government-related sources of employment for security contractors in Afghanistan have been in the hunt for bin Laden and the guarding of President Hamid Karzai. In my quest to traverse the world of the private security contractor, I made arrangements to visit a former Special Forces friend working on the job protecting the life of Hamid Karzai. While in Afghanistan, I also hoped to find out how the hunt for bin Laden was progressing.
Two years to the day after the beginning of the war, I journeyed to Afghanistan to see how the War on Terror had changed.
CHAPTER 2
----
        Â
Edge of the Empire
âI have no fucking idea who we are fighting.â
âT ASK F ORCE 11 MEMBER
Somewhere on the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, a thunderous whup, whup, whup provides the soundtrack for a graceful, intertwining aerial ballet above my head. Itâs a cold December morning, and two Huey helicopters are circling a hilltop five hundred yards to the east. They zoom in close enough to my perch that I can smell their turbine exhaust and clearly make out a bug-helmeted door gunner gripping his minigun. The flat, deep sound echoes off the mountains as one Huey prepares to land, feeling for the ground as if hesitant to touch down in this hostile place. The other helicopter dives and swoops behind the hills like an angry hawk, looking for attackers.
From my own redoubt atop a steep cliff, I overlook a wide valley across the barrel of a battered antiaircraft gun aimed at Pakistan. Since the end of the active combat phase of the war in Afghanistan, private security contractors have been combing this area with CIA and military operators involved in the hunt for bin Laden. I am sitting on the ramparts of an unnamed American firebase, unmarked on any official map, and manned by what look like Special Operations troops and Afghan mercenaries. Its loaded weapons are pointed toward the border of an ally nation, and its vehicles are left packed for a hasty departure. Similar outposts of hastily constructed Hescoesâfive-foot-tall gray cardboard and wire mesh containers filled with gravelâcrown a few of the surrounding hilltops. On top of the Hescoes, sloppily stacked sandbags, a clutter of ammunition tins, and silver loops of concertina wire add a touch of paranoid sparkle. At a distance, these makeshift citadels have the look of medieval crusader castles, but up close they appear haphazardly stacked protection against attacks.
As I scan the area through my binoculars, I can see rolling foothills, steep valleys, and widely spaced pine trees. Far below us on the dusty road, colorful and overloaded âjingaâ trucks clank and groan as they bring goods from Pakistan into Afghanistan. Off to the left, in the direction of Pakistan, my Afghan hosts point out a mountain from where they say the frequent incoming rocket attacks are launched. Officially, the Pakistani Tribal Police has jurisdiction over the tribal areas on their side of the mountains, while the U.S. military handles things on the Afghan side. Unless my GPS is wrong, however, this American outpost, armed by Afghans, is technically about five miles inside Pakistan.
âYour Americans!â shouts the smiling Afghan soldier manning the âtowerâ alongside me, pointing to the arriving choppers. Outfitted in U.S. Armyâstyle fatigues and mirrored blue wraparound sunglasses, he is one of about forty hired gunsâor âcampaignsâ as the U.S. military terms themâguarding this firebase, each of whom makes a healthy $150 a month. They live simply in an ancient-looking mud fort slightly down the hillâtheir only decoration Pakistani advertising calendars, their only furniture ammunition cases and cheap plastic lawn chairs. But this is their home, and they are doing their best to make me welcome.
According to the U.S. military, the main bases in Khost, Gardez, Oruzgan, and Asadabad are the frontlines in
Two years to the day after the beginning of the war, I journeyed to Afghanistan to see how the War on Terror had changed.
CHAPTER 2
----
        Â
Edge of the Empire
âI have no fucking idea who we are fighting.â
âT ASK F ORCE 11 MEMBER
Somewhere on the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, a thunderous whup, whup, whup provides the soundtrack for a graceful, intertwining aerial ballet above my head. Itâs a cold December morning, and two Huey helicopters are circling a hilltop five hundred yards to the east. They zoom in close enough to my perch that I can smell their turbine exhaust and clearly make out a bug-helmeted door gunner gripping his minigun. The flat, deep sound echoes off the mountains as one Huey prepares to land, feeling for the ground as if hesitant to touch down in this hostile place. The other helicopter dives and swoops behind the hills like an angry hawk, looking for attackers.
From my own redoubt atop a steep cliff, I overlook a wide valley across the barrel of a battered antiaircraft gun aimed at Pakistan. Since the end of the active combat phase of the war in Afghanistan, private security contractors have been combing this area with CIA and military operators involved in the hunt for bin Laden. I am sitting on the ramparts of an unnamed American firebase, unmarked on any official map, and manned by what look like Special Operations troops and Afghan mercenaries. Its loaded weapons are pointed toward the border of an ally nation, and its vehicles are left packed for a hasty departure. Similar outposts of hastily constructed Hescoesâfive-foot-tall gray cardboard and wire mesh containers filled with gravelâcrown a few of the surrounding hilltops. On top of the Hescoes, sloppily stacked sandbags, a clutter of ammunition tins, and silver loops of concertina wire add a touch of paranoid sparkle. At a distance, these makeshift citadels have the look of medieval crusader castles, but up close they appear haphazardly stacked protection against attacks.
As I scan the area through my binoculars, I can see rolling foothills, steep valleys, and widely spaced pine trees. Far below us on the dusty road, colorful and overloaded âjingaâ trucks clank and groan as they bring goods from Pakistan into Afghanistan. Off to the left, in the direction of Pakistan, my Afghan hosts point out a mountain from where they say the frequent incoming rocket attacks are launched. Officially, the Pakistani Tribal Police has jurisdiction over the tribal areas on their side of the mountains, while the U.S. military handles things on the Afghan side. Unless my GPS is wrong, however, this American outpost, armed by Afghans, is technically about five miles inside Pakistan.
âYour Americans!â shouts the smiling Afghan soldier manning the âtowerâ alongside me, pointing to the arriving choppers. Outfitted in U.S. Armyâstyle fatigues and mirrored blue wraparound sunglasses, he is one of about forty hired gunsâor âcampaignsâ as the U.S. military terms themâguarding this firebase, each of whom makes a healthy $150 a month. They live simply in an ancient-looking mud fort slightly down the hillâtheir only decoration Pakistani advertising calendars, their only furniture ammunition cases and cheap plastic lawn chairs. But this is their home, and they are doing their best to make me welcome.
According to the U.S. military, the main bases in Khost, Gardez, Oruzgan, and Asadabad are the frontlines in
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