Recon Marines Hunting the Taliban in the Mountains of Afghanistan – Part 1
GySgt Frank Simmons providing overwatch over the Buji Bast Pass – Author Photo
Written By: Gunnery Sergeant Frank Simmons (ret) and Byron Owen (Frank's platoon commander)
*Author disclaimer* In order to protect OPSEC, this story is a slightly fictionalized version of our platoon’s operations in the Golestan Mountains in the fall of 2008. Everything you read happened but not necessarily in the order you read it, or in the exact way it is portrayed. Force Recon Marines value their privacy, and they earned the right to maintain their OPSEC so we've replaced their names with those of our fallen heroes. It is otherwise accurate. The men in this story were real, the danger was real, and these heroes accomplished their assigned mission.
The sun was just setting over Buji Bast Pass when our convoy rolled up the mouth of the valley. The night came slow, the last of the light sliding slowly across the shale, turning the ridgelines a faded pink against the dust. The mountains rose straight out of the earth like jagged ribs of rock and dirt that choked the road ahead of us. The narrow valley did not look like much on a map, just a cut of road and a handful of compounds, but out here the terrain decided everything. Our convoy rolled slowly up the dirt road, the engines grumbling quietly in the still air. Nobody spoke. The rest of the Marines in my vehicle stared out at the broken terrain, waiting for the inevitable violence.
Fall had supposedly arrived in Helmand Province, but it didn’t feel like it. It was hot, dry, and the forecast called for heavy showers of Taliban. Our Force Recon platoon, call sign Jaeger, was running a high risk, high reward hunt for a Taliban IED cell in the mountain passes of the Golestan district. It was our third month in Afghanistan, only weeks after we’d thrown a large Taliban force back at the Battle of Shewan.
We had been hunting down Taliban leaders for our Commanding General all summer. He was one of the best commanders I ever served with. Lieutenant General Samuel Helland was a mustang officer who’d come up through the enlisted ranks as a Green Beret and MACV‑SOG operator in Vietnam. His biography read like the script to a blockbuster movie.
General Helland deployed us to Afghanistan in July 2008 with a simple directive: find and finish the leaders who were planning attacks on his Marines. It was a job we were very good at. He gave us the operational freedom most units only dream of, the kind of latitude that lets a small elite force like ours inflict outsized damage against the enemy.
This was going to be a different kind of hunt. The mission itself was fairly straightforward. Insert small teams of Reconnaissance Marines into the mountains and hunt down the Taliban forces that were ambushing our convoys. 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines deployed these logistics convoys, known as ‘log-trains’, from our headquarters in Camp Bastion to the various District Centers across Southern Afghanistan. It was not uncommon for one supply convoy to drive for 24-48 hours to reach the particular DC they were resupplying, getting attacked at various points along the way.
The route ahead of us was particularly fucked. he Buji Bast Pass is the only road from Delaram to the Forward Operating Base buried in the Golestan mountains. The road is narrow, the terrain is steep, and the convoys that crawled up it were easy targets. One way in, one way out. No room to maneuver. No where to hide. The Buji Bast Pass was a death trap. The Marines from 2nd Platoon, 1st Force Reconnaissance Company where going to rig the game and give the log trains a chance to beat the house.
HMLA-269 “Gun Runners” Det B – Putting the Attack in MAGTF – DOD Photo
We didn’t plan on inserting our teams by ground. An aerial insertion was obviously the best way to get us into the mountains but the CH-53 squadron refused to support our insert or our extract. The CO said the mission was “too dangerous”, “too dusty”, and probably “too scary”. So much for their bullshit slogan “any zone, any place”. What a joke. This contrasted sharply with the Cobra pilots, call sign Abusive, who were willing to strap our casualties to their weapon‑pod racks and extract them to safety on their skids. We practiced that ugly ballet at Camp Bastion until it felt like a grim option rather than an emergency.
This left us with no option but to drive the dangerous pass at night and climb the mountains on foot. It was a fairly sub-optimal situation. It was an eight hour drive from Delaram to the foot of the pass, and another ten plus hours to the hide site with full packs and 1500-2000 feet of vertical once we started climbing. Logistics were primitive. Everything you needed came out of your rucksack. The need for food and warming layers quickly diminished as the weight of the ammunition, mission essential equipment, and water increased. Body armor was the first thing to go. We even had to make some hard decisions about how much ammunition we took with us.
Gear for the mission - Author photo
It was dark now. The vehicles rolled to a stop, the suspension groaning as the truck slowly lurched to a stop. The radio chirped. It was my platoon sergeant. “Happy hunting Marines.” I smiled. It was about time to put in some work. I slowly opened the door and slid out. It was dark outside. And quiet. I took a deep breath and let the mountain air fill my lungs. It was hot and dry. I let it out slowly and looked at my team leader. He gestured at his watch and nodded towards the mountains. Time to go.
