How are things in Tora Bora? Do the bombs rain every night?
Al Qaeda fortunes turning, do they shrink away in fright?
How are things in Tora Bora? U.S. made, now terror run.
Does Osama feel the pressure as he reaches for his gun?
How are things in Tora Bora? Frozen caves in mountain tops.
His supporters’ numbers falling, U.S. pulls out all the stops.
How are things in Tora Bora?
Long ago and far away, ’twas the land of tribal warfare.
Where it ends, no one can say.
– AUTHOR UNKNOWN
On the morning of December 10, Jester and one of the Green Berets headed southwest, out toward the al Qaeda lines. The primary intent was to locate a route that the incoming India Team could use in leapfrogging past OP25-A later that evening. Jester also hoped to identify a spot that might provide a better angle to look into the mountains and at suspected tunnel entrances. Beams of bright and glowing sunshine seen from a different angle might reveal a cave entrance or bunker that had so far escaped detection.
Moving a few hundred meters, they found a couple of promising spots, but after about a thousand meters of stalking, Jester realized that they were not going to find anything in the area with a better angle than the original OP provided, so they returned, frustrated but with no good options.
The Delta snipers were uncomfortable with the terrain association the Green Berets used to direct the bombs; the map terms did not match actual features on the ground. The disparity convinced the Delta team that naming the prominent terrain features in the target area would make it easier for the pilots to recognize the correct spot on the ground. The Green Berets had named one hilltop already, but there were dozens. Once it was agreed to expand the recognition template, everybody chipped in and named the remaining significant terrain features. The most prominent three hilltops on the primary ridgeline became Knuckles One, Two, and Three… and then became even easier to remember as Larry, Curly, and Moe, of the old Three Stooges comedies.
After hours of “glassing” the area, looking through high-powered binoculars and spotting scopes, Jester and Dugan discovered three tunnel entrances in the side of a ridgeline, targets that had so far gone unnoticed. They worked up a modified nine-line solution with the combat controller. At this point, the Green Beret chain of command had caught up with the situation and finally radioed the official order to their men that Delta was to direct the fight. It caused another round of muttering, but the Green Berets realized that they worked for the people sending down the orders, so there wasn’t much they could do in the way of protesting. Anyway, they knew this was a specialty of Delta snipers, who had been calling in bombing runs for years.
Jester wanted to pack up and move closer to the battlefield to gain a better position, but none of the Green Berets could or would budge an inch. Colonel Mulholland, the Task Force Dagger commander, had remained rooted in cement with his orders that his elite teams not get involved in any direct action situations.
That left Jester and Dugan with no choice but to try and move forward without them. A local guide would be needed to get through the terraced farmland in the valley that separated their position from al Qaeda’s, and also to weave through the friendly muhj positions so they would not be met by a hail of 7.62mm bullets before any handshake of friendship. Unfortunately, the Green Berets owned the guide and refused to give him up. That lack of cooperation stopped the Delta snipers in their tracks.
India Team, the second Delta group to enter the mountains, was led by Ski, our most senior reconnaissance troop team leader. I had watched him work in the Balkans and knew that this unassuming guy who loved being at the center of the action was once again in his element. Many of his exploits remain classified, and when he finally left the unit two years later, he held more decorations for valor than any other operator in the building. Rounding out India Team were Caveman, Sling Blade, Dallas, and their air combat controller Spike.
They were to carry supplies up to Jester and Dugan at OP25-A, then continue farther south and set up a new observation post about a thousand meters deeper into the mountains. The truck ride to the donkey rendezvous took thirty minutes, and with a quick payoff of American cash, a young Afghan guide and his animals were hired. When the beasts were loaded, Ski slapped the lead donkey on its ass and the animal trudged off to the south, as if it had done the task a thousand times before.
Ski and his team arrived at OP25-A before nightfall on December 10, ready to stop only long enough to drop off the supplies and get a quick brief, and then move on past them. Although Jester had already given the bad news about the lack of suitable OPs in the area back to the schoolhouse, India Team had not gotten the word. Ski decided to keep his operators at the OP overnight and return to the schoolhouse the next morning to get a new mission. That decision would have far-reaching consequences.
I remember that day, December 10, like it was yesterday, for while things seemed stalled for our boys who were up at OP25-A, things started to hop around the schoolhouse.
One of General Ali’s frontline commanders radioed back that he had information that the enemy positions in his area were vulnerable. The commander wanted to attack and asked that the general to come forward to take a look.
