CallSign Charlie-Eight-Two-Zero

That’s me. Charlie 820.

After our first attempt to land at Kabul International Airport, the captain gets on the intercom to announce that conditions are bad for landing as he could not see the necessary indicators on the ground. It is a whiteout snow storm; apparently, it has been dumping snow all day. He tells us that we will circle for 30 minutes to see if conditions improve, and then take one final attempt to land, if we cannot land again, then we will just return to Dubai (no big deal, just turn around and fly back 3 hours). The pilot makes sure to remind us that Safi Airline is the safest airline in Afghanistan. Though, the timing of that statement was less than reassuring. I look out my window, and all I see is white, I know I must be surrounded by mountains, but can’t see a thing. I imagine we must be close to the ground but have no idea. My stomach is a bit nervous, not sure if it is because I am in a plane trying to land in a snow storm amidst towering mountains, or if it is because I am (hopefully) landing in a country at war. Or some mix of both. Needless to say, I am a bit more on edge than usual during this landing. We start the decent again. All of a sudden I see the runway right below us, our wheels touchdown, and the cabin breaks into tentative applause. I breathe a sigh of relief.

The airport is like most airports I’ve been to in developing nations. Sparse. Though with a few more guns. All of the ladies dawn their head scarves as we step off the plane, and we rush to get through passport control. The luggage pickup is an old school conveyer belt surrounded by numerous Afghans asking if I need assistance (for a price of course). But I, being the master packer that I am, have it under control. Someone asks me if I am with [my organization] and tells me my vehicle is waiting, but I do not recognize him so I blow him off. Not about to begin this foray into Afghanistan with a kidnapping. The power shuts down. We all stand around the luggage roundabout in the dark until the generator kicks in. Eventually my luggage comes around and I make my way through customs (just another series of queues) to my escort. He verbally welcomes me (men and women do not shake hands here, let alone hug) and we exit the airport.

It is a quiet evening, dampened by the falling snow. Everything is that glowy blue that comes about on a snowy evening just as the sun finishes setting. Due to airport security protocols, there are numerous abandoned walled-in lots surrounding the airport where no vehicles are allowed. As we make our way across this empty snow field I find myself hoping that I did actual recognize this man, and it wasn’t just the 2 days of travel talking. He starts to talk to me about my project and about the weather in California and I feel a bit better. We pass through what appears to be a crack in a barrier wall, and find ourselves in a parking lot filled with landcruzers with UN painted on the sides and, somewhat more discrete, armored vehicles. Eventually we walk up to one such unremarkable armored vehicle and a Scottish man steps out and says, “You must be Rachel”. He introduces himself and loads my stuff into the back. I hop in to find two other expat men in the back seat already. The security man climbs into the front seat, turns around and says in his thick Scottish accent, “We are on yellow; there have not been any instances in the last two days. First-aid packs are here and here (pointing to packs on the backs of the driver and passenger seats), I have weapons up here with me, and the rest are in a trunk in the back of the vehicle (beneath all my shit). If anything happens, just lie on the floor and follow my directions. We have about 10 minutes till we reach HQ”. He then gets on the radio to inform HQ that pick-up is complete and we are en-route. By this point my head is swirling; So many possibilities and so little instruction. Nothing has happened in the last 2 days - in what kind of world is that satisfactory? I imagine that if anything were to happen, it would be pretty difficult to hear any instructions from my security escort. But, I take a breath and try to steady my heart rate. “Here we go” I think to myself.

By this point it is dark in Kabul, but traffic is still plenty. The driver speeds in and out of traffic, sometimes against the flow, but rarely ever stops. People step out in front of our vehicle to cross the street, and I hold my breath. As we make it through police checkpoints, the security radios it into headquarters. Shortly we pull up to a gate that magically opens and we enter a garage.

