Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man (52 page)

Some pockets of the enemy had laid down their arms and surrendered, and others were confused, having received no recent guidance from their superiors. The stubborn enemy fighters who refused to surrender either took their quest for paradise more seriously than their buddies or opted to head for the friendlier turf across the border in Pakistan.

At the schoolhouse, tactical radio intercepts overheard frantic calls begging for medicine, bandages, food, and water. Requests for guidance, or permission to retreat into the villages, or fade deeper into the mountains
convinced us that the end of the battle was near. George of the CIA received a classified cable from Kabul reporting that the Pakistani military had apprehended several dozen Arab fighters just across the border.

Around the same time, a directive came from the Americans at Bagram to ask General Ali if he would accept a larger foreign presence on the battlefield—not just a few more Special Ops types, but a massive and overt buildup of American military forces.

I sprang the question on the general at the nightly chat, and his eyes showed no sign of surprise, because an operational shift on the overall battlefield was looming. He hesitated for a moment, then said he needed until the morning to decide. Ali likely would have to discuss the situation with his trusted local supporters and the Shura.

At midday on the western flank, several of the muhj fighters who were with MSS Monkey took off for a hilltop to their front, possibly irritated that they were missing out on looting the caves. Once the muhj reached the crest, they radioed back to request some Americans to come forward and drop some more bombs.

India Team arrived shortly thereafter and, sure enough, saw numerous personnel out to their front. As Spike worked up a fire mission, Kilo Team called in to stop it. In Kilo’s opinion, the designated groups were friendly muhj, and not al Qaeda. The muhj commander disagreed, but was not certain. Once again, without any way to confirm friend from foe and no interpreter, the Americans were hamstrung.

The weather took a turn for the worse and blanketed the entire area with heavier snow and a strong wind that blew some of the flurries sideways while shrinking visibility to less than two hundred meters. Later that evening, Bryan radioed the schoolhouse: The muhj were coming off the
mountain and heading away from the fight. Bedrolls or not, they were coming back.

We asked, “Why?”

“One-One, this is Three-Two. The commander up here is telling us that the fight is over. He says the enemy has bolted and that they are the
winners
,” Bryan reported. His voice was shaky because of the hard, cold, and freezing wind, but was drenched in pessimism.

“I haven’t heard that yet,” I answered. “Thanks for the update. We’ll keep up the bombing anyway until someone tells us different.”

Numerous reports of surrendering al Qaeda forces were heard throughout December 16.

The groups numbered from twenty to twenty-five former fighters, some more, some less. Our higher headquarters now scrambled to figure out how to handle about three hundred or so prisoners. There was no largescale holding area and the best option seemed to be moving them to Kabul by trucks.

The reports of surrender and victory had not made it to all of the enemy forces in Kilo Team’s area, and Kilo itself had not received any orders to stand down. So Pope, Lowblow, and the four Brit commandos perched on the southwest side of the third highest point in the mountains continued to wreak havoc on obvious and suspected al Qaeda positions.

Throughout the battle, the hefty collection of warplanes enjoyed complete air superiority and had little to worry about, short of running into one another. On this night, Pope pushed an AC-130 ten miles to the east and into a holding pattern while he finished working with some bombers. In about five minutes, his radio crackled to life with the voice of the female pilot of the gunship, who was eager to get back into the hunt. It was strange to hear a female voice under those circumstances, and more than somewhat out of place.

Pope instructed her to stand by for clearance. After five more minutes, she keyed her radio mike again, clearly agitated at being told to stand by. Pope was finally able to clear her in, and the AC-130 immediately
wheeled in for the attack, guns blazing. A determined American woman pilot was taking her turn killing the macho Muslim terrorists.

Jester and Dugan, the heroes of OP25-A, spent only a day and a half resting and refitting before getting back into the game. Joined by another four-man team of British SBS commandos, they were tasked with reinforcing the Jackal Team and helping continue the bombing.

When they reached the base of the mountain, young Afghans stood around hoping to get jobs as guides, lined up like taxicabs at a big city airport. A couple of guides were hired and led them up the trails, and after an hour of climbing, they stopped for a rest.

As they caught their breath, heavy firing by AK-47s snapped a fusillade of 7.62mm rounds overhead. The snipers and Brit commandos squirmed behind the largest rocks they could find as the gunfire stuttered on and on. But it was no attack, just a large group of muhj celebrating the end of Ramadan by wildly firing their weapons, raising the guns in the air and squeezing off 7.62mm rounds on full auto.

One of the new guides, bless his heart, yelled at the top of his lungs for them to stop. When that had no effect, he actually started throwing rocks at them, as if he could hit them from several hundred meters away. Dugan and Jester were thankful the young man did not have a weapon of his own, or they might have been in the middle of a gunfight between the rejoicing muhj and one truly unhappy guide.

Pushing uphill as fast as they could to get out of range of the happy muhj, the commandos reached Hopper and the Admiral about noon, up on the ridgeline near an old fort. A short while later, a B-52 laid a strike on a cave about eight hundred meters away, and the cave erupted with multiple secondary explosions that sent rock and debris flying everywhere. A fifty-five-gallon drum came hurtling out of the carnage like a comet and passed fifty meters over their heads. “Holy shit,” yelled one of the boys. “They’re throwing oil barrels at us!”

That night, just after dark, scores of muhj fighters streamed back down the ridgelines once again, no doubt hurrying to find warmth and
continue celebrating the end of Ramadan. They smiled, waved, and made no secret that they felt that they had won the battle and it was time to go home.

The Jackal Team did not agree. Murph and his two snipers were still up forward and pressing the attack, although they were critically low on water. Jester, Dugan, and two of the Brits cross-loaded up to roughly eighty pounds of supplies in each of their rucksacks and waited in the snowy cold for enough light to allow them to begin their emergency resupply mission over the treacherous trails.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Major Ironhead’s own resupply patrol to MSS Grinch had returned to the schoolhouse and Ironhead almost had to be forced to grab a few hours of sleep before doing an encore.

This time, we tweaked the organization of his team to eliminate having to rely on untrustworthy local Afghans such as the kind who had made off with much-needed supplies during the first climb.

The answer was to use four attached heavy breachers who had been held at the schoolhouse to provide our local security. Most were Special Forces demolition sergeants, experts in the use of explosives, oxygen, hydraulics, and making things go boom. These guys did not mind rolling up their sleeves for a tough job. They were all as heavily muscled as racehorses and were as ready to run as odds-on favorites at the Kentucky Derby.

Ironhead and the patrol used two pickup trucks to get as far as Mortar Hill, where they put the supplies on their backs, tucked their heads against the flailing show, and humped into the steep inclines, reaching MSS Grinch in just over five hours. They even brought along dry socks.

Even with such unbelievable exhibitions of endurance, our ability to maintain such a pace was unrealistic and dangerous. Had the enemy spotted any of the patrols, major drama would have unfolded, since serving as pack mules limited firepower and security during the movement. There was no easy solution, and after mulling it over with both Jim at MSS
Grinch and Bryan at MSS Monkey, we adjusted our current dispositions in the mountains.

The changes would not only help resolve the logistics problems, but also keep up the hunt for bin Laden.