Operation Dark Heart (7 page)

Dave had said he’d get me trained up to conduct missions with *****, but I hadn’t expected to hit the road with the ***** crowd one day after getting in. I was still punch drunk from the flight. After the morning meetings, we suited up: body armor vests with Sapi plates—small-arms protection inserts and Kevlar on the side, Velcro strips holding it close to the body—and each of us grabbed an M-4. We headed out in three vehicles, driving with about 100 yards between trucks to assure that if an attack occurred, they couldn’t get more than one vehicle.

After a mountain pass on Russian Road, where we slowed down slightly and passed a lumbering 10th Mountain convoy, we really hit the gas as we headed downhill into Kabul. We then decelerated as we entered the traffic bedlam of a city with about two million residents—and only one working traffic light. Tightening our distance between vehicles to 25 to 50 meters, Julie had me roll down my window, and I rested my M-4 on the door, scanning the teeming crowds for threats. Kabul was a chaotic ruin of a city that had been beaten down by outside invaders and internal warlords. Because of the danger of attacks, we still drove fast, weaving in and out of traffic and dodging pedestrians. In the traffic circles that served as intersections, anything went, so you just had to plunge in. With no traffic laws, everything spilled into the streets: pedestrians, sheep, carts, bicycles, uniformed troops, etc. The noise and heat were overwhelming. Most cargo was moved by “jingle trucks,” fully painted and decorated with names on the side like
HEAV-1
or
MR. MUSCLE
. They had chains and other strips of metal attached to virtually every part of the frame—like dog chains cut into 8-inch lengths and welded along the sides and front of the vehicle. When the jingle trucks moved, they sounded like a combination of someone dumping out the silverware drawer in your kitchen and glass shattering. The drivers stacked cargo on top, tied it down with ropes, and piled passengers on top of that. It looked about as stable as it sounds.

Then there were the “Taliban taxis.” About seven out of every ten cars were yellow-and-white Toyota Corollas. When the Taliban were in power, they declared that all vehicles in the country belonged to them and that they would be taxis. They literally took all private vehicles and painted them white and yellow. Even though the vehicles had been privatized again, most owners hadn’t repainted the cars.

Dazed by the heat and the ever-present dust and smog that was low to the ground, I struggled to focus on the blurry scene. What was I looking for? How would I know danger if I saw it?

The rules of engagement (ROE) at the time were if you believed that you were about to be engaged with deadly force by an adversary, you could engage that threat preemptively, but that meant you actually had to know what you were looking for.

No matter what, you kept going. That was the guidance given. Anywhere—on the left of vehicles, on the right, on the sidewalk, on the median—it didn’t matter. If you got in an accident, you kept driving, faster than before because it might have been a setup for an assault. Even if you hit a pedestrian, you kept moving and notified the American Embassy later. We rode without seatbelts in the city. That way, if a bomb or hand grenade were thrown into our vehicle, we could bail out.

If one vehicle in the convoy was attacked, either in the city or on the open road, we were to circle around, provide covering fire, pull out survivors, and call for reinforcements.

Despite the dangers, on virtually every trip to Kabul, we stopped to shop (we are Americans, after all). It was part of our cover as nonmilitary, which actually was fairly effective. In our civilian attire and vehicles, we tended to blend in with personnel from private relief organizations and the UN (even though they were unarmed), and with the private armed security forces that populated the city.

The best place to shop, everyone knew, was Chicken Street, Kabul’s only Western tourist area. While you were there, the tradition was to hire child “bodyguards” that served as assistants. I always made a point of hiring girls. The Afghan men hanging around were obviously not happy about it and shot the girls dirty looks. Several boys tried to get me to fire the girls and to use a boy because being a bodyguard was men’s work, but the girls and I always smiled and kept going. I was pleased that the girls had the courage to stick to the job in a culture that, under the Taliban, had treated women like cattle. I always paid them $2 each (double the normal “rate”) so they could keep $1 for themselves after turning over $1 to their families.

