11
Men and
Mission
Attacking is the only secret. Dare and the world yields, or if it beats you sometimes, dare it again and you will succeed.
—WILLIAM MAKE PEACE THACKERAY
It took us about twenty minutes to get loaded after George gave us the bin Laden sighting report. Shag and I jumped in the backseat of the lead vehicle. We basically had to threaten a pair of locals to motivate them enough to take us up the road for the linkup with General Ali. Neither man spoke a word of English, nor was either a fighter, so they were pinging off the walls, nervously rocking back and forth in the front seat as we rolled out.
Shag did his best to get my questions answered, but the two locals knew little more than we did about what awaited us. Halfway into the trip to the front, word came from back at the schoolhouse that Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan had been pinned down by enemy fire, had been abandoned by the muhj, and had made a “Warpath” call. Our boys were in deep shit, escaping and evading, which made our mission even more urgent.
Not only were we on our way to take care of bin Laden once and for all, but we also had to weigh the significance of three of our men being in trouble and needing our help. This same classic dilemma is presented in military schools around the free world. What is more important: accomplishing the mission or taking care of your men? Sergeant Major Ironhead, Bryan, and Jim were wrestling with the situation as well, but they would look for me to make the call. I probably had about fifteen more minutes to ponder our response.
We had initially felt that the news of bin Laden being found was too good to be true, and as we proceeded slowly along the bumpy and narrow dirt road, that doubt bubbled to the surface again. This just didn’t have the feel of being the ultimate battle that would capture the most wanted man in the world, and the twilight time of day weighed heavily in our thoughts. The muhj had already abandoned three of our guys, so it was no sure bet that they would stick around after dark with us.
When we rounded a tight corner, we came face-to-face with a long convoy of vehicles that was blocking the road, with the good general himself in the lead vehicle. They were heading away from the fight!
Ali ceremoniously exited his SUV and approached us, illuminated by the headlights of our two vehicles crisscrossing each other. Ali ignored the jumpy Afghan guys in the front seat and approached Shag’s window, leaned inside and extended his right hand toward me, gave a victory smile, and said, “Commander Dalton!”
Then came a torrent of Pashto, and Shag and I had no idea what the general said, although it was obvious he was welcoming us and was happy about our arrival.
After only a minute or two of geniality, Ali was back in his SUV and once again was on the move, heading north, away from the fight. But he left us with the impression that he was merely looking for a place where he could turn his convoy around, so we could all move to the sound of the guns. That was not going to be the case. Not even close.
I didn’t want to believe what was really happening, but Shag pieced together enough of what our guides were saying to determine that Ali’s fighters were finished for the evening. They were all headed home to break their Ramadan fast.
The muhj force that we thought had bin Laden surrounded and trapped apparently had packed it in for the day and was hightailing it off the mountain in full retreat. It didn’t matter. We are pressing on and will figure it out when we get there. We proceeded south, hoping that we were wrong and that Ali and his boys were turning around and coming right behind us. Wishful thinking.
For the next few hundred meters, we wormed through a giant traffic jam as if swimming against a riptide. Dozens of muhj fighters were crammed inside the beds of pickup trucks or perched on the sides, most of them wrapped in blankets. Some strained their necks to get a look at our newer pickup trucks with mounted M-249 squad automatic weapons or M-240G machine guns, and loaded with Delta commandos who were strangely heading toward the fighting after dark.
Hope was fading that one of the general’s vehicles would eventually zip in front of our convoy, take the lead, and guide us to where we needed to be so that, together, we could all assault bin Laden’s location. The harsh truth was that we would not be seeing General Ali again for the next fifteen hours.
Something good was happening back at the schoolhouse. Reinforcements were coming in, trained professionals who could be an instant quick-reaction force if we needed help.
We had scooped up every task force member except Bernie, who was left at the base to monitor the radio and brief our squadron commander, Colonel Ashley, who was bringing in the new force—seven more Deltas and a couple of dozen Royal Marine commandos.
Lieutenant Colonel Al and another CIA man marked the landing zone for the inbound helicopters. They dropped five infrared light sticks on the sandy ground in the shape of a Y, to direct the pilot of the lead MH-47 helicopter to approach from the north, fly directly over the schoolhouse, and land facing the mountains. Instead, the bird ended up with the tail facing an adjacent building, with its big rotor whipping up an instant sandstorm.
