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SEPTEMBER DAY By Larry Schweikart, author of the best selling, "A Patriot's History of the United States" OFFICIAL WEB SITE |
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4TH EXCERPT - From Section Three - Infinite Justice |
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Mazar e-Sharif, Afghanistan, October 2001 Agents in the Company called him “Camel,” for his Arabic name, Kham-el Hamzi. A Saudi by birth, he was an American citizen. Camel was also one of the best Pashtun speakers that the CIA could put in the field, and was better-than-average with Arabic and Farsi. For two weeks he had been inside Afghanistan, having driven in overland from Ternez, Uzbekistan, where it met a representative of the so-called “Northern Alliance,” a group of tribes in the northern part of Afghanistan that steadfastly resisted the Taliban. Although the Taliban controlled Mazar e-Sharif, their soldiers could not venture far from town, or their headless bodies would be discovered next to the heads on a stake. Although he knew better from the previous trips, Camel half-expected a Bedouin-type tribesman instead of the rough mountain fighters he usually met. Instead, at Ternez, he was surprised when an 18-year-old in a Nike t-shirt and jeans drove up in a chewed up Range Rover. “Mohammed al-Droge,” he said hopping out of the jeep and shaking Camel’s hand. Camel nodded, and introduced himself as Abdul Nozri. He seldom used his real name, even in the States, and certainly not in the field. “Your trip was pleasant,” asked Mohammed, flashing a knowing smile (minus a tooth) that the trip was anything but pleasant. “It is always a challenge, and a pleasure, to enter your country,” Camel diplomatically replied, then immediately began to pump the young driver for information. “How close are your forces to Mazar e-Sharif?” “We operate right up to the city’s edge, and the Taliban forces don’t dare leave the city at night,” Mohammad answered proudly, gesturing him to climb in the Range Rover. “Sounds like General Masood is in control of the battlefield,” Camel smiled. The young man nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Masood is a great leader. He has united all the northern tribes---what you Americans call, the ‘Northern Alliance,’ to evict the evil Taliban. They are not true Muslims. They are heretics, and evil. Worse, they have brought in the Arabs.” Afghans hated Osama’s crowd, thought Camel. Afghans derisively referred to all foreign fighters brought in by al-Qaeda as “Arabs.” He studied his young driver as the Rover hit 60 miles per hour. For Afghanistan, this was a pretty good highway---two lanes with intermittent potholes. But they were small potholes, and Camel could carry on a conversation if he yelled. Since his objective was to gather information, he made every effort to keep Mohammad talking. “What are your forces? Are you badly outnumbered?” Based on the CIA’s own reports, the Northern Alliance had about 15,000 men, but they were seasonal, and General Ahmed Masood could only count on half that number in any given battle with the Taliban. Still, he wanted to get Mohammad’s reaction, partly to see how truthful (or informed) he was, and partly to keep the discussion going. Mohammad turned and smiled. “General Masood will explain all things strategic to you. It is not my place. But know this: the Taliban cannot defeat us in the north.” Crap! The kid ain’t dumb. But something troubled him: “can’t defeat us in the north?” Does that mean the Northern Alliance can’t beat them in the south? The central part of Afghanistan, which was flanked by Kabul on the Pakistani border and Herat on the Iranian side, was where all intel put Osama’s main bases. So the rat can scurry over to his friendly enclaves in Pakistan when he needs to. Camel knew that Bush already had put pressure on Pakistan’s “President” and military strongman, Pervez Musharraf, to seal the border, but everyone knew that even if Musharraf made a determined effort to do so, it would take virtually the entire Pakistani army to clean out the area around Peshawar in the northern part of the Sulaiman Mountain Range. Musharraf was making all the right noises, but how effective he would be . . . well, I’m not holdin’ my breath, thought Camel. The kid said little else until they reached a series of dirt roads that seemed to turn into and alternating landscape of desert and small mountains, until they pulled into a large camp, bristling with pickups, horses, and above all, guns. Every man not only carried a weapon---usually the Russian-made AK-47, but at least one bandolier slung across his body. Mohammed escorted Camel to a tent, which, from the outside looked spartan. Inside, Camel found it cozy, with the earth floor covered by rugs, pillows, and mats. A makeshift fireplace in the middle of the room was necessary for the cold Afghan nights, and small desks and chairs were arranged so as to focus on the several maps pinned to the far tent wall. It was low tech, but effective. A moment later a short man with a beard, wearing a flak jacket and a short, Afghan headdress entered the room. “I am General Masood,” he announced, bowing, then extending his hand. Camel bowed, shook hands, and said, “I am honored. My name is