2 March
NIGHTTIME
Throughout the valley, Grim-31’s explosive display announced the Americans’ presence like a bullhorn in church, eliminating the need for further verification by the enemy. Both sides knew “it was on,” and that realization had the fortuitous consequence of unsettling many of the Al Qaeda fighters. On the Whale, many took to firing their weapons blindly into the darkened sky, exposing them to the watchful eyes of J Team, who, like everyone else, had observed the display to their south. Jay listened in on the same “fires” freq Andy used to kill off the DShK element.14
As fast as he could, Jay, using the entire team to help with distances and coordinates, began logging previously unknown positions for later strikes. They counted down the minutes until their own “first strike,” when the B-1 with the 2,000-pound thermobaric bomb arrived at H-:30.
Sitting in the OP with his radios arrayed around him, but primarily concerned only with his MBITR on the fires freq, Jay watched and waited for the B-1. As soon as it made contact (known as “checking in”), he would verify the nine-line brief to ensure ground and air were synchronized.15
Jay was ready. As soon as the bomber dropped the thermobaric and destroyed the closest threat, he hoped to move him to the Whale to drop a handful of 1,000-pound JDAMs. These were bombs that had been converted from dumb bombs (unguided except by gravity) to all-weather smart bombs. A “bolt-on” fin kit allowed the ordnance to be steered to a target by inertial guidance and GPS or laser energy.
Jay gazed out across the valley in the early morning twilight, his NVGs stored back in the ruck and a wool hat inadequately keeping the cold at bay. To the west, he was beginning to make out terrain features on the Whale, where the fighting positions they’d mapped in the dark were taking shape, when an explosion behind him rocked the entire OP, shaking the earth beneath them. The Al Qaeda cave had blown up. Wide-eyed shock and disbelief were exchanged wordlessly on the OP.
A mushroom cloud of coal-black smoke enveloped a fireball where the cave entrance sat an instant before, the sound still reverberating across the early morning calm. The B-1 had dropped without checking. J Team, less than seven hundred meters from the target, was just beyond the “danger close” distance of five hundred meters for a 2,000-pounder, but the men were pissed. This was just the kind of miscommunication that could get them killed in the coming hours and days. Suppose they’d moved closer to recon activity, or worse, the GPS coordinates were off? With no nine-line, it was a bit of Russian roulette, with dozens of aircraft “barrels” pointed at the AFO teams. According to Kris, the initial strikes comprised the following: “Eight JDAMs were dropped on the Whale and only one JDAM on Takur Ghar. The AC-130 also fired at the bunker [on the Whale] and that was pretty much it for the ‘great’ fire support plan. The Whale should have been carpet-bombed based on the disposition of the enemy forces. Takur Ghar should have been bombed more as well. Once again [AFO] intel had previously identified enemy positions on Takur Ghar. This would come back to haunt the US forces soon after.”
With the reverberations of the explosion still echoing across the mountains, everyone in the valley—Al Qaeda, AFO, and any remaining civilians—was well aware that a battle, whose shape had yet to fully develop, had commenced.
At 0630, three CH-47s swept into the northern end of the valley below J Team, the thump thump thump of their heavy rotors echoing off the mountain slopes. Inside each were forty combat troops from the Army’s 101st Airborne Division. The infantrymen’s battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel “Chip” Preysler, who was responsible for all of them and for the northern portion of the operation, was crammed near the front of the cargo compartment in one of the helicopters.
Inside the helo, a door gunner called out a warning: “Two minutes!” One of the senior infantry NCOs shouted the first order for the young soldiers inside: “Lock and load!” Simultaneously, forty-plus sounds of M4s, SAWs, and M240 machine guns chambering rounds could be heard over the din of rotor and engine noise, various clack clacks on the machine guns and chick klunks on the M4s. “Thirty seconds!” came shortly after. The soldiers fingered their weapons nervously, almost none of them having seen combat and many having no real idea of what to expect.
