collection systems. When they showed up in a valley, we knew to start zeroing in on it.
We tried to cut the bureaucracy so that actionable information could be moved right from the point of conception to the people who could actually do something with it.
Then, out of the blue, we rolled up a female Pakistani intelligence agent. The 10th Mountain captured her in Khowst as part of a Taliban unit attacking a U.S. outpost there.
She was carrying Pakistani documents and tried to claim she was merely monitoring the situation in Afghanistan for her country. Monitoring, my ass. She was ISI—the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence; the Pakistani intelligence service. Nasty crew. They had a big hand in creating the Taliban, and we had no doubt that she was collecting intelligence for them. We already were aware that the ISI was giving the Taliban tips on how to better protect themselves from our surveillance systems.
She was transported back to the BCP. In interrogations, she refused to break, but we didn’t need her to. We had the goods on her. Intelligence verified she was ISI ******* **** ********* *** ******* ** ***** *** ******* ** *** **** *****. Just as important, we now had clear and direct evidence that Paks were involved in the offensive. From that moment on, I considered anyone in a Pakistani uniform an adversary.
As I was working one night, Kate Reese came by. It was on her computer that I’d seen a glimpse of a pair of those nice-looking legs during my first day in the SCIF. She’d gotten in the habit of stopping back into my section of the tent in the evenings to say hello. The 10th Mountain had nets of low-level sources that sometimes intersected with ours, who were after the bigger guys. Her job was to consolidate intel overnight for a report for General Vines’ briefing in the morning, look at the new info coming in, and put in the intelligence-collection requirements (what they needed to know and find) for the 10th Mountain intelligence-collection units in the field.
“I’m headed for the break tent for a cigar,” she said. “Want one?”
I did a double take. “A cigar?” It’s not often a woman asks you to share a cigar break with her. I was in the middle of an e-mail to Ray. “Let me finish this, and I’ll come on back in about five minutes.”
I had smoked cigars years ago, just after completing the Farm. I hadn’t had one in a while, but the thought of one sounded good.
Kate had brought an extra one for me. They were small Partagas that took about twenty minutes to smoke. The conversation between us was easy. First it was intel issues, then movies, and then family. She was twenty-four and came from a remote Alaskan town where everything was a plane ride away. Besides Natalie Portman, she also reminded me of Hilary Swank in the movie Insomnia, where Swank played a fresh-faced local detective investigating a bizarre murder in an Alaskan town. There was the same no-nonsense style, but also the same brown eyes, cheekbones, and smile. Kate had joined the army when she was twenty. Like me, but two decades later, she’d gone through intelligence training at Fort Huachuca, and we traded stories about frustrations and experiences there.
It was nice to have a pleasant conversation in the midst of this mayhem. Plus, there was definitely an attraction between us. That was OK—she was separated from her husband, who was the guy in the photo on her computer—and my relationship had ended as well. Still, I was careful.
We got in the habit of taking a cigar break together once a night about midnight. She dropped by after her initial surge of work was done and sat on the desk near me with her feet in a chair while I worked and then we headed for the break area. She had a cigar humidor, and I bought Cuban cigars at the Italian PX in Kabul when I commanded convoys into town, and I donated them to the humidor. Soon, she was riding shotgun for me about once a week on convoys.
Those times with her
We tried to cut the bureaucracy so that actionable information could be moved right from the point of conception to the people who could actually do something with it.
Then, out of the blue, we rolled up a female Pakistani intelligence agent. The 10th Mountain captured her in Khowst as part of a Taliban unit attacking a U.S. outpost there.
She was carrying Pakistani documents and tried to claim she was merely monitoring the situation in Afghanistan for her country. Monitoring, my ass. She was ISI—the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence; the Pakistani intelligence service. Nasty crew. They had a big hand in creating the Taliban, and we had no doubt that she was collecting intelligence for them. We already were aware that the ISI was giving the Taliban tips on how to better protect themselves from our surveillance systems.
She was transported back to the BCP. In interrogations, she refused to break, but we didn’t need her to. We had the goods on her. Intelligence verified she was ISI ******* **** ********* *** ******* ** ***** *** ******* ** *** **** *****. Just as important, we now had clear and direct evidence that Paks were involved in the offensive. From that moment on, I considered anyone in a Pakistani uniform an adversary.
As I was working one night, Kate Reese came by. It was on her computer that I’d seen a glimpse of a pair of those nice-looking legs during my first day in the SCIF. She’d gotten in the habit of stopping back into my section of the tent in the evenings to say hello. The 10th Mountain had nets of low-level sources that sometimes intersected with ours, who were after the bigger guys. Her job was to consolidate intel overnight for a report for General Vines’ briefing in the morning, look at the new info coming in, and put in the intelligence-collection requirements (what they needed to know and find) for the 10th Mountain intelligence-collection units in the field.
“I’m headed for the break tent for a cigar,” she said. “Want one?”
I did a double take. “A cigar?” It’s not often a woman asks you to share a cigar break with her. I was in the middle of an e-mail to Ray. “Let me finish this, and I’ll come on back in about five minutes.”
I had smoked cigars years ago, just after completing the Farm. I hadn’t had one in a while, but the thought of one sounded good.
Kate had brought an extra one for me. They were small Partagas that took about twenty minutes to smoke. The conversation between us was easy. First it was intel issues, then movies, and then family. She was twenty-four and came from a remote Alaskan town where everything was a plane ride away. Besides Natalie Portman, she also reminded me of Hilary Swank in the movie Insomnia, where Swank played a fresh-faced local detective investigating a bizarre murder in an Alaskan town. There was the same no-nonsense style, but also the same brown eyes, cheekbones, and smile. Kate had joined the army when she was twenty. Like me, but two decades later, she’d gone through intelligence training at Fort Huachuca, and we traded stories about frustrations and experiences there.
It was nice to have a pleasant conversation in the midst of this mayhem. Plus, there was definitely an attraction between us. That was OK—she was separated from her husband, who was the guy in the photo on her computer—and my relationship had ended as well. Still, I was careful.
We got in the habit of taking a cigar break together once a night about midnight. She dropped by after her initial surge of work was done and sat on the desk near me with her feet in a chair while I worked and then we headed for the break area. She had a cigar humidor, and I bought Cuban cigars at the Italian PX in Kabul when I commanded convoys into town, and I donated them to the humidor. Soon, she was riding shotgun for me about once a week on convoys.
Those times with her
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