The barrage of questions got the others involved as well. Before Wagner could even begin to answer, the rest of the team began voicing their concerns. It was like a dam had burst, and the team leader became very frustrated. “No plan is perfect,” he said at one point, “but this is workable.”
Bishop didn’t think so. By the time the meeting was over, he and a couple of the other men were talking about aborting the effort. Some of the talk was just letting off steam, but Bishop seriously doubted that this operation was going to work. He couldn’t fault Wagner. The guy was obviously a professional with a lot of experience. Unlike most US forces, many military organizations didn’t have practically unlimited resources and learned to adapt with less than optimum equipment. This methodology, however, often resulted in higher causalities, and Bishop didn’t want to be a casualty.
Band-Aids
were in short supply by the end of the third day. Badly fitting boots were mostly to blame. The situation became so bad that Wagner finally capitulated and let all those who had something other than US military issue boots revert back to their original footwear. Bishop wore expensive hiking boots and welcomed discarding the poorly made and designed Soviet models. One man grumbled that the entire restriction was silly, as he had seen hundreds of pairs of US Army boots for sale in a Kabul market. Anyone could buy just about anything in Afghanistan, so footprints meant nothing.
Early on the fourth day, Wagner woke everyone up before dawn and said he had received the team's first assignment.
Despite misgivings about the overall tactics, the team hustled and was ready to go in short order. Three white UN marked SUVs left the farmhouse just as the sun was rising in the east. They drove through low foothills and rocky, desert terrain for four hours. Wagner was using a GPS in the lead vehicle, and eventually the small convoy arrived at the jump-off point. Each man had been issued 10 pounds of the oily, Russian explosive plus several magazines for his weapon. Water, a NATO entrenching tool, small medical kit, walkie-talkie with an earpiece, and two protein bars rounded out the kits. Bishop had his knife and survival net along with a few other items packed away in the old, poorly fitting, Soviet load gear.
The team formed up and began trekking across the Afghan countryside. It wasn’t incredibly difficult walking, and that was probably a good thing. Most of the team
wasn’t acclimated to the altitude, and the progress was slow.
They finally reached a
crest, and everyone studied the trail below. The ambush site was quickly agreed upon, and the men scrambled down the hillside to set up their individual components of the trap. Bishop was impressed with the other team members and their professionalism. Less than an hour later, everything was in place, and the men took up their positions, ready and waiting for the fly to enter the spider’s web.
The fly never showed up.
After waiting almost six hours, water was beginning to run low, aggravation was tracking high, and it was getting dark. Wagner finally relented, and the team meandered back to the waiting SUVs. The drive back to the farmhouse was exceptionally quiet. Bishop was actually glad nothing had happened. The exercise had given the team a little practice, and they would be better the next time. He didn’t mind the dry run at all.
On day six, they received the next report of a caravan. The same basic process was repeated, only this time, they couldn’t find the trail. After scouring several kilometers of Afghan foothills, Wagner finally agreed to abort. The tired bunch of men headed
“over the river and through the woods to the farmhouse”—grumbling the entire way.
On the way back to their wheeled transport, Bishop made a rare, public comment. “I hope we don’t walk into a US Army ambush dressed in these clothes and carrying these weapons. I bet they’ll shoot first and ask questions later. If there’s anyone left to answer those questions, that is.”
While the remark generated several chuckles and one “No shit,” the concept struck a nerve with the team. While the SUV commandeered the rocky countryside, military fashion and outfitting was the primary topic of conversation. Wagner was asked if there were any way to let the big Army know where the team was operating, as none of the men wanted to make the trip home in a body bag, the victim of fratricide. His curt reply consisted only of “I’ll check on it.”
The next day, Wagner and Rotten-puss left the team behind at dawn, driving off in one of the vehicles. Bishop was sorely tempted to hotwire one of the other SUVs and head back to the airport to hitch a ride out. He visualized making his report while standing in front of
the colonel and quickly decided to stay put.
Wagner returned that night and called everyone together. He said that the team would be provided with more detailed, satellite intelligence and guidance from now on. He claimed that those footing the bill for the
operation understood the situation and had pledged to make improvements. Bishop asked about the remote detonators and was given a dirty look followed closely by, “We’re working on it.”
Early on day eight, the
team received another “mount up” order, and again the three SUVs charged through the desert. The location given was far more accurate, and they found the trail after only two hours of walking. The problem this time was the terrain, as there was no good place in sight to set up the ambush. Wagner was becoming impatient and needed results. He ordered the ambush anyway, and the team set about improvising.
Two hours later, Bishop spotted a line of pack animals moving along the trail. He watched with nervous anticipation as the
convoy approached the kill zone. By all measures, this was a smallish caravan with only five horses, a short line of pack animals, and approximately 12 armed men.
The ambush had been staged at the bottom of a small dip in the trail. The 10 members of the team were spread along one side of the path, ready to rise up and shoot after the explosives detonated. Bishop was positioned right in the middle of the kill zone, lying prone behind a small pile of loose gravel. It was far from good cover, but this location didn’t provide any better options.
There was a single man carrying an AK at the point of the caravan, closely followed by the mule team. All of the men were armed, and they looked like a serious bunch of characters. Their tunics were dusty, as were their lengthy beards. Bishop could hear the escorts talking among themselves, and at one point even caught a short cackle of laughter. His earpiece came to life with Wagner’s voice broadcasting the unnecessary reminder, “Everybody wait until they hit the tripwire.”
