After THE SECURITY BRIEFING I stopped by to thank Colonel Hadley, who had been invaluable in helping Foxtrot team over the last few days. With that accomplished, I finally had time to go to my tent to finish packing my rucksack. It was only minutes before we were to load on trucks and move down to the waiting MH-53 helicopter, and I told Doug I was ready for the money. There was no time to count it, however, and I just signed the receipt. Doug was all smiles. I did not have enough room in my rucksack for all of the money so I pitched Mark a couple of the cash bundles to stuff in his pack.
Mark had told me once that he knew he wanted to be a CIA case officer from the time he was a kid. Sitting in the tent, only minutes from our infiltration into Afghanistan, I wondered if he ever imagined he would be doing the kind of things he was doing now. At some point, I noticed Mark stopped his packing and just sat there on the cot, motionless. He was that way for a while, a distant look on his face, not moving, like his battery had just run out. I started to ask if he was okay, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but I suspected the realization that we were about to go in was really sinking in. Finally, like a switch was turned back on, he resumed packing. I know I had had similar moments; probably everyone else on the team including the SF guys had, too.
As dusk fell we loaded our gear and ourselves onto a couple of pickups for transport to the helicopter. Contrary to our original plan, only a three-man advance element of the Special Forces ODA would be going in with us and not the whole team. Hank explained that the last minute change was mandated by 5th Special Forces Group Headquarters and was driven by SF doctrine that dictated that an ODA could not be infiltrated until there was confirmation that there was an indigenous force of at least 500 fighters present. The assumption was that a force this size could hold its own against any serious attacks. Once we had established that fact, the rest of the ODA would follow. The now reduced number of passengers meant that aside from the aircrew, there was only a total of seven men, consisting of Hank, his team sergeant, a third SF soldier, Mark, Gary, Mike, and myself. Our small number meant we only needed one bird. That was a good thing. With only one helicopter there would be less “brown-out” from dust blowing when we landed. This had been a serious and dangerous problem during Echo team’s three-helicopter insertion five days earlier, which contributed to the team initially getting separated. Our helicopter would, however, be escorted by another bird that would not land except to rescue us in the event of an emergency. In addition, jet aircraft would be on station, ready to provide close air support for us if things went to hell at the landing zone.
Despite our small number, with the gear and the aircrew, the helicopter was tightly packed. I was glad it would be a relatively short ride, as the Shin Naray Valley was just a few kilometers across the Pak-Afghan border.
By the time we lifted off, it was dark outside. No lights were allowed on inside the aircraft so it was pitch black, and I discovered I had unwisely packed my night vision goggles in an inaccessible spot so I was effectively blind during the entire flight.
The helicopter flew with the rear ramp open with the tail gunner sitting in a rearward facing position. A few minutes into the flight he opened up with a burst of machine gun fire. The sound of the gun was unexpectedly quiet, but still, I was startled. It took me a minute or two to figure out that the gunner was just testing the gun. If they had said they were going to do that in the pre-flight briefing I had missed it.
Because of the lack of space, when we boarded I had to sit down on the floor with my rucksack still strapped on my back. It made for a comfortable backrest during the flight, but I knew that between the weight of the ruck and the crowded space, it was going to be a devil of a time trying to stand up and make a quick exit when we landed. After much thought, I decided my best hope was to use some netting that was attached to the inside wall of the aircraft. The only way I knew the netting was there was because I could feel it in the dark. When the crew chief gave the ten-minute warning, I grabbed the netting and began to pull myself up. It was a slow ascent. It was very hard to do in part because of the movement of the helicopter and also because we all were pressing against each other as we tried to stand. It took what seemed like several minutes and all my strength to grope and claw my way up the net into a standing position. There I was, on my “D-Day” assault into Afghanistan, and I was clawing and grabbing like a blind monkey in a cage. It was not how I had imagined it would be.
As we neared the coordinates of where the reception party should be waiting, the pilots were looking for three small fires set on a north-south axis. The fires were to serve as a reference marker to indicate where to land the helicopter. I knew when the pilots had seen the fires as I felt the helicopter start to slow and then begin a wobbly descent. For an instant we touched down, but then lifted back up, moved forward, then came back down harder than the first time, but not too bad, considering.
“Go, go,” the crew chief yelled, and we started exiting out the rear of the aircraft. We were in two single file lines, one on the left side, one on the right. I was on the right side of the helicopter, and as I stepped off the ramp I was careful to avoid falling. Given the weight of my rucksack that was not easy, but I managed to alight safely. I immediately turned left to avoid the vertical tail rotor cutting through the air just a few feet away. Burdened by the rucksack, I stumbled away to get clear from the helicopter. Dust and sand driven by the prop wash made it impossible to see anything, even though I wore protective goggles.