Once the ramp hit the ground, the troops exited the helicopter carrying their heavy rucksacks and immediately headed into the nearest, but wrong, structure. The second helicopter mirrored the lead of the first and landed next to it and the rest of the troops hustled into the same building where their buddies had gone. A CIA operative hurried over to retrieve them.
The rotors of the two helicopters had created a blinding, massive brown ball of dust that roiled and churned over itself, darkening it to the point that only the static electricity of the rotor blades was visible. Within that dark and swirling cloud, one of the helicopters began to roll. . . directly toward the schoolhouse.
After moving roughly thirty yards, the helicopter’s front refuel probe smacked a three-foot-high stone wall and pierced it like a temperature gauge going into Mom’s roast. Colonel Al ran up the back ramp, grabbed the crew chief, and hauled him off to show him the damage.
“It was a brownout!” the crew chief calmly yelled over the engine noise, apparently not upset in the least. “Pilot must have taken his foot off the brake!”
By now the giant rotor blades were spinning violently, with the tips just a few feet above the roof of the schoolhouse in which Bernie was huddled. The helicopter had rolled itself into a mess. The pilot couldn’t back up, because any attempt to change the rotor blade pitch would have sheared off the roof of the schoolhouse and been catastrophic for both the aircraft and anyone inside or nearby.
So, he just gave the helicopter all the power it had and slowly lifted from the ground right there, the fuel probe simply forcing its way up through the loose stones of the fence. Fortunately, the United Nations had only built a single-story schoolhouse.
The British Royal Commandos were not too happy about having carried their heavy rucksacks into the wrong building, and that they were not welcomed by anyone. The CIA man rounded them up, when the helicopters were gone, and pointed them in the right direction. They ran across the yard to the schoolhouse and took a knee inside the yard.
One of the Brits remarked to Lieutenant Colonel Al, “Well, mate, that was quite the faf [sic], right?” Al didn’t need a translation. Apparently, the British slang term is synonymous with the American term “fubar” (fouled up beyond all recognition), and Al, who knew a potential disaster had narrowly been averted, was in total agreement.
Up the road, our convoy continued through the night, driving in blackout mode, with headlights off on all but the lead vehicle to prevent al Qaeda from seeing that an entire convoy was approaching. In retrospect, I probably should have jumped into the driver’s seat, killed the lights and driven on by using my NVGs. But I didn’t know where we were going, and giving the NVGs to the driver would have been of little use, for I doubted any Afghan local’s ability to drive with only 10 percent illumination and no headlights. We just had to rough it out. Perhaps General Ali had radioed ahead for his remaining troops to pick us up.
The boys up in OP25-A spotted the headlights probing through the darkness and Dugan commented with his Georgia drawl, “Those guys are gonna get hit if they don’t turn off those white lights. There’s still a mortar tube out there.” Sure enough, a couple of rounds soon impacted near the rear of the convoy.
Our guides became nervous, whispering, “Al Qaeda, al Qaeda.” When our driver came to a stop, I expected to see some muhj force that could guide us to within striking distance of bin Laden’s “surrounded” cave. Short of leading us to such a point, perhaps they would navigate us through the front lines and get us halfway there, or join us to make sure that we didn’t shoot the wrong folks.
There were no friendly muhj waiting, and our hired guides frantically pointed toward the dark peaks and warned us al Qaeda was only fifty meters down the road. They were nervous wrecks and had gone as far as they planned to. Beyond this point, they would not budge.
Jim sorted things out up and down the convoy, and the boys took up security positions. I walked up the road to see if I could make out any sign of friendly or enemy activity. Nothing! I radioed Ironhead, who was bringing up the rear of the convoy, to ask about Ali’s column.
Ironhead said that there was nothing behind us but pitch-black darkness all the way back down the road we had just traveled. No sign of the general or his muhj army in back, and no linkup party in front. Not good.
We tried to radio the schoolhouse for updates on bin Laden’s grid location, but again the jagged landscape played havoc with the transmissions. We could not talk to the schoolhouse, only half a dozen miles away, but the radio frequencies somehow bounced all the way back to our task force headquarters at the ISB, clear across the Arabian Ocean.
Much closer, we were also able to talk to Jester, Dugan, and India Team up in OP25-A. They filled us in on the status of Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan. Then machine-gun and small-arms fire interrupted what had been until then a confusing but peaceful night for us.
