Learning To Walk - A Soldier's Story by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 18

The rain had let up to a pale mist as the valet pulled up with the car. A valet, really? I guess the wealthy had their own rules and obviously, one of them was that you weren't allowed to walk to your own car. Valet parking is great for a hospital, but it's a bit too much for a dinner party. On the other hand, maybe it's just me. At any rate, we got home just in time for another downpour. The sky was as black as ink, while the air felt cold and still. I had a strong suspicion that these would be the conditions for my entire ten days of leave. After changing, we gathered in the living room. My father started the gas for the fireplace. He picked up his copy of the Portland Press and casually looked over at me noticing how relaxed I was.

"You seem fairly relaxed," he began. "Usually you can't stand going to these dinner parties."

"I'm just glad it's over," I replied. That wasn't exactly true but I didn't think he realized that I had slept with Gloria.

"So, what do you think of Gloria?" he asked. He had opened his newspaper and was skimming through the national section.

"Well," I began. "She certainly is beautiful and very intelligent. She seems like a woman who knows what she wants."

My father glanced at me from over his newspaper, nodding slightly.

"And what do you think a woman like Gloria wants?" he asked.

I took a deep breath and dug for an answer that wouldn't be too revealing.

"Well, definitely a career," I answered. "No one goes to Stanford without prioritizing for a career.” His eyes remained in his newspaper. "I suppose you're right," he responded. Ah, success! He didn't suspect a thing. Could it be that I had just outwitted my father? He turned to the next page. "She does seem to be more than a bit interested in you," he said.

"I don't know. Maybe it's the uniform," I replied. He looked up over his reading glasses and smiled slightly. "I don't think that's it at all," he said. "I noticed how she looked at you just before we left. Trust me, Clarence, it's not the uniform." He still had no idea. If he did, he never let on. My mother, on the other hand, quietly sat drinking a cup of tea, her gaze lost in the flames of the evening fire. It had been a long day and I found myself especially fatigued. By eleven o'clock, I had turned in for the night. There had been no further conversation about Gloria. I found this to be a bit uncomfortable. Did he know or not? It wasn't as though I could just walk up to him and ask.

As I walked up the stairs, I glanced back out of the corner of my eye and saw him smiling as he continued reading the paper.

"Son of a bitch," I thought.

Was there anyone at this dinner party who didn't know that I had slept with Gloria? I began to feel self-conscious about the whole thing, not that there was anything to be ashamed of. The question now was: did her father know? Not that I thought he'd come kicking the door in -- we were both consenting adults, after all. The rain stopped a day or so later but the cold April air remained with its frigid grip holding firmly against all hours of the day. At night, one could step out beneath the bleak, steely sky and clearly see their breath hanging in the darkness. It wasn't much of a reprieve but I'd rather be cold than cold and wet. About a day and a half later, any blue that had appeared in the sky had become blotted out by an angry sea of clouds as the April rain returned. I cut my morning runs down to four miles and dressed in layers. I would soon be returning to Fort Benning and as much as I would miss Maine, I would not miss mud season. There wasn't an opportunity to do much of anything considering the weather so I spent much of my time reading the Koran as well as doing some online research.

It seems that every religion is based on the miraculous or some great realization. Islam began around 500 A.D. and culminated with Mohammed's ascension to heaven. The core beliefs of Islam are the same as the other major religions -- compassion, universal acceptance, and forgiveness. So, what happened? Islam was born to an oppressive culture in a place that has never known peace. The details of the Islamic faith fostered more oppression, especially towards women and were eventually used for conquest and political fanaticism. Much like the Bible, the devil is always in the details. Both religions have used by fanatics who believed themselves and their religion to be superior, acting with divine counsel. A violent fundamentalism was created by each and used to wage war against the other -- Islam vs. Christianity. This conflict of fanaticism would go on for centuries and nine-eleven would serve as a constant reminder to the world that we have always fought this war of ideology. It's likely that Christians and Muslims will continue locking horns -- probably indefinitely. And who's really to blame? Everyone. We have all spent so much time and resources using ideology as a weapon that we've lost sight of our similarities, the fact that the core beliefs of all faiths are the same and they all bear the same goal. Not that I'm being preachy. I'm just calling it the way I see it.