The request came at exactly the right time, because Ali had lost some confidence in the bombing campaign, but remained under continued pressure by George to attack. The general had also spent some time during the day pandering to the press pool and likely decided that an attack would have the added benefit of being a good media show. It does not take much to brew up an Afghan attack, because like everything in the Afghan culture, there would be little precoordination or advance notification of anyone else. Just decide and then do it. Such impromptu attacks also had a habit of ending just as fast as they began.
Adam Khan had been translating for George as he listened to Ali’s half of the conversation with the commander, and the Americans saw an opportunity to get us off the bench. They pressed the general to take us along. The general balked, still uncertain of just how we could help, and still squeamish about getting an American killed. George compromised and convinced Ali to at least take along someone who could support the attack by talking to the bombers. Without an American controlling the planes, the general’s men would be susceptible to the same bombs, particularly after nightfall.
Ali consented and gave us no more than five minutes to get ready. Adam Khan dashed over to our room with the news, and we understood how incredibly important it was to support this rare advance by Ali. We couldn’t afford to miss a single opportunity to show the general and the muhj that we were indeed there to share the same dangers.
Because we had been planning to insert several teams into the same part of the mountains later that evening, the group that jumped out at us was Jackal Team. If nothing else, at least a couple of them could steal a look at the cover and concealment available at the contemplated location.
Without a moment of hesitation, team leader Hopper volunteered, and one of our air force combat controllers, a young kid code-named the Admiral, was told to go with him. Adam Khan would go along to translate. Together, they became the Jackal Team, because that was Hopper’s team. They had only five minutes to pack, and as they hurriedly prepared, we gave them simple orders: Go wherever the general goes, provide close air support, and kill as many al Qaeda as you can.
We took a stab at the location to give them the six-digit grid of a spot located near the base of the mountain. That was a waste of time. The muhj were never able to provide even a guess as to the exact location of their men, or the enemy fighters either. We could have just as well fatfingered the map to give Hopper and the Admiral their intended location.
Off they went. Hopper and the Admiral looked like any other muhj on their way to a gunfight. Dirty, unkempt, pakool hats tilted, scarves around their necks ready to hide their gringo facial structures, and wrapped in light brown blankets threaded with thin lines of bright green, red, and orange.
Adam Khan drove and a couple of muhj fighters climbed into the truck, confidently sporting aged Kalashnikovs that they had adorned with feathers, colorful string, and shiny stickers of many colors. Each would make do with three thirty-round magazines of 7.62mm ammunition until more could be stripped from the vest of a dead Muslim brother.
In sharp contrast, the two Special Ops boys brimmed over with the sort of arsenal expected from a superpower: two 5.56mm M-4 assault rifles with AN-PEQ2 laser designators and Bushnell reflex HOLOsights. One rifle was outfitted with an M-203 launcher under its barrel to fire 40mm high-explosive or smoke rounds. Their custom-made load-bearing vests had special pockets for hand grenades, first aid equipment, water, ammunition, flashlights, and handheld secure radios. They had an MK-7 laser range finder that could be seen by pilots miles above them and a powerful 117 satellite radio that would allow them to talk to those pilots, or anyone in the world for that matter. Another special toy was a Special Operations Force Laser Marker, or SOFLAM for short, a twelve-pound black box that was worth its weight in gold because it provided accurate ranges and designations for laser-guided munitions out to five thousand feet.
It took about a half hour of driving to reach Mortar Hill, where they found the road was jammed by a faded green and rusted T-55 tank that was struggling to remove a stuck muhj antiaircraft artillery vehicle. Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan knew enemy OPs would spot the multivehicle convoy within minutes and call down the mortars.
Adam Khan maneuvered the truck to a masked location, and they jumped out only moments before the fun began. The initial mortar rounds arrived like clockwork but were off the mark. The three Americans moved away from the vehicles because the mortars were clearly targeting the stalled convoy. Nearby, a group of muhj squatted together, immobile, as if waiting for someone to tell them to do something different. Seconds later, a round struck them center mass.
Adam Khan was warned by another muhj that things would only get hotter further up the road as the route went into the enemy’s mountain lair. The hair on Adam Khan’s back stood up and he lost that warm and fuzzy feeling so important in combat. Although it clearly was not his job, his concern was for the safety of Hopper and the Admiral, and he was well aware of General Ali’s concern about getting an American killed. Adam Khan wondered if it was worthwhile to proceed. Why press the issue in daylight when they were already compromised and under mortar attack? Tomorrow would be another day, and they could try again. The former marine was unafraid, but felt it was too dangerous to continue.