Abdul.” Masood looked at him skeptically, as if to say, “We both know this game,” and paused. Finally he said, “As you wish, Abdul.” “I assume you are from the CIA, and I assume that you will not be the first American agent to come to Afghanistan.” “Actually, I am a Saudi. Otherwise, you are correct, general, but unfortunately, large numbers of our men will not arrive for weeks.” “And in the meantime, you want us to fight the Taliban for you, is that correct?” The general obviously knows the score. Camel considered his options, following the CIA playbook of desirability, but, sizing up Masood, decided this was the time for truth . . . or, at least, a measure of it. “Here’s the situation, general. Americans are pissed, big time. Do you understand that phrase?” Masood smiled and nodded enthusiastically. “This time, we’re not going to fire some cruise missiles at Osama. We’re going in and kick ass. You’re familiar with that phrase? Another knowing smile from Masood. “Yes, you’re absolutely right. We need help until our people get here---but they will get here. In the meantime, I’m prepared to offer you an unprecedented level of intelligence support, air power, up-to-date weapons, and anything else we can provide---except American troops---until those forces get here. One way or another, the Taliban will be gone. We aren’t going to play “pick the leader” for you Afghans---and I know, you probably don’t have a lot of reason to trust us on this, but that’s a fact. Our only goal here is to make sure that whoever is in charge of Afghanistan does not support terrorists and is not a throwback to the 8th century in terms of their religion. Democracy, parliament, spin-the-bottle, we don’t give a crap, as long as you are 100% terrorist-un-friendly. Am I clear?” During Camel’s exposition, several of Masood’s lieutenants had joined them in the tent. Camel, suddenly noticing them, surveyed their looks. They were smiling. He added, “and we plan to assist our friends here with unprecedented amounts of money. Still with me?” They were all grinning like they had been handed the keys to a condo in Venice Beach. Masood crossed his arms, studied the agent in front of him, then looked at the map. “We hate the Taliban, and not just because they are political rivals. They are bad for our people. They have set back progress---what very little of it there was in Afghanistan---30 years. But to take in these Arabs as friends and to link our tribes to these attacks . . . . It is completely condemned by the Koran. We fought the Taliban without you. We will fight them with you. We welcome your help, but you do not mind if we, shall we say, question your promise to leave after toppling the Taliban and capturing Osama bin Laden. If you do, well enough. If you overstay your welcome ... He looked at Camel with a lifted eyebrow, and Camel responded with an understanding nod. “Regardless, if we---and you---are successful, there will be some work to do in rebuilding the nation back to where it was before the Taliban . . .” he added, “and before you leave.” Camel agreed. “Yes, my government is fully aware of its responsibilities. Masood, the government now is different from the last one, and I know these may seem like empty words to you. But this president realizes that we cannot give “place to the devil,” I believe the Bible says. We cannot allow conditions to be such that terrorism seems a good employment choice. So Afghanistan is key, not only to getting rid of al-Qaeda, but in establishing a country that won’t tolerate groups like al-Qaeda.” Masood surveyed his lieutenants, few made any motion, but he knew their mood. They all agreed. “Well enough. Each day brings its own trouble. For now, the concern must be with the Taliban forces in Mazar e-Sharif. To this point, we have been unable to dislodge them. They have too much artillery and too many armored vehicles. What can you do about that?’ “Plenty. One of my assignments is to be a liaison between you and six more men who will be here tomorrow.” “Six men! You propose to aid us with six men?” “General, these are only the most advance guard. They are Delta Force soldiers who are experts in laser targeting. Whatever they target, or “paint” with their lasers, will be destroyed by American aircraft and missiles that you will never see. They will quickly eliminate---or at least, greatly reduce---your problem in Mazar e-Sharif with artillery and armor.” Masood was a shrewd combat leader, but he had only seen vague references to such weapons from the Gulf War. He held up his hand, palm first, to Camel, instructing him to silence while he conversed quietly with several of his officers. They gestured enthusiastically. “My officers tell me you can do this with a great degree of success.” “We can. If the United States removes the enemy’s armor and artillery, can your forces take the city?” Wondering if he had just made a deal with the devil, Masood confidently replied, “We can.” “Good. Then by tomorrow, my team will arrive by helicopter, and we can commence offensive operations at your command.” The Americans, thought Masood, will certainly bring a new form of ‘enlightenment’ to the Taliban! “General,” yelled the Ram. “The CNN news crew is here to interview you.” Masood liked the Ram---his name was Ahmed Phalevi, but he