A week and a half can go by pretty quickly. But during mud season, everything comes to a standstill. It wasn't exactly the best timing for ten days of and before I knew it, nine days had gone by. I'd picked up a leather garment bag so I could avoid having to iron my uniforms again. All my books went into my duffle bag except one. I have my copy of the Koran at home. Taking this with me seemed as much a bad idea as waving a copy of the Communist Manifesto around at a Republican. I never saw Gloria again during my ten days of leave. She was obviously busy at her new job and honestly, I'm not sure it would have been a good idea anyway. We both knew our own feelings. At least, I knew what mine were. But, I had the feeling that this was not the end. I looked for the folded piece of paper she slipped into my hand at the dinner party. It was still in the inside breast pocket of my uniform jacket and having retrieved it, I sat down on the floor against the wall. I didn't unfold it. I just sat and stared at it. Would its contents change anything, or was it just another part of the game? I decided I wouldn't read it just yet but I felt that when I did, it would be something wonderful or something disappointing and now was not the time to take that kind of risk.

My parents drove me to the airport and as usual, they waited at the gate until I boarded. My mother gave me a hug. She seemed a bit stronger this time but she was still not completely happy with the choice I'd made. My father, once again, shook my hand.

"Stay out of trouble," he said, with a grin. The flight seemed longer this time. At least, it felt that way. I was struck with a feeling that I'd left something important behind, as though I'd forgotten something. I knew I had packed everything and tried to remember if there was something I'd overlooked. But, there was no point in being concerned about it now. If I had forgotten something, I'd ask my parents to send it down to me. Looking back, it was clear that I'd been in denial of my feelings for Gloria. She was what I'd left behind. I could never reveal my feelings to her. It just wouldn't be fair. Besides, love and war rarely get along. One is usually a distraction for the other.

Later, that night, the plane touched down on the tarmac of Columbus Airport. The sky was clear but the air was heavy and warm. I took a cab to the main gate of Fort Benning and again, found myself in temporary quarters. As much as I'd become accustomed to being moved from place to place, I had grown to hate even the idea of temporary quarters. It was too quiet, as opposed to assigned quarters where there were more people to talk to. I was never a social butterfly but having people around to talk to meant there would be a certain degree of distraction. The next day, I reported in uniform to the commander of the cavalry unit I'd been assigned to. There, I was given another map with directions to my assigned quarters and the name of the Sergeant in charge. The Sergeant ordered me to see the quartermaster for the issuing of weapons. I signed for a standard .45 caliber pistol with three extra magazines and holster. Instead of the M16 I'd trained with, I was issued an AK47. As it turned out, it was less expensive and required less maintenance so, it wasn't as likely to jam. If the enemy was advancing, the last thing you wanted was a jammed rifle. I was also issued a combat knife and sheath. There would be scheduled runs and a required exercise program as well as mandatory time at the base gym. I was told that the terrain where I'd likely be going was rugged and mountainous, so it was important to stay in shape. Otherwise, there really wasn't much to do.

I decided to make exercise a full-time job and developed a regimen that encompassed a six-hour workout plan. This made the time pass quickly and when I wasn't running or in the gym, I was reading - another distraction with the added benefit of learning. A month after I arrived at Fort Benning, our unit received orders for deployment to the base at Kabul. We were flown by C-130 cargo planes to the naval base at Norfolk, Virginia. I had packed everything - uniforms, boots, books. I made sure to slip the note from Gloria between the pages of my copy of the biography of ‘Alexander The Great’. Until I got to Kabul, I knew the note would be safe. I had also begun putting a lock on my duffle bag.

