Chapter 18
History does not entrust the care of freedom to the weak or timid.
—DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER
The explosion jolted Brian and me from a deep sleep atop the hood of Ole Girl, throwing us to the dusty ground. Another explosion rocked the earth as soon as I hit the dirt. Brian and I scuttled quickly on hands and knees toward the rear of the truck, the thorns and prickly ground bushes digging deep.
“You hit?” I asked Brian.
“No, you?” he said.
“No, I’m good,” I said catching my breath. My hands and knees were on fire and I had nearly soiled a good pair of pants. Then I heard the snickering. Still half asleep, I crawled around to the far side of the truck, where I found Ron and Dave smiling, enjoying themselves, crouched against the wall of the schoolhouse.
The AC-130 gunship had arrived soon after I fell asleep. It announced its presence by slamming several 105-mm artillery rounds into a compound a hundred meters from the hill. Dave and Ron controlled the gunship and knew in advance the explosions were coming.
“You move pretty quickly for an old man,” Dave said.
“Up yours, Dave!”
The barrage sent a shower of yellow-orange sparks in all directions. Smoke from small fires drifted in and out of the moonlight, creating dark gray clouds that hung over the decimated buildings. The AC-130 crew had worked all night firing at the massing Taliban fighters, its cameras scanning the ground for enemy soldiers. Invisible to the naked eye, they circled overhead. We dubbed them our “night angels,” and in fact their guns sounded like trumpeting as they hammered the fighters trying to reorganize and attack.
“Target! Load! Gun is set! Ready! Fire!” Boom!
From the top of Sperwan Ghar, we could see numerous fires. The Taliban were still bringing fresh troops across the river. Nearly two hundred enemy fighters walked or rode in trucks, lights off, across the dry riverbed toward Sperwan Ghar. The fires lit the way. Others probed, trying to assess our defenses. They absolutely had to attack at dawn. It was a fight for initiative.
Still exhausted, Brian and I simply crawled under the truck’s bumper and went back to sleep. We would get three hours before we took over guard duties for the night. The comforting echo of the gunship’s attacks let us rest easy. When I felt the familiar tug at my foot a few hours later, I sat up and hit my head on the bumper.
“Damn it,” I said, rubbing my now throbbing forehead. Ron stood there, absolutely exhausted from having stayed up all night calling in strikes.
“How did it go last night?” I asked.
“Busy, very busy,” he said. His hard work had killed at least 110 fighters.
Several large rockets slammed into Sperwan Ghar with the arrival of the sun, just after the first call to prayer from the local mosque. I thought it sickening that the mullahs who presided over prayers were the same Taliban who used the mosque speaker systems to broadcast messages to fighters. I estimated about one hundred fighters on my side of the perimeter. We could see them moving through the orchards, across irrigation ditches, and between the thick mud walls of the compounds. The faint cry “Allah akbar”echoed around the hill.
Bill moved team members into position to cover the enemy advance. Gunfire raked the back side of the hill, where Hodge and his team were located. The familiar zing of passing bullets again became commonplace.
“Tango, Tango, Tangos from the north,” an SF soldier’s voice came over the radio, notifying us of targets and their location. The call was cut short by the deafening sound of machine-gun fire from the roof.
About a dozen fighters tried to advance, but Afghan soldiers moved to reinforce the machine-gun position and stopped them. I scanned the area through my binoculars and saw a group of fighters, including a teenage boy, huddled in the intersection, dead or dying. Birds and two large dogs descended on the bodies.
Better them than my men, I said to myself.
It made me sick. The Taliban fighters were being led to slaughter by zealots who cared only for their cause. Those who preached Sharia law the loudest were unwilling to die for their distorted and perverse ideology. They forced many a young boy to ferry ammunition or fight. It was a matter of choosing between ignorance and understanding. My men would not die for an act of foolishness.
The attack quickly shifted to Hodge and the south side of the hill. Ali Hussein called over the radio in short excited bursts and reported more fighters headed for the narrow, shaded passageway.
“Okay, Ali,” I said, trying to sound reassuring, “when the enemy arrives, just shoot them.”
He got the joke and then ordered three Afghan soldiers, including Taz, over the embankment to counter. Pumping his arm ferociously, Taz led the soldiers into the enemy-infested grape fields.
They disappeared over the small embankment and reappeared along a compound wall leading to a small building deep in the fields. I reported their movements over the radio, making sure our shooters knew that friendly forces were outside the wire.
Taz’s crew carefully climbed the mud stairway leading to the top of the compound wall. The wall ran directly along the irrigation ditch where we had gunned down the dozen fighters. Taz pointed toward the wall and I knew there were Taliban on the other side. He held up three fingers, a countdown, and then all three men rose and fired. Two just sprayed their AK-47s like garden hoses, but not Taz. He kept his rifle tight into his shoulder and fired methodical bursts into the fighters, then snatched a grenade from his pouch and tossed it into the ditch. The other soldiers followed his lead and all three jumped from the ten-foot wall and ran at a dead sprint back toward our perimeter. Three crashing explosions sent dirt and tree limbs flying behind them.