With the Admiral on the run, the bombing and air cover had come to a halt because there was no combat controller to direct the planes. OP25-A could not take control until the condition of the evading Jackal could be determined, or risk hitting them.
So al Qaeda and the muhj took advantage of the absence of airpower. They occupied the tops of the ridgelines directly to our front and rear and opened fire. Caught in the middle, we all took cover behind rocks and vehicles as bright green and red zipped through the night sky. Several rockets screamed overhead.
The only thing preventing us from being engaged in the firefight was the low elevation of the road we were on. Unless al Qaeda maneuvered forward, we were safe, and we doubted that they would leave their prepared defense positions to take their chances in the open. Our biggest concern was that the enemy mortars would attempt to engage us with indirect fire, but we believed that we were too close to the enemy’s own front line for the mortars to fire without hitting their own men.
Out of nowhere, a muhj fighter appeared from the darkness and told the guides that all of Ali’s forces had withdrawn, and then he also continued on down the road. Our guides were in a panic, for they were responsible for the vehicle in which we rode and couldn’t abandon it. But if it had not been for the string of vehicles blocking the road behind them, I’m sure they would have turned around and floored the gas pedal.
It was like a bucket of cold water over our heads to realize that there was no friendly muhj force coming forward, not General Ali, not even a lowly private. We were now the first string, and behind al Qaeda lines. Delta never minds being behind enemy lines, since we do a lot of that sort of thing, but the whole mission was unraveling.
Ironhead, Jim, Bryan, and I gathered at the fourth vehicle to sort out our next move. After the mass exodus we had seen on the road, it was pretty obvious that bin Laden was no longer surrounded, and perhaps never actually was. We had received no update on the grid position for more than an hour. Usama bin Laden, who had seemed so close, was now fading like a ghost.
Jim pulled our current location off his GPS and made a quick map check under a red-lens flashlight. We were roughly 2,500 meters in straightline distance from the last sighting spot given to us by George before we left the schoolhouse. Out here, though, it was impossible to walk anywhere in a straight line.
The friendly situation was as uncertain as the enemy situation, not an abnormal condition for anyone who has ever suited up to stand in harm’s way in the fog of war. Our guts told us that General Ali was finished for the night, but we did not want to stumble upon some muhj outpost we didn’t know about that wouldn’t be expecting us.
We still had no word from Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan. Neither had the boys at OP25-A, nor those back at the schoolhouse.
We could not change any of those adverse developments, but we could certainly try to reach our missing men. They were still alive, still evading, and needed help. Finally, we managed to establish some basic radio contact with them, but the rugged country kept the transmissions spotty and intermittent.
It was time for a decision. Ironhead looked at me and said, “Your call, sir, but whatever we do, I don’t think we should leave here until we have our boys back.” Jim and Bryan withheld their comments, for this was a decision only the commander could make.
I certainly wasn’t going to leave without our guys, but I had to factor in that we still just might be within striking distance of bin Laden, the objective of our mission. The overall order had been to “kill bin Laden, and bring back proof,” and the idea of giving up this chance of taking the top terrorist off the board was abhorrent to me.
I let the whole mess churn in my brain for a few seconds. It was my call because that’s the kind of complicated decision a commander must face on a battlefield. Nobody said it was going to be easy.
I looked at all three of my veteran sergeants and said, “Okay, we’ll have another shot at bin Laden. I absolutely agree with you all. We need to concentrate on recovering our boys first. If things change between now and then, we’ll go for bin Laden, too. If not, we’ll return to the schoolhouse and prep for insertion of the teams.”
Jim and Bryan replied, “Roger that,” and went to ready the force to locate our evading teammates.
We couldn’t reach Ashley back at the schoolhouse to fill him in, but I was again able, through the bouncing radio signal, to contact the Delta deputy commander back at the ISB. After explaining the situation with as much brevity as possible, he agreed with the decision.
I was not surprised to hear no second-guessing or armchair quarterbacking from the colonel. They had been monitoring the activities of the evening and had been only cautiously optimistic about the possibility of finding bin Laden anyway. But they also believed that other opportunities would come later, because we were so sure that he was trapped in Tora Bora.
It was both the hardest call I ever had to make and the easiest.
We left the guides behind and moved forward to the last known location of our evading teammates. Al Qaeda opened up, but although the heavy firing seemed all around, it actually was going over our heads since we were in a low position.
