War Diaries Part III
The War in Afghanistan | 99 Days

Chapter 11: Tora Tora Bora

The White Mountains soar 12,000 feet into an azure blue sky. They are snow-capped. Jagged. Princely. And because America's blood enemy, Al Qaeda, are burrowed into their crevices, they are being blasted away, slowly, but relentlessly with every passing American B-52 and B1B Bomber.

You hear the planes before you see them--and then it is just their contrails. Dual streams of smoke sketching arcs overhead. They drop their payloads and bank south, back to across Eastern Afghanistan, back across the Indian Ocean to their bases at Diego Garcia. They fly so high their crews cannot possibly know what their bombs look, sound, smell like--when they finally hit the ground. The kill zone. This is what they look like: they look like birds, their black smoke plumes look like birds to me. In one I see a rooster. Another a swan. Distinct silhouettes, battlefield Rorschalk Tests, ink blots of ordinance against the Afghan horizon.

The shock waves of the explosions are dulled as they cross the valley toward us. But they are still persuasive. Their concussions a silencing voice, ripe with anger, full of vengeance. . We watch from a forward front line position. There are dozens of other journalists here. It is a theatre of war and war as theatre. Tripods, microphones, lenses all pointed towards the action. Only the faces of the television correspondents look away--looking back into their cameras with the detonation of thousand pounders providing the backdrop. The very ground we stand on was, only a week ago, an Al Qaeda camp.

But that was before the BLU 82. Before the Daisy Cutter. The largest non-nuclear bomb in the American arsenal. It detonates just prior to hitting the ground, sucking up all the surrounding oxygen and leaving a path of destruction five football fields wide--in the pattern of a daisy. The U.S. bomber dropped one here and now there is nothing but scorched earth. Trees burned down to their roots, trucks, tanks, weapons--incinerated.

The Mujahadeen fighters or Mooj, allies in the American effort to rid Afghanistan of the Taliban and Al Qaeda, look at the journalists with a mix of amusement and contempt. They laugh as reporters who can't tell the difference between outgoing and incoming, duck or fall to the ground when Mooj tanks fire into the hills. They laugh louder when reporters scramble for their cars when the occasional Al Qaeda mortar and machine gun round does whiz overhead.

While I shoot the latest explosion with my mini dv camera, a print reporter on my right is in hugging the ground in a fetal position. The Mooj tease him, imitating rocket fire by making whistling noises. They are, after all, children of war. I talk to a soldier named Zacara. He says he is fourteen, but can't be more than twelve. He says in his entire life. He has not known a day without war. A generation raised on gunfire lullabies, most trained to do nothing more but clean and fire their Russian PK machine gun or rocket propelled grenades.

These men--and boys, are as rough as the landscape, calloused to the fears of battlefield dilettantes. But the contempt is mutual. Most reporters must hire the same Mooj from local commanders for their own protection---against bandits, landscapes littered with landmines, cluster bombs and other dangers. Some are honorable, dutybound, willing to risk their own lives for those in their care. Others are mercenaries, ready to fight for paychecks rather than principles. Willing to side with the Taliban, Al Qaeda, America or --if the price is right.

* * *

Out fixer has introduced us to a Mooj named Attica. Attica carries on a shoulder sling, a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun that he took from a captured Al Qaeda cave. Attica says he can take us to one.

"But it is so so dangerous," he tells us. Jim Avila, the NBC correspondent I am working with here, looks at me and raises his eyebrows. We both know this mean the price is going up. To get anywhere, to do anything in Afghanistan, we have learned, you must pay for a guide. By the time we get done negotiating, by the time Attica has spelled out the multiple perils that may befall us from U.S. bombs, stray Al Qaeda fighters or even other Mooj--we've topped four figures.

"Afghani-scam," I say to Avila. He nods. But the caves are not just a story in Tora Bora, they are an obsession. After nine weeks of American bombing, they have developed a almost mythical quality. The last hideout of Osama Bin Laden. What do they look like? How do the Al Qaeda live in them? Do they have cable? Everyone wants to peer inside the caves, including our bosses at NBC. We have to find someone who can take us in. Attica says he can--cash on delivery. Two people only, Avila, meI and a handheld camcorder. But there's more. We have to dress like Afghanis. "Otherwise it is too, too dangerous," Attica say. We believe he is simply toying with us. Shelling out the cash is not enough, he needs to make us look silly as well.

An hour later we are driving toward the front lines and the captured Al Qaeda caves. Jim is dressed like a Pashtun, with a long flowing shirt and baggy pants. I'm given some of fatigues and a heavy shawl, called a patu, to cover up my camera. We're both wearing paculs, traditional wool caps, to cover our heads. According to the guards at our compound, neither of us look like very convincing Afghanis. But soon, we'll discover, it wont' matter at all. When we drive by the hordes of media covering that day's bombing runs, despite our disguises, a few of them recognize us as fellow journalists. Soon they are all in their vehicles following us down the road. Our secret tour of the captured Al Qaeda caves has now become a fifty car convoy. Attica slips out of our truck and the whole thing is off. No money has changed hands, but Avila and I are left all dressed up with no where to go.

* * *

These are the faces of the enemy. Al Qaeda prisoners captured by the Mooj. At Commander Haji Zahir's mud hut compound, they are paraded in front of the media like the latest fashions from Paris. Shutters click, cameras whir. But these are not the wild-eyed, fanatics we had created in our imagination. These are not the non-negotiable suicidal killers we half-expected to see. Instead, the Mooj lead out groups of bandaged and broken men and make them sit on wooden bed frames. They looked disoriented, shell shocked, ready to call it quits and go home. One man has a bandaged head, another a bandaged foot. One covers is face with his hands, another with a scarf. It is an Afghani perp walk. No questions allowed. The men are simply introduced as Arabs. There are nine in the first group, all wounded in some way. Then a second group of nine is led out all at once. Their hands are bound behind their backs with red rope.. They look somewhat healthier, but no more fearsome. They are subdued, defeated--for the moment. A correspondent next to me looks on them with disdain, says with satisfaction, "Death to America, huh."

* * *

The local commanders here say the war is over. The back of Al Qaeda broken. The caves overrun. Although usually prone to gross exaggeration, they do have some evidence. U.S. bombing, backed up by Mooj fighters and even U.S. Special Forces on the ground, have left hundreds of dead Al Qaeda fighters in the White Mountains and hundreds more running for the exits. Osama Bin Laden among them. Two captured Al Qaeda fighters say they saw Bin Laden ten days ago, that he shaved his beard before bidding them farewell.

Today we have driven an hour into the white mountains to another captured Al Qaeda base. There are deep craters everywhere. Acres of twisted metal, burnt out tanks and trucks, shreds of clothing, shoes, an ammo belt, a Taliban black Turban, bits and pieces of the Koran. And there is a cave. It is very close now, just a short climb up a steep hill. When I reach it, I see a teardrop opening dug into solid rock. I turn on the light to my camcorder and step inside. It is nothing more than a rabbit's burrow, 6X8 at the most. Not even high enough to stand up. A hole in the side of the mountain. Simply a place to run for cover. It is filled with nothing more than a pile of live machine gun rounds.

It is interesting, eerie even, though far from mythical and no signs of Osama Bin Laden. He was gone, long gone, disappeared, like a smoke plume bird.

# # #