with grotesque, stretched scars from past fights or injuries.

My back and legs ached and my body felt like it had been hit by a truck.
I’m getting too old for this
, I thought. As I stretched and worked the kinks out, I glanced over to Jared’s truck. He and Mike, another air controller who traveled with Team 26, were crouched over a large spotting scope, Jared scribbling notes on a pad. He saw me stretching and waved me over to take a look. I wiped the crusted sleep from my eyes with my
shemagh
, the traditional scarf of the Pashtuns. Through the hazy waves of heat, I could see a group of tan compounds with
mud-packed walls. A large antenna protruded from the roof of a hut in the village market. Standing outside, ten men catered to two better-dressed older men. My eye drifted back to the small antenna array.

“Well, lookie, lookie what I see. Now why would a small merchant shop in the middle of the desert need a satellite communication system?” I asked.

Jared laughed. “I’m glad you asked, because I want you to go down there and find out.”

Bill stood on the other side of the truck, grinning like a hyena. He had lobbied Jared for the mission before my arrival. Now he got his wish.

Bill and I put together a hasty plan as we walked back to the truck.

“Let’s do a simple movement-to-contact drill with our four trucks. Once we get into the village, we’ll do a secure and lockdown on the main compound after setting blocking positions. I’ll post one truck and some ANA at the exfil route,” Bill said. “You lock down the blocking positions and do the command and control.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “You take assault one and hit the main building. Assault two will lock down the rear escape route and the roofs with Smitty.”

I grabbed the map from my truck and opened it on the hood. Taking out my laser range finder, I attached my GPS to it and shot an azimuth to the antenna. Plotting the point on the map, I plugged it all into my computer and got a satellite picture of the target. The picture was three years old and some things had changed, but overall it was okay. I figured that we could probably drive to the target, but it would take some navigating.

Several dry irrigation ditches led up to the village, but the terrain remained unforgiving. I went back to the scope and searched for the best way in. I didn’t want to get halfway down a ditch, tip off the bad guys, and watch them run out the back door. I turned to an empty page in my notebook, now full of notes about the village, and started
to sketch. I focused on entranceways, high points, and possible ambush positions. I had been a scout sniper in my younger days and had done this kind of thing hundreds of times. My sketching skills were better then, but I had enough to brief the team and get the job done.

The team gathered around the map. The compound was two miles away. We decided to move several hundred meters down the riverbed before coming out at full speed about a mile from the village. They would give its inhabitants only about two minutes’ warning before we arrived. From there we would surround the market and begin our search. Team 26 would be the quick reaction force ready to bail us out if we got into trouble.

Back at my truck, Dave cleaned the .50-cal heavy machine gun on the turret. Brian was already making the communication checks with 26, Jared, and headquarters in Kandahar. I put on my body armor and set my GPS on my wrist and on the computer in my truck, and then I cleaned the M240 machine gun attached to my door, checking all its optics and those on my rifle. After calling to Bill to let me know when the rest of the team was ready, I took out my pocket Bible and started to read Psalm 91 to clear my mind. It helped me focus on the mission. “A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you. You will only observe with your eyes and see the punishment of the wicked.”

As the truck grumbled to life I remembered thinking that someday all this would end. Then what would I do? Where do warriors go when they aren’t needed anymore? Staff and a desk, I guessed.

A huge dust cloud followed us all the way down the riverbed. All four trucks were side by side when we finally emerged and raced straight toward the market. I could see Afghan villagers running away or back toward the compounds. Over the radio Jared said he saw several men run out of the village, and that Taliban radio chatter spiked as soon as we cleared the riverbed, with fighters outside the village telling those near the market that they’d cover their escape. I gripped the machine gun and waited to see if they’d fight or flee.

“Four motorcycles just took off to the north,” Jared said over the radio.

“Damn, there goes the commander,” I said into my Peltor headset. We couldn’t cut off the escape routes as planned—we were almost into the village and focused on going straight to the target compound instead of chasing them. Anything or anyone of value was probably gone, but hopefully they left something behind in their haste. Brian slammed on the brakes as we reached an intersection of dirt roads on the village outskirts, smashing me into the windshield and jamming Dave’s big turret machine gun into his chest. He’d seen too many trucks race to a target, only to hit a mine. If it took us a few seconds longer to get there alive, I was willing to be patient. Brian raced around the intersection, made a sharp right-hand turn, and sped down a small pathway to the shop, stopping just past the front door. I jumped out and covered the building while Dave covered our rear with the big gun. Bill and the search team, interpreters in tow, fell immediately into line at the back of his truck and approached the shop. It was beautiful to watch. The formation was nearly in step, weapons covering every position as they flowed smoothly inside. Several minutes of screaming and yelling, but no gunfire followed. Finally Bill peeked out the doorway and came sauntering out.

“Captain, we have the building locked down and the perimeter is secure,” he said. “We haven’t begun the search but the roof is clear. We will be bringing out the occupants in a minute.”

I asked if there were any PUCs (personnel under confinement). I despised that term. It was a politically correct, pussyfooted way of saying prisoners. Just saying it pissed me off. As the occupants filed out, it was obvious who they were. About six of the ten had dark olive-drab clothing and black turbans. These were the lowest-hanging fruit on the Taliban tree and usually the recipients of our fury in battle, the Talibs who are left behind to cover the escape of those more privileged who run off via motorbikes or Hilux trucks.
Bill lined them up on their knees in front of the building. Some of them were just boys.