He told Hopper to radio the schoolhouse that they were returning, and that they should not go any farther without an okay from the commandos’ commander, me. Hopper didn’t think the situation was all that dangerous, just a couple of mortar blasts, and anyway, he knew what our response would be. He already had his orders.
With the rounds still landing intermittently and the three of them squeezed behind a jagged rock face bordering the road, Hopper now repeated those instructions: Go where the general goes. Hopper reasoned that it was no surprise that they would take some rounds once they were forced to stop at this particular place. After all, that was why it was called Mortar Hill. The debate ended when the cheers of the muhj signaled that the tank had gotten the stuck artillery vehicle out of the way and the road was again clear. The three Americans scrambled to their vehicle and continued the mission.
The warning Adam Khan had been given about the increasing intensity of the enemy activity ahead had been correct. He pressed the gas pedal and sped through the curves, dodging the impact of several mortar rounds. The bed of the truck was peppered with shrapnel twanging into the thin metal as he roared deeper into the foothills until a group of muhj on the road forced them to stop.
They had driven as far as they could go. The rest of the way would be on foot. Another muhj fighter emerged to warn the group that the mortars were much more accurate at this close range. As Hopper and the Admiral took up security positions and manipulated a GPS to pinpoint their location, Adam Khan rapped with the muhj for whatever information he could muster. The distinct rattle of machine-gun fire could be heard to their front.
As anticipated, al Qaeda would not be causing all of the problems. Word that a few American commandos were coming forward with the permission of General Ali to support the late-afternoon attack never made it to the frontline folks who most needed to know about it. For the next half hour, several muhj acted like they were in charge and corralled our guys, shuttling them aimlessly from one group of fighters to the next.
At one point, a muhj leader motioned toward the sky and made some flickering hand signals to mimic bombs dropping. They wanted the Americans to make it rain death. The Admiral was happy to grant their request, and radioed some aircraft to work up a fire mission.
Then another set of muhj that they had been with earlier came and interrupted the Admiral’s call for fire to ask why the Americans had stopped moving with them and had taken up with this new group. It was a bizarre scene that was to be repeated several times. Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan were mixed up with a bunch of foot soldiers who had no clue why the Americans were there, who had sent them, or where they were supposed to be going.
The one thing that kept Hopper and the Admiral happy was that, despite the headaches, at least they were heading in the right direction-south toward al Qaeda.
After moving several hundred more meters, their latest muhj escort took a break along the military crest of a steep ridgeline. Hopper and Adam Khan moved to a nearby hilltop in hope of getting “eyes on” a suitable target so they could start the aerial fireworks. In the meantime, Adam Khan found a forward command post where small-arms fire, machine guns, and sporadic rocket rounds were clattering about. The three of them made themselves at home in the position, deeper into the Tora Bora mountain range than any other Americans probably had ever gone.
The Admiral asked for all aircraft call signs in the area to check in, since he would be orchestrating the fight that night, and everyone was ready to demonstrate the art of the possible to General Ali. But General Ali was not there.
The Admiral is one smooth talker on the radio. Most important in this business was his willingness to risk everything for his fellow man, an unhealthy but common trait among air force combat controllers.
Darkness was falling fast, and Hopper attempted to reach OP25-A on his handheld FM radio and pass along their current location, in case things took a major turn for the worse. No luck. The FM was not working in that jagged landscape.
The boys of Jackal knew that India Team had arrived at OP25-A, but the reverse was not true. Things had developed so quickly back at the schoolhouse to move Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan out in just five minutes that word of their departure had not yet made it to OP25-A. So the boys in the observation post remained unaware that their teammates were under fire on the other side of the valley.
But OP25-A had received an astonishing report from a muhj commander that the prime target of this entire mission, Usama bin Laden, had been seen on a hilltop and was surrounded. The commander was positive it was the al Qaeda leader and was adamant that “Bouyahs! Bouyahs!” should smash the hilltop now. “Bombs! Bombs!”
Once again the map problem complicated matters. The Delta snipers and the Green Berets worked with the excited muhj to make sense of what he was trying to say. Where is bin Laden? Show us! They actually resorted to drawing in the dirt and holding up fingers to represent the various crests and peaks and finally agreed that the target was Hilltop 2685-the First Knuckle, better known as Hilltop Larry.