The mortars finally debuted with their whumping launches and wild explosions. It was a totally scrambled scene, and impossible to define. Was al Qaeda at our front, back, or sides? Or were there some friendly muhj out there actually engaging al Qaeda, with us caught in the middle? Then, it also could have been al Qaeda fighters firing at each other in the confusion of darkness, or friendly muhj shooting at other friendly muhj.
The one good fact was that al Qaeda obviously didn’t know that a whole bunch of Delta boys was in their midst, which gave us the edge. But we didn’t want to get into a shooting war with al Qaeda at this point, because the last thing you need when trying to recover friendly forces is to get bogged down in a direct firefight with the same folks your boys are trying to evade.
Alpha Team, led by Crapshoot, was given the nod to take four assaulters and scout the area forward. Getting some eyes up on the high ground might let us sort out the enemy positions so we could bring the AC-130 gunship into the game if the cloud conditions were safe.
Additionally, by gaining altitude, Alpha Team hoped to get Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan up on the FM radio. Crapshoot led his group into the night without hesitation, and I watched with pride through my NVGs as their dark green silhouettes moved into the unknown.
Crapshoot soon split his team and sent Juice and Brandon to the very top of the hill to settle into an overwatch position, prepare to call in close air support, and try to reach the missing guys on the radio. Meanwhile, he took Blinky and Mango, and the three of them curled beyond the hill to take a position from which they could assist the evading guys if one or more of them should be wounded and need to be carried.
From the schoolhouse, the special intelligence interceptors gave us a running commentary on al Qaeda’s shortwave radio calls that were being monitored in Arabic, Urdu, and Farsi.* It was clear the enemy knew that someone was still in the neighborhood and not everyone had left the field for the night. Fortunately, Skoot, the top interceptor himself, was along on our mission and listened to the various enemy groups attempting to find us. None of this was too alarming, until Skoot picked up a transmission that they were readying the RPGs.
Was that newly arrived QRF attempting to infiltrate the mountains in their helicopters? This was unlikely, but certainly possible, particularly since radio communications with the schoolhouse was sporadic and we wouldn’t have known that such an assault was in the works. But it would have been a suicide mission. There was no place to land among the tight crags, and to hang up there long enough for the boys to fast-rope down would make the noisy helicopters sitting ducks for al Qaeda shooters.
The more likely scenario was that the nervous al Qaeda gunners were planning to waste their precious RPG rounds by firing at the relatively high-flying AC-130 gunship that was still droning above, waiting for the clouds to clear. This was something we observed on numerous occasions during daylight hours, when the enemy tried to reach a bomber at 30,000 feet with a shoulder-fired grenade with a range of only several hundred meters.
We had more to worry about than the enemy’s RPG stockpile. Like whether al Qaeda was readying to assault us, or if Alpha Team was walking into an ambush, or if things were going to hell for the three Americans still on their Warpath escape-and-evasion trek through bad-guy territory.
On their way down the ridge, Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan came upon a small group of muhj hiding behind an old, burned-out tank, hoping that their fighting was done for the night. Our boys were not keen about approaching the muhj at night after a major engagement, particularly since the muhj had shown nothing but fear of al Qaeda’s reputation for night fighting. There was a definite possibility that the muhj might mistake them for al Qaeda and open fire.
Hopper and the Admiral took the lead, since they were wearing the best NVGs money could buy. Adam Khan and the few muhj fighters still with them fell in to the rear. Hopper then realized the line was out of order. If he happened upon a local with a nervous trigger finger who barked out any command in a language other than English or Russian, then Hopper would be woefully unprepared to calm the challenger. That could spark an unintended firefight. So he shuffled the line and moved the muhj to the front while he, the Admiral, and Adam Khan stayed within earshot.
It turned out that the retreating muhj had positioned small groups of fighters to control passage along the ridgeline trails, and General Ali issued a new password to his fighters every day. When they challenged the approaching group, it took only a few seconds to realize the password the escorts were trying to use was wrong. As AK-47 bolts slammed forward and the rifles were being raised, it was Adam Khan’s turn at bat. He had to try to talk their way through before anyone started pulling the trigger.
