In the dead of night, a CH-47 Chinook helicopter banked sharply from side to side as it maneuvered through a narrow mountain valley in volatile southern Afghanistan, keeping a safe distance from the large rock outcroppings on either side. The Chinook followed an erratic, unpredictable flight path in an effort to avoid potential Taliban RPGs.
From inside the dark helicopter, I gazed out over the lip of the rear loading ramp. Through my NODs, I observed a strange, Martian-green landscape rush by at a blinding speed.
From an earbud jammed into my left ear, I heard the voice of my team leader for this mission, a SEAL named George, say “two minutes.” We were approaching our designated landing zone.
Rising to one knee, I unclipped the small karabiner that was the only thing holding me in the rocking helicopter. While creeping closer to the ramp and squinting my eyes, I began studying the terrain buzzing by in an attempt to orient myself. The helicopter then came to a hover and descended over a large farm field just to the south of our target village.
As if it were on cue, the rotor wash kicked up a giant dust cloud, completely obscuring everything from my view except for the ramp in front of me. I felt the aircraft slam into the ground, and the ramp began to lower.
I leapt out, struggling to maintain my balance as my footing shifted from the moving helicopter to the soft, fertile soil of the farm field. The field was made up of about two dozen rows of mounded dirt covered with dense grape vines. Two steps from the ramp, my body sunk down into one of the troughs between two rows of mounded dirt. I hadn’t seen the dip due to the thick grape vines and the dust that I was still clearing from my eyes.
I almost fell over as I struggled to maintain my balance in the soft soil, but somehow, I surged forward and avoided being trampled by the remainder of the assault team pouring out of the Chinook behind me. I ran forward—stumbled, rather—about fifty feet before taking a knee.
After literally and figuratively clearing the dust, I trained my eyes on the horizon. Using memories of satellite imagery that I had studied while planning for our mission, I was looking for landmarks. My entire assault team struggled with the difficult terrain, but managed to sink into the greenery for cover as the helicopter leapt back into the air, where it would meet another Chinook that had dropped off the other half of our assault team about one hundred yards away. Together, the two Chinooks darted off into the distance, and the dust cloud around us finally dissipated.
Silence and darkness set in, and we waited a moment to become silent and dark ourselves. I quickly determined that we weren’t dropped off where we had planned, but using a compass attached to my night vision, I set my bearings to a few different rock features I recognized from my map study. Using a small map that was attached to my hip, I plotted my fix on our location before verifying it with a small GPS on my wrist. Once I knew where we were, I started looking around for George.
Our assault team, which was divided into halves, had been ordered to swarm into a village where the Taliban was believed to be operating. What happened next would depend on whether we encountered any hostile fighters.
Based in Afghanistan’s southernmost Kandahar Province, our assault team was comprised of both US and Afghan personnel, with most of the American service members being SEALs and the Afghans being Afghan National Army Special Forces (ANASF).
The ANASF commandos we worked with were generally easy to spot, as they were usually loud, a bit clumsy, and unable to effectively conceal themselves. In the dark, they would hiss at each other in Pashto, noisily check their gear, and make an even bigger racket while chambering rounds in their rifles. For whatever reason, they also just couldn’t seem to sit still. Navy SEALs, on the other hand, would quickly and quietly blend into their surroundings, and were nearly impossible for a trained officer like me to spot, even with night vision equipment.
After a few moments, George caught my gaze and waved. I pointed out the direction in which I intended to take us, which he confirmed after following the same process that I did. This is how George and I always navigated; we would double-check each other to make sure we didn’t wind up getting lost. Even though we sometimes ended up a little bit off course, George and I were always able to navigate our assault team to the right place.
I unfolded my metal detector and switched it on. I waited a moment while it calibrated, then stood and began sweeping the ground for potential IEDs.
During my mission planning, I had researched this area, and was dismayed to see reports of known or suspected IED emplacements popping up all over the map. Due to the prevalence of this hidden threat, our plan was for me or my EOD technician partners, Evan and Leif, to sweep for potential IEDs while the rest of our assault team carefully followed in our footsteps.