Taz came dashing with his team through the school hallway to my truck, knowing from long experience that I would want a situation report. They had found twenty fighters on the wall and wounded or killed half of them. I hugged my good friend. I was proud of them, and I remember wishing that others could see what I saw, Afghans fighting for their freedom. As they sprinted back to their positions, a friendly voice came over the team radio net. It caught me off guard, and I stopped to make sure I wasn’t hearing things.
It was another SF team, but not just any team. It was the boys from 333—Triple X. Joe, the team sergeant for Triple X, was on the net and his voice was music to my ears. This was another serious group of pipe hitters coming to the party. Hot damn.
Bolduc knew how high the stakes were for Sperwan Ghar and had moved 333 into the battle. We were finally getting more Special Forces soldiers on the ground. I pulled my microphone down from my face and told my team members, whose confidence visibly swelled. We were not alone.
Team 333 had arrived the night before and wedged itself between the jagged rocks on top of Masum Ghar, the ridgeline overlooking the Canadian task force to the north. Virtually invisible up there, they watched the battlefield through powerful Steiner binoculars and Leupold spotting scopes. We now had friendly forces watching over the Canadian task force, cutting off the enemy to our north, fresh resupplies coming in regularly, and ownership of key terrain. Matt, the team leader, called me for an update.
For the last several hours his team had patiently waited, plotted, and observed Taliban forces moving up and down the valley. Joe (known as “Kramer”), their warrant officer, and Matt’s men marked targets in the valley below with what would turn out to be deadly accuracy. From their vantage point, they could see the entire Canadian side of the valley and the front half of ours.
Between us, we came up with a detailed sketch of defensive positions, destroyed vehicles, ditches, enemy fighters, and the locations they moved to. When Jared got on the radio, I gave him the overview. When the time was right and when the air power came, they would unleash hell.
The familiar high-pitched whistling of incoming rounds sliced through the air and I threw myself facedown on the concrete floor of the school. Several crashing crumps of explosions impacted behind the school near the latrine. RPGs and recoilless-rifle rounds exploded close to my trucks and the Afghan machine-gun positions. I hit my face on the rear sight of my rifle and busted my lip open.
The attack on Hodge’s position had been a feint. The main crux of the assault hit my positions within minutes. As the fire became more intense, I called Hodge for reinforcements.
Ron called for me or Jared on the radio. He had something for us. We radioed back that he would have to wait, but then I heard him checking Navy fighters on station above the valley.
“NAVY? Where the hell did they come from?” Jared asked.
“Apparently an aircraft carrier, sir,” Ron said.
Now everyone out here was a smart-ass. Ron had been hanging around Dave too long.
Mike called in that, based upon the number of call signs checking on station, we were no longer in short supply of aircraft. The fighters had to refuel after the long flight from the Indian Ocean and would be back in an hour. We had no idea where the other aircraft were coming from and truly didn’t care. All we knew was that they were finally here.
While we waited, I imagined what was taking place in the United States. I knew the process. I could see the phones lighting up at the Pentagon, spurring decision makers to act.
REGION: SOUTHWEST ASIA
THEATER: AFGHANISTAN
SITUATION: U.S. Special Forces unit possibility of being overrun.
BACKGROUND: A U.S. SOF unit, supporting a large ISAF operation, is under heavy attack.
INFORMAL SUMMARY: A major ISAF operation, code name “MEDUSA,” is under way. It has stalled due to unexpected numbers of enemy and our troops are in heavy contact in southern Afghanistan’s Kandahar Province. An SF unit has pushed into enemy territory to reestablish the initiative and relieve the ISAF forces. In doing so, they have located a large number of Taliban and foreign fighters (^1000) CONFIRMED, and an enemy training camp. They are taking them head on. Every available asset is required.
DIRECTIVE: Make every asset available, even if it means it has to come from Iraq.
END MSG
We spent the lull reinforcing our fighting positions and distributing ammunition and fuel. Each truck had small caches that could be accessed easily. We couldn’t afford to lose any more vehicles, equipment, or men. Since we started the assault, two Afghan vehicles had been shot to pieces, four U.S. GMVs disabled, and nearly a dozen soldiers wounded. All three team leaders approached Jared.
“Any chance higher headquarters might finally realize this is a major offensive? We’ll need reinforcements soon,” Hodge said.
“Honestly, no,” Jared replied. “We have asked for anything and everything, Marines, Rangers, SEALs. Supposedly the CJTF-A [Combined Joint Task Force—Afghanistan] commander will make an ‘assessment’ soon. That’s all I know, so don’t say another word. Good call on holding this place.”
We had gotten intelligence that more than twenty Taliban commanders were in the area. One was Mullah Dadullah Lang and maybe Mullah Omar, the supreme Taliban commander. Matt’s team was too far away to confirm if either man was there. Jared told him to lay low and keep watching, hoping that the Taliban commanders would meet and we could hit them all at once.
Jared reported the possible meeting to Kandahar and Bolduc, but the commander wasn’t there. He was headed to Sperwan Ghar with the commander of U.S. forces in Afghanistan, Major General Benjamin Freakley. The general wanted to see the battle for himself.