Accusations of being al Qaeda were thrown around, but once the muhj at the checkpoint finally recognized that they were all on the same side, they immediately changed their tune and began to demand money. Adam Khan bargained a toll of one hundred American dollars, to be paid later by General Ali. Adam Khan was biting his lip in fury, but it would have been a waste of time to admonish the checkpoint personnel over a bit of bribery, which was a common custom in tribal warfare.
They were allowed to pass, but within the next thousand meters the team had to get by two more checkpoints, and each time Adam Khan was forced to negotiate through the extortion. When it was finally over, he “forgot” to remind Ali that the general owed those guys some money.
We later learned they were not even Ali’s men, nor were they all particularly loyal to the other Jalalabad area warlord, the slippery Haji Zaman Ghamshareek. Some were not on either side, but were just armed fencesitters who would play for the highest bidder and demand bribes of passersby.
While Adam Khan made deals and Hopper watched everything that was happening, the Admiral tried the radio again, manipulating his satellite antenna to increase the range, and was finally able to reach the schoolhouse and update their situation.
Crapshoot’s team also picked them up on the transmission, determined that they were close by, had not been detected, and were unhurt. Within about fifteen minutes, they all linked up south of Mortar Hill. Only two muhj were still with them. Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan had spent more than two hours covering some two thousand meters over incredibly unforgiving terrain, under fire much of the time and at constant risk. When we finally reached the little group, I’m not sure who was happier to see whom, because I honestly had thought we wouldn’t find them alive.
I’m not sure how many pounds of bombs the Admiral called in during his excursion, but the local field commander was amazed the following morning at how accurate the bombs had been and how the Admiral could get them so close to the friendly positions without causing casualties among the wrong people. It would have been nice if that local commander had stuck around the battlefield a little longer the previous night.
Then there was the sterling performance of Adam Khan. Sure, he was a former marine and understood normal military tactics and procedures, but he also was a former civilian. How would he react when left behind enemy lines with two American commandos? He could not have performed any better.
With the successful recovery of our teammates, we refocused on whether to continue on after bin Laden. It was tempting, but the more Ironhead, Jim, Bryan, and I discussed the situation, the less prudent the idea seemed.
To push forward unilaterally meant that we would be going it alone, without any muhj guides or security. Without a local guide’s help in identifying friend from foe, we would have to treat anyone with a weapon as hostile, even a possible friendly muhj. Otherwise, we would risk being stitched with machine-gun fire, because we knew al Qaeda was roaming about. Dropping one of the general’s fighters by mistake would sour our developing relationship with Ali and compromise much of the careful work done by George and his team.
Then there was the problem of the checkpoints. We did not have the luxury of prior coordination to pass through them, and how many might be out there was anyone’s guess. In addition, we were unsure of their loyalties. While on their E&E, Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan had no choice but to negotiate their passage, but a full assault force of more than thirty Delta operators would not bargain passage through makeshift Afghan tollbooths.
One final variable was that our higher headquarters had repeatedly directed us not to spearhead any assault on bin Laden’s cave sanctuary. Our job was to facilitate the muhj advance, follow closely behind, and be in a position to exploit their progress. That was bullshit. Even if it was not in the approved script, should the battlefield dynamics dictate that Americans move to the front and lead the attack, well, Delta was more than willing to oblige.
Only days earlier, I had looked General Ali in the eye and given him my word that we would share the danger but not the glory. I promised that we would move into the mountains to drop bombs and assist his advance. It just was not that clean. Were we only to occupy the schoolhouse grounds and not really fight unless we all happened to be in bin Laden’s cave at the same time? All things being equal, this concern had little weight.
Jim, Bryan, and Ironhead spoke their pieces and offered suggestions and options. They remained noncommittal whether to press on or to withdraw to the schoolhouse to coordinate an assault with Ali’s forces and dedicated bomber support the next day. I could feel their eyes on me.
Again, it was my decision. I stood there for a moment before reaching for the handset and calling Ashley, who was now at the schoolhouse. I passed him our intentions. We were coming back.
I was uncertain if Sergeant Major Ironhead agreed until he simply said, “Good call, sir.”
I’m still not so convinced that it was. My decision to abort that effort to kill or capture bin Laden when we might have been within two thousand meters of him still bothers me. In some ways I can’t suppress the feeling of somehow letting down our nation at a critical time.