We moved this way at all times, with Evan, Leif, and I clearing miles and miles of rugged Afghan terrain. A source of great frustration for the SEALs and ANASF alike, however, was the fact that EOD officers and technicians generally chose difficult, challenging paths to reach our shared objectives. We insisted on this method because the easiest and most appealing course would almost always end up being booby-trapped.
While I was trained and equipped to disable roadside bombs, I would only ever choose to do so if it was absolutely unavoidable. That’s because when an EOD officer or technician went “hands on” to render safe an IED, we would be risking our lives, so it was important to ensure that the juice was always worth the squeeze.
Ever since the first American troops set foot in Afghanistan and then Iraq, the enemy’s weapon of choice had been the IED. The design and composition of these devices would vary greatly, from simple pressure switches paired with fertilizer-based explosives to optimized shape charges that incorporated military grade explosives, which were usually either stolen or purchased on the black market.
Almost daily, we would receive reports detailing new tactics or IED-related technologies being utilized by insurgents and terrorists. As EOD officers and technicians, it was our job to be well-apprised. It was also our responsibility to identify such hazards while in the field, and then either advise our ground force commander (GFC) on how to best avoid the hazard, or to render it safe, which was most frequently by using our bare hands. That meant Evan, Leif, and I served as our platoon’s first line of defense in a battle being waged remotely by cowards hiding in the hills, using buried explosives that didn’t discriminate between coalition troops, the women who tended to the fields, or the children who played in them.
Whenever I waved my metal detector back and forth across the ground in front of me, I knew that not only was my own life at stake, but so were the lives of all the men following in my footsteps. With some effort, I was able to put that out of my mind, walk forward, and train my eyes only on my metal detector and the ground. In such a hostile environment, where there is an ever-present list of different things that might kill you at any moment, it’s imperative to be able to focus on one thing at a time. George or another SEAL was always right behind me with his rifle up, scanning for potential fighters who might pose a threat to me or the assault team.
Everyone on our assault team had a “field of fire,” or an area of responsibility, and each person had knowledge, expertise, or tools that might be needed at any time. All of us were critical to the team, and if any one person failed at their job, someone might die. These are the stakes of combat, and the conditions we faced every time we stepped off the ramp of a Chinook.
Progress was slow, but we patrolled to the edge of the field, then across a small dirt road, and then across another large field. At the edge of the next field, I came to a large irrigation ditch between us and our target building.
“Assault One is preparing for soft breach,” said a voice in my left earbud. The voice was that of our GFC, a tall, steely eyed SEAL Lieutenant nicknamed “Fatty,” who was actually in great shape.
The other half of our assault team had already reached the target village and was ready to move, which meant that I needed to hurry up. If Assault One breached before we entered the village, we would be at risk of a potential enemy counterattack. At the same time, Assault One was now exposed at the edge of the village. It was important that both teams were ready to begin the assault at the same time, or they could actually pose a hazard to one another.
I used my metal detector to assess the depth of the ditch, realizing that it was more than a few feet deep, and that we wouldn’t be able to cross. George then pointed out a small footbridge a few yards to our left, and I shook my head.
“Remember,” I said in a quiet voice. “The easiest path is almost always booby-trapped.”
“We’ve got no choice,” George whispered. “Assault One has its tail hanging in the breeze!”
Grimacing, I headed toward the footbridge while furiously waving my metal detector. I motioned for George to stay put and get down. If I blew up, I didn’t want him or any of the assault team to be hit by fragments from the blast.
With my chest pounding, I carefully scanned the base of the footbridge. Finding nothing, I crept forward while continuing to scan.
Just as I was about to step on the first plank of the bridge, my metal detector started buzzing just to the left of my foot. My eyes widened as I dropped to a knee, carefully placing my metal detector on my right side. I dusted off the spot with my gloved hand and used a small ceramic probe to search the earth around the spot that rang off. Relieved, I quickly unearthed a flattened soup can, and after shaking my head and letting out a quick, nervous laugh, set it aside.
When I resumed my scan, my heartbeat was still the loudest sound I could hear. I made it all the way across the bridge, now content that it was actually clear. I nodded towards George and he made his way to me, with the rest of the team following behind, man by man.