After about 20 steps I ungracefully fell to the ground. As I fell, the rucksack slipped and its weight turned me sideways. I ended up on my back on top of the pack, like an upside down turtle. As I laid there in the most “non-tactical” of positions, the MH-53 lifted off into the night, its dark shape rising into the sky and moving away from me, taking the engine noise and prop blast with it. As it receded from view I managed to roll over. Silence descended, the dust settled, and I saw Afghanistan for the first time.
A sliver of moon hung low in the clear night sky, and I could barely make out the barren hills that overlooked the Shin Naray Valley. High above the valley, thousands of stars twinkled in the dark sky. The lovely nighttime scene reminded me of my boyhood home. Hey, Toto, this isn’t New Mexico, I told myself.
I put the AK to my shoulder and assumed a defensive prone position. There was no gunfire, which I took as a good sign. I decided to try to stand up, and once again I had difficulty with the anchor on my back.
“You need some help?”
It was Mike, who had gotten off the helicopter just before I did. I stuck up my arm and he grabbed it and pulled me to my feet. After finding the rest of the group, we knelt down in the darkness alert for any signs of danger as we looked and listened for the reception party. At last we saw a blinking light shine in our direction. It was the recognition signal we were looking for, and we moved toward it. The light flashed a couple more times as we approached, and we soon saw the dark silhouettes of pickup trucks and men with guns. Then, out of the darkness an accented voice rang out, “Welcome to Afghanistan!”
Our greeter was an Afghan named Khalil who would become our number one go-to guy during our time in Afghanistan. He spoke English perfectly and was a cousin and right hand advisor to Shirzai.
We tossed our gear in the pickups, and along with other trucks filled with Afghan fighters providing security, we headed for Shirzai’s base camp located a few kilometers further down the valley. Along the way Khalil told me that after the helicopter departed they couldn’t tell that anyone had gotten out of it, and they were so disappointed thinking that at the last minute we had chickened out. Smiling a big smile through his beard he said, “Now that you guys are here with us, I know we are going to win!”
We arrived at the base camp, which was situated at a junction with a smaller valley. Next to where we parked, there was a small stream that had been damned up with rocks so that a clear pool of water a couple of feet deep and maybe 30 feet across had formed. It was the only surface water I would see during my entire time in southern Afghanistan.
We were led up a dusty trail to a dilapidated mud house on a hillside overlooking the water. As we walked we passed scattered groups of Afghan men squatting around small fires along the trail. Some looked at us warily. When we reached the house we saw that a green cargo parachute from a CIA supply drop made to Shirzai some days before was draped across it and served as the roof.
Inside there was a small room with an Afghan carpet on the floor. Lanterns and candles provided the lighting and a wonderful aroma of cooked food was in the air. The scene would have been romantic were it not for the AK-47’S laying all about and the several bearded men who sat around the carpet looking sternly at us as we entered. My first impression was that they looked a lot like the Taliban. My second impression was that they looked exactly like the Taliban.
One of them stood up and came over to us. It was Gul Agha Shirzai. He was a good-sized, barrel-chested man, in his late 40’s, with dark hair, beard, and eyes. He was smiling broadly and gave each of us a welcome hug. As Khalil translated, Shirzai explained in Pashto how delighted he was that we were there. He told us he had a special dinner prepared in our honor and invited us to sit down and eat.
Before the meal was served, as we sat on the floor around the carpet, Shirzai made a little speech. He said he felt terrible about the 9/11 attacks and asked that we convey his condolences to the American people. He said he hated the fact that the people who were responsible were in his country, and he promised to help us find and get rid of them.
As Foxtrot’s team leader, I felt obliged to reciprocate. Using Khalil as the translator, I told Shirzai and his lieutenants that we were happy to be there among such good friends, and together we would rid Afghanistan of the blight of terrorists. The Afghans nodded and made noises, best described as grunts, which I would later learn meant they agreed with what was being said. That was my initial firsthand lesson on Afghan culture and customs.
The food was brought out and we ate it communal style. If you wanted rice, you just reached in the bowl and grabbed a fist full. Custom dictated, based on sanitation concerns, that only right hands be used for this purpose. A poultry dish—chicken they said—was served. It was quite good, tender and very juicy. By the time we were done eating, our beards glistened in the flickering candlelight.
From the moment I had stepped off the helicopter, the night had had a surreal, otherworldly quality about it. At some point, I realized, it indeed was another world—it was Afghanistan.