We left on the USS Ross, an Arleigh Burke class destroyer stationed at Norfolk. I was amazed at how enormous it was. One could easily call it a floating city and I quickly realized why they were called destroyers. I was told that the hull was composed of four-inch-thick steel with canons and anti-aircraft guns mounted on each end and side. In my civilian life, I'd spent more than a little time on boats, so making the adjustment to walking on a rolling deck came rather easily. This was not quite the case for most of my fellow soldiers. Those whose stomachs were especially sensitive to motion were responsible for cleaning up their own mess. By now, you might be asking yourself how anyone could sleep on a rolling ship. As it turned out, the Navy had installed hammocks for the entire crew as well as any troops that were in transport. They were hung pointing toward the ship's bow and simply swung in the direction the ship was rolling in. Sleeping in a hammock was a lot more comfortable than I expected but some of my fellow soldiers didn't find the experience quite as pleasant. They had an especially hard time getting into their hammocks. Most found it easy but a few quickly became prone to obscenities when upon climbing in they just rolled over it and onto the hard steel deck. The only injuries were a few bruised egos as everyone laughed at their expense. In mind own twisted mind, they looked like clowns attempting the high jump for the first time. It just wasn't working.

It took five days to cross the Atlantic and during that time, I took advantage of the ship's gym and read through most of the battle strategies of Napoleon. I still hadn't read the note. It wasn't that I didn't want to. I guess I was afraid of what it might say. Maybe Gloria revealed something about her feelings that I just wasn't ready to confront, something that would pull me deeper into my own emotions. Or, maybe I was reading into the fact that she gave it to me in the first place and I was hoping for something that wasn't there at all. I suppose that the real world has little to do with the heart's flights of fancy.

Our first stop was Spain. More specifically, the Rota Naval Station at the northern end of the Bay of Cadiz. Due to the urgency of matters in Afghanistan, it was decided that we would stay aboard the Ross as she refueled and no one was allowed to leave without direct authorization from the captain. Two days later, the Ross weighed anchor and cruised through the Strait of Gibraltar. We were allowed on deck just before entering the Straight. The warm Mediterranean air carried a slightly sweet aroma I had never experienced before. Unlike the waters off the coast of Maine, the ocean in this part of the world was somehow different. It could have been the types of trees or, it could've been something about the air itself. Either way, some experiences are beyond description. As we passed into the Mediterranean, Gibraltar stood off the ship's port side as a majestic guardian, 1,398 feet high. The people of Tibet believe that Everest possesses a living soul that can be easily offended. Standing on the deck of the Ross, I let my gaze drift to the grandeur of the Rock of Gibraltar. I wondered if the Tibetans were right. What might this rock think of a warship passing before its mighty presence? But mountains, like the rest of the planet, are devoid of consciousness, right?

At its widest point, the Strait of Gibraltar is about eight miles wide and 2,624 feet deep. But in spite of these factors, it was necessary for the ship to slow to a crawl. Its forward sonar was used to map the bottom for any changes in depth, and course corrections were made for the ocean floor's terrain as well as tidal changes. Although we were in friendly waters, all precautions were made to ensure the safety of the ship and her crew. Once the ship made its way through the Strait of Gibraltar and into the deeper waters of the Mediterranean, we all felt a sudden forward tug. After feeling a bit alarmed, we were told that the Captain had ordered to proceed at half speed. The next day found us at the island of Crete just south of Greece.

The Ross was moored in at the naval station at Souda Bay. When the ship was finally secured, we were allowed to disembark. If it can be said that one can see the beauty of a country by looking at its people, then Crete must be the most beautiful place on earth, as the only thing more stunning than Crete were its women. Each was a true work of art with flowing black curls and a face that was reminiscent of the ancient beauty of Greece. Even the older women still retained the vibrant beauty of girlish youth. I was, without a doubt, in the land of the immortals.