At 0633, Preysler’s helicopter touched down. As it settled and the landing gear absorbed the load, the men shouldered their rucksacks and stood as one mass. Led by a 240 gunner, they charged down the helicopter’s ramp, moving to the sounds of comrades shouting, “Go! Go! Move! Move!” They ducked under the low roof at the hinge and stepped into the Shahi Khot…straight into enemy fire.
* * *
To the south, a similar scene was unfolding, only this time it was 120 men from the 10th Mountain Division. Lieutenant Colonel Paul LaCamera was in charge of the southern blocking positions—the anvil.
Colonel Frank Wiercinski, commander of the 3rd Brigade—the Rakkasans, from which TF-Rakkasan drew its name—was in charge of all the allied forces in the valley. The two-battalion movement, essentially a brigade-size air assault, had happened only one other time since Vietnam. Wiercinski was aware of the lives under his command and of the history that would be made on this day, one way or another.
As the blocking forces were inserting to the north and south, he orbited inside the rear of a flight of two Black Hawk helicopters, looking for a place to insert his tactical command team, known as the TAC. He planned to land near a geographic feature called the Finger, which lay at the base of Mako-31’s new OP, remain on the ground only long enough to determine the operation’s progress, and then fly back to Bagram. His chief task today was to assist his boss, Hagenbeck, with managing expectations at CENTCOM and in Washington, DC, where President George W. Bush and Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld remained intimately connected to the campaign.
Spotting a tactically desirable cleft in the rocky terrain, he keyed the microphone on his headset. “Put us down there,” he told the pilots. The space was tight and Wiercinski’s pilot missed his approach, forcing the helo to go around and line up a second time. The second Black Hawk managed to squeeze in, missing the rock ledge with its rotor by two feet, dumping the TAC’s security and radio team.
As Wiercinski’s helo circled back and lowered into the draw, an Al Qaeda fighter stepped from a rock outcropping with an RPG and leveled it at the slow-moving Black Hawk. He squeezed the trigger, and the grenade punched out of the launch tube, streaking up toward the exposed underbelly of the helicopter, scoring a direct hit against the chin bubble. A second fighter, wielding an AK-47, took aim at the “winged duck” and unleashed an entire banana clip. His aim was good as he perforated the length of the helo’s tail boom, damaging the tail rotor hub and nicking a push-pull rod inside that is critical to countering the main rotor’s torque. “If that thing had severed, we’d have lost tail rotor control, and we’d have been gone,” recalled Jim Marye, the air mission commander on board.
The TAC was taking fire even before Wiercinski’s team touched the ground, but he’d chosen the site well and it was masked from the enemy. Bullets were striking against the rocks above the soldiers as the two Black Hawks limped off in the morning light. They appeared to be safe from direct fire…for the moment.
As they established Operation Anaconda’s battlefield command and control position, the same could not be said for the 10th Mountain and 101st Airborne troops moving off their LZs. Even before the tail rotor strike, Wiercinski was listening to radio calls from the blocking positions regarding casualties and fierce enemy resistance. TF-Rakkasan was learning what Blaber and the men of AFO had already suspected: The enemy was well armed, well positioned, and hungering for a fight. There were no fleeing jihadis and there was no organized retreat. Al Qaeda was here to fight.
As the TAC got their bearings and established a more secure perimeter, they were surprised to look up and find a corpse hanging off the ridge above them. Without knowing it, they were staring straight up at Mako-31 and the aftermath of their firefight, including the bodies of the enemy.
By this time, the second wave of heavy-lift CH-47s was landing with more infantry, but the TF-Hammer (General Hagenbeck’s main thrust) forces had stalled. Grim-31 had moved over their convoy and, in a tragic incident, had fired on them in the confusion, killing one American Green Beret and several ATF. Because of the attack and lack of concerted bombing of enemy positions, TF-Hammer had retreated under the demands of a frustrated and angry Afghan Commander Zia, leaving the US infantry to carry on the fight alone. TF-Hammer also stranded Blaber, who was attempting to get into the mountains to better track the battle and assist his teams in the field.