was as clever a scout as anyone had ever seen. He could get into the most impassible mountain valleys, hence, “the Ram.” He had been a loyal member of the Alliance for close to two years, and Masood trusted him with his life. Two men walked behind Phalevi, one with a video camera on his shoulder, the other with a microphone extended and a cord reaching back to the first. Masood dutifully walked over to meet them. He had been contacted several weeks ago about an interview. Anything that helps bring down the Taliban. “Blessings be upon you. Where would you like to talk?” Masood asked gesturing to the mountains behind him. When he turned back, he saw that the cameraman had extracted a gun from the camera. He had no time to reach for his own pistol. Six shots hit him square in the chest before his soldiers gunned down the “CNN” crew. He would not know that his assassins had been sent directly on the orders of Osama bin Laden. Skies over Ternez, Uzbekistan Chico obsessively cleaned his fingernails with his K-bar knife while Mick stared straight ahead, working his gum intensely. Interesting, thought Chico, that the K-bar---a cross between a Bowie knife and serrated line-cutter---was not developed by the Army or even the Marines but the Navy. Damn pollywogs. Even a blind chipmunk finds an acorn now and then. Mick, sitting across from him, remained totally in the “zone.” It was his ritual before a mission. He wouldn’t talk to anyone until they disembarked, whether by parachute or, as they would later, march off a ramp. Sitting in silence, his mind replayed the mission over and over, even if it was only something trivial like setting up a camp, which they would do later, and prepare for ground transport to Afghanistan, which they would do within 36 hours. Their briefing was full of “TBDs”---to be determined, as events on the ground unfolded. So far, they knew they were to set up a camp, pick up ground transport to a Northern Alliance base outside Mazar e-Sharif, and integrate with the Northern Alliance forces under Ahmed Masood. They had all heard about him. He apparently was the only one with the connections to pull the NA tribes together, if you can ever “pull Afghans together” to do anything. A voice came over the intercom: “Descent. Five minutes to land.” The Rangers put away walkmans and Chico sheathed the K-bar. Mick finally snapped out of the zone and gave Chico an encouraging nod. “You ready, esse?” Chico replied with the Ranger acknowledgment, “Hoo-aah.” Within minutes, the 130 bounced onto the primitive airstrip—“landed” would be too generous—and the Rangers poured off the rear ramp. They assembled near a small building. Colonel S. C. “Scamp” Meadows did not look pleased after meeting with the Afghan interpreter. “All right, Rangers. Our job just got tougher.” Grim looks were exchanged among the soldiers. “The NA commander, Gen. Masood, was assassinated while we were en route by a couple of Osama bin Laden’s henchmen posing as a CNN news crew. Right now, as you might imagine, there is a little bit of turmoil in the NA to see who their new leader is, and, if you know anything about Afghan politics, this could get a little dicey. That doesn’t change our mission: link up and work with whoever comes out of this as top dog. Meanwhile, don’t do anything to appear to take sides among the NA tribes.” “Hoo-aaah” came the mass response. “Now fall out. Lieutenants have the info on where we pitch camp. Dismissed.” Meadows turned to his interpreter and asked, “Now, who the hell is in charge?” All he got in return was a shrug. Tora Bora Mountains, Afghanistan “Excellent. So much for General Masood.” Bin Laden smiled broadly as he listened through his cell phone. Then his smile suddenly faded. “They have?” He flashed a concerned look at Malid and Zawahiri, then masked it. “Keep observing and report regularly.” “Problem, Sharif?” asked Malid. “Not at all. Masood is dead. There apparently are some American Rangers at Ternez, but it is a small contingent. There is nothing to worry about.” He smiled the benign smile that Malid knew all too often concealed a black heart. Bin Laden tried to exude confidence but Malid could read him well. The Americans have not behaved as you predicted, Sharif. They reacted faster in closing their air space, and this new cowboy president is apparently not intimidated by Afghanistan’s geography. “I shall instruct Mullah Omar to issue a new fatwa against all Americans, man, woman, child. That should give them pause.” “Sharif,” protested Malid, “the Koran forbids attacks on innocents” which didn’t stop you from killing thousands in the towers. “The Pentagon and the towers were legitimate targets of American militarism and economic imperialism. But random killing of women and children? Even Muslims?” Actually, when Malid learned of the 9/11 attacks, it had sickened him, but it did not surprise him. He knew from the Hadith that the Prophet had ordered a horrific punishment on a group of thieves whom his followers caught: their hands and feet were cut off, their eyes put out, and they were left in the desert to die. But they were thieves and brigands. There was nothing in the holy books that justified destruction of innocents, especially without giving them the opportunity to convert to Islam. Still, he knew better