The Operator Read online

  In the middle of the hike, we dropped off twenty-five of the Afghans to set up a “fallback” position for us in case we needed to fight down the hill quickly. They had mortars to provide us some indirect fire as well. I didn’t really trust the Afghans to be accurate, but I didn’t want to bring all of them up with us to the peak; if we showed too much force the enemy might not want to fight. That left about fifteen Afghans, my team of four Americans, and one interpreter to complete the hike. At the peak, I split us into two flanks, each consisting of seven or so Afghans with my team in the middle. I had about 150 meters between my position and each flank.

  From here the plan was simple: We’d wait to see if we were spotted. We didn’t want to make it obvious that there were any Americans in the group; that would both discourage an attack and limit its duration. The enemy knew that with Americans came bombers and gunships and they are devastating. Because of that, we limited the number of aircraft observing us. Having aircraft aloft is great for numerous reasons: They can watch the surrounding areas and report on enemy and friendly movement; they can be a force multiplier by dropping bombs and shooting missiles and guns; and they can pluck friendly troops from danger by picking them up and giving them a ride. But they also tend to get too close when teams like mine are trying to be sneaky, and they make a lot of noise that alerts the locals. So we had one aircraft watch us as we patrolled to our spot on the border, but then it departed after thirty minutes. After that, we were alone. We set up two positions at the highest points and put ground pads behind some cover. We were on the mountain peak above the timberline, so it was barren. If Taliban fighters were here, they’d soon see us. So we waited.

  *

  AS SOON AS THE SUN came up, we began to see activity on the Pakistan side of the border. Since we were on the high ground and above the tree line, we could see for several miles on both sides of the border and down three valleys. It was a really good spot to observe. We noticed six armed men walking in and around a small fenced-in area with a few tents. It was about half of a mile away from us on the Pakistan side, obviously some sort of checkpoint. In this part of the world, however, that doesn’t say much. We knew we were right in the middle of a Taliban and al-Qaeda supply line so the chances of this point being friendly Pakistani military were slim to none. Regardless, it was obvious that they could see us, too, at least some of us, and they were discussing what to do.

  After thirty minutes of deliberating, four of the armed men began to walk in the direction of our flank position on the right. It didn’t concern me too much: We had an elevated position and they were outnumbered. Also, we’d be able to watch their movements as they walked the eight hundred meters that separated us. As they got closer, I noticed they were wearing similar uniforms. They weren’t military but wore some sort of militia-type garb. We simply remained still and kept our weapons trained on them. Once they were about two hundred meters from the right flank, they began to yell at us in a few different languages; English wasn’t one of them. I asked the interpreter next to me what was being said and was told that the men were yelling for the senior officer to come down for tea. I had the interpreter tell our senior Afghan officer to go down to the uniformed men and bring five of his guys with him. He was to tell the men that he was part of an Afghan force that was patrolling the area. If the armed men asked if there were Americans here, he was to say, “No.”

  The six Afghans went down the two hundred meters and had a discussion for about forty-five minutes. They drank tea. Then they came back up to our position. I was informed that the armed men claimed to be a part of the “Frontier Corps”: a militia composed of Pakistanis paid and armed by the United States to help guard the Afghan/Pakistan border. It was a complete waste of money, and these guys couldn’t be trusted. This part of the world was lawless, and it didn’t matter how much money was given away, the border remained unguarded. Giving these people guns was an even worse idea.

  My senior Afghan guy told me more of what had been discussed at tea. The Frontier Corps leader told him that they were fearful of the Taliban, who were everywhere around here. He said that if they showed up and attacked, we should help them. Conversely, if they attacked us, they would help.

  It was complete crap, and I knew it. There was no way the Pakistani military would station a few guys out here on their own. These teatime hosts could be working for a few disparate entities, one of which was certainly the Taliban. I was betting that these guys were, in fact, a Taliban checkpoint and that things were about to get exciting. Reassuringly, we still had superior position and numbers. I had Tony make radio contact with the Tactical Operations Center at Bagram Airfield, informing them that all was quiet. I was happy we could still talk to them whenever we wanted.

  The morning went on and we continued to watch the checkpoint. At about 10:00 a.m., we saw two trucks driving up the mountain toward it. There were guys in the cab and in the back. There was a chance that they were simply bringing supplies and relieving the guys who’d spent the night, but I didn’t think so. They dismounted the vehicles and the trucks departed. Then the trucks came back—three of them this time and more guys. Then more.

  The tide had shifted—now there were several hundred obviously hostile troops just a few hundred meters away. I began weighing the options: Stay on the top of the mountain with four Americans and fifteen Afghan militiamen and shoot it out, potentially, with a few hundred Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters. Or back my force out quietly, regroup with the troops and mortars behind us, and call for a daylight extract. Even though we’d be giving up the high ground, I liked this second choice because it looked as if the new group of men were still setting up and weren’t prepared for us to leave. If we fell back quickly and called for the extract soon, the sound of the approaching helicopters might keep their heads down. Plus, if we could get about a mile away from the checkpoint, we’d be out of their range due to distance and terrain features. I radioed down the hill, gave them a quick summary of the situation, and told them we were on our way.