Soon after the rest of TF-Rakkasan had inserted, the infantry had secured all the blocking positions except one, identified in the battle plan as Ginger. Ginger sat just below Takur Ghar mountain and was fiercely defended by a concentration of Al Qaeda troops. With the mountains and high ground surrounding the Rakkasan troops, and the enemy refusing to flee, the infantry began its assault against the enemy positions firing down on them. The majority of fire originated from the Whale but also seemed to be coming from the mountains to the north and east.
Things turned deadly for Mako-31 when they began to receive direct fire—not from Al Qaeda but from the Rakkasans, even though Andy had placed several VS-17 panels around their position when the fighting started. Roughly two foot by six foot, VS-17s were tough but pliable panels with parachute-cord tie-downs along the edges and at each corner. They were orange on one side and vibrant cerise on the other, and were used for marking virtually anything on the battlefield as friendly. As the team took cover, Andy manned the radio and found the TAC’s freq and call sign, diverting the friendly fire “to a more prominent ridgeline” east of the team.
Soon after, hostile 82mm mortar rounds began to drop onto their position from a ridge just south of Takur Ghar. The first rounds landed short, but the team couldn’t see the enemy tube. When the next rounds landed long, the team was effectively bracketed; incoming enemy or friendly fire could be managed, but not both. Goody made the decision to leave their OP. With all the shit that was going on, there was only one place to relocate, the Rakkasan TAC. It was a surprise to the conventional Army troops when Mako-31 walked into their beleaguered position (they too were taking more and accurate fire as the morning progressed) and introduced themselves simply as “recon and surveillance snipers.” Andy and Goody briefed Colonel Wiercinski, and then Andy joined forces with the TAC air liaison officer, an Air Force F-16 pilot assigned to assist with air support, while the other snipers beefed up the perimeter.
In the north, Jay watched as the 101st was taking casualties. They were also returning the favor, pumping out 82mm and 120mm mortar rounds and engaging in pitched gunfights and mortar duels with enemy positions on the Whale.
Kris continues their observations:
Because the AQ had been tipped off about the attack 24 hours prior, they were now waiting for the ATF to come into their AO [area of operations]. The AQ knew exactly which way the ATF assault force was coming in because they were set up east-to-west, facing south, and on line waiting in shooting positions. We saw them from our OP and they were dressed in military kit: LBE [Load-Bearing Equipment], small rucks, weapons, and even a guidon [a symbolic flag, carried by soldiers since the Roman legions and used to identify units and inspire troops]. Dave was on the scope and watched the AQ occupy positions as their commander used hand and arm signals to stage them. Once in position, the commander motioned the guidon bearer to move to him and then directed him to move to a building in the town of Serkhankhel.
We had observation of 101st troops and they were moving right toward the AQ. [Jay] called a B-52 in with JDAMs to strike the AQ positions and within minutes he dropped them right on top of the AQ, killing several to include the commander. The 101st called us and asked who gave us permission to drop the JDAMs because they were about one kilometer away. We explained the situation and they understood but told them we needed to make another pass. After the first pass two guys got up and drug the commander’s body down into some low ground. In this low ground more AQ were moving in and out. The 101st wanted to get farther out of the way, but instead moved directly toward where we were going to drop the next set of bombs. After the confusion of getting them moving in the right direction, [Jay] dropped right where the AQ were last seen and saw no movement from that area for about two hours. Then the AQ reoccupied the same positions again and [Jay] dropped JDAMs on them once more. After the third JDAM strike that day, they reoccupied the position and had JDAMs dropped on them and they never came back to it again. It appeared that they had a bunker or command post of some type in the low ground, because the AQ would come out of this area after each strike and drag off the dead. Even the survivors of the bombings, who must have been wounded, would always assist in dragging the dead away.
