Time Tunnel: The Towers Read online

  The commander took another draw from his cigarette, “You’re not going anywhere,” he said through the smoke.

  Hammer was astounded, “I cannot fucking believe this.”

  His CO couldn’t believe it either when he radioed in the SITREP to their schoolhouse HQ. Their CO had never trusted either of the warlords, and now one of them had double-dealt him to Bin Laden. He couldn’t order his men to shoot their way out—some of his men wouldn’t make it, and, given the politics swirling around this battle theater, it would likely be a career-ending move.

  Kyle scanned the mujh fighters, calculating the odds. The commandos were outnumbered four-to-one by poorly trained and equipped mujahedeen. Those weren’t bad odds for the world’s most elite warriors. Kyle was so close to killing Bin Laden. There was no way he was going to let these thugs stand between him and his wife’s murderer.

  Kyle began to walk toward the mujh fighters, raising his weapon.

  “Exactly what the fuck do you think you’re doing, Major?” asked Hammer.

  The mujh fighters, anxious, trained their weapons on Kyle. The Delta commandos snapped up their rifles at the mujahedeen.

  “Stand down, Major!” shouted Hammer.

  Kyle continued walking toward the fighters. He aimed his weapon at their commander. The commander lowered his cigarette to his side. A surprised look replaced his smug expression. He hadn’t expected the outnumbered Americans to challenge his fighters. Frightened, he yelled at his troops to prepare to open fire.

  Hammer raised his assault rifle at Kyle’s back.

  “Major, take one more step and I will shoot you myself!” Hammer shouted.

  Kyle halted. He was prepared to risk his own life, but not the lives of his fellow soldiers. He lowered his weapon. It was over. Bin Laden was going to get away.

  He turned to face Hammer. Hammer saw the anguish in Kyle’s face. He couldn’t blame Kyle for wanting to smoke each and every one of the mujh bandits.

  “We all want what you want,” said Hammer. “We’ll try to get you your shot. Don’t do that again.”

  Kyle nodded and walked past Hammer to rejoin the unit. Hammer slapped him on the shoulder as he passed.

  Minutes later, Haji Zaman arrived at the scene, accompanied by another dozen-or-so of his mujh fighters. Well aware of the potential risk to his cash flow from threatening the Americans, he immediately ordered his men to lower their weapons.

  “What are you doing? Lower your weapons!” Zaman exclaimed to his fighters. “These are our allies—our friends!” he said.

  Zaman was the slicker of the two Afghan warlords. In his 50s, relatively well groomed and educated, he was almost cosmopolitan by Afghan standards, though he had the manner of a used car salesman. Zaman was constantly on the lookout for opportunities to topple Hazret Ali from his leadership position of Nangarhar Province. He was now exploiting one of those openings.

  Smiling and waving his hands, Zaman, explained to Hammer that the al Qaeda fighters has radioed him the previous night, expressing their desire to surrender. Over the following hours, they had worked out the broad strokes of terms of surrender and agreed to resume negotiations at 08:00 that morning to finalize the deal. Zaman assured Hammer that the al Qaeda fighters would surrender no later than 17:00.

  It was not inconceivable that al Qaeda was throwing in the towel. Non-stop bombing had crushed their positions, and Delta knew from their radio chatter that their situation was increasingly dire. Hundreds of their fighters were dead or wounded, and they were running low on ammunition and supplies.

  Hammer made clear that there were no terms, no conditional surrender. Al Qaeda could walk out, without their weapons, or they could die. There were no other options.

  Zaman appeared surprised at the American’s inflexibility. Negotiation was perfectly normal and customary, and he reminded Hammer that the Americans had resolved many conflicts in this way.

  Hammer glared at the warlord and repeated, “There are no terms, no conditional surrender. Al Qaeda may surrender unconditionally, or they may die. There are no other choices.”