A few moments later, the point man did just that
, stepping on a wire that was connected to four clusters of explosives rigged for simultaneous detonation. Bishop realized something had gone wrong before he even looked up. Instead of a roaring blast and shower of rocks, there had only been a meek little boom and unimpressive puff of smoke. When Bishop chanced a glance below, he saw the majority of the Afghans below standing around in shock at the explosion. Only one of the four clusters discharged, killing just the point man and the lead animal.
The
men below were recovering quickly. Bishop started shooting.
The sons of Afghanistan had suffered through years of warfare and were known for their bravery. Growing up amidst conflict results in more than just intestinal fortitude, as people develop fast reaction
times and recover quickly from explosions, gunshots, and other actions associated with battle. The men guarding the caravan were no exception.
Their first
reaction was to hug the earth, followed all too quickly by shooting back. The gunfire spooked the horses, causing the beasts to rear skyward, brandishing flared nostrils and wild eyes. The combination of dust, smoke, panicked animals and a terrible position resulted in Bishop having poor target acquisition while producing ineffective fire. He had to settle for a couple of quick, three-round bursts from the AK, aiming at any movement that caught his attention. Evidently, the return fire from below was louder and more concentrated because the horses ran away from their former masters and up the incline. The charging animals only added to the confusion and multiplied Bishop’s problems.
For some reason, Bishop couldn’t bring himself to aim at the animals and tried to shoot around them. The Afghans probably knew this would happen because they
seized that brief period of Bishop’s hesitation to gather their wits, and then began charging up the hill behind the horseflesh line of cannon fodder. It was pure coincidence that the easiest route uphill led directly at Bishop. All of a sudden, he was dodging sharp hooves as well as a significant volume of incoming lead.
Smoke, screaming animals, gunfire and the shouts of desperate men created mass confusion and the inevitable fog of war. Despite the chorus of bedlam around him,
an uneasy feeling rose in the back of Bishop’s mind, an eerie sensation that he was the only one shooting. It might have been a trick of sound caused by the bark of the AK rolling off the surrounding hillsides, or perhaps he was in the early stages of panic. Whatever the cause, it sure didn’t feel like much lead was being directed at the men charging his position. After the stampeding horses had passed by, Bishop raised up and let loose a long burst of automatic fire. His efforts were repaid by dozens of rounds snapping past his head. The men from the caravan were within 100 feet, shooting from the hip and screaming ferocious cries of battle as they gained ground.
The
dire situation worsened when movement caught Bishop’s eye. He watched in horror as a grenade arched through the air directly at his position. Managing one and a half steps and then a lunge for the ground, Bishop landed squarely on the AK magazines strapped to his chest. The hard earth, poor angle and badly designed load vest resulted in the impact knocking the air from his lungs. That painful collision was minor compared to the grenade’s concussion. A giant hammer slammed into Bishop’s left side, picking him up and then flinging him down while vacating what little oxygen remained in his lungs.
Two things happened almost simultaneously. A shadow appeared over Bishop, and the roar of a rifle reverberated
off the surrounding stone cliffs. Bishop managed to move his head enough to see the Marine pumping AK rounds into the charging Afghans. Slowly gathering his wits, a stunned Bishop managed to move his body slightly in a vain attempt to use his weapon. He couldn’t control his arms.
It was then that the second event occurred. Without warning, the line of men
charging up the knoll disappeared in a roaring hailstorm of red rain, flying debris, and dust. The scheme looked as though a curtain of boiling magma had descended of the Afghans. Shocked at the vision, Bishop’s attention was then drawn to the sky as a black helicopter roared overhead—a multi-barrel Vulcan mini-gun showering a laser-like beam of tracer rounds and hot lead onto the attackers. Firing over 6,000 rounds a minute, Bishop watched the door gunner walk the stream of lead up and down the group of charging men. The carnage was off the scale.
The Marine yelled, “Oh, yeah! It’s the cavalry! Now that’s how you take out a convoy!”
Bishop was fascinated as the gunship banked sharply, flared its nose, and quickly lost altitude on the far side of the bloodbath below. Rather than landing, the craft slowly progressed in a straight line, the skids just a few feet from the earth. One by one, five men in full combat load began leaping out and moving toward the site of the ambush. After the last had exited, the pilot landed in a position where the door gunner and his dominate mini-gun could cover his comrade’s approach.
Nice
, thought Bishop,
very nice. That’s one tricky deployment.
The haze of smoke and dirt partially obscured the approaching team, but Bishop could see well enough to determine they were skilled. Fanning out from the bird, they spaced perfectly so as to leave a field of fire for the supporting mini-gun.
Two of the men immediately progressed toward the pack animals where they began cutting loose bundles of cash. The other three advanced toward the string of dead Afghans, strewn about in grotesque poses of death. Bishop was shocked when the lead man drew his pistol and fired a round into the first corpse. There was no hesitation. His action was quickly followed by his comrades’ systematically depositing a bullet into each body along the line.
What the hell
, thought Bishop,
who are these guys?
The action of the newcomers tore at Bishop’s consc
ience. Killing wounded men on any battlefield was somehow just wrong. While it was doubtful any of the Afghans had survived the initial attack, that was beside the point. Each summary execution boiled Bishop’s anger to a higher temperature. Were it not for being completely outgunned and still recovering, he might have begun firing his own weapon.
Watching as the first bundles of cash were being carried back to the idling copter, Bishop noticed there weren’t any markings on the craft. No unit insignia, no numbers—nada.
The Marine next to Bishop was obviously angered as well. In a whispered voice he muttered, “What the fuck? Americans don’t do that,” and started to rise. Bishop reached for the man’s load vest and pulled him down.
“Quiet,” Bishop hissed under his breath, “Look at the
bird … these guys
aren’t
US military.”
He could tell the Marine was furious, but the man held his temper. “CIA?”