The Only Thing Worth Dying For (28 page)

It seemed that everybody Dobbins spoke to respected Karzai, who as an émigré statesman had been lobbying on behalf of his country for years. While Dobbins recognized that Karzai could not have achieved his current military credibility in Afghanistan without the United States, he was coming to realize that the man’s political and diplomatic reputation was purely self-made.

“Congratulations,” Amerine said as he sat down later that afternoon with Karzai.

With Mike and Brent showing Bolduc, Fox, and Smith around Tarin Kowt, Amerine was the only American in the room. He appreciated how the circle of Afghans barely paused to acknowledge his presence; he had indeed become a fixture here.

“Lieutenant Colonel Fox told me you addressed your countrymen in Germany.”

“Yes. I hope they could understand me.” Karzai coughed. “I’m not feeling well.”

“You need more sleep, Hamid,” said Amerine.

“There is no time,” said Karzai, nodding at a young man, who poured two cups of tea for them. Karzai lifted a cup to his nose, and inhaled the rising steam. Amerine sipped his. Neither of them spoke while they drank two more cups of tea, then Amerine said, “I’m going to brief Lieutenant Colonel Fox shortly about tomorrow’s movement to Petawek and I need to confirm that the vehicles will be ready just after sunrise—ours assembled on this street and the rest at the edge of town.”

“I will see to it,” Karzai said, leaning forward when Amerine smoothed his creased and wrinkled survival map before them on the carpet.

One of several small villages spread along the foot of the mountains that bordered Kandahar and Uruzgan provinces, Petawek was fifty miles southwest of Tarin Kowt. It was a remote truck stop for traders, with a population of one thousand Pashtun. The drive to Petawek would take them over multiple mountain ranges, across deserts and high valleys, and through deep canyons—extremely rough and wild country that Karzai said the Soviets had learned to avoid after a few devastating ambushes.

Karzai had been negotiating with the tribal leaders of the districts, towns, and villages along their intended route; on Amerine’s map these were represented by a swath of circles, like stepping-stones all the way to Petawek. If they could safely connect those dots—and Karzai had assured them a clear drive—they would reach Petawek within ten hours.

“Do you still feel the time is right to move?” Amerine asked.

“Yes. From what I know today, tomorrow is a good day.”

“Then tomorrow it is,” said Amerine, folding up the map.

“Oh, something funny,” said Karzai. “One of your men, the one who calls me Mr. K…”

“Sergeant Magallanes? Mag?”

“Yes, Mag. He asked me earlier if I would sign Afghan money for him, as gifts for his children. He said, ‘You’re going down in history, Mr. K, and I’d like some proof that I was there for the ride.’ Something like that.”

The two men laughed. “So, does this mean you’re an official candidate?” asked Amerine.

“There is still nothing
official
in Afghanistan,” Karzai said, “but the invitation to speak today…hmmm.” He changed the subject. “How many children
does
Mag have, Jason?”

“How many afghanis did he have you sign?”

“Forty!” said Karzai.

“Not
that
many.” Amerine chuckled. “If you become the leader of Afghanistan, Hamid, what will we call you?”

“Let’s not talk of such titles,” Karzai said. He shivered and pulled his blanket up around his shoulders. “Today we are just friends.”

“Stay warm, then, my friend,” said Amerine, getting up to leave.

On his tour of Tarin Kowt, Lieutenant Colonel Fox had been introduced to Karzai’s “fighters,” some of whom were armed with ancient flintlock rifles and, in one case, a pitchfork. What he’d seen didn’t even qualify as a militia. He envisioned the thousands of faithful Taliban prepared to defend Kandahar and thought,
Okay, I’ve got one ODA and this small force of Karzai’s well-meaning friends up against hardcore Taliban—I’m not sure how I’m going to do this.

Toward the end of his first day in Afghanistan, Fox returned from Karzai’s compound and joined Amerine and JD, who were discussing the convoy they were set to lead toward Kandahar the following morning.

“I’m delaying things a day or two,” Fox said. “Just talked it over with Hamid, and what I’m going to do is have him send an advance recon, three-man element to drive our route to Petawek twenty-four hours ahead of our main party to make sure it’s clear—obstacles, mines, that kind of thing.”