than to utter such concerns aloud to bin Laden. Now, a new fatwa against every American? Malid knew Mullah Omar—the infamous “one-eyed cleric”—was a pliant bin Laden tool. He would do whatever Sharif ordered. How many would die then? Mazar e-Sharif, Afghanistan Within two weeks of the Rangers’ arrival, Camel, still known to Afghans as his code name of “Abdul,” had made contacts with Col. Meadows. Only Meadows knew he was an agent. He discreetly briefed the Colonel about Northern Alliance customs, troop sizes, and enemy positions. For the most part, he remained just another mujahadeen in the movement. Meadows had followed Camel’s advice to stay out of the inter-tribal arguments over who would replace Masood. Finally, General Tek al-Aziz, a Pashtun, emerged as the consensus. He lacked the charisma of Masood, but perhaps was an even better battlefield tactician. With the Rangers’ support, the Northern Alliance opened an offensive against the Taliban in Mazar e-Sharif. For more than a week it stalled. American journalists immediately sounded the claxons of doom, and the inevitable comparisons to Vietnam, plus the predictable word “quagmire,” sprang up in editorials and columns across the United States. Camel knew better. Strongholds held by the Taliban were rotten on the inside---false shells waiting to be cracked so that the natural yearning of the human spirit would burst free. The Taliban had no support inside Mazar e-Sharif, or almost any other town, for that matter. But they did have the troops and the artillery to give the Northern Alliance a battle. Still, Meadows had mounted some of his Rangers on horses as advance spotters, and they rode out with the Alliance forces, calling down American air support on Taliban positions. “The first cavalry charge of the 21st century,” Gen. Franks had called it. Mazar e-Sharif fell unexpectedly quickly as the Taliban scooted south. Now Kabul was open. Camel had to use caution in dreaming up different excuses to be away from his unit. Once his “sister” was ill, and he had to “return to his home town” briefly to help. Another time, he volunteered to go on a reconnaissance patrol---which took him exactly where he wanted to be anyway. Col. Meadows helped him when possible, requesting an interpreter for some of his forward recon units. Of course, Camel never made it to the units, but conducted his own intel gathering activities. What he learned was valuable: the Taliban and al-Qaeda had concentrated in Kabul, a little over 200 miles south of Mazar e-Sharif as the crow flies, but, of course, that crow better be able to fly over mountains. From what he gathered, they planned to adopt the “Mogadishu” strategy of forcing the Americans to send ground troops into the city and then inflict heavy casualties, whereupon the American public would demand a withdrawal. Camel knew such thinking was utterly naive, but nevertheless Meadows and Gen. Franks would have to be prepared. Meanwhile, U.S. forces (and some units of Canadians and British troops) had poured into Afghanistan, moving steadily through the mountainous roads toward the capital. Camel estimated some 5,000 men were there now, plus the Northern Alliance, opposed by perhaps 30,000 Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters. Is Osama bin Laden among them? Camel’s sources told him he was. We shall know soon enough. The assault on Kabul will begin within two weeks. Tora Bora Mountains, Afghanistan “We need to leave now, Sharif! The American forces smashed through the Taliban in Kabul like tissue paper and are on their way here.” Malid already had started to pack laptops and gather papers, but it seemed bin Laden and Zawahiri were in denial. Had he thought himself protected by this silly cave? thought Malid. “It is not possible!” bin Laden shouted---itself unusual as the man rarely raised his voice. Zawahiri had a cell phone glued to his ear. “They are telling me that all of the Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters have fled Kabul! The Northern Alliance is sweeping in from the north, and American Special Forces are to our southwest.” He clicked the cell phone off as bin Laden stood in the center of the room with a stupefied look on his face. “Sharif, perhaps we should indeed go. We should move east, to Pakistan.” “The Americans actually sent troops . . . “ he murmured. Then he grabbed Zawahiri by the shoulders. “We must unleash Allah’s Wind. Now!” Zawahiri vehemently shook his head. “No! It is not ready. We have not established our cell long enough in America. And in Cairo, they only last week got their radioactive materials from Iraq! We don’t even know if they have assembled the arming devices.” Malid listened intently to the exchange. Radioactive material? Iraq? I thought Sharif hated Saddam . . . and yet, Hazzam, our most dangerous chemical and biological specialist was in Iraq for months. Malid had heard stories of terrorists returning from Iraqi training camps, especially Salman Pak, where a Boeing 737 fuselage had provided hours of practice for hijackers. What radioactive material? Bin Laden uttered a curse---Malid had never heard him curse before. “We have no choice. Order “Allah’s Wind” to commence now! It will divert the Americans’ attention from us, and it will remind them of their enemy!” Zawahiri