  I got a quick head count and made sure all the men were briefed on the situation. I led the patrol out because I’d led it up and knew the quickest way back. We’d been hurriedly walking for about ten minutes toward our fallback position when I heard the Afghan boss, whom I’d never heard try to speak English, start yelling, “Bad guys, bad guys.”

  He pointed up the mountain, and we could see enemy troops splitting up. I remember how fast they were running and all of a sudden we started taking fire. We dove for what little cover we could find. I scrambled toward a small rock barely big enough to cover me. Bullets were cracking and zipping all around. We hadn’t quite gotten back to the friendly position but were close. I needed to figure out coordinates for these enemy shooters and call in an air strike. Then we could call for the extract. For that, I needed the radio.

  I looked for Tony but couldn’t see him. As we’d made our way down the mountain, I’d split up the SEALs to keep a better eye on our Afghans in case shit went south. Now I was wishing I’d kept Tony closer. I could talk to him on our headsets, but this situation had gotten chaotic, and I wanted to be right next to him to avoid any confusion. I hadn’t thought the enemy would hit us so soon or so accurately.

  Up the hill, I could see the guys who wanted to kill us executing “shoot and maneuver” positions. A base of five or six guys would lie down and lay down continual machine gun fire to force us to keep our heads down. As they were shooting, another contingent would advance along our flank, spreading the battlefield in an attempt to surround us. It was working, too. Once the maneuvering group had covered a sufficient distance, they would lie down and begin to fire. The base would then get up and become the maneuver. There were also rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) teams doing the same thing: base and maneuver. One team would fire a few RPGs while the other moved to surround us. That was a very effective way to keep our heads down since RPGs are loud and scary, and it’s extremely hard to tell from where the next one is coming. All of the
se teams were a few hundred meters behind us to the east, and they were spreading out on the mountain to our north and south. The situation wasn’t good.

  And then it got worse. The high-pitched scream and thundering crash of incoming mortar fire announced an unexpected escalation of the forces arrayed against us. The trajectory suggested they were coming from mortar teams inside the checkpoint that we’d been observing all morning. I hadn’t seen any mortars there, but they could have been hidden, or maybe one of those trucks had delivered them. Either way, they were hitting close enough to prompt the “pucker factor.” The enemy was organized and motivated, and I was pretty sure they still assumed they were ambushing a small Afghan army force and didn’t anticipate any air power. That meant they’d do this all day until we were dead. I needed to find Tony, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Still pressed against my little bit of cover, I inched my head above the rock and scanned our portion of the battlefield. I could hear bullets zip just above my head while airbursts from the rocket-propelled grenades went off all around. Slightly above me, the Afghan boss who’d just spoken his first words of English started crawling on his hands and knees up the hill, trying to regain some high ground when an RPG exploded into his backpack and blew him right out of it. His hat went flying and he fell back down the hill, tumbling violently on the rocks below him. I’d seen lots of people die before, and it looked a lot like this. I thought, Okay, this is getting serious. We just lost our first guy. I was shocked when he sat back up and looked around. He dusted himself off, and for some reason we locked eyes, stared at each other for what seemed like a long time. Then he yelled his second phrase ever in English. He put his thumb up and shouted, “Okay, USA!”

  He ran back to his machine gun that had been left behind in the blast. I was relieved he was alive, and happy he could return some fire. I thought that would be the most impressive thing I’d see all day. I was wrong again.

  I lay there watching the unthinkable unfold above me. I needed support. I needed bombs. I needed to find the radio. I needed Tony. I finally spotted him, squatting behind some small rocks and a few trees about 150 meters distant. He was hunkered down and returning fire but was not talking into his headset. It was probably the right call on his part—for two reasons. One, we’d yet to devise a plan, and he had no one to tell him the way to go. Two, he’d never been in combat and was probably more than a little hesitant to call for air strikes on the border post, inside a country we weren’t at war with. I needed to get to his position to tell him where we needed to bomb and also to reassure him that in our current situation it was within our rules of engagement to drop on Pakistan. The only problem—well, one of my problems—was that I had to run across an open field in the middle of the day with a lot of people shooting all kinds of shit at me.

  I remembered back to one of the first classes I’d had in initial SEAL land warfare training: There are three “lines of gear” that a shooter wears into the field. The first line is clothes and whatever is on the belt: blowout med kit, cash, knife, whatever is in your pockets. The second line is the gear attached to the shoulder harness we call a web: magazines, water, grenades, and radio. The third line is the rucksack. In it is food, extra water, sleeping bag, ground pad, and anything that is extra or nonessential. The thinking behind this way of packing is that a shooter can ditch lines of gear in a certain order if the situation is dire enough, making himself faster. The third line of gear is dropped first because it has the fewest essential items in it. I’d never heard of anyone doing it, but I did read the manual.

  The enemy fire was getting more intense, from about seven different positions plus airbursts from mortars and RPGs all around. It was time to get it on. Or get it over with. I threw my backpack on the ground and started running to Tony. I remember thinking as I was running, I’ll be damned, I’m lighter and faster, the manual was right!