While many in our unit found this to be an opportunity to drink, I found it as a chance to explore and I decided that even though Crete is an island, it's just too big to explore it thoroughly. So after checking into temporary quarters, I went into the nearest town. Because of the money being brought in by military people, Crete had developed an impressive tourist industry, mostly small restaurants, bars and tourist shops filled with handmade crafts. The people were devoutly religious, mostly Greek Orthodox so crime was limited to a few drunken brawls on the weekends and there wasn't one prostitute to be seen. It was refreshing to see people who practiced what they preached. Perhaps as island people, they had not become nearly as poisoned by the world as the rest of us. It seemed that even womanly virtue could be found here.

The town of Souda was nearest to the naval station and even though it looked a bit touristy, one could still see its ancient beauty among the town's facades. The Greek style of architecture was everywhere. I didn't think it would be wise to explore beyond the town, so I spent what little time I had wandering around downtown and after eating in one or two of the local restaurants I came to the conclusion that Americans really don't know what Greek food is. Sure, they go to nearby restaurants for what they think is Greek food but it pales in comparison to an elderly woman’s recipe, handed down to her through generations of family cooks. I've never been one for heavy drinking but one shot of ouzo nearly knocked me on my ass. Crete, like all ancient countries, is a living museum. You can learn more about Greek history here than in any textbook unless you happen to be in Athens.

Souda had only one bookstore and I was disappointed when I discovered that it carried mostly American novels. It did, however, have both folklore and religious books. I never considered myself to be a Christian but I knew that the New Testament was, at one time, written in Greek so I couldn't pass up an opportunity to buy a Greek New Testament in Greece. I also ended up buying a few books on the island's folklore. Fortunately, these were in English. They reflected a certain mystique about the island with tales of ancient heroes, the battles they fought and the ghosts of history that still wandered the island in search of rest.

After two days on the island, I was awakened by the roar of four C130 cargo planes. Our ride was here. Our country had been given permission by Greece to use the airport at Souda. The islanders knew that this was mutually beneficial. It was of strategic value to us and economically valuable for them. Loaded with troops and gear the C130's left the tarmac at 1730 hours. We were on our way to Afghanistan and would soon be doing a job that we believed had to be done. A northerly route was taken to avoid countries that were seen as hostile to the United States. Being shot down by a trigger-happy anti-American regime wasn't anyone's idea of a good day. Taking a longer way around also meant a longer flight. I don't think it would have been so bad on a commercial jet but, on a military cargo plane, there is no such thing as comfort.

Between the almost constant bumps and the deafening roar of four prop engines, a C130 is definitely not the best way to travel. Finally, we crossed into Afghani airspace. We were nearly there. Our course took us parallel with the southern slopes of the Hindu Kush Mountains. Unfortunately, there are no windows on a cargo plane and the cockpit was off limits. We touched down on the runway at Kabul but before leaving the aircraft, we were told to strap on our helmets, secure our body armor and make no eye contact with the locals. Afghanistan was a powder keg of potential uprisings against Americans. Even though their military was in shambles, there were still well-armed splinter groups everywhere and they followed a strict idealism of Jihad, based exclusively on political fanaticism. They believed that the reward of heaven awaited those who were willing to kill for God by any means possible, even at the cost of their own lives. This isn't much different from the Crusades but fanaticism, in any form, is still dangerous.

The airport terminal had been deemed a security risk, in spite of the fact that the Afghani government allowed us to use it. A direct attack on the building would have resulted in almost certain death for anyone inside. Once the cargo bay doors opened, we were told to move quickly around the perimeter of the terminal. By this time, we were carrying live rounds for both our rifles and side arms. I have to admit, carrying a rifle loaded with a magazine of live rounds seemed to give it a different feel. I can't explain it any other way. Maybe it was just me. There was a line of cargo trucks and armored personnel vehicles waiting near the front of the terminal and as we climbed into them, I heard a voice shouting.

"Where's your scout?!" the voice yelled. The C130 pilots could not shut down their engines and needed to be back in the air as quickly as possible. The less time they spend on the ground, the less likely they would become targets. So, we had to yell in order to be heard. "Here, sir!" I answered.

