Kandahar Part 2 of 3

Part Two- Here Comes the Boom!

After my introduction to Afghanistan, I returned to Kandahar and reunited with my team. Word had already spread about what happened during my left-seat/right-seat ops. Most of them were seasoned, experienced men—they didn’t offer sympathy, just a nod and a short, sharp welcome:

“Now you know what it’s really like.”

I buried every emotion. Numb but not broken. And I was ready for more.

We began prepping for our first mission. I was just 18—lost, unsure—but I stood shoulder to shoulder with warriors. I remember walking toward the hangar near our tent. Laid out across the concrete floor was a massive terrain model made of tape and chalk lines. It mapped every building, alley, and ridgeline we’d encounter. Senior officers briefed the plan. Each team walked through their actions, rehearsing scenario after scenario, all the way to exfil. The op was supposed to be fast—surgical. Hit our target and get out under cover of darkness. But we were warned:

“Expect contact. Heavy on infil, heavier on exfil.”

Nothing in war is ever simple.

That morning, my buddy and I hit the gym to shake off the nerves. In the corner, we found a dusty pink iPod. Ancient, nearly dead—but it worked. We plugged it into the team laptop, wiped it, and loaded a DMX album.

“What These Bitches Want” became our pre-mission anthem. It was hard, raw, angry—exactly what we needed.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, we geared up—full battle rattle, extra mags, one frag grenade each. We boarded the Chinook, one earbud in my ear, one in his, DMX rattling our bones as the blades chopped overhead.

Mid-flight, we got word: we were taking fire. Too hot to land. The bird circled, then diverted to a secondary infil zone. This is why we did those endless tabletop rehearsals—you never enter Plan A expecting it to hold.

We finally landed. Four Americans. Fifteen ANA soldiers. As boots hit dirt, we heard chatter over comms:

“Ordnance inbound. JDAM. Danger close.”

Enemy fighters had just run into a nearby cave. A jet was on the way.

We had two minutes.

We locked eyes. No words needed.

“Run.”

No translator. No time. The ANA followed blindly. I remember stories of early Special Forces teams calling in danger-close strikes alongside the Northern Alliance. I thought—we’re about to live that.

I vaulted over a low wall—only to drop seven feet on the other side. Slammed hard. Got up, kept moving. We rushed a nearby compound.

“Get down!”

We forced everyone—civilians, allies—to the ground. The countdown echoed in our radios.

Ten seconds.

Then silence.

Then—BOOM.

The earth cracked beneath us. The shockwave pulsed through my ribs, into my chest. Dust swallowed the room. No sound. Just power.

Twenty minutes passed. The enemy had scattered. We regrouped and pushed to the objective.

Clearing buildings, we used the SEEK device—early biometric scanner. When it lit red, we knew we had someone. The first time I saw it go off, adrenaline surged through me like lightning.

Jackpot.

We zip-tied the target, blacked out his goggles, and moved on. Later we learned 40 Taliban fighters were confirmed killed by AH-64 Apaches. Site exploitation teams found the remains. Village elders came asking to collect the dead.

We didn’t care.

“Fuck you. They tried to kill us.”

It escalated. A group of 40 men followed the elders, yelling. Tension spiked. One of our machine gunners posted up at a compound window—finger on the trigger, ready. Standoff.

The Special Forces commander stepped in—calm, firm. Spoke to the elders, defused the situation. Crisis averted.

We exfiled with three detainees on the Chinook. And that’s when the other war began—paperwork.

Sworn statements. Interviews. Six-hour debriefs. Instead of sleep, we sat in a tent with lawyers, walking through every decision, every shot fired.

Then it started again.

New target.

New terrain.

Back to the gym.

Back to the war table.

By the fifth mission, we were professionals.

Contact? React.

Trip? Keep moving.

Sprained ankle? Suck it up. The mission came first.

We laughed at what almost killed us.

One night, we were installing a signal repeater at a deserted ANA post. Out of nowhere, a helicopter flew past—low. Too low. They didn’t even know we were there. We laughed.

That same night, mortarmen launched loom rounds—flares so bright they turned night into noon.

No warning.

“Hey, we’re up here!” we yelled, laughing again.

On another op, our targets were fasting for Ramadan. The heat was brutal, and they refused even water. I almost felt bad. Almost.

We gathered all military-aged males in one compound—MAM Rodeo. No shade, no shelter, but safer than chasing them later.

We found weapons, ammo, and three men trying to flee. Brought them in.

Blood blisters on their shoulders—clear signs they’d been firing rifles.

Fingerprinted. Confirmed.

Lit cigars. Exhaled.

Then—gunfire.

Sporadic. All directions. Panic.

We feared being overrun. Called for a show of force. Birds were already inbound.

Still smoking, I watched the plane streak overhead—low, silent, elegant death.

Then:

BOOM.

It hit like a hammer from God. My chest rattled. My heart skipped. Not a word was spoken.

That was the moment I understood the term:

“Show of force.”

My buddy exhaled,

“Yeah… real quiet.”

The contact picked up again. One of ours got hit in the shoulder. We called a medevac. Our JTAC talked the bird in. We cleared a landing zone a klick out, secured it, got our man out.

I pulled security. Cigar still in hand. Felt like a damn action movie.

We finished the mission.

Three detained.

Multiple dead.

Clean exfil.

And that became the norm.

As the deployment neared its end, a new dread crept in—what now?

Back to motor pool Mondays? Grocery lines? Picking out what kind of milk to buy?

No one warns you how addictive it gets. The purpose. The clarity. The simplicity.

This was war.

And part of me didn’t want it to end.