As we traversed a short path to the doorway of our target building, we focused on our objective, which was a one-story house surrounded by a ten-foot mud wall. At the entrance to the compound was a large set of metal doors, hinged on a larger metal frame that had been installed right in the middle of the mud wall.
I cleared past the door to make sure the entrance wasn’t booby-trapped, at least from our side, and then used my rifle-mounted laser to sweep the rest of the village in front of me for potential threats.
I could hear George evaluating the metal doors behind me. After some nearly imperceptible tinkering with the door lock, George whispered in my right ear.
“It’s locked,” he said. “Can you breach this door?”
“Of course,” I whispered back with a smile. “I never thought you’d ask.”
I began setting up a charge while George handled security. Since we were using explosives, George made sure that Assault One would wait for us to initiate the breach so both teams could begin the assault simultaneously.
After my charge was set, I tapped the back of George’s leg and guided him around a nearby corner to shield us from the blast that I was about to set off. While George still had his rifle up, scanning for threats, I squeezed the back of his leg to let him know that I was ready to breach. He called this out over the radio, and when Assault One replied with “standing by,” George counted down from three.
When I initiated the breach, we immediately heard the loud snap of C-4 explosives obliterating the door’s padlock. Before George could rush forward, the entire metal door frame came loose from the mud wall and toppled forward with a loud crash. Once George saw that the door had fallen, he rushed inside, with the rest of the assault team right on his heels. I cleaned up my breaching equipment before joining them.
In short order, the males in the compound were rounded up, and each room was searched for weapons and possible intelligence. Finding nothing, we continued up the main path of the small village, clearing house by house. Sweeping for IEDs inside the village proved very difficult due to trash, screws, bottle caps, and other littered debris.
About halfway along our intended route, Assault One came over the radio and informed us that they found a suspected cache of homemade explosives. My EOD counterpart on Assault One, Leif, who had temporarily replaced my normal partner Evan on this particular mission, was investigating. So that we wouldn’t get too far ahead, Fatty instructed us to stay put until Leif worked through the cache. Through an interpreter, George passed this information on to the Afghan team leader, and directed him to have his commandos take up security positions around the compound we were inside.
As one of the SEALs began working with the interpreter to interview villagers about possible Taliban activity, I told George that I was going to take a quick look around the compound’s perimeter. Another SEAL, J.T., then offered to come with me and watch my back.
After exiting the compound on the west side and turning right, I used my metal detector to clear up to the northwest corner of the perimeter wall. As I turned the corner into a small alley running along the north side, J.T. was right behind me with his rifle up. On the left side of the alley, we saw a narrow irrigation ditch, and on the opposing side of the ditch was a mud wall separating us from another farm field to our north.
I froze in my tracks as I looked down the alley. J.T. couldn’t see the hair on the back of my neck standing up, but he must have perceived my tension when I stopped in my tracks.
“Whaddya got, man?” J.T. asked.
“Well,” I began. “I think I found the mother lode.”
Laid out in neat order in front of us were two large rugs, on top of which was a myriad of IEDs, all in different stages of composition. A stack of pressure switches were in one spot and a stack of mortars in another, with a few jugs of fertilizer explosive here and curled up detonating cords there. Somehow, I had managed to find a small IED-making factory.
Upon taking a closer look, J.T. and I gasped when we saw the terrorist’s shoes on one edge of one of the rugs. Next to it was a small mug of chai (tea) and a piece of bread on a plate.
“Wow,” I said. “This dude was just here!”
Now, every hair on my body was standing, which prompted me to back up a step and take a look around the alley. It was then that I noticed a small, thin wire running from the rugs up into a tree on my left, and then over the farm field wall. Immediately, I thought that there might be an insurgent hiding on the other side of that wall. Quite possibly, he was waiting for us to creep a little bit closer before detonating the bomb that he had left behind.
Quickly and quietly, we backed around the same corner we had come from. J.T. and I then went over everything that we had seen, and after a few moments, I asked him to get on the radio to see if there were any aircraft available. We needed one to take a look at the field to our north and give us a better idea of the immediate threats we were facing.
