"Undeterred" would inaccurately characterize our frame of mind as we returned to Peshawar. Descending from the geomorphic and psychological heights of the pass, the melodrama of failure grew less palatable. Soon we desisted entertaining any notions of capitulation. Substitute your preferred cliché, but "we didn't come this far to give up" would be an unfortunately apt sentiment. However expressed, our mutual resolve recovered and we considered our next moves. Upon arrival back in Peshawar, we began the arduous task of pumping our guides, the Useless Idiots, for what accurate information they had gained from the experience. Once we ascertained the identity of the person we needed to negotiate with, we sacked the Idiots and made direct contact that evening.

We spoke with the nephew of slain Afghan Council head Abdul Haq, Mr. Zalmi [zuhl-mai], their charismatic coordinator. He invited us to their headquarters in Ayatabad, an area past Peshawar along the road to the pass. We communicated the fiscal realities of our self-financed operation and were surprised to find him somewhat understanding of our situation. He made us to understand what time a convoy could depart from headquarters and the associated fee schedule. They would assemble a convoy of at least four vehicles, more depending on the number of our "colleagues" joining us. Two vehicles of mujahadeen guards would be made available to enhance our survivability should an open-fire situation present itself. Once to Jalalabad, another one hundred fifty dollars a night per person would guarantee us a room in their guarded compound. We shrugged off the offer, explaining that we would "figure something out" once we got there.

A taxi delivered us to the Ayatabad headquarters in the morning, a high walled two-story compound lavish by Pakistani standards. It had only been occupied since the beginning of October when Abdul Haq returned from exile in the UAE. Seeking to utilize his considerable influence in eastern Afghanistan, he entered Nangarhar province to rally local tribal leaders into insurrection. Drawn into an unfavorable position and besieged by forces loyal to the Taliban, his death was highly publicized by the media. The several million US dollars he had been provided with by the CIA for "persuasion" were never accounted for.

Within the walls, several rifle-wielding guards lounged, their obvious indifference inferring little concern of danger. Zalmi himself was in his mid-to-late twenties - a handsome bastard, he had that sort of visible glow to him, the relaxed composure of somebody on the rise, not to suffer a scratch. In time, another confident looking young man approached us we had assumed to be associated with the operation and offered his services as a guide. Our third independent contractor, he was hired and fired within a five-minute span once he opened his mouth and began speaking. We were later to learn he was acquainted with the Useless Idiots, and hoped to find us an easy mark. Zalmi, empathizing with our frustration in finding a competent translator and guide for the region, offered to summon a man he described as a trusted friend that would be willing to accompany us.

A bus disgorged an entire team from Tokyo Broadcasting Network, their cameras already rolling, recording every detail without pause for the next several days. As the morning progressed, more journalists trickled in by ones and twos. With their crates boxes and bags of supporting equipment, our two backpacks caused some bewilderment. While we had optimized every inch with precisely the minimum of minimum necessary, our compact operation was still capable of most of the same functionality. A loaf of bread, rice, chocolate bars, and some medical supplies; most space occupied by our cameras and gear necessary for composing and digital processing. Coming off a bout of dysentery and in the middle of the month of Ramadan, we had not been eating much - once in-country we hoped to purchase some yellow packets of unexploded American aid ordnance.

Eventually Zalmi's friend arrived, an unassuming middle-aged Afghan refugee with a gentle disposition and disarming maturity. Apart from appearing too mild-mannered to be handy with an assault rifle, Ahmed fit the bill of the escort we imagined. Time slipped away, with the expected departure and several rescheduled times passing in succession. The holdup was apparently an outfit from the U.K., the AirNews television broadcasting team. "Kirk," a self-important but likeable Canadian photographer was quick to avail us with stories of his combat experiences in the Balkans. Another point of pride was his advanced training from a survival/operations organization. The convoy was prepared to depart when one of the operators of this same security firm arrived, an older retired SAS limey. He was nervous and advised against proceeding due to the lateness of the day. Kirk and his partner "Nada," an ethnically ambiguous writer fluent in multiple languages, immediately chose to back out. While the majority of the crowd debated the wisdom in waiting another day, we took seats with our guide inside what we hoped was the third van. Nothing could have dislodged us. At this time it was still considered a possibility that at any day bin Laden might be captured, and talks of surrender had begun the previous day. Another delay threatened to deny us some potentially momentous events. The decision to commit was a no-brainer for us after three days of failure and little regard for our personal safety. A little regard however prompted us to avoid the first vehicle - the four journalists executed three weeks prior on the road outside Jalalabad were heading up a similar convoy.