Amerine noticed JD raise his eyebrows. They were both thinking the same thing:
Fox has been on the ground for less than twenty-four hours and he’s already making decisions without bothering to consult with us?

“Sir, we need to get the guerrillas moving south,” said Amerine. “Hamid has to mass them just in time to move, since the town can’t support a large force. Delays like this can cause the whole machine to seize up and—”

“We aren’t going south without more recon and a more solid plan,” Fox said definitively.

Once Fox had left, JD said, “Guess he didn’t like our plan.”

“I guess not. He wants things tight in an environment that is all about controlled chaos. On the other hand, I might be too comfortable playing it loose with our guys.”

JD smiled. “We made it this far by playing it loose.”

That night an F-18 recon flight picked up seven vehicles heading north from Kandahar. It fit their definition of an enemy convoy,
but when Alex plotted the location on the map, he saw that they were moving along a mountainous segment of the road. Amerine told Alex to hold off bombing and to continue monitoring the convoy, saying, “This one feels like it might be another bottleneck.”

JD and Bolduc were in the room when Amerine made his decision. “Civilians are always at risk in war,” Bolduc said, coming over to peer at the map. “You can’t let that dictate your operations. You still have to be aggressive.”

Not including the Battle of Tarin Kowt, Amerine had authorized the bombing of at least forty-seven vehicles over the previous nine days. He had refrained from bombing twelve vehicles (and one encampment of refugees) during the same period. Using conservative estimates—eight men per vehicle—they’d killed at least 376 enemy combatants.

“We’ve been bombing convoys every day since we got here and haven’t killed any civilians yet,” said Amerine. “I’m not going to start being a cowboy now.”

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Bolduc walked out of the room.

“Water off your back, sir,” said JD. “If something doesn’t feel right, that’s the beauty of this command structure. Bolduc said it himself this morning—they are here to advise Hamid and provide top cover for us. Mulholland is leaving the fighting to us.”

The convoy ultimately passed through the bottleneck but remained in tight formation, continuing across the desert as a unit. As it approached Uruzgan Province, Amerine cleared the pilot to engage. All seven vehicles were destroyed.

Shortly after noon three days later, a light rain was falling while the Americans loaded weapons and gear into four trucks parked in a row across the street from their compound, preparing to move to Petawek. The low cloud cover currently made aerial reconnaissance of their route almost impossible.

“Are we going to have any problem getting air?” Amerine asked Alex, who was setting up his radio in the back of their truck.

“Too early to tell,” said Alex.

The fact that the advance recon Fox had insisted upon had driven through Uruzgan Province without incident two days before meant little for today. In order for the movement to be as simple as possible, Amerine had wanted to condense their forces into a single convoy that would have a small footprint and allow him tighter control of the guerrillas. Fox saw things differently, adjusting Amerine’s plan so that the convoy would move in two separate units.

The first, smaller section, acting as forward security, would be led by an Afghan named Bashir—whom Bari Gul had vouched for—and three trucks full of his men, followed closely by Amerine’s vehicle, carrying Mike, Alex, and Seylaab. Mag’s truck, with Wes, Ken, and Victor, would trail five minutes behind Amerine with three more trucks of guerrillas.

Forty-five minutes behind Amerine, the main part of the convoy would be headed by Bari Gul and his three trucks of guerrillas, then JD’s vehicle carrying Dan, Brent, and Ronnie, followed by the shuttle bus with Karzai—and Fox, Casper, and the rest of the spooks. Another twenty vehicles loaded with Afghans would bring up the rear.

ODA 574 had listened to Fox’s revised plan the day before in concealed bemusement. The team had already experienced the undisciplined nature of the guerrillas and doubted they would adhere to the complicated parameters of the movement, but Fox was adamant. “Let’s just roll with it,” JD whispered to Amerine during the brief. “The guerrillas will dictate how it ends up.”

Now, shortly after 2
P.M.
, Amerine’s and Mag’s vehicles were sloshing through muddy streets toward the southern edge of Tarin Kowt. In spite of the gloomy weather the roads were festooned with the national flag of Afghanistan; children carried them as they ran through puddles, keeping pace alongside the vehicles. Karzai’s movement to Kandahar was no secret.