While J.T. worked that out, I crept back around the corner, using my rifle scope to get another look at the cache of explosives. The morning sun had crawled across the horizon, giving my eyes just enough light to see through the magnifier that I had mounted to my M4 assault rifle. We must have scared off the Taliban insurgent who was making IEDs while eating some breakfast with his morning tea. As I continued my visual sweep, I noticed something strange in the tree that the wire was running through.
Tucked into a knot in the wood, it appeared as if there was a small cell phone taped to a hand grenade. I had never seen this tactic before, and the need for a cell phone didn’t jibe with the wire I had seen running over the wall. Then again, with our lives on the line, I didn’t really need to know how exactly this dude was trying to kill us. It was more important to simply realize that he was trying to kill us in the first place.
J.T. tapped me on the shoulder, and let me know that an aircraft took a look at the field to our north and didn’t see anyone. Thankfully, that meant no one was on the other end of the suspicious wire.
The cell phone now worried me the most. It didn’t really strike me as an active IED, but more likely a device that an insurgent could quickly plant somewhere else. Still, though, I wasn’t about to take any unnecessary risks. The most appropriate course of action would be to “blow in place” (BIP) the handheld device. After telling J.T. to stay put, I asked him to let Fatty know that I was going to use a charge to disable an explosive hazard.
I pulled the small explosive charge out of a pouch on my armor, and prepared a short length of time fuse. I told J.T. that it was one minute long, which J.T. quickly relayed to the team. Sweeping the ground with my metal detector, I briskly approached the tree and stuck my charge as close to the hand grenade as possible without actually touching it or the cell phone. I then looked back at J.T., who gave me a “thumbs up,” having gotten approval from the GFC to initiate a blast.
I pulled the key ring on the initiator and called “Smoke!” to J.T., who relayed this over the radio. I started a timer on my watch and rushed back around the corner.
“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” I shouted over the radio at the fifty-five second mark.
Again, a loud snap echoed through the otherwise quiet village. This indicated to me that I had gotten the hand grenade to detonate along with my small charge.
When I peeked around the corner, I saw that the entire top of the tree was missing, and was now lying upside down in the irrigation ditch. Much more comforted, yet still wary of potential booby traps, I took my metal detector back out and swept my way up to the IED factory’s two rugs.
While J.T. kept an eye out, I pulled out a digital camera and began snapping photos like paparazzi at the Oscars. After thoroughly documenting the scene, I gathered up a few non-hazardous items for forensic investigation after the mission. The pressure switches, for instance, were harmless unless they were added to an initiator and main charge. I grabbed one from a stack and jammed it into my satchel so it could subsequently be analyzed. I also found some pieces of notepaper with Arabic writing, an ID card that I couldn’t read, and a small wad of Pakistani money. I stuck it all in the satchel as well.
Now it was time to blow up everything else. I pulled a few explosive charges from my pack and went about setting them up in strategic places in the small factory. I attached a small charge to a stack of mortars, a large jug of fertilizer explosive, and a stack of initiators. I then connected all the charges with detonating cord, looping it around any of the other items left behind by the fleeing insurgent. I kept the detonating cord in place with a few rocks I found nearby, and then attached another one-minute length of time fuse.
I gave a “thumbs up” to J.T., who had been watching from behind the nearby corner. He then called over the radio and directed all stations to prepare for a large detonation. Fatty then came across the radio, acknowledged our notification, and once again gave us permission to proceed.
I pulled the key ring on the time fuse, shouted, “Smoke!” to J.T., and again started my watch. Given that this would be a much bigger explosion, I really booked it back to the nearby corner to take cover.
Just as I called out “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” over the radio, a thunderous explosion leapt out of the ground right behind J.T. and me. Our jaws dropped when we subsequently stood up, looked around the corner, and saw the carnage that had been wrought by the massive explosion.
The enemy IED factory had been destroyed. All that had been neatly arranged on the rugs had been obliterated. Holes were left wherever there had been explosives, while debris from the leveled wall covered everything else. We could now rest assured that no more roadside bombs would be created here for quite some time.