The Delta snipers, Jester and Dugan, passed the data to a nearby warplane and set about developing another modified nine-line fire mission solution. Just as the combat controller at OP25-A began to call for the aircraft to make its run, they saw several bombs slam onto what they thought was their target, just below the peak of Hilltop 2685.
The perplexed combat controller now asked if the pilot had dropped the bombs early. The pilot told him the attack had been guided by someone down there using a different call sign, and passed the frequency they were using. It had been the Admiral doing his thing.
The men at OP25-A were stunned. They had been handling the majority of the calls all day long, and now someone else had taken over, someone they knew nothing about. The OP25-A combat controller switched to the new frequency and heard the Admiral passing a correction for the next bomb run. The boys in the observation post quickly figured out that somehow the rest of us back at the schoolhouse must have launched an attack and perhaps as many as a couple of dozen operators were down there with the Admiral. Chances were ripe for a friendly-fire, blue-on-blue incident if too many people started talking to the pilots, so the crew in OP25-A quickly relinquished control of the air space. They would watch the fight unfold from a distance, silently hoping that the Admiral also had the reported location of bin Laden.
Frustrated, the Green Beret A Team’s attached air controller at OP25-A flung his hand microphone to the ground, let out a few choice cuss words, and stalked away.
I can’t say I blame him. Keeping them informed was my job, and I had failed to promptly update everyone because I had lost sight of the big picture at a critical time. I was focusing more on the location of bin Laden being reported by the muhj than on the boys currently at the tip of the spear; and I was not aware that the two groups could not communicate with each other. Nevertheless, it was a colossal screwup with the potential of catastrophic results. That’s what I got for assuming something.
Our boys in OP25-A wasted no time pouting that someone else was now on the playground, for they knew that was exactly what was supposed to be happening. The communications snafu was solved, the emergency was over, and so they dreamed up another mission on their own.
For the past two days they had a front-row view of the sporadic attacks and retreats of General Ali’s troops and had watched the muhj reeling under heavy mortar fire time and time again. The boys decided to confine their search to anything that would help them destroy the al Qaeda mortar position that had been such a thorn in everyone’s sides.
They finally established a sketchy FM radio contact with Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan that would allow OP25-A to serve as a hasty radio relay back to us at the schoolhouse. As the temperature on the mountain dropped, everyone listened to the Admiral steadily bringing in the bombers while the distinct sound of gunfire muffled some of his calls. Just listening raised goose bumps on Jester’s arms.
The Jackal bunch had taken cover behind a stone building about the size of a Volkswagen, and most of the muhj also were snuggling up behind it as an al Qaeda PKM heavy machine gun laid fire around the area, severing tree branches above the heads of Hopper and Adam Khan.
Even more deafening was the outgoing racket of the AK-47s. Two or three of the muhj would jam fresh thirty-round magazines into their rifles, lean around the corner, and open up, holding down the triggers for four to five seconds. While they ducked back to reload, another couple of muhj would do the same thing. One fighter with a shouldered RPG stepped away from the group only slightly and frantically jerked the weapon’s grip trigger without pausing to aim.
The stone structure offered only an illusion of safety. Hopper tried to get the muhj to spread out and press the attack and use the nearby tree line to maneuver to better locations, which at least would make the enemy have to worry about more than one or two targets. Although the muhj were more vulnerable when they clustered in large groups, they were also much more comfortable doing so. At present, although they were pinned down, the muhj seemed willing to leave well enough alone and would be ready to call it a day after a few more impressive bursts of unaimed automatic rifle fire. Besides, it had worked this way all week, so why change anything just because a few Americans had shown up?
Hopper had no intention of remaining a sitting duck behind the small building. They needed to move, and fast. I was on the horn with the Admiral from the schoolhouse as he updated us on their situation, and we all heard the chaos, the rocket explosions, and the stuttering machine-gun fire in the background as the Admiral coolly relayed their plan to reposition.
He then directed the first available F-18 fighter to drop his payload on the enemy machine-gun position that was pinning them down. The first drop was impressive but did not silence the position, so a second F-18 repeated the engagement and put his bombs right on the money.
The three Americans then absolutely astonished the muhj by using the lull in firing to dash from safety behind the structure to some trees roughly forty meters to their front-heading even closer to the enemy! This was not the way the game was supposed to be played, but our guys were aggressively moving up to deliver the coup de grace with B-52s.