This was my first trip, though, and it was all business. We headed for the CIA station ** *** ******** ****** *********** ********** with thick concrete walls and several outbuildings **** **** ** ** ***** ** *** ****** ****** ** *** ** * ******** ********** ** ***** ***** **************** *********** **** ******* *** ***** ***** ** ******* *** ******** ***** ******* **** ******* ***** *** ******** **** ** *********** ************* ****** ********** *** **** **** ** *** ******* ** *****

On the porch of the ******, I ran into Jacob Walker, chief of station in Afghanistan. With his gaunt face, deep-set eyes, and dark suit, he reminded me of Peter Cushing, the actor who played Governor Tarkin, commander of the Death Star in
Star Wars.

“Mr. Walker,” I introduced myself. “I’m ***** ***** *******, the new HUMINT operations chief here for DIA.”

****** *******, good to meet you,” he said. “Are you an operator or just another staff-type they’ve sent to the field to pretend they are real operatives?”

The question caught me off guard. “No, sir, I went through the Farm when Jim Fletcher was ***** ** **** there.” Jim was a well-known internal CIA legend—one of those gallant officers from the good old days at the CIA—and a name that Jacob knew well.

“Really?” he said with a bit of a shock. “Impressive. Have you given any thought to joining us? If you’re interested, I’d be happy to bring you over.”

The CIA, faced with a shortage of experienced officers, had been frantically poaching officers from Defense since the start of the war. At least two of my former DIA colleagues were now working for Jacob but I had no interest. I’d seen too much of their bureaucracy and their problems and, despite my problems with the DIA leadership, I knew the grass wasn’t always greener.

“I had a similar offer from your counterparts when I was in command ** ********* **** ******* * **** **** *** *** ********** **** ***** ********* * *** *** ************ ***** ******** *** *****cover operatives ** ******** ********.

The truth was, I’d tried to join the CIA when I was fresh out of college. I’d passed the interviews, the tests, and the psychological screening, and had gotten so far that they’d issued me a cover, but I was unable to pass the lie detector exam and didn’t get hired.

Years later, the Defense Security Service showed me the results summary. According to the CIA polygraph examiner, I was “deception indicated” on criminal activity and illegal drug use. The funny thing was that the CIA polygraph examiner would not believe, no matter how many times I stated the truth, that I had never even tried drugs. He insisted that everyone in my generation had at least “experimented” with illegal drugs. Of course, I did some stupid things in my youth—bartending for the Marine Guard at their residence in Lisbon, and I’d been a drunken hellion in high school—but never any illegal drugs. Why bother when I had as much booze as I wanted?

Oh, yeah. When confronted with their allegations that I was “deception indicated” on criminal activity, I admitted on the polygraph that I had taken U.S. government Skilcraft pens from the American Embassy in Lisbon. Yeah. Just like John Dillinger.

After that experience, I knew never to believe the results of any polygraph exam. If they couldn’t figure out I was telling the truth about drug use, then chances are they couldn’t figure out who’s telling the truth about anything else.

Looking back on it, though, God must have been smiling on me. The path I ended up on was far more interesting—and fun. I believe everything happens for a reason, and I just wasn’t meant to work for the CIA. I’d moved past it years ago, and I shook off Walker’s offer. “I’m pretty happy where I am,” I told him, adding politely, “but I’ll think about it.”

In truth, my experiences with the CIA in Afghanistan would be less than happy. The CIA, it turned out, was running its own game, a game they didn’t bother to coordinate with anyone on the Defense side of the house. At one point, I was to learn later, we had an ugly experience with a warlord who was on their payroll. It was not that they played against both sides. It was the fact that they did it so obviously and poorly that pissed all of us off.

Before we rolled out, Dave showed me the *****-bar” on the hotel’s first floor, an honor bar *** ************ ******** equipped with tables, chairs, and a few couches. You grabbed a cold beer or made yourself a drink, and tossed money into a box on the bar to pay for it. I always had tonic water or a Coke.