  Zaman broke an awkward silence by informing Hammer that he needed to leave immediately to conclude his radio negotiations with al Qaeda. He departed with his dozen-man entourage and left the Delta commandos and mujh fighters in the standoff where he found them.

  Hammer radioed the story to his CO, who concurred that it was crap, that Zaman was dirty, and that this was a stalling tactic to aid Bin Laden’s escape into Pakistan. Still, the CO was required to report up the chain. The word returned from above was that they would wait for the 17:00 deadline. At 17:01, if al Qaeda had not surrendered, bombing would resume.

  Instead of reengaging his negotiations with al Qaeda, Zaman made a beeline to the press camp to announce the ceasefire and pending surrender he had negotiated. Within minutes, news of al Qaeda’s surrender was already blasting on CNN, catching the White House and Pentagon flat-footed.

  At Milawa Base Camp, after Hammer got the news that they were going to wait out the 17:00 deadline, he turned to his fellow commandos, “I suggest you make yourselves comfortable gentlemen. We’re going to be here awhile.”

  Kyle glared at the mujh commander, who grinned at the helpless Americans while enjoying his smoke on his rock perch.

  “Enjoy it while you can, fucker,” Kyle said, under his breath. “Paybacks are tough.”

  Kyle found his own rock to lean against, took off his pack, and sat down on the ground. He pulled a knife from a belt sheath and began carving ruts in the dirt.

  At 17:00, 12 hours after the commandos’ arrival at Milawa Base Camp, Master Sergeant Hammer looked at his watch. Al Qaeda had not surrendered.

  “Time!” he said. “Ruck up!”

  The commandos shouldered their packs and began to move out. Hammer stared at the chain-smoking mujh commander.

  “Don’t raise your weapons at us,” Hammer barked at the commander.

  The grin disappeared from the mujh commander’s face. He could plainly see that Hammer’s patience had run out. The world’s best commandos were ready for a fight—maybe even looking for an excuse to kill each and every one of mujh lowlifes that had denied them their target. The commander tried to raise Zaman on the radio for instructions as the Delta commandos walked out of sight. He heard only static in response. Zaman was nowhere to be found.

  At 17:02, the mountain shuddered as the first American warplane dropped its payload. The mujh rapidly retreated from their Milawa Camp position. The warplanes were hot, as were the Americans’ tempers. The mujh, realizing their allies might be less cautious about friendly fire than normal, decided to exercise the better part of valor and retreat from the battlefield.

  Over the next few days, bombs rained destruction on the few remaining al Qaeda targets, though Kyle and his Delta comrades knew it was too late. With a wide-open backdoor to Pakistan and a full day to walk through it, Osama Bin Laden was long gone.

  Five days later, on December 17, Haji Zaman and General Ali declared victory in the battle for Tora Bora. A few days later, Kyle and his fellow Delta commandos’ mission formally ended and they headed back to Bagram Airbase and their next orders.

  The U.S. government put the best possible spin on the outcome: the Taliban and al Qaeda had been routed in Afghanistan. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of al Qaeda fighters had been killed. Though the precise whereabouts of Osama Bin Laden were unknown, he may well have been killed in the relentless bombing. Al Qaeda had been hurt—badly.

  Al Qaeda’s pain did not console Kyle’s. They didn’t get Bin Laden. There was no doubt in Kyle’s mind that Osama Bin Laden had walked out of Afghanistan on December 12, when a corrupt warlord shielded his escape. What mystified Kyle was why CENTCOM refused their requests to block the exits to Pakistan. There was zero doubt that Bin Laden was at Tora Bora. The Deltas and the CIA believed the odds were high that they could have captured or killed Bin Laden right then and there.

  “Why did they let Bin Laden escape?�
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  Kyle couldn’t shake the question. It cycled endlessly in his mind, intertwining with the suppressed reality of Padma’s death. The growing blight in his head fought to break into the daylight of his consciousness, like a raging monster locked behind an aging wooden door. Kyle denied it with the same tenacity that he had battled al Qaeda. Weakened by sleep depravation, cracks began to form in the armor that blocked Padma’s memory. She forced herself into Kyle’s consciousness, overwhelming him.