The general’s helicopter dipped into the valley and landed in a cloud of dust that covered the entire hilltop. I heard Smitty humming Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” at the end of the hall as they got off the helicopter.
The general wanted a tour of the battlefield and to know what we needed. I always loved it when they asked that. Bolduc knew best how to deal with VIPs.
“Sir, let me be blunt. We need more resources,” Bolduc said. “This is an offensive push by the Taliban to seize Kandahar city, the first we have seen since the invasion. I know—I was here soon after,” he said.
“The Canadian task force has been hit hard to our north and cannot freely maneuver. They have one mechanized company out of the fight. When we assaulted and finally seized this position, we disrupted the primary Taliban command and control site south of the river and their hub of reinforcements. By doing this we destroyed or scattered a significant portion of their forces, preventing them from continuing to organize mass attacks. Our intelligence confirmed that the foreign advisors and Taliban forces had planned on letting the TF Aegis forces push south and rolling up their flanks. Now that we own this piece of key terrain, the Canadians can push out while we cover their flank and bring them some relief. The enemy will now have to fight us on multiple fronts and face to face. My men can hold this position for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours but not without heavy air cover and reinforcements. We simply need more resources.”
Bolduc worded it beautifully and set the wheels turning in the general’s head. But he had a major dilemma: it was highly unorthodox for a conventional commander to put his forces under the command of Special Forces. He eyed our group, bearded nasty men in tattered uniforms with banged-up equipment. He had to wonder if we would care for his men. But we train and lead indigenous forces on combat operations behind enemy lines. The commonsense factor said it was a perfect fit, but would he buy it? He grabbed Bolduc by the shoulder.
“You’ll have it,” Major General Freakley said.
With the decision made, the general boarded his Black Hawk helicopter, only to get word that it couldn’t depart. During the meeting, Matt, perched high above on Masum Ghar, had stolen the general’s Apache escort.
“Hammer 22, this is Talon 33, we have enemy at the following grid, possibly a Taliban commander. Can you assist, over?”
It was an opportunity the pilots couldn’t pass up.
“Roger that!” the pilots said, turning to get into firing position. I don’t think the helicopters made a full pass with the general on the ground before they pushed toward the target.
Matt carefully eyed the target, a series of compounds surrounded by a pomegranate orchard, with the range finder. The trees were so dense that it was impossible to see down into the compound. Matt watched a group of fighters duck down and rush into the orchard, weapons in hand, and fed their coordinates to the Apaches. The helicopters cut south, turned 180 degrees, and lined up on the orchard.
Everyone watched in anticipation as the lead helicopter fired eight rockets. Two fell short, but the remaining six landed directly inside the orchard, sending thick plumes of dust into the air. It looked like someone had kicked an ant nest.
“Yeah, baby,” Matt said over the radio.
Six men, all in black, carried the leader out of the orchard, his flowing white robes now caked in dirt and blood. The second helicopter, trailing the first, fired rockets, then guns at the group. The Apache’s cannon collapsed a section of the wall, which landed on several fighters seeking cover. One Taliban fighter kept his wits enough to fire an RPG. The pilot narrowly missed eating it as he banked out of the way. The rocket left a vapor trail no more than thirty feet in front of the helicopter’s nose. Other fighters set up a PKM machine gun and fired in a cone, hoping to lead the helicopter into the rounds.
The fighters were pros—likely foreign fighters and mercenaries from Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, or Chechnya on whom the Taliban relied for tactical help. That probably meant the leader in white robes was very important. After the helicopters’ second pass, the fighters quickly ducked back into the orchard.
The pilots, now fully engaged, frantically tried to get a bead on the machine gunners. Unable to see them, they swung out into the desert, and Matt patiently talked them in again, watching as the group carried their leader into a covered building. Matt got the best grid he could and called it in with a precise description of the building. The first Hellfire missile streaked forward and hit the building; the second struck the edge of the orchard and collapsed two adjacent structures.
Matt was gearing up for another pass when the order came to call it off.
“Talon 33, this is Hammer 22, we got to go. We have a pickup and escort south of you. Thanks for letting us play. Hammer 22 out,” the pilot said.
The Apaches swung back around and fell into a loose formation with the brass’s now-airborne Black Hawk. As the three helicopters disappeared into the distance, another seemed to be coming straight for us. I looked at Jared and he just shrugged his shoulders. It was a Russian Mi-17 cargo helicopter painted all white with no nationality markings.
“Who the hell is that?” Bill and I asked in unison.
Matt asked the same question from his perch. No one knew who it was or what they were doing. Whoever it was, they flew like nothing else in the world was going on around them. The helicopter hovered and sank into the orchard near the now-destroyed building. Several men in full combat equipment similar to ours rushed out of the aircraft and formed a very tight perimeter, while others moved to where the missile had impacted and loaded several body bags onto the helicopter. Then the helicopter rose from the orchard and disappeared over the mountains. To this day, we have no idea what happened to the helicopter or the occupants. It just disappeared.
We did, however, find out that it was not taken well that we had “borrowed” the general’s escort aircraft and used most of their ammunition.