Just before the town gate, the old man who had refused to accept Karzai’s name as credit for gas the week before stood in front of his pumps, lifting his fist in the air and cheering the convoy on. At the
gate itself was the massive artillery piece that ODA 574 had found in the valley below Tarin Kowt Pass. Someone had hauled it back to town and aimed it south toward Kandahar. Outside the gate, at least thirty idling vehicles were on both sides of the road. Some drove about in the mud as if impatient to get moving, but the majority were parked facing the road and crammed with guerrillas, RPG launchers, and AK-47s.

Bashir, in the first of three trucks, waved to Amerine and pulled into place in front of the captain’s truck; three more trucks fell in place behind Amerine and just ahead of Mag. As a group—seven Green Berets in two extra cab trucks and sixty guerrillas packed into six king cab trucks—they headed toward the labyrinth.

That was unbelievably organized
, thought Mike, watching Tarin Kowt shrink away in the rearview mirror.

While Amerine’s lead element began to ascend the road toward Tarin Kowt Pass, the main element met up with the twenty remaining guerrilla vehicles waiting on the edge of town. The rain had stopped and the roads were nearly dry when Bari Gul’s truck took its place ahead of JD, followed by the shuttle bus. As Karzai’s bus passed, the cobbled-together militia honked their horns and cheered for him.

The first few miles went well.

Hey
, thought Fox as they drove around the cemetery and into the labyrinth,
this is not too bad. We’re moving, the skies are clearing, air cover will be back up shortly. We’re heading south.

They traveled past ODA 574’s original position overlooking Tarin Kowt Valley, down the long traverse, and onto the valley floor. Then, as if someone had waved a green flag, cars and trucks veered out into the desert and swooped back, falling into place alongside Karzai’s shuttle bus to wave at him. More trucks came in from the sides of the valley, as if they’d been lying in wait. The unsettled Americans couldn’t tell who was going and who was coming. An approaching truck full of men waving AK-47s could have charged ahead, spun around, and returned—or it could be a bunch of suicidal Taliban.

This
, thought Major Bolduc,
is a freakin’ disaster.

For Fox’s communications sergeant, twenty-five-year-old Nelson Smith—who had just graduated from language school and was about as fresh to Special Forces as they come—the confusion was more a distraction than a worry. This was his first look at the countryside beyond Tarin Kowt, where Bedouins and goatherders roamed the land. He saw steel-armored wreckage of modern warfare rusting near the ruins of ancient earthen fortresses. At roadside stands, Frisbee-sized disks of flat bread cooked in traditional clay ovens hung from Coca-Cola signs riddled with bullet holes. On long sections of road, if it weren’t for the smell of exhaust, the sounds of laboring engines, and occasional gunfire from the exuberant Afghans, he imagined the country looked as it did when Alexander the Great fought his way through these very mountains and deserts. Beyond Tarin Kowt Pass, villages appeared out of nowhere, like rest stops along an interstate highway. “Here comes another Cracker Barrel,” Bolduc proclaimed to Smith as these choke points forced the guerrillas’ vehicles to briefly converge.

At dusk, the main group approached the lead group, now parked haphazardly on the shrubby, rolling terrain. At this unplanned stop, the dust settled while guerrillas from both elements of the convoy got out of their trucks, unfurled carpets, and knelt down to pray—their only synchronized movement of the entire day.

“So much for our forty-five-minute lead,” said Alex.

From the bed of the same truck, Mike coined what would become a regular saying for the men of ODA 574: “Fucked up as an Afghan convoy.”

The Americans waited as the Afghans prayed, rolled up their carpets, and returned to their vehicles.

“Okay, let’s roll,” Amerine said to Bashir, who was walking toward him. Seylaab translated Bashir’s response as the guerrilla handed a stack of flat bread to Amerine. “No, we will leave soon. Now we eat.”

An hour and a half later, the lead section of the convoy edged slowly into the night, crossing the open desert of southern Uruzgan Province. Then the road narrowed and climbed into the mountains, where a sheer drop on one side and a rock wall on the other forced
the convoy into order. In the open air of the truck bed, Amerine craned his neck to look up at the rock face above them. He imagined the anxiety the Soviet patrols must have felt in these craggy canyons, tailor-made by Allah to conceal the faithful as they terrorized the infidels passing through them. He understood now why the Soviets had for the most part avoided Uruzgan, and was thankful that Karzai had persuaded the clans in this region to allow them safe passage.