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mission! I’m going all the way to the target
. It was exactly what I expected. I slapped him on the shoulder, smiled, and let him be.

    It was still daylight when our Combat Talon touched down in Jalalabad, where Ski and Shrek waited at the end of a secluded taxiway. We offloaded our gear and moved it immediately to the cargo trucks, then Shrek and Ski gave the team leaders a final intelligence dump. We arrived at the airfield with the assault plan, but were depending on Ski and Shrek to figure out how to get us there.
    They told us that we would have to negotiate three known roadblocksto reach our destination in the mountains. The first two were expected to be relatively benign, just several militiamen and tribal thugs shaking down commuters for whatever tolls they could get. This assumption came from some local Afghan militiamen hired by the CIA, who believed we could move through those two points if we just held our breath. The checkpoint guards would not act as long as there were no indications that our trucks contained anything more than ordinary supplies being hauled to the needy somewhere in that region. Even with these assurances, we remained concerned. In commando-speak, such locations were referred to as “friction points,” and caution was required.
    Shrek and Ski had come up with some ingenious planning to get through the third roadblock, which was more complex. A small sedan would travel with us but stay far enough from our convoy to keep the signature low. In the car would be four Afghan militiamen who were on the payroll of the CIA and had been trained by the Green Berets. Once the trucks were two thousand meters short of the roadblock, the sedan would speed around us to the checkpoint, the militiamen would jump from the car with their guns raised, and demand the guards drop their weapons or else. If a gunfight broke out, we would reinforce them. If, instead of gunfire, we saw three flashes of a red lens flashlight, it was safe to proceed. Sounds simple, doesn’t it?
    Ski and Shrek would be in the truck cabs because they looked more local than the rest of us. We wanted them not only to look local but to also smell like filth because they would need every bit of that indigenous charade for this to work.
    With the plan in place, we had no worries.
    The ever-thoughtful Ski amazingly had found about twenty thick foam mattresses in a variety of colors, which were welcome additions to our trickedout cargo trucks. We expected a good amount of bouncing and jerking from side to side on the trip as the trucks navigated streambeds studded with boulders the size of basketballs, washed-out pathways, and gigantic potholed sections of war-ravaged roadway.
    Another addition came from our new troop sergeant major, Stormin’, who obtained a half-dozen cases of bottled water and several empty five-gallon water cans for use as portable urinals during the trip. The guys were always thinking.
    By the time we were ready, we reckoned that our trucks were at least as comfortable as the Trojan gift horse.

    While we had discussed the final plan, the boys positioned the equipment and inspected the rigging of the tarps. We couldn’t afford any light holes that might compromise us as we drove through busy downtown market streets or crossed through the few expected rural roadblocks and checkpoints that defined tribal lines, for a Trojan horse operation is all or nothing.
    If compromised, the gig is up right then and there. One has little choice but to come out swinging and hope for the best. If this happened, we would unass the truck as quickly as possible, eliminate any threat, and hightail it to the nearest building and own it. Once inside, we would turn it into a stronghold by occupying the roof and covering all windows and doors. Then a radio call to our teammates and Rangers back at Bagram would bring us the beautiful, thundering sound of the 160th SOAR birds.
    Regardless of what we did after being compromised, if we weren’t