I followed the voice to the staff sergeant in charge. "Well, get over here Private!" he yelled. I ran over to him and saluted.

"Private Taylor reporting, sir!" I said. "Got a first name, Taylor?" he asked. "Clarence, sir!" I replied.

"Alright, Clarence! I have two requests for you! First, drop the formal shit, this ain't basic anymore and I'm not an officer! Second, don't even think about getting on one of those cargo trucks, your job is too important! You get your ass in one of those APVs, got it?!"

"Yes, sir!" I answered.

I climbed into the nearest Armored Personnel Vehicle and buckled myself in as the Staff Sergeant continued to get everyone into the trucks as quickly as possible. "C'mon, we're burnin' daylight! Everyone in the trucks! Let's go!"

He glanced at his watch and climbed into the APV, buckling himself in across from me. I leaned over towards him.

"Sir, why am I the only one sitting in the APV?" I asked. "Are you shitting me?!" he said. "You're the only scout this cavalry unit has! Each one of these guys knows how important your job is!"

Like any other soldier, I was trained to do a job but it became fully obvious to me now that my job made me a valuable resource, one that apparently warranted this degree of protection.

We were forced to travel at a slightly higher speed than the roads allowed in order to avoid coming under fire. Reports of roadside bombs streamed in daily and getting from the airport to the base was a crap shoot. Today, we were lucky. There were no side windows on the APV and while I was not allowed to sit up front, I managed to get a view through the windshield. I had been warned about culture shock. I had seen pictures on the internet of their cities and towns as well as how the people lived but what I saw left me in complete disbelief. Children played near burned-out cars and urinated along the roadsides. Burka-clad women knelt weeping next to the shattered bodies of those who'd come to a pointless demise.

Afghanistan had become occupied by countries that were part of the U.N. effort whose goal was to keep some semblance of order among warring clans. We were there for the same reason. However, our agenda was slightly different. We were there to hunt down those responsible for bringing death to American soil, the masterminds of nine eleven. The government held a firm stance against racial profiling but it’s human nature to be suspicious and the military suspected everyone of something, with the idea that the enemy was everywhere and it was often the case that people were picked up and questioned for 'appearing' suspicious. Whatever that means.

Our military wagon train slowed as we approached the joint military installation in Kabul, lying just far enough from the city so as avoid a direct assault. The army corps of engineers was always working to expand the base, constructing new quarters, defensive sights and roads. They had recently added another airstrip and two more helipads. The hospital was of a construction I'd never seen before, appearing like Quonset huts but made of heavy rubber with inflatable walls. Once fully inflated, they were as solid as steel. As long as military personnel continued to arrive, the base would continue to expand and within the next year, it would, essentially, become nothing less a militarized city for American troops.

I climbed out of the armored personnel vehicle and within minutes of planting my feet in the sand, I looked around at what I would soon think of as home. We were assigned quarters in one specific location. These were not temporary quarters and we would occupy them for as long as we were here. No one knew how long that would be but for now, they were more than sufficient. The base was run like a well-oiled machine. Everyone worked together with a single vision - to fight terrorism. President Bush referred to the 'War on Terror' and it didn't take long for everyone to follow that perspective, forcing the mission and its goal into sharp clarity. A day or two after settling in, I was ordered to attend a mandatory briefing. I suppose that in the military, all briefings are mandatory.

As part of Operation Enduring Freedom, everyone was required to become intimately familiar with the enemy. The people we were looking for worked directly for an organization known as Al-Qaeda and according to intelligence sources, it was developed by Osama bin Laden in Peshawar, Pakistan around 1989. They believed that the Judeo-Christian world was conspiring the destruction of Islam. The spiritual aspects of the Koran forbidding the taking of a life were ignored so as to allow suicide bombings of innocent civilians. At some point, this organization merged with other terrorist groups, like the Taliban and the Mujahideen, proclaiming jihad, or 'holy war' against America and its people. Then, on September eleventh, 2001, nineteen Islamist militants associated with Al-Qaeda carried out an attack on the World Trade Center in New York City.