On our way back to the schoolhouse the boys up at OP25-A tracked our movement through their long-range spotting scopes. They weren’t the only ones watching. Skoot intercepted an al Qaeda transmission: “Don’t wait for the lights, just fire.” They didn’t even come close.
I laid my M-4 assault rifle against my ruck next to the gray wall. I removed my black Kevlar helmet and the attached NVGs and gently laid them on my cardboard sleeping mat. The flimsy door creaked open as I bent over to take off my black assault vest and I saw Lieutenant Colonel Al silhouetted by the yellow flickering light of the kerosene lamp. He was shaking his head slowly, and I could faintly make out his slight grin.
“Man, you guys are some brave-ass mothers,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Coming from a Special Forces officer and longtime member of the CIA’s Special Activities Division, it was quite a compliment.
“Just another day at the office, Al. It’s what we are here for,” I offered.
“Yeah, I know all that shit. But your guys just got here, someone yells ‘bin Laden,’ and y’all haul ass into the fire. Any other unit would have thought about it for a day or two, developed a risk assessment, called for permission, or figured out a way not to go.”
“Well, Al, that was the pre-nine-eleven military. I’d like to think all that conventional bureaucracy crap and risk aversion went out the window when the Towers fell.” I dug into my pouch of Redman tobacco. “Want some?” I mumbled with my mouth full.
I slept the sleep of the righteous that night, curled up next to Adam Khan.
While we were dead to the world, one of the CIA ’terps reported that the journalists over on Press Pool Ridge had heard the helicopters’ arrival at the schoolhouse and were stirring for a story.
Ali’s subordinates reasoned it would be bad publicity for the general if the QRF was still around when the sun came up and the reporters and photographers spotted American and British faces. That just would not do!
So the MH-47 Dark Horses, pride of the 160th SOAR, returned, landed only meters from the schoolhouse and took away all of the new arrivals, including Ashley, to resolve the delicate situation.
I slept through it all.
The boys in OP25-A were magnificent that night. While we rested, they didn’t sleep a wink, and that yielded the payoff moment for Ski’s decision to have his India Team spend the night at the observation post. One of his boys was Dallas, who was using a MilCAM Recon thermal sight that we affectionately called the Darth Vader, and Dallas finally saw what everyone had been hoping for—the signature flash of an outgoing mortar round as it left the tube.
Fellow sniper Dugan slipped his wool hat back and grabbed his Izlid infrared marking laser. Dallas talked Dugan onto the mortar location by using the horizon lines of Larry, Curly, and Moe, and the OP25-B opposing ridgeline as reference points.
That may sound simple, but writing about it and executing it are two entirely different things. Words can’t do justice to how difficult this was because the difference between the view through a hot thermal system and a set of night vision goggles is literally night and day. As Dugan and Dallas worked their side of the magic, Ski and Jester came up with a target grid, which they handed to Spike, the team’s air force combat controller. Spike rang up the gunship. The clouds that had shielded the enemy had moved away, and the Spectre was eager to pounce.
As the AC-130 bored circular counterclockwise holes in the sky, the boys labored to tag the mortar tube for the gunship, and Dugan managed to get the Izlid’s infrared laser exactly on the spot that Dallas had found, although they were working with entirely different tools. Dallas’s thermal imager picked up heat sources, not infrared sources—so he couldn’t actually see the laser that Dugan was using to sparkle the mortar.
The gunship aimed at the tip of the laser and fired a single round from its 105mm howitzer and scored a first-round direct hit. Spike followed up with the order to fire for effect and the gunship lit up the target area with more 105mm rounds and a great many pickle-size bullets from the ripping 25mm Vulcan cannon.
The boys didn’t need to see warm bodies flying through the air to know they’d hit the mark. After taking a moment to pass high fives around the OP and to slap Dugan and Dallas hard on their backs, they all got back to work. Knocking out that pesky mortar was just another piece of business.
Signals intelligence would confirm there were no further enemy transmissions from that location. The elusive and persistent enemy mortars that had nagged us for several days were finally out of the game. It had taken less than ten minutes from the moment they were spotted.
Spike continued to control close air support missions throughout the night while India Team worked the thermals and Kilo Team worked the NVGs and radios. Spike orchestrated the dropping of payload after payload on known and suspected enemy locations, sending the clear message that darkness no longer would protect the al Qaeda mountainous sanctuary.
* Michael Smith, in his book Killer Elite, discusses in detail the history of these special signal collectors.