Jay was in his element as a Combat Controller and, by every measure, was enjoying the most significant day of his career.16 At the TAC, Andy was alternating between airstrikes in conjunction with Major Dino Murray, the air liaison officer, referred to by the acronym ALO, and the action taking place around their position. Chris, the SEAL sniper, had spotted an advancing force of ten to twelve fighters. “They moved every few minutes from position to position, each time pausing just long enough to take a few shots [at us]. Several with RPGs and a few, who appeared to be leaders, with hand-held radios waving their arms and motioning still others over the ridgeline to come join the fight.”
The SEALs discussed the situation and, along with Andy, formed a line and moved forward, closing the distance with the enemy. An airstrike was out of the question—too close. Chris and Eric opened fire, killing several of the Al Qaeda countersnipers outright.
Andy and Goody crouched down and ran along a rock wall that masked their movement. Andy was also a trained sniper, a certification Controllers could pursue in the course of their career if they desired. The two snipers popped up and rapidly engaged one target after another, killing half the enemy force. Recalls the Controller, “The engagement was a one-sided affair.”
Four men “eliminated the direct fire threat that had pinned down the Rakkasan soldiers, killing eleven AQ and wounding another five. They then moved back to the ridgeline, providing ‘overwatch’ for the conventional forces, while [Andy] Martin began calling in CAS and AH-64s on the enemy mortar positions detected by SEAL snipers,” according to one AFO after-action report.
The engagement didn’t end there. Andy continued to wield B-52s and B-1s, as the Rakkasan and Al Qaeda mortar teams traded salvos. The TAC was also being targeted during the exchanges, with the enemy effectively walking mortar rounds to within fifty meters of the beleaguered position.
* * *
Several kilometers farther south, Hotaling and his SAS team were watching events unfold through sniper and spotting scopes, the details relayed through the Combat Controller’s radio as his CCT brother destroyed enemy positions and fighters by the score. Unfortunately, at the far southern end of the valley, no engagements or fleeing enemy forces presented themselves. The SAS had labored and pressed their American ally hard for inclusion, so watching the action from the bleachers as the day wore on and hearing the friendly casualty count mount was simply not acceptable.
As they talked it over, Matt, the team leader, was adamant; they needed to reposition closer to the action. The team pored over their maps and Hotaling’s FalconView, identifying a new OP to the north that was close enough for them to provide support to the battle. Hotaling got on the net and requested pickup. Overloaded as they were, patrolling their way to the new location was out of the question. After some negotiation, one of two nearby CIA Mi-17 helos was promised for the mission.
The team packed up their gear and prepped for pickup. Shortly after 1800, Hotaling heard the CIA bird on a helo frequency. It was the same pilots from their insertion, and the unwieldy bird flew in ponderously, landing next to the team. They climbed up into the oil-streaked interior, passing their rucks inside. Unlike Chinooks, the Russian helicopters had no ramps. Instead, equipment and men had to be hoisted up to the floor, three and a half feet above the ground. When everyone had clambered aboard, the helicopter lifted off for the short hop to their new site. Four minutes later the team offloaded and the lumbering helo disappeared into the sky.
No sooner had it departed than it became clear they had been deposited in the wrong place. Not only were they not on their objective, they were no closer than they’d been before they were picked up. Trying to get the Mi-17 back was futile; it was already on its next mission. The SAS was stranded on an eluvial plateau, the mouth of a dry stream bed emanating from between two peaks. Using GPS and their maps, the men determined their objective was up the water course.
Walking the course without analysis or intel on enemy locations was asking to be ambushed. Recalls Hotaling, “After the CIA dumped us not where we needed to be and we’d mapped the course, it led straight up the creek. The terrain on both sides of the creek bed was masked. There was no way to know what was up there or between us and our OP. Plus the distance was a motherfucker.”