  In the officer’s mess at Bagram, he sat down at a table alone with his lunch tray. He looked at the empty seat across from his.

  His mind broke.

  Tears began to stream down his cheeks. Panicking, he tried to wipe away the tears before anyone saw the grown man crying. He began to shake. The tears flowed. He cried uncontrollably. A nurse appeared and put her hand on his back. Gently, she stood him up and guided him out of the mess hall to the infirmary.

  Despite the military’s attempts to help Kyle with counseling and medicine, he spiraled into a cavernous depression. He didn’t eat, didn’t bathe, and didn’t leave his quarters. The decorated war hero became unrecognizable to his colleagues and friends. They worried for his life. He was no longer fit for duty. He wasn’t fit for anything.

  Early in 2002, Kyle’s friends helped him submit his request to be released from active duty and resign his commission. Within a few months, Kyle Mason, former elite commando and war hero, was a civilian for the first time in his adult life.

  374 Broadway

  Apartment 3C

  New York, NY

  July 23, 2008

  09:48 hours

  Kyle Mason was late for work—again. He had woken up only 30 minutes earlier, splashed some water on his bearded face, pulled on some jeans, slipped on a pair of Top-Siders, half-buttoned a wrinkled shirt and left his studio apartment in Tribeca for work. On this muggy, overcast day, he was bound for the South Street Seaport. Across the street from where the tall ships were anchored stood a brick building with no windows, no name and only one entrance in an alley. The solitary alley door, made of solid steel, and the watchful video camera above it, were the only suggestions that what went on inside of the building was outside of the ordinary. While Global Research, Inc. was officially a global market demographics research firm, its real purpose was to analyze data for the Pentagon, scrutinizing signal traffic, media, and human intelligence to reveal patterns in the noise that might suggest the next major terrorist attack on U.S. soil.

  Kyle had not sought out the job. He was pushed into it by a former Delta buddy who had passed on the opportunity. After Kyle quit the military, a few friends checked in on him from time-to-time. Kyle didn’t need the money—his survivor benefits from 9/11 were more than enough to support his very modest lifestyle. Beyond rent for his modest New York studio near work, he only spent money on food, a few changes of clothes, and books. He didn’t own a TV, a computer, or a phone. Going out to shop for food or an occasional movie were his primary activities. Kyle’s friend had encouraged him to look into the Global Research job in hopes of reengaging him with some semblance of the real world. His buddy had cleaned him up, bought him a suit for the job interview, and helped him rehearse. Kyle’s resume had already sold his future boss before they met. His credentials were stellar, and former Delta officers were in high demand in this line of work.

  Unfortunately for Kyle, Global Research was not the real world. Security was paranoid, even by Delta standards, and interaction with co-workers was limited and focused on data analysis. Windows were bricked over, phone and electronic communications were monitored, and wire mesh Faraday cages had been built into the office walls to block electronic eavesdropping. Most of the people Kyle came in contact with on the job were either socially inept math quants or slick brownnosers looking to advance their political careers in intelligence. It was not the sort of place that hosted company barbeques to build team camaraderie.

  Kyle pushed a button outside the steel door and looked into the camera overhead. A loud buzz sounded, unlatching the door lock. Kyle entered a small dingy anteroom with a cheap hanging ceiling, fluorescent lights, and an armed guard behind a desk. A bulletproof Plexiglas partition separated Kyle from the guard. To the left of the guard was a second steel door. A card reader station stood in front of the guard’s desk. Kyle took the lanyard off his neck and swiped the card on the reader. A light on the guard’s desk flashed green and he motioned Kyle through the second door as the lock buzzed open.

  “Shower on the agenda for today?” snarked the guard.

  “Don’t know. I’m pacing myself,” riposted Kyle.

