Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man (45 page)

“Say again,” Bryan asked, with raised eyebrows.

“Here!” Drew repeated.

One of the Russian-speaking Afghans approached, as if to help, but really to offer a deal. “One of the guides thought you needed more donkeys. If so, his uncle, the elder that lives here, can rent you some. Do you want them?”

“
No!
” Bryan snapped.

Everyone got back on the trucks to continue to the linkup point, already several hours late and with several hours to go.

They had tried without luck to reach the Green Berets at OP25-B, but once again the terrain negated the radio. Unbeknownst to any of us, those Green Berets had grown tired of waiting and decided on their own to move back to a more secure location in the mountains for the night.

So there were no Green Berets at the rendezvous point, which meant that the entire day had been wasted. There were no donkeys either. MSS Monkey had to turn the convoy around and would try again tomorrow.

We are surrounded by the American commandos from above.

   
—AL QAEDA RADIO TRANSMISSION,
DECEMBER 14, 2001

MSS Grinch took over the lion’s share of the work and continued to push deeper and higher into the mountains. The assaulters from Alpha and Bravo teams protected the rear and flanks while the Jackal and Kilo sniper teams swapped the duty of controlling the airspace and directing the persistent bombing.

Besides killing al Qaeda, we expected that the bravery of Jim and the boys would be contagious among their muhj brethren. Some of the muhj responded, albeit reluctantly and hesitantly, but most of them still went home at night.

On the morning of December 13, Jester and Dugan received the word they had been waiting for up at OP25-A. They would be able to return to the schoolhouse as soon as MSS Monkey became operational over at OP25-B on the other ridge. They were no longer calling in the warplane strikes as our people pushed deeper into the mountain stronghold, but stayed in touch with the developing action. They passed along the bad
news that the weather conditions on the mountain were bad and getting worse.

The snow was creeping down from the highest peaks at an astonishing rate of about five hundred feet per day, and the wind was slicing across OP25-A in excess of fifteen miles an hour, plummeting the temperature to a painful level with the wind chill. OP25-A was totally exposed to the bad weather, literally bald of any foliage or trees for protection from the wind, and they had no sleeping bags.

It prompted the Green Berets to build a warming fire. The only tree within sight was seven hundred meters away back down the hill, and a few of the Green Berets took off with a block of C4 explosives, dropped the tree with the demo and dragged their kill back up to the OP.

Everyone gathered around to warm themselves, but kept the radios close. An AC-130 gunship circling above reported that it had spotted several fires near the established free-fire zone, and the pilot described seeing six to seven individuals near a fire. The snipers were just about to clear the AC-130 hot to engage when Dugan suddenly asked Jester, “Hey, do you think they are talking about us?”

The two of them and the Green Berets forgot all about the cold for a moment and frantically dug out their infrared strobe lights and turned them on to let the Spectre know there were friendlies around this particular fire.

Skoot and his tactical signal interceptors had been going 24/7 since they arrived four days earlier. They were an incredible asset to have on the battlefield, so we attached one of his operatives to move with MSS Grinch and another to MSS Monkey. The other two worked under Skoot’s watchful eye at the schoolhouse.

Skoot was a tall, athletically lean, Bill Gates type with wire frame glasses and wavy blond hair. He had an incredible energy level and a sense of humor that helped keep everything in perspective throughout the fight. Each time a bin Laden transmission was intercepted, Skoot would jump up from the cold, hard floor, yank off his headphones and come tearing
into the corner room to give us the news. His positive attitude was contagious.

Skoot worked his guys in shifts, and they either grabbed a few minutes of sleep when they could or when they were forced to go down for a few winks. It was necessary to rest the brain because of the mindnumbing nature of intercepting and interpreting al Qaeda conversations in real time, taping and replaying conversations for translation, and trying to identify al Qaeda’s many radio frequencies. They kept netting information out of the air, confirming that the enemy’s morale and will to fight was slipping, while their vulnerability increased.