During the next month, the U.S. set into motion a series of attacks against Al-Qaeda and the Taliban. The military response carried out by the U.S. was named Operation Enduring Freedom, whose mission was to capture or kill most, if not all, high-ranking members of Al-Qaeda. The ultimate goal was to capture bin Laden and bring him to trial for the attack of nine eleven. Bin Laden, himself, turned out to be a wealthy Saudi prince who used his business profits to organize and fund his terrorist enterprise. He was stripped of his Saudi citizenship in 1994 due to his continued protests against the regime of that country. Now, here's the part that wasn't in the briefing. Bin Laden organized logistical support against the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan during the mid-eighties. The U.S. had no military presence in Afghanistan for fear of a Soviet response. However, for Al-Qaeda to carry out its mission to support Muslim fighters, bin Laden would need specialized training and he got it from the CIA. This aspect of Al-Qaeda's activities was never up for discussion by the American military and the American public knew little if anything, about it. No one in Washington seemed to want to admit that the U.S. government could, in any way, be even fractionally responsible for the existence of an enemy that appeared to be everywhere, yet hidden in plain sight.

The briefing was two hours long. No one was allowed to take notes and there were no handouts. It was preferred that written information be non-existent for the sake of security. A paper trail of any kind would not be tolerated. A week later, our unit would be briefed for our first mission. Last December, just four months after nine eleven, the battle of Tora Bora took place. This is a small mountain range along the southern edge of the Hindu Kush Mountains near Kabul. It was peppered with caves and man-made tunnels. This area was referred to as the Tora Bora cave complex. A cross-section of some areas oddly resembled an underground apartment complex and some of these caves had been in use for centuries, while others were created during the Soviet invasion of the early eighties. The December assault was carried out in order to clear the caves of Al-Qaeda and Taliban insurgents, as well as weapons and booby traps. Any information in the way of documents that were deemed as having military value was turned over to intelligence. The Sixth Space Operations Squadron had been focusing its attention on Afghanistan since before nine eleven. The reason why has never been disclosed.

The military, however, had exclusive rights to purchase images from the commercially owned IKONOS earth observation satellite. It could photograph any area in sharp focus down to one square meter. Any images acquired depicting countries hostile to American interests were evaluated for their strategic importance and with the discovery of terrorist training camps in the U.S., heavily wooded areas of this country were also photographed. Based on infrared images taken at night, it was believed that insurgents may have been trying to reoccupy the cave complex. Making a comparison between these images and those taken over previous time frames, I discovered that there was, indeed, traffic along an unmapped road. The infrared, or heat signatures, were impossible to miss. As a result, we would be sent out to investigate the complex and map out any thermal hot spots in preparation for an air strike.

Before the end of the briefing, we were given the authorization to engage any insurgents who might show themselves to be 'trigger-happy' and would leave for the complex in three days, making our approach under cover of night. While the darkness would conceal our presence, it would make it nearly impossible to see any booby traps or trip wires. So, we were all outfitted with night-vision goggles. A mission review would be held only hours before leaving for the complex and two days later, our unit met under the briefing tent. It was 0800 and every unit would be briefed separately on their part of the mission. Our primary goal was reconnaissance. We were to get in, map every thermal image, sector by sector and see if anyone was home. My job was to map out areas of activity for our assigned sectors. Since every unit had a scout, the collection of GPS data from this mission would be critical in planning the air strike or any assaults in the near future.