At the schoolhouse, we looked at each other with strain on every face. We didn’t need to discuss it; Jim and Bryan had already ensured that the rest of the boys were ready to head out to assist the Jackal unit should it become necessary. The courageous actions of our forwardmost people, worming their way steadily into enemy territory while under fire, made me proud to be not only their teammate, but an American as well.
Adam Khan managed to coax, or threaten, five muhj into coming along to supply more protection. They moved, shooting as they went, although at what no one was sure. Hopper’s attempts to get them to preserve their ammunition fell on deaf ears. It was as if the muhj figured if they didn’t shoot all of their ammo, they would just have to hump it back down the hill.
About the same time, we received word of a signal intelligence hit that had been intercepted, stating that “Father [meaning bin Laden] is trying to break through the siege line.”
Had Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan truly struck gold? Could they be flushing out al Qaeda’s command group?
The al Qaeda mortars got back into the game with a first volley that landed right in a group of muhj. Remaining active, the mortars opened a tremendous window of opportunity, and Jester, Dugan, and India Team over at OP25-A were hard at work trying to spot the elusive mortars’ firing signature. Just some sign, and they would take out al Qaeda’s favorite indirect fire asset. They hunkered down on the cold mountainside, waiting for the mortars to reveal their position.
For the next two hours, the Admiral called in relays of bombing runs while contending with enemy machine-gun fire and mortar rounds that sent rock shards and huge splinters from trees whizzing through the air. The friendly muhj continued firing their AK-47s from behind him, often directly over his head. The Admiral had one ear to the radio and the other one pinned to the ground. The muhj began to retreat slowly back down the ridgeline. They had had enough for one day with these crazy Americans who wanted to always get closer to the enemy. Eventually, the majority of them snuck away without saying a word, abandoning Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan.
Back at the schoolhouse, some thirty minutes before the sun set behind the mountains, George received another special intelligence spotting of bin Laden. Reportedly, feeling pressure from General Ali’s hasty attack and the sustained and increasing bombing, bin Laden had spent too long on his radio conversing with his subordinate commanders, and his general location had been determined. This new information, combined with the earlier intercept of bin Laden “trying to break through the siege line” strongly suggested that not only was bin Laden’s location pinpointed but that the muhj had him surrounded!
Inside our corner room, George handed me the eight-digit grid location scribbled on a small piece of paper. Wow! An eight-digit grid is accurate down to ten meters. As far as we knew, this was the first time since the late 1990s that our country had such an accurate location on bin Laden.
Ironhead and I looked at each other, and then over at George. The seasoned CIA operative said he had no further information, but his eyes were screaming: Run with it! His unspoken expectation was that Delta would launch. He got that right.
Ironhead took off to notify the troop sergeant majors and I grabbed the laptop to send a data message to Ashley. Within minutes, our headquarters sent us a six-digit grid, acquired through military channels. I hoped it would be similar to the one George had gotten, but it was only accurate down to one hundred meters. Either bin Laden was on the move or the data was several hours old. The second grid was almost two kilometers from the first one, a very long way to travel in a relative short time given the rugged terrain and while under duress. No matter. We would go and see.
It suddenly hit me that Adam Khan, our trusted liaison, was already in a gunfight and therefore unavailable to be our Pashto interpreter. So I grabbed Shag, our special intelligence collector, who had been busy intercepting al Qaeda transmissions, then I reached for my kit and rifle and headed out the door to the waiting trucks and the boys.
General Ali apparently had undergone a change of heart after having watched Hopper and the Admiral in action from a safe distance. After being so stubborn earlier in the day, he was now radioing back to inquire if the other American commandos were coming. The general was getting excited about the possibilities, but we first had to convince our two Afghan guides that their general was indeed asking us to come to the front. At least we assumed he was at the front. Assuming, once again.
This might be it, Ali must have thought. Bin Laden might actually be killed or captured on this very night.
Thirty-three of us loaded onto nine vehicles and we took off, receiving word that Ali would meet us along the main road near Mortar Hill. That was strange. Had the general mentioned in one of his radio calls that he would lead us to within striking distance of bin Laden, say a ridgeline away, or had we simply thought that he would? It’s hard to recall now. In any event, we kept going, thinking that we would link up with the general and probably do some hasty planning on the spot. There was a lot at stake now, and fast decisions and action were called for. Our guys were under fire and we had a hot location for bin Laden.