Everyone piles out into the building, and I do a three-sixty, not sure where to go. I poke my head around and find my way into the security control room - abuzz with radio communication, the walls covered in maps and trackers. The guy in charge eventually asks me if he can help me, and, after learning I am new, promptly launches into a rant on how they run the security operation and how they track every movement of every member of the team. He explains the callsigns to me, and tells me I am now known as Charlie Eight-Two-Zero. “Charlie 820, Charlie 820” I repeat in my head, but my mind hasn’t quieted from the car ride, and this new influx of information is just making my mind swirl at a faster rate. Eventually the guy who runs the overall security operations of LGCD comes and takes me up to his office. At this point, it is 7pm on a Saturday, so everyone just wants to go home. He offers me water and sits me down in front of a big screen. Though I would prefer a cigarette, the water and the darkness calm me a bit. Then he tells me in his Irish accent, “This presentation is not meant to scare you, just to give you a realistic idea of the situation on the ground”. Great, I think to myself, again, not finding the forewarning reassuring.

We proceed to spend the next hour and a half going over every major hit that has taken place against our project in the last few years. We discuss the fact that because we are closely tied to GoIRA’s (Government of Islamic Republic of Afghanistan) and the US governments counter insurgent program, we are a considerably higher priority target than NGO’s and even other private contractors. I begin to piece together the nature of my program, working with the PRT’s to clear areas (of insurgents) and then work to build infrastructure and livelihoods on behalf of GoIRA, in an attempt to create a relationship between civilians in these remote places and their government. It starts to make sense that we would be a target, but definitely not something that had dawned on me before this debrief. He details houses and projects that have been hit. At some point I interject, “I know this may be a bigger question than you are prepared to answer, but have you sat down and identified the threshold at which the loss of project and security personnel outweighs the benefits of our work?” He gives me a wishy-washy answer with the underlying emotion being that no one thinks we are there yet. He then runs down all of the security protocol and pushes me off to HR to sign papers and get my body armor and cell phone.

Being that it is nearing 9pm, the HR rep just hands over my body armor and tells me to meet her Sunday at 8:30 to go over everything. I am thankful for this reprieve, as all I desire is a warm shower and a bed. She calls for a vehicle to pick us and take us to my new home. We climb in, and the security escort up front immediately asks us for our callsigns. I stumble and dig for the paper in my bag where I had written it down. “Charlie Eight-Two-Zero”. Again we are bumping our way through the walled, pot-holed streets of Kabul with the crackle of radio traffic in the background. We arrive at my new house, and security gets on the radio and requests for them to open the gate. Men in body armor and AK’s come out and open the gates. Inside are shooters in various strategic positions aimed at the gate, and my vehicle. I am not in Kansas anymore…I try to open the door, but it doesn’t budge. I ask for assistance, and the security escort opens it from the outside with no problem. It dawns on me that this is an armored vehicle, and the doors are like that of a vault. Gotta put your back into it.

I climb out and once again drag my shit through the mud and snow, and look up. It is a multi story house with old southern architecture. We step into the marble foyer with sweeping grand stairwells. My escort hands me over to the head of security of the house, and he gives me a tour of the house and runs over what to do in event of earthquake, mortar shells or compound attack. He says, “You will know if we are under attack because you will hear a big boom and then the tak tak tak of gun fire”. Sweet. I ask him if we should fit my body armor and put together my grab bag, but due to the late hour, he too puts it off until tomorrow. Left alone to myself, I shower and try to wrap my head around things. I head down to the kitchen to see what’s to eat. I chat a bit with the few people snacking at 10pm and head back to my room. I am dead beat, and look at my queen bed longingly. My mind is racing, but I am drained and allow myself to climb in. It doesn’t take 10 minutes for me to be up and packing my grab bag. Basically a grab bag is bag you grab in the event of attack that has all of the essentials (warm clothes as it is winter here at 5,000 feet, food, water, first aid, meds, cash, passport, phone). I place it next to the door with my body armor. I get back into bed and fall asleep as I mentally run over the actions of what to do if we are attacked (some people count sheep). At 4pm California time (3:30 am Kabul time) I wake up. With every little noise, I pause to assess its significance. I go over and over everything that I have been told in the last 12 hours, and try to piece together the likelihood of a hit on this house, this night. I feel inadequately prepared for anything and everything. I try to will myself back to sleep, but at 6:00am, I give up and go down to the gym.

A new day awaits. The sunlight is somehow reassuring. I call for a car to take me to the office, climb in and give them my callsign. Charlie Eight-Two-Zero.


NOTE: I have been intentionally vague about names, places and protocal. If you have questions feel free to email.