The white walls were covered with old, nonserviceable weapons, everything from Enfield rifles from the nineteenth century to Kalashnikovs captured from the Taliban during the 2001 invasion. Great quotes from spooks were scrawled on there as well, and, most poignantly, mementos of fallen comrades—scraps of clothing or pieces of
keffeyeh,
the distinctive black-and-white scarves that many wore to keep out the dust. The place had a great stereo system and a huge library of top-notch music CDs, left by departing spooks, which I later borrowed for convoy rides.

Those who had finished their tours of duty traditionally signed the wall, but only on your last day of duty. Signing any earlier was bad luck.

After, Dave briefed me on the ***** mission. Among other tasks, we were headed for a destination away from central downtown. We were taking two vehicles. The first one was an equipment vehicle and the second was security. Our mission ** *** ***** was classified, so I’ll skip that part. Dave, as commander of the mission, drove the first vehicle.

“We’re going to a part of town we’ve never been before,” he told me. “I’d like you to stay with Julie in the second vehicle. Any questions?”

“No, I’m good,” I said. Truth was, I was nervous as hell but working hard not to show it.

He stopped for a minute. “One other thing. Watch out for provocations. The Taliban has been training kids to do stuff. They’ve been throwing explosive devices at vehicles—hand grenades and IEDs. So be aware of what’s going on.”

I’d seen tons of kids today in the streets. Using them … I couldn’t believe it.

We suited back up and rolled out again to do our business. Most of the areas we went to through the day were not market areas, but still heavily urban. Mainly mud huts and brick homes up to the crests of low hills that bordered the mountains surrounding Kabul.

After settling into the turbulent rhythm of the vehicle’s movement, with Julie driving with expert abandon through the Kabul streets at an average speed of 60 miles an hour on the straightaways, I was almost enjoying the roller-coaster-like ride, watching the blur of people, men in their long pajamalike robes and women in their burkas. I was even getting used to the feeling of the drops of sweat condensing and trickling down from the top of my chest to my underarms. I let my weapon drop down toward my seat and contemplated pulling out the bag of lollipops Dave had given me to toss to the kids we were passing.

We hit a slight grade, slowing down a bit. Fully half the structures in the neighborhood we were passing through were bombed down to the foundations. Others had been rebuilt. I had to admire the fierce determination of a people who had been at war, some for their entire lifetimes.

Then I saw him emerge from the throng. The slightly built boy just ahead of us, running out of the crowd and toward Dave’s vehicle, just about 50 meters in front of us, bomb in hand.

I instinctively swung up my M-4 from resting with the barrel down between the seam of the door and the dashboard, thumbed off the safety, and aimed.

Then, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. The shiny object fluttered in a sudden wind.
Bombs don’t flutter.
I hesitated, my mind rocketing over the possibilities. The device the boy threw was blue and silver. Then I caught sight of a familiar logo.

It wasn’t a bomb. It was a silver-and-blue Capri Sun juice container.

A freakin’
juice box.
Just like the ones my son drank when we were at Boy Scout camp together right before I left.

I lowered my rifle, slumped back in my seat, and let out my breath that I had instinctively held for the past few seconds. The kid was fading back into the crowd, but I caught his eye and stared at him. He looked to be about the same age as Alexander.

Clearly, he had been trained to pull that kind of stunt. The idea would be to create bad press if we shot him, or it would lower our threshold of concern so that after we had dealt with kids tossing juice boxes a few times, we would relax our vigilance. This kid didn’t get it. He was being used and had almost ended up dead.

Only the wind gusting at that very second had saved this boy’s life. I hoped he wouldn’t try that again.
Inshallah
. God willing.

What a place. I thought back on my past training. I’d been schooled as a spy to take on a First World adversary, like the Russians or the Chinese. The way I had been trained, intelligence—even clandestine intelligence—was a gentleman’s game. The idea of using a weapon or ending up in combat … well, we didn’t go there. I’d been told by an old-school instructor at the Farm in one of my first training sessions that spies didn’t need guns because if you couldn’t talk your way out of a situation, then you weren’t worth your salt.