  Kyle walked up a flight of gray steel steps to his floor, a narrow cadet blue painted hallway with secure doors to offices and conference rooms. He arrived at the door to his office and swiped his card.

  He gasped at the sight inside his office. Behind his cluttered gray metal desk sat a uniformed four star general. He was African American, in his sixties. He was a large, barrel-chested man. His physical size, combined with the grandeur of his full general’s uniform, made Kyle’s office appear even smaller than it actually was.

  “Hello Major,” said the general.

  Kyle instinctively raised his hand to salute and then slowly dropped it, remembering that he wasn’t in the Army anymore. Kyle knew the general—it was Aaron Craig, the man who had presented him with his Silver Star.

  “Excuse me, this is your desk,” said General Craig, rising from his seat.

  “No sir, please, sit,” replied Kyle. Kyle was embarrassed about his appearance. He didn’t shave his beard after Afghanistan, and had let it grow out again after his job interview, giving him a ZZ-Top look. His physique was a pale shadow of his former Adonis body. His clothes were dirty and he could not recall the last time he had bathed. General Craig’s crisp uniform and grooming could not have contrasted more starkly with Kyle’s shoddy appearance.

  “Well then, why don’t you have a seat, Major,” said General Craig, motioning to one of the two chairs in front of the desk.

  Kyle sat down, intensely confused as to why the general was sitting in his office.

  Aaron Craig was born in 1945 in the heart of the Jim Crow south in Augusta Georgia. His father ran a grocery store. His mother was a teacher at a segregated elementary school. They had worked very hard to carve out a middle class living in segregated Georgia. From an early age, Craig’s parents imparted the importance of education and hard work to move uphill on a tilted playing field.

  In high school, Craig worked as a caddie at the Augusta National Golf Club. Nowhere in America was the contrast between white and black more starkly evident than at Augusta, where club founder Clifford Roberts once said “As long as I’m alive, all the golfers will be white and all the caddies will be black.”

  Craig, an excellent student, attended West Point, and graduated valedictorian in 1967. He was immediately shipped off to Vietnam, where, as a second lieutenant, he distinguished himself in battle after his UH-1 helicopter crashed behind enemy lines. Though shot multiple times by the Viet Cong, he rallied his troops and repelled the attack. He earned a Silver Star for his actions during the engagement.

  After Vietnam, Craig earned an MBA from Harvard Business School and won a White House fellowship, working in the Office of Management and Budget. He was now on the inside Washington track, moving toward the high ground of life’s lopsided playfield.

  By 1990, Craig had ascended to the position of Commanding General of the Third Army. In Operation Desert Storm, he stood out for deploying the XVIII Airborne Corps deep inside Iraq to block the Iraqi forces northern escape from General Norman Schwarzkopf’s advancing ground forces. The stratagem was called the “left hook,” a move Craig borrowed from General Stonewall Jackson when he flanked General Joseph Hooker’s army during the Civil War battle of Chancellorsville. General Craig had demonstrated both his knowledge of history, as well as his ability to execute with precision in a major battle theater.

  In the cou
rse of Operation Desert Storm, Craig’s attention was drawn to an incident where a young lieutenant fresh out of West Point had led his platoon to victory over an Iraqi tank squad. He met Kyle for the first time when he presented him with his Silver Star.

  In 2000 General Craig became vice chief of staff. Two years later, he stunned his colleagues and the second President Bush by asking that his name be removed from consideration for secretary of state in favor of a different assignment. Soon after, General Craig vanished from public view. Six years later, he had magically reappeared in Kyle’s office.

  • • •

  General Craig looked around the office. To the left side of the desk was a secure computer workstation. Stacks of paper and folders sat on Kyle’s desk, where a small black desk lamp was perched. A white board and a corkboard were on the wall opposite Kyle’s computer workstation. Red circles with scribbles and connecting lines were drawn on the whiteboard. Photos and notecards were pinned to the corkboard. General Craig turned to face Kyle.