Pakistan—November 2001
My RUCKSACK WAS HUGE and heavily packed, and I strained to lift it onto the bed of the waiting truck. The other members of CIA’s Echo team were equally laden, their packs bulging to their limits. Each of us carried clothing, weapons, and equipment, including armored vests, extra ammunition, communications gear, and medical supplies. The U.S. Army Special Forces team embedded with us was similarly weighted down. For the moment, we were beasts of burden if nothing else.
In an hour the truck would transport us to an Air Force MC-130 that sat waiting at a nearby Pakistani airfield. Its job was to carry us to a remote rendezvous point where we would land and cross-load to helicopters for the final leg of a nighttime flight over the border and deep into southern Afghanistan. It was the big event, and we were more than ready to go.
As we continued to load our gear, Greg, the Echo team leader, returned from the final planning meeting with the Air Force’s 20th Special Operations Squadron and pulled me aside.
“Bad news. We have too much gear, too many people, and not enough birds. Between the SF team and Echo team the loadmaster says we have to leave some gear behind plus three passengers.”
I braced for what I suspected was coming.
“I talked with Jason. He’s pulling two of his SF’ers. You’ll be Echo team’s stay behind guy.”
A gut punch would have been preferable to those words. I was crushed, devastated to my core. But I didn’t argue. I’d been here before, ready to go but not going. Greg’s decision made sense. The rest of Echo team, with the exception of our physician assistant, was made up of CIA paramilitary officers with current, well-honed military skills. I was a CIA case officer, and my once respectable martial skills had atrophied long ago.
Reading how I was feeling, Greg tried to soften the blow: “Don’t sweat it. We’ll get you and the other two in on a resupply flight in a few days.”
“Alright. We’ll be standing by,” I told him.
I walked back to the truck and asked one of my teammates to hand me back my rucksack. I carried it inside our barracks then returned to help with the rest of the loading. Now more of an observer than a participant, I paused to take in the scene.
Underneath a canopy of bright blue sky, my teammates were lined up behind the truck waiting their turn to hand up their gear. Clothed in cargo pants, REI shirts, baseball caps, and hiking boots, they might have easily been mistaken for members of a trekking expedition—except for the Glock pistols they wore on their belts and the AK-47 rifles that hung off their shoulders. With only hours left before going into the heartland of the Taliban, gone was the usual light-hearted banter, and each man wore a serious expression on his bearded face. Despite the danger they knew awaited them, they continued working, moving closer and closer with each rucksack passed to whatever fate had in store. Nothing was going to stop them, not even fear.
A surge of pride suddenly swept through me as I stood watching. Like a rogue wave on a calm ocean, intense and overpowering, it took me by surprise and brought unexpected tears to my eyes. In that moment, I understood how such a feeling must have stirred Francis Scott Key to pen the words of the Star Spangled Banner as he watched the bombardment of the stalwart Ft. McHenry by attacking British forces. Feelings that intense needed an outlet.
Although no lyrics suitable for an anthem sprung to my mind, I did wish that I could somehow convey the scene and my sentiments to the Agency employees back home and say to them, “Hey, look! These are our guys! They’re the CIA! Look at what they’re doing. For CIA and for our country, this small band of men is going after al-Qa’ida deep in the badlands of Afghanistan.”
I felt the same about the Special Forces team. Everyone there was a great American, a true patriot by any measure, and it made no difference if he were military or CIA.
Not wanting to embarrass myself with the unexpected emotion, I decided it was a good time to go find Hamid Karzai, or “Mr. K,” as he was often referred to among the team, and say my reluctant goodbyes. Karzai, a respected Pashtun tribal leader, was considered key to our long-term success in Afghanistan. As I walked back to his room, it dawned on me that he didn’t have an armored vest, and the only thing between him and a steel-jacketed bullet would be his cotton tunic. It wasn’t hard to imagine how that contest would turn out. I stopped by my room and grabbed mine.
I found Karzai sitting on his cot packing, his belongings haphazardly scattered about him. I explained that I wouldn’t be going with him, but hopefully would join him and the other Echo team members later. I held up the weighty vest.
“Promise me you will wear this.”
“Oh, yes, thank you. I will wear it, most assuredly,” he responded in his classic Karzai polite-speak.
I smiled and gave him an embrace. “Take care of yourself,” I said, and I really meant it.
After saying our goodbyes, I headed down the deserted hall pondering my new situation. Stepping into the light of the afternoon sun, I couldn’t shake the feeling that despite all my efforts to get to this point, I might never set foot in Afghanistan or see Karzai again.