Tora Bora was in the Pachir Wa Agam district of the Nangarhar Province. Politically, it was a sensitive area, as the northern and southern slopes were divided by the Pakistani border and under no circumstances were we to cross into Pakistan, as this could not only bring about a military response and jeopardize the mission but would certainly create an international incident. And no one was to fire a single shot unless either fired upon or observed by the enemy. Being invisible was the key to the success of the mission and the last thing we wanted was a Pakistani air strike. We would be taken by CH-47-2 Chinook transport helicopters to the Logar Province, just west of the Pakistani border. It had been decided that instead of monitoring the southern slopes, even from a distance, we'd be hiking through a pass in the southern panhandle of the Logar Province. We would comprise fifty percent of all the units going to the Tora Bora Mountains. The rest would be choppered to the eastern part of the Nangarhar Province, about twenty miles west of the Khyber Pass. They would head west while we moved northeast through the pass at Logar and east along the northern slope. If everything went according to plan, we would meet somewhere in the middle and after spending roughly ten days to two weeks in the field we would be extracted by helicopter.

With equipment and troops loaded, we began the six-hundred-mile trip to the southern Logar Province. It took four hours to get to the drop-off point. We camped about twenty miles from the southern end of what is now called Logar Pass. The Chinooks left before dawn the next morning so they provided us with cover for the night. Whatever you've been told about the desert, you should know one more thing. The desert gets very cold at night and unfortunately, I had left my winter cap at home.

Because it had determined that we were in enemy territory, in spite of the fact that we were not in Pakistan, guard duty would be done four men at a time in two-hour shifts.

Perhaps I should mention here that falling asleep on guard duty is a serious court-martial offense, especially during a time of war. We began making our way through the pass, traveling in small groups to avoid becoming one large target and as we moved along the northwest slope, everyone's eyes were on the mountains. They surrounded us on each side, leaving us exposed to anyone who might be hiding and in possession of a sniper rifle. This degree of exposure had been anticipated during the planning stage of the mission but it had been determined that the potential information coming from the mission far outweighed the risks. We had to know if Al-Qaeda was moving back in. The units moving towards us from the Nangarhar Province covered most of the northern slope. If there was a problem, they could fall back into the desert toward the north. If we encountered a problem, we'd be trapped. Before moving out, I made a decision that made me more than a little uncomfortable. Since I was the person gathering information, I became a valuable target for capture. So like everyone else, I loaded my magazines with live rounds, inserting one into my rifle and the other into my pistol. However, I put one forty-five caliber round in my breast pocket. If push came to shove and I ran out of ammo, I would use this last round to destroy any and all information left in my possession. It could not be forced out of me if my brains were scattered all over the rocks and being tortured was not my idea of a party. I'd rather die instead. Our pick up point was sixty-five miles in front of us but the distance we had to walk was not important. We were there to do a job and would be moving about fifteen miles a day. Investigating the cave complex required a slow pace. There were no speed records to be set on this mission.

Throughout the night, we worked in shifts, making observations with night-vision binoculars and rangefinders. Night or day, any movement in the mountains was plotted as a GPS heading and recorded on a digital map. The laptops we carried were custom designed with quickly removable hard drives. They were primitive and a bit clumsy but served their purpose. In the event we were overwhelmed by hostile forces, the hard drive could be slipped out and destroyed. In order to minimize our visibility, they had been set up to display green characters and outlined graphics on a black background. As locations were plotted on the map, the program automatically saved it to an encrypted file. The Department of Defense claimed that this encryption could only be broken after roughly ten years of constant work.

The mission was simple to the point of elegance and backup plans had been accounted for, should the need for data destruction arise. Of course, the last backup plan was tucked away in my breast pocket. The CIA had been looking closely at Al-Qaeda for about the last five years. Their intelligence reports revealed that bin Laden had been buying weapons and equipment from Russia and Iran and it was unlikely that the Soviet government was knowingly selling arms to terrorists. They believed that Al-Qaeda was almost certainly getting them through the Russian black market and Iran was probably selling them outright. What the CIA couldn't tell us was what Al-Qaeda actually possessed. So, we went into the mission with the assumption that they had, at least, the same weapons and equipment as we had and it was this assumption that kept us on our toes. It was agreed that if Al-Qaeda members were moving back into the caves, they probably had just as much ability to see us as we did to see them. This thought made all of us feel a bit spooked, especially at night. Having anticipated this, we were each carrying a thermal blanket. These were often used by hikers, campers, and hunters to stay warm by reflecting their body heat and were large enough to cover one person. Not only did they keep us warm but also concealed our thermal signatures from anyone using night vision.