2nd Platoon, 1st Force Recon Company in the foothills of the Golestan Mountains – Author Photo
I grabbed my alice pack from the back of the truck and threw on my NODs. I could barely see anything through my PVS-14s. There was almost no illumination. Even the stars were afraid to come out tonight. I glanced at my team leader Tommy Hartrick. He gave me a thumbs up. We stepped out.
I stumbled a bit as I tried to traverse the steep terrain. The baseball ball sized rocks shifted under my feet as we made our way up the slope. I scanned the horizon with my NODs, the world awash in dull green tones. My foot slipped and my ruck shifted awkwardly across my back. Hard. The pack straps bit into my shoulder. I cursed under my breath and adjusted the weight. It felt like we were patrolling across the face of the moon. I took another step forward and kept shuffling my way up the mountain.
A few hours later we took a security halt. There was nothing out here. Nothing alive anyway. Some faint lights flickered in the distance to our south. Probably Gund village. There was nothing to our north. Just the clear night sky and the stars, which had finally decided to join us. There was no city light pollution here to dim the night sky’s splendor. I stopped for a moment to admire the Milky Way above us, then heard the sound of rocks shifting under heavy boots. It was time to keep moving.
High Afghanistan desert rocks – Author Photo
We reached a cliff face a few hours later. I caught my team leader’s gaze for a moment before dropping back to the tail end Charlie position. He wasn’t happy. We held security for a moment
We started the trek up the mountain. It was exhausting. We were on all fours at multiple points. Caleb kept trucking on. Strong legs and a strong back. He was carrying an M203 along with claymores and plenty of 40mm. He never stopped. All the rest of us were dying on all fours climbing behind him. I was using the fucking buttstock of my MK-11 as a cane at multiple points. What a kick in the ass. If we were attacked at that point. It would have been hard to effectively repel the assault. We probably would have all died if there were any Taliban on that steep mountainside at zero dark thirty. But there were not.
We reached the highest point we could a few hours later before we couldn’t continue any further without climbing gear. The sun was about to come up, and it was time to establish our harbor site. I faced outboard and came to a knee. I slowly lowered my ruck to the ground and set it down quietly. We waited for a moment to listen for any indications of compromise. Nothing. I pulled out my e-tool and we started to bury ourselves into the side of the mountain. My buddy Caleb and I low crawled out from our rocky harbor site and set out claymores while our radio operator established HF communications with our headquarter and send them a Situation ReporERit (SITREP). We were exhausted after climbing over 2000 feet MSL but all was well.
By mid-morning the sun was warming things up quickly underneath the camouflage netting. We were drinking our water fast. Probably too fast. The elevation and difficult terrain made it unlikely our headquarters could effectively resupply us. Even by air.
SSgt Tommy Hartrick scopes the valley with his SASR – Author Photo
The next morning came slow. The sun eased over the far ridge and washed the valley in a pale yellow haze. The road below looked empty and quiet. Quiet of course does not mean safe. It just means you have time to sit and think about what might come next. Most of reconnaissance is waiting. It usually isn’t depicted that way in the movies, but I wouldn’t focus on the boring parts of my job if I was filming a movie either. Sure, there are moments of high adventure and excitement, but we spend much more time laying in the dirt staring at nothing. Today was no different. We settled into the hide site and took turns on glass. Tommy kept the watch schedule short and simple. Everyone got a little time to shut their eyes. No one really slept. My scope burned a reticle into my vision. I watched the road, blinked, and watched it again. Dirt. Rocks. Nothing.
Hours passed. The boredom was worse than the heat. Our water was disappearing faster than we wanted. Caleb chewed on a stale granola bar like it was a five course meal. I envied him for being able to eat. My stomach felt dry and tight. I had a beef enchilada MRE in my pack, but I was saving that for later. We only packed one meal a day and I wanted to make it last. I pulled out some chewing gum from my pocket instead.
Sometime around noon we heard a faint engine in the distance. A motorcycle rolled into view. Two military aged males on the seat. No helmets. Both of them had scarves around their faces. They puttered along like they owned the valley. I didn’t see any weapons. Yet.
Caleb shifted a little, trying to keep them in view. “Here we go,” he whispered. I nodded, shouldered my MK-11 and settled behind the glass. I dialed the turrets until the men came into focus behind my reticle. The motorcycle pulled into a small patch of shade under an overhang. One of the men climbed off and looked around. The passenger got off the bike and set a bag on the ground. My finger drifted toward the trigger. This was how it usually started. They dig a hole in the road, wire a jug of homemade explosives to a switch and bury it. Normally they are long gone when a convoy rolls over it. Not today.
GySgt Frank Simmons scoping the valley – Author photo
The taller Afghan reached into the bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He flicked the pack against his palm a few times, then took one out. His friend cupped his hands while he lit it. The tall man smiled, passed the pack over, and repeated the ritual. We watched them smoke in silence. The shorter one leaned against the bike and scratched his back while he listened to the other talk. The tall man was gesturing wildly and pointing at the road. Here we go. I started to control my breathing while I waited for them to prepare the site for an IED. Then the tall one dropped his cigarette and got back on the bike. The smaller one jumped on the back and they rode away. Fucking bullshit. Just two guys taking a break from the sun.