Skoot came running into our room the morning of December 13 with new intercepts that strongly suggested al Qaeda was preparing to make a final stand. Morning enemy radio calls requesting “big and small land mines” were overheard. Another al Qaeda commander was overheard confidently stating “victory or death” before telling of plans to reposition a couple of hundred brothers. Al Qaeda fighters had no idea that they were passing critical battle damage estimates and targeting information to us each time they keyed their radio. News of each cave or tunnel that was dropped by bombs was relayed from one group to the next on the terrorist net. They weren’t the voice of bin Laden, but it wouldn’t be long before his lack of stomach for the fight surfaced.

General Ali was getting his second wind and stopped by our room on his way to the front on the morning of the thirteenth to express his thanks for the ruthless bombing. As I followed him out to his truck and waiting fighters, the general smiled and gave a gesture like cutting someone’s throat, running his hand palm down and fingers extended across the front of his neck. He believed victory was close at hand.

Ali’s cocky rival, Zaman, had left the day before, upset and embarrassed at the outcome of the surrender negotiations, and we had not heard from him since. The general did not know whether the warlord would continue the fight.

Actually, Zaman was having even more trouble at the moment.

After seeing how professional the first eight British commandos were out with our forward teams, we were tickled when four more came rolling in. But before heading to the schoolhouse, the commandos and a British intelligence operative had a meeting with Zaman in Jalalabad, during which they sternly voiced their displeasure with his antics. He obviously was not giving our closest allies their money’s worth and the Brits felt it was time to adjust the warlord’s attitude.

We had been pondering the idea of pairing up some of our operators with Zaman’s men just to keep him honest and on track. We even considered marrying up the Green Berets with Zaman’s forces, although we knew that request would be squelched back at Task Force Dagger headquarters. The entrance of the additional Brits took care of this issue nicely. They would hook up with the stumbling Zaman and keep his feet to the fire.

MSS Monkey departed for OP25-B again just before dusk on December 13 with two new Afghan guides, and neither spoke a lick of English. Having traveled part of the route once already, the navigation was much easier, but the terrain remained painfully rugged. It gets dark quickly in Tora Bora. Dusk gives way to total darkness in a blink. Within an hour and a half after leaving the schoolhouse, MSS Monkey was moving through early nighttime hours that were already pitch-black. With al Qaeda having been pushed back and their frontline mortar position destroyed, our force had the luxury of using their vehicle headlights, but the guides still managed to screw things up. They stopped in the middle of a dry streambed while the Afghans began yelling and screaming at each other about the correct route.

Air strikes were lighting up the sky just a few terrain features away, and the boys weren’t sure if the guides were just frightened by the bombs or were setting them up for an ambush. Two more locals needing a lift jumped in the back of one of the pickups. One said, “Bush good!” and communicated further by making obscene screwing motions with his fingers and mumbling something about American women.

The convoy finally cleared the streambed and moved to higher ground, only to have a repeat performance by the Afghan guides. While the guides went at it again, Ironhead and Bryan unfolded their own maps to check their location.

Mysteriously, the recent hitchhiking Afghans had already disappeared, quite likely to pass the patrol’s presence on to the highest bidder.

Acouple of the boys sitting with Lieutenant Colonel Al decided that everything might not be going according to plan, but was pretty much as expected in this nutty land.

“Well, it’s about time. Let’s get them out,” said one.

The other operator pointed at Lieutenant Colonel Al and asked, “He’s okay, right?”

“Yeah, he’s okay,” the first said.

The operators reached into their assault vests and pulled out rubber clown noses, slid them into place on their faces, and honked them. One declared, “It’s now an official full-up three-ring fucking circus.”

They took off the noses and carefully stowed them away for use on future appropriate occasions.

One of the boys looked at Lieutenant Colonel Al and said, “Before you come back out here, I recommend you get one, too.”