Things had turned from bad to worse for the Jackal boys: Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan. An enemy machine gun opened up from the north, which was behind them! Evil green tracer rounds tore the tree trunks apart and forced the boys onto their bellies.
Hopper’s first thought was that it was friendly fire, since it was coming from their rear, likely from a few muhj who were as uncertain as they were about where the lines began, ended, or overlapped and had already proven they didn’t mind shooting over the heads of the Americans. Adam Khan looked back in time to see some muhj skedaddling down the ridgeline while machine-gun bullets literally drilled holes in their footsteps. In a matter of minutes, these supporting fighters were back in their Toyota pickup trucks and disappearing into the darkness.
That left only five muhj with the Americans, and none had bargained for this sort of predicament. Too scared to attempt a run through the machine-gun fire, they had little choice but to stay put. Adam Khan could not calm these frightened men, for darkness was falling, and in their minds, the enemy owned the night and a black-clad al Qaeda fighter or two would be behind every rock and tree. They also were convinced that the enemy was maneuvering and searching for the Americans who had delivered so much death and destruction during the past two hours.
One of the nervous fighters aimlessly let rip his recoilless rifle with its concussive roar and another fired his RPG. A third curled up behind his bipod-mounted PKM machine gun and squeezed the trigger so long that his belt of ammunition ran out. He yelled for more ammunition, but his ammo bearer was long gone.
Adam Khan chewed their asses for revealing their position to the enemy. Then Hopper tried to settle their nerves and dispel the idea that the enemy owned the dark by letting the muhj look through his NVGs. A green-tinted look at the valley might reassure them that al Qaeda was not counterattacking. Truth be told, however, now that the bad guys had a machine gun in place behind them, neither Hopper nor Adam Khan could be certain that more al Qaeda fighters were not heading their way.
The faces of the muhj lit up like kids at a carnival as they looked through the goggles and passed them around. Suddenly, they all were curious as to how the NVGs worked and asked Adam Khan to explain. The machine gun kept firing but they were more interested in this amazing new gadget than the weapon that was slashing away in the dark. They resembled a bunch of beer-bellied men sitting in the nosebleed seats at the World Series, sharing a single pair of binoculars.
The Admiral had emptied the payloads on nine F-18 fighters and a B-1 bomber, an incredible amount of ordnance concentrated on a small area. He had no idea that he was likely the primary reason that bin Laden, the most wanted man in the world, was on the run.
With the arrival of night, the fighters and bombers were replaced by an AC-130H Spectre gunship, the side-firing prince of darkness. As the Admiral talked to the aircraft to pass his requirements, Hopper retrieved his NVGs, then thumbed his handheld laser to mark enemy positions. If they could get the gunship to rip into the enemy positions with the deadly 40mm and 25mm cannons, or a couple of 105mm Howitzer rounds, it might take care of the enemy machine gun and also might draw out the enemy mortars.
While most men would be moving in the direction of safety, Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan moved still another thirty meters toward the enemy machine gun in front of them. The muhj decided to stay put. Green tracers passed by the left side of the Americans and tore up the ground around the muhj they left behind. The Admiral keyed his hand mike to contact the AC-130, and Hopper gave Adam Khan the SOFLAM to help laser the machine-gun nest. Thick cloud cover hampered the gunship, which would have had to break the minimum safe altitude to drop low enough to engage the targets. It was something they were not authorized to do and not smart business for slow-flying aircraft in the mountains.
Adam Khan had taken inventory of what remained to fight with. All of Ali’s fighters, save five, had abandoned them on the ridge, the gunship couldn’t help until the clouds moved on, and the enemy had a pretty good idea of their location. He told Hopper it was time to go.
Hopper asked if Adam Khan could convince the remaining few muhj to circle the wagons, hold their fire, and just quietly sit things out until the clouds parted. Once the gunship engaged, its protection could last for hours. Adam Khan chuckled at the suggestion. You’re kidding, right? He recommended that they move back to a safer area.
Hopper understood the situation was beyond salvage. They had done a mighty amount of damage, but the lowering clouds meant there would be no air cover, and the only people he could rely on were the Admiral and Adam Khan. The muhj were scared and low on ammo and might disappear at any moment. Reluctantly, he gave the order to initiate escape and evasion.
The admiral keyed his handset and, as calm as ever, passed the code word: “Warpath. Warpath. Warpath.”
Now all they had to do was make it out of there alive.