AFTER J.T. REPORTED TO the GFC that the explosion had been successful, we returned to the courtyard just in time for George to tell us that our assault team had to move. Taliban fighters were reportedly headed up from the south, and while our other assault team was tied up with the explosives cache, we needed to provide security in case of an attack.
J.T. volunteered to have my back while I cleared for the patrol, as George would now be very busy coordinating our movements with Assault One. I began clearing south; back in the direction we had originally come from, but also in a different path through the village. Progress was quicker this time as my metal detector found less junk, and there were no more compounds to enter. On our left was a large farm field, while a large cemetery was to our right.
The morning light meant that we no longer needed our night vision equipment, so we flipped our NODs up and out of our field of view. As I paused to do so, I noticed that we were coming up on a T-intersection in the path. I looked back at J.T. and pointed at both of my eyes, then ahead at the intersection. This was our standard signal of a potential hazard being up ahead.
After taking a quick glance at the map on my hip, I told J.T. that this T-intersection was the southernmost path of the village. All that remained were farm fields and eventually desert. The good news was that there weren’t many places for the enemy to hide, but at the same time, we would be exposed with little cover. I noted out loud that there was a small building just to the west of the T-intersection, which I thought would be our best chance for cover.
I returned to my sweeping, and just before I came to the intersection, I felt J.T. grasp my armor from behind, which quickly halted my advance.
J.T. had spotted a young man squatting on the path, which was just to our left and toward the building I had spoke of just moments earlier. He hadn’t noticed us yet, and was actually staring intently in the other direction, right where our assault teams had originally entered the village.
Behind us, one of the Afghan soldiers shifted uneasily, which caused some of his gear to clang. Startled by the noise, the young man took off running toward the farm fields to the south. As he ran along the wall of the building, J.T. and I both shouted “WADREGA,” which means “stop” in Pashto. Despite our demands, the man ran even faster.
Before we could determine whether or not the young man was a threat, he disappeared behind the building to our west.
“Great,” J.T. sarcastically muttered.
Having watched the whole series of events unfold, George began feverishly working the radio to see if we could get another aircraft to survey the fields to our south. Was the man running somewhere to inform others of our location? Was he preparing to mount a counterattack of his own? Was he arming himself or other insurgents?
I rapidly swept the intersection while the rest of the assault team filled in around me. Then, one of the SEALs told George that he had a 40mm grenade launcher with CS grenades. A 40mm grenade is egg-sized and can be launched from a small gun—which actually looks a lot like a pirate’s blunderbuss—carried by a few members of the assault team. A CS grenade uses a small explosive charge to disperse tear gas. The theory behind such a weapon is that by introducing tear gas, you can ensure that anyone in a given area would evacuate due to extreme discomfort.
By launching a CS grenade in the young man’s direction, our hope was that he would then abort his potentially nefarious plan and flee into the open field to our south. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but in the heat of the moment, it never occurred to any of us to check the direction of the wind. When the CS grenade was launched and the SEAL landed a perfect shot just to the left of the corner where the young man had disappeared, the gas began creeping back towards our assault team, much to our collective dismay.
One by one, some of the world’s toughest, most highly trained warriors—Navy SEALs, Air Force pararescue jumpers, Afghan Special Forces, a military dog handler, the dog, and a Navy EOD Officer—yours truly—began to cry. I’m not just talking about the watery eyes you might get at the end of The Notebook, either. No, these big, tough men began sobbing uncontrollably. One by one, we turned and ran back up the northern path to get as far as possible from the huge cloud of CS gas.
I’d like to say that I was one of the last to give in before running away, but honestly, my eyes were so teary and puffed up, I couldn’t see much ahead of me. Quickly, I joined a gaggle of coughing and spitting teammates fifty yards or so up that path we had just come from.
No one spoke as the symptoms of the gas began to subside, but without warning, everyone began to laugh about how ridiculous the whole scene had been. When one of us looked at another’s puffy, snot-covered face, we laughed even harder.
“We sure are living up to the ‘special’ in ‘Special Operations’ this morning,” someone said, which instigated another wave of hearty laughter.