I looked at my watch. 0945. This was going to be a long trip at this rate. Our next comm window opened up in fifteen minutes. Missing a comm window is an emotional event. Jon was already on it. He hunched over the PRC-150 and sent a data burst. Position. Status. Water, chow, ammunition numbers. No contact. Just observations and weather. We logged the motorcycle and the time. The Recon Operations Center acknowledged and sent a short line back. No questions. No tasking. Just keep watching.
Kuchi Nomads - Wikipedia
Another hour passed before we saw a dust cloud billowing to the north. A line of Kuchi nomads shuffled along the road, pulling a long string of overloaded camels behind them. This is a pretty common sight this time of year. At least it was something to look at. Anything to break up the monotony.
Then Caleb leaned over. He whispered into my ear. “I don’t see any women. Weird right?” I raised an eyebrow. That was weird. I took another look, this time through my MK-11 scope. He was right. Usually the Kuchi travel with their entire families. This group was made up of men and older boys. No women, no little kids. I looked over at my team leader. Tommy gestured like he was snapping pictures. Caleb nodded, pulled a huge zoom lens out of his pack and attached it to his camera.
Caleb took some photos and passed the sim card to our radio operator for processing. Jon adjusted the photo and added pertinent information like time, location, and direction. It was ready to send, but we had to wait until the next comm window. We watched the nomads disappear down the road, none the wiser to our presence. The dust they kicked up hung in the heat and eventually settled. Everything went quiet again.
A few more hours passed. It was time for another comm window. I was bored out of my skull. Caleb nudged me. I tilted my head in his direction. “Jaeger 6 says that those nomads are probably Taliban. I guess ISAF has been tracking these guys for a while and lost track of them. They are supposedly smuggling weapons into Helmand.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. No shit.”
I looked back at my team leader. He gave me a thumbs up.
I shrugged. This was some bullshit. I came here to shoot Taliban, not take pictures of them. I rolled my eyes and shot him back a thumbs up.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my beef enchilada. Good old menu number 15. Caleb groaned next to me. Everyone in the hide site was going to enjoy the aftermath of this beef and bean filled delight. I crumbled up some MRE crackers and mixed them into the packet. I topped it all off with some jalapeno cheese spread. A meal made for a king.
Caleb shook my shoulder. He pointed at the road. The two men on the motorcycle were back, this time with more luggage.
Tommy says the log-trains just left Delaram and started the trip north towards Golestan.” I nodded and got behind the glass again. The motorcycle came into focus. The two men unloaded several heavy jugs from the back of the bike. The shorter one pulled out a shovel and started digging in the center of the road.
Game time.
I held on the short man. “What’s the distance.”
“3,860 yards.”
I frowned. Way too far for anything we were carrying. I crawled over to our radio operator.
“Team 3 sees them but can’t range them either. Jaeger 6 wants us to laze the IEDs and record their location for the convoy.”
“What about a hellfire?”
“No air available.”
I groaned. This was some bullshit. Caleb marked the grids and passed them to our radio operator.
The log-trains came into view a few hours later. A large MRAP led the convoy, pushing a wide mineroller in front of it. A team of Marines walked ahead of the MRAP, sweeping the road with their metal detectors. Jon keyed the handset on his PRC-117 and made contact with the convoy on VHF comms.
Marines with Combat Logistics Regiment conduct a resupply – DOD Photo
His voice was low and hushed. “Road Runner this is Jaeger 3.”
“Go for Road Runner.”
“There are four IEDs ahead of you. I will pass you the grids and walk you on to target. We are to your North East. Try not to light us up if you take contact.”
“Roger.” A beat. “Thanks. We really appreciate it.”
“Semper Fi.”
Jon read off the grid coordinates for each of the IEDs, and we helped walk the EOD techs onto their targets. They cleared the route without incident and then pushed north toward Golestan. It was starting to get dark. We waited for more enemy activity, but there was none. Night closed in and mountain settled back around us. It was quiet. And boring. This was going to be a boring trip.
This story continues in Hunting the Taliban in the Buji Bast Pass – Part 2
GySgt Frank Simmons is a retired Force Reconnaissance Marine, and Silver Star recipient, who served with great distinction across the GWOT to include heroic service during the Battles of Nasiriyah, Fallujah, and Shewan. He served as chief scout with the Scout Sniper Platoon at 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines and later earned a place at 2nd Platoon, 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. He finished his career at the Recon Training Company training the next generation of Recon Marines. He now works at the nexus of special operations and advanced technology, specializing in drones and counter drone systems.
Byron Owen is a Reconnaissance Marine with tours as both a platoon commander and commanding officer at the elite 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. He also had the honor of commanding several intelligence and cyber units to include Combat Mission Team One, Cyberspace Warfare Task Group 1, and 3d Radio Battalion. He writes about influence warfare and cyber at keyterraincyber.com, and about leadership at broadswordsix.com
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