  When I got to Tony, I dove on top of him and said, “Okay, remember that checkpoint? That’s where these mortars are coming from. Their command is up there, hit that with whatever the pilot wants. Shooter’s choice, make it go away.”

  “Sorry boss,” Tony shouted back. “We have nothing. No fighters, no bombers, no helicopters.”

  “When are they gonna get here?”

  “No one seems to know.”

  We were screaming to be heard above the ongoing firefight. I could see the enemy maneuvering up a steep hill to the east, making their way toward both our flanks. Others were pushing right at us. They had us pinned down so they could move pretty much wherever they wanted. We were returning fire, but with our heads down and from an inferior position, it was ineffective. One of the worst feelings in the world is having someone shoot effectively at you while your bullets have no chance of reaching them. I didn’t care for it.

  While I was assessing our rather grim situation, one of our guys yelled, “Hey, Rob, air support would be better now rather than later.”

  I was like, “Dude, I’m trying.”

  Finally, Tony got in contact with some of the Forward Operating Bases in the area that had artillery and they were sending rounds out. They refused to fire on the checkpoint in Pakistan but they’d fire at some of the positions above us on the mountain. The rounds came in but were pretty much worthless. By the time we relayed where we wanted them, the fighters had moved. The artillery ended up simply being more random explosions, as if we didn’t have enough of those.

  The enemy force continued pushing toward us and was now so close that I could hear them yelling. It was mostly Pashtu, but I remember hearing Arabic, too. That meant al-Qaeda for sure. Where were those damn jets?

  *

  ONE GROUP GOT SO CLOSE I remember looking at the guy shooting at us. He had a belt-fed machine gun and he was white, with a big red beard. He looked a lot like me. I remember thinking how odd that was: He could have been from these parts, the illegitimate son of a Soviet soldier, but it was also possible that he was Chechen. They’d been seen here before, mainly when the war started, but were still around and still ruthless. Either way, he was shooting pretty much right at me while yelling “Allahu Akbar” (God is greater) over and over. I’m still not sure which was more annoying, the screaming or the shooting. All that was separating me from the impact of his bullets were the few rocks I was behind.

  Directly behind me were my two Army guys, Seth and Tom, and their interpreter. They managed to crawl up to tell me what they knew. They’d intercepted enemy radio traffic and our interpreter had translated. It turned out that someone simply known as “Commander” had been giving calls to the fighters on their handheld radios. All that told me was that these guys were somewhat organized, and that their boss was on the mountain; potentially Zabit Jalil, the guy I wanted.

  The enemy kept on maneuvering and shooting, and the RPGs and mortars were getting closer and closer. It was serious now and that white dude wouldn’t shut up as he kept shooting right at us, “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” The bullets were cracking against my rock and zipping all around and everything seemed to be exploding near us. The airbursts were the worst: exploding directly above us, spitting shrapnel everywhere. It all churned together in a sickening whirl. Time didn’t stop so much as repeat itself. I kept wanting to lift my head to see if my legs were still there, then remembering that if I lifted my head I’d get it blown off; yelling at Tony to ask if we had any jets yet; and listening to some guy who obviously had a big problem with me shoot his machine gun and remind me that “God is great!”

  This went on forever, or by my watch, just over an hour. An hour in a gunfight, when you’re surrounded, is a very long hour. The enemy was doing a good job of continuing a forcing fire that made us keep our heads down. I didn’t get a single shot off for the full sixty minutes. Tony spent the entire time on the radio trying to coordinate howitzer fire and air support from nearby bases. Our third SEAL had maneuvered to a good position on a small hill off to the right of us and was able to get off some shots from time to time.
Some of our Afghans were shooting sporadically with their belt-fed machine guns, which helped slow the enemy advance. I was simply aware that my 5.56 mm 4-16 wouldn’t reach the enemy effectively, and I didn’t want to waste ammo. I didn’t know how long this fight would last, and I only had four magazines. I needed each bullet to count. I kept thinking about the speed and the noise and the chaos and the permanence. The word that hit was permanence. This is fucking for real. I wondered what it was going to feel like to catch a bullet in the forehead. Will it hurt? Will I even feel it? God, I wish it was dark, when will it be dark? Shit, it’s noon. This is going to be a long day. If I last that long.

  The enemy was trying to force us into a valley to the south, to our right. I could see that more fighters were setting up on the southern top end of that valley in ambush for when we were forced that way. We were lying there, I was on top of Tony, and I was engaging in a personal pep talk. “We’re not going in that valley. You need to get help here because we’re going to pick the hill we die on, not them.”

  As I was spitting out those words, two tracers flew in between my gun and my ear. I saw the flash, I heard the snaps, and it sounded like really fast, really nasty bugs zipping by. I stopped thinking about tactics and started thinking about my family. I had a conversation with myself: You’re about to get shot in the face now, you better get ready. It’s going to happen, it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen.

  “Rob!” It was Tony. “I got Bones 22 on station ready to drop!!”

  To be honest, with so many call signs, I didn’t know who or what Bones 22 was, but I didn’t care. My radio guy had just told me he was ready to drop, so that meant bombs and bombs would be good.

  “Tell him to drop whatever he thinks he needs on that checkpoint!”