They had no idea how long it was going to take to make the movement, but there was no doubt they were going to do it. Hotaling got on the net again, this time hoping for something that could serve as an ISR platform, at least a P-3. He contacted an orbiting AWACS, the best source for airspace coordination and requests, hoping for an AC-130, but all the gunships were prioritized in support of the actual fight taking place to their north. Instead, what appeared overhead was a Predator, an armed CIA drone in this case, call sign Wildfire. “We’re good,” he informed Matt. The men shouldered their packs and stepped off into an uninviting darkness, their NVGs in place and weapons ready. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
For Blaber, the long night had already stretched into an even longer day. When TF-Hammer had gone bust, the Americans had returned to the safe house. On the battlefield, his teams were proving to be more of a decisive influence than the main force, who were taking it to the enemy in mortar duels and small-arms engagements but weren’t destroying the majority of the targets and had suffered significant casualties. At TF-11, Brigadier General Trebon stated, “The good news was that TF-11 OPs performed their CAS function exceptionally well, inflicting 60 percent of the total enemy casualty count.”
At the heart of those words were a few Combat Controllers. Of the day’s events, Blaber recalls, “Jay Hill is in the field with Juliet Team and he’s creating kill boxes on the fly. It was just incredible. These guys [CCT] are some of the most well-rounded, all-purpose guys. If I was going to Mars on a mission, I’d definitely take one. It’s a critical and serious decision to trade off a Delta shooter when mission space is tight, not to be taken lightly, but, well, there you have it. I never go without one and every one I’ve had was a stud.”
The damage AFO was inflicting was welcome news for the Delta officer. The doubters and obstacles were silenced or removed, and what remained was continuing to prosecute the mission to the fullest and ensuring he did everything he could to support and supply his men, who were hanging it out in the mountains.
As if to emphasize the point, at TF-11, congratulatory messages and calls came in from Major General Hagenbeck and General Tommy Franks, the CENTCOM commander. President Bush and Defense Secretary Rumsfeld had seen Mako-31’s DShK photos before they were twelve hours old. Inside “tent city,” Slab and Chapman caught the news as it unfolded, realizing that by holding out for a high-value target mission, they were missing the main show. During the run-up to Blaber’s AFO missions and Anaconda’s execution, they’d not actioned a single target.
Inside the Gardez TOC, Blaber’s satellite phone rang. He heard Brigadier General Trebon’s familiar voice on the line. “Pete, wonderful job. Look, we can’t ask you guys to continue this; you’re not set for that. What I want to do is turn this over to the SEALs. Let them command it, and let them continue prosecuting the fight. You and AFO need to be out looking for the next battlefield. I want to send some SEALs down and I want you to get these guys in there as quick as you can.”
Blaber was stunned. Nothing about Trebon’s suggestion made sense. How the Air Force general officer and pilot would conclude there was an immediate need for more troops in the field was a mystery to him. He had little time to dwell on the subject, though, because all three teams were decisively engaged, and every minute of the twenty-four-hour battle was critical, including Blaber’s time.
“Sir, my teams are fine for at least another forty-eight hours; I recommend that any team going into the valley goes through the same routine as the three teams already in the valley. Before they infiltrate they need to spend time at Gardez so they can acclimate to the altitude and study the terrain and the history of the Shahi Khot. They need to talk to the CIA, the Special Forces, and the Afghan militiamen who have been working in the area.” He searched his mind for anything else that might dissuade Trebon, landing on what he thought would settle the matter for any senior leader with troops in combat. “Sir, sending those teams in without any time to prepare for the environment doesn’t make sense; it’s setting them up for failure.”
The call ended without a definitive course of action. Blaber turned to his AFO intelligence officer, Glenn, who’d been with AFO from the beginning and had developed much of the plan that shaped the picture everyone in the safe house had come to rely on—AFO, CIA, and Special Forces alike. The Delta intel veteran shook his head with concern, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. “I knew it; they have no idea how much preparation we put in to ensure those teams could operate in this environment.” The two Delta officers locked eyes and then returned to their responsibilities. Something was going on at TF-11, but there was no time for solving that mystery.
As he put on his headset and switched to the AFO SATCOM frequency, Blaber had no idea how right he was about his mission preparation-time assessment. In less than forty-eight hours, others would pay a heavier cost in the absence of preparation, and for a few TF-11 men, the price would be the ultimate.