Later, we would learn that even the infrared camera on the IKONOS satellite was unable to detect us. As far as 'it' was concerned, we had simply disappeared. The early morning sun struck the mountain slopes with cloudless rays, giving them a warm steely hue. The air was sharp and cold. The rocks were covered with a sparse hint of snow. Most people believe that the desert is a hot, harsh, and forbidding place. But, the desert is as cold at night as it is hot during the day and one can easily become a victim of either extreme. No one came out from under their thermal blankets right away without getting the ‘all clear’ from the sentries. To get up and walk out blindly would almost certainly invite trouble without first maintaining a secure perimeter. This was another reason for working in shifts.

The calm morning air suddenly grew tense as cautious whispers came from the sentries. A small reflection had been spotted among the rocks somewhere nearby on the mountainside. Whoever it was made the mistake of facing into the sun, giving away their position. We were ordered to maintain cover until it could be investigated. A spotter had determined that we were being watched was that the reflection was intermittent and moved along what was believed to be a defensive trench. The solution was simple. We brought a sniper. Armed with binoculars, I was in a unique position to view this quiet glint among the rocks, as well as the untimely fate of whoever was behind it. The sniper and spotter got into position to assess how the shot would be set up. I was close enough, under my thermal blanket, that I could hear every word of their conversation. The target was about half a mile away. Many people might think that half a mile is a pretty good distance, right? Well, not really. In fact, as far as the battlefield is concerned, half a mile is an alarmingly short distance. If a thief is chasing you through your hometown at that distance, you probably have nothing to worry about. But, if an enemy division is advancing on you from that distance, you have a great deal to worry about and as the morning sun continued to rise, the sparkle among the rocks became more pronounced. The spotter confirmed that, indeed, there was a dark-haired man watching us through a pair of binoculars and was likely assessing our troop strength. He also appeared to be alone.

Army and Marine Corps snipers used the MD50 rifle, firing a fifty caliber round. If you got hit with one of these, you probably wouldn't even hear the shot. Paired up with a good spotter, a sniper could hit a target at a mile and a half. Among other variables, in order to assess a shot, the rotation of the earth would sometimes have to be taken into consideration. The shot rang out, echoing through the mountains. What I saw through my binoculars was as graphic as it was impressive. The entire event passed within only a moment as the dark-haired man’s head exploded into a cloud of blood. His demise was sudden and without a doubt, painless. By all appearances, death by sniper seemed like a fairly humane way to go.

The spotter made a careful sweep of the surrounding slopes and determined that, for now, there were no other eyes among the rocks. However, it was now assumed that we had attracted unwanted attention and of course, the easiest way to avoid this was not to fire a fifty caliber rifle. But, there's no undo button on some things and shooting our lone observer was a calculated risk. The best thing to do now was to pack up and keep moving. Having plotted the snipers kill, we proceeded northeast through the pass. There were no more targets starring back at us from the rocks but we did detect several more heat signatures. One looked like a small campfire. The rest appeared to be moving and no wildlife had been observed in the area. Each hot spot was plotted as we made our way through the pass.

By the time we arrived at our pickup point about eight days later, I had plotted roughly seventy-two thermal signatures. This information was used to map out a series of precision air strikes and the coordinates would be transmitted from the pickup point by mobile satellite uplink to SATCOM's Kabul division. The digital map would later be used as confirmation after the initial planning phase of the air strikes. We met with the other half of the reconnaissance team in the western Nangarhar Province. The exact location of our pickup point had been classified but once we entered the Nangahar Plain, we radioed our location by way of a secure frequency and awaited orders. When both units had reported their locations, we were ordered to proceed to the predetermined coordinates. The data was sent and we were quickly airlifted out.