The moment passed, however, and George reminded us that we still needed to move south to protect Assault One. Our situation had just gotten a lot more complicated—if there were indeed fighters coming from the south, they surely knew exactly where we were, thanks to a dissipating cloud of tear gas. After wiping tears and smiles from our faces, we returned to the intersection. We had our rifles up, and despite the tear gas fiasco, we were ready to engage the enemy.
I swept to the building to our west and found a small staircase leading up to its roof. I pointed this out to George and J.T., who both nodded to indicate that I would need to set up a security position on the roof.
Protecting my movement, the SEALs grabbed a few Afghan soldiers and posted them in different shooting positions, establishing as close to a three-hundred-sixty-degree field of fire as possible. I brought one Afghan commando (and his belt-fed machine gun) with me to the roof, which proved to be a perfect firing position.
With such a great vantage point of the fields to our east and south, I identified a field of fire for the commando, who nodded before setting up his weapon to face south by southeast. I flattened myself on the roof, and then started scanning to the east with my rifle. Before I could complete a sweep with my scope from left to right, though, I saw a flash and a puff of white smoke in my peripheral vision. About a second later, I heard a loud boom.
It took me a moment to put the pieces together, but I quickly realized that Taliban fighters had triangulated our position, and were launching mortars at us. I rapidly located the puff of smoke left by the mortar tube, and could just barely make out two fighters hiding in a small clump of trees. I alerted the Afghan commando, and together, we laid down a barrage of gunfire that would have made Arnold Schwarzenegger or Sylvester Stallone jealous. As I dumped an empty magazine and slammed another full one back into my rifle, I heard other members of the assault team come over the radio.
“Was that the BIP from Assault One?” a voice asked over the radio, referring to Leif and the cache of homemade explosives.
“No, no, no!” another voice answered. “We’re being mortared!”
“Any casualties?” a different voice asked.
Just a moment of silence after that question sent a chill down my spine. I motioned for the commando to continue firing at the fighters in the trees, while I popped up and ran back down the stairs. When I looked back toward the intersection, I saw nothing but smoke and debris, indicating that the fighters had landed a mortar right on target, at exactly the intersection we had just passed through.
Out of the smoke stumbled a few members of our assault team, who were covered in dust. They appeared to be shell-shocked, but otherwise unharmed.
Among the victims was Shaun, who was a Navy SEAL lieutenant junior grade and our platoon’s assistant officer in charge. Shaun told me that Colin, our Air Force pararescue medic, and Dave, our combat photographer, were still back at the intersection.
Fearing the worst, I ran into the smoke cloud, only to find Colin and Dave just like the others: dazed and covered in grayish white dust, but seemingly uninjured. After helping them find their bearings and grab their gear, I ushered them back behind the building to our west.
Upon a more thorough examination, we discovered that Colin had taken shrapnel to his rear end, just next to a tattoo. This discovery—coupled with our collective relief in knowing that he would be okay—sent another wave of laughter through the assault team.
Despite our laughter, however, the miracle that no one had been seriously hurt by the well-aimed mortar fire was not lost on any of us. After getting serious and addressing the needs of the victims, we quickly re-established our security positions, and prepared for another attack.
While we waited, we received confirmation from one of the surveillance aircraft circling above that our barrage of gunfire had killed the two fighters responsible for the mortar attack. Through our interpreter, I passed the news along to the Afghan commando who had shared the rooftop position with me. I was grateful for his help.
After about half an hour, Assault One informed us over the radio that they were ready to blow up the cache of fertilizer that they had found. They would be destroying about five thousand pounds of enemy explosives, which would mark our platoon’s biggest cache found during our deployment.
Once we were a safe distance from what promised to be a huge blast, my EOD partner on this busy day, Leif, shouted “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” over the radio just before his five-minute time fuse ran out.
The ensuing blast truly felt like an earthquake. I looked to our northwest, where Assault One had previously been located, and saw a large, gray mushroom cloud reaching up into the clear blue sky. Our collective jaws dropped before all of us began shouting in unison.
“HELL YEAH!” we screamed.