was as ruthless and cold-blooded as they came, but his objections had nothing to do with the death toll of “Allah’s Wind”---only its likelihood of success. “Sharif, Allah’s Wind is a more complicated operation than the attacks on the towers by several orders of magnitude. It is not just getting two different weapons in place, but it is the precise timing required by the winds. If we are to have our desired effect, we must strike when the weather patterns ensure broadest exposure.” Bin Laden was not persuaded. Jabbing his finger at a map of America, he said “The Great Satan is big enough that no matter which way the winds turn, we will achieve success. My only concern is here,” he said, flipping the Atlas to a map of the Middle East. “If we act now, can we assure destruction of the Jews and irradiation of Israel?” What in the name of the Prophet have you two planned? That would start a full-scale war, and we know that the Israelis have their own nuclear weapons. Malid seldom participated in such high-level discussions, but the two terrorists had completely forgotten about him, but he overheard enough. You would kill hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, in America? And irradiate the very atmosphere over Muslim countries? Will this not even irradiate Mecca if the winds shift in ways other than you expect? His thought process was interrupted by Zawahiri’s reply. “It is difficult to say,” Zawahiri said measuredly. “The Chicago device has it’s own ‘distribution source’ if you will: the Sears Tower is high enough to essentially make it airborne, which will ensure that the effect is spread over several U.S. states by the winds. But Cairo is another matter. The tallest buildings are all minarets, and there we are not using VX, but a dirty bomb. And, I would prefer a larger device in Cairo. But it will be sufficient to eliminate Israel. The more time we have to increase the ‘dosage,’ if you will, the greater the destruction.” Bin Laden let out another curse. “How long would you need?” He grew increasingly agitated. “If you want to abandon some of our safeguards, I could possibly push the schedule by a few months.” “Do so,” bin Laden instructed. “In the meantime, Malid is right. We must evacuate.” They hurriedly threw their remaining items into the SUVs. Malid jumped in the driver’s seat as bin Laden and Zawahiri climbed in the back of the first vehicle, gunning the engine and spraying rocks all over Mohammad and Karel in the second SUV when a huge explosion threw his truck into a spin and he hit the brakes. Behind them, the second SUV was nothing more than a cinder. “There!” shouted Zawahiri, pointing to the sky. Squinting, bin Laden could see a small aircraft, slowly circling. “That’s no American fighter plane! How did that attack us?” bin Laden asked in wonder. Suddenly, the Predator drone turned toward the SUV. “OUT!” screamed Malid, and they burst from the vehicle, rolling along the ground and down a gully to their left just as the Predator unleashed another Hellfire missile. The SUV disappeared in a ball of flame. “By the Prophet! How did they locate us so quickly?” Zawahiri muttered. “Horses! There are horses just a few kilometers away in the village of al-Kutar,” Malid said. “But we dare not move while that death machine is up there.” Bin Laden jerked his head at the Predator, still making lazy circles in the sky. “No, we must wait until dark and hope that it does not have infra-red imaging, or runs out of fuel. And in the mean time, hope that the Americans do not ‘carpet-bomb’ these mountains.” Malid now was convinced bin Laden had underestimated his foe. Has he also overestimated his call from Allah? Is he indeed under holy commands, or is he a deranged killer? Less than 10 “clicks” away, Sergeants Roland and Hernandez, with a handful of Rangers and their scout, Camel, secured a perimeter around a CIA field agent named Johnny Spann while he peered into a computer screen while he used a toggle switch to maneuver a Predator drone over the Tora Bora Mountains. He had fired two missiles at figures trying to flee in SUVs, and while he had destroyed both, he was not confident that he had killed the inhabitants, one of whom looked suspiciously like Osama bin Laden. “That’s it, boys,” he announced. “Outta gas. By the time we can get another on station, it will be night, and these boys will be gone. I’m pretty sure that’s our guy, though.” Chico and Mick exchanged skeptical glances. They’d heard Agency types before, and they were always “sure” that their intel was right. “Ok,” said Mick, “head ‘em back.” Chico made a circle in the air with his hand, as the Rangers headed back down the rocky trails to their personnel carriers some five kilometers away. They’d patrolled this area for almost a day, and this was the first contact with the enemy they had. But they were already extended way past their area of operations, and were needed closer to Kabul. “Don’t worry,” Spann said confidently. He had already contacted CENTCOM with his information. If a surgical strike didn’t take out the target, there was always the less subtle approach. “You won’t want to be around here later anyway. Trust me.” Chico and Mick exchanged puzzled glances, then, with Camel leading the column and Spann in tow, headed back to their rides. |