Encouraged by our confidence, and obviously unaware of our complete lack of credentials, several others joined us inside. After wasting additional daylight debating the finer points of responsibility, most found purchase in the available vehicles, including the reticent Canadians. Following another apparently superfluous delay, the arrival of the much-anticipated AirNews team precipitated our belated departure. Being late in the afternoon, making the border before its closure at 16:00 was highly uncertain.

Sharing our van a French radio correspondent and her technician struggled to remain awake after thirty hours of travel direct from Paris. Small of stature and mild in manner, it came as some surprise that she had been one of the bold few that after September 11 snuck into Afghanistan beneath a burqah, actually passing through a checkpoint just ahead a male colleague discovered and detained by Taliban. Frowning, she shook her head and told us that "war is just a game to these people," a conclusion we were not ready to make. Our second ascent of the pass, while appreciable, was a far more muted experience compared to the enthusiasm of the previous day. Acutely conscious of the potential for further difficulties and impediments, we avoided succumbing to the expectations of unchecked optimism. The anxiety of the rush, and intense high speed cornering added some excitement. Fortunately the doctoring done to the product of the previous day's bribe, our Khyber Authority pass, served to effectively extend its validity another day. We even knew to prepare multiple duplicates, once again seeding the checkpoints along extent of the road with our paper offerings.

The lack of any major accidents or mishaps along the road was a gift of from merciful Allah. Once arrived to Torkham, our obsession with getting across the border, facilitated by the experience of the previous day, saw us first in and first out of Pakistani immigration. Placing ourselves near the gate and equipping our most convincing thousand-yard stares, the Afghani children offered little harassment and inveigled the others with their outstretched hands and piles of useless currency "collections."

The mujahadeen border commander that barred our entry the previous day found us, offering a handshake and smile. His approval that we had figured out the new system also wordlessly expressed his appreciation for ditching the Useless Irritants. Minutes before the 16:00 closure, we were allowed to proceed through a small opening offered in the gate. Regrouping on the Afghani side, in Afghanistan no less, found another set of vehicles waiting, with two trucks of Alliance muj to assume point and rear positions. While some might have hesitated at this the 'point of no return,' we enthusiastically embraced another decisive passage into the unknown.

More waiting, but our deployed position made it entirely bearable. Afghans "displaced" or less euphemistically, bombed out of their homes, lingered, languished and wandered. Obvious paternal sensitivity was demonstrated by our guide Ahmed as he comforted a small undernourished girl sobbing into his well-fed stomach. The poor English translation on a large sign erected by the Taliban read:

"FAITHFUL PEOPLE WITH STRONG DECISION ENTRY AFGHANISTAN!

THE SACRIFICE COUNTRY WELCOMES YOU WITH PLEASES."

A heated exchange brought resolution to our unexplained delay; the impatience and irritation of which required no translation. The velocity of our rapid ascent was eclipsed by the speeds now achieved on the unsound but frequently straight Afghan road. Blurred glimpses of refugee camps constructed from metal shipping containers, heavy weapons emplacements and the burnt out tanks of a previous war. Rocky terrain part desert, part tundra, with trees scattered along the road. The setting sun bestowing a ruddy complexion to the soil, the landscape seemed to speak of exhaustion.

At one point "Naomi," the French journalist, confided in us that she had encountered our guide previously and inferred suspicion that he was Taliban, the first insight into what would prove an enigmatic figure. Foregoing the breaking of fast at Iftar, a fleeting stop for dried meat munchies functioned as surrogate feast. Although the sun had set as we entered Jalalabad, the alleged three-hour journey had been accomplished in just over an hour. The majority of the streets were lined with high walls, and few structures had more then a ground floor. Turning down a desolate alley, the convoy stopped and a series of exclamations and code words were offered into the darkness ahead. Proceeding slowly, semi-hidden soldiers and snipers in the trees surveyed us as we passed. Entering a long empty alley, we approached a high walled structure and quickly ushered through its gateway. Numerous mujahadeen kept regular patrols of the perimeter, noticeably more attentive then their counterparts in Ayatabad. From what we could tell, the Alliance clearly owned this several square block area of Jalalabad.

The only casualties of the journey were our options for alternative lodging due to the late hour. One of the functions we had hoped he would provide, Ahmed seemed uncooperative in devising another plan, offering what seemed passive aggressive assertions that we should take the pricey accommodations offered by the Alliance. At this point, the inference taken by us was that we had again been misled. Given our recent experiences, the rapid rise of suspicion was not unwarranted. We had to ask ourselves if we were paying somebody to only work at further lining their pockets. When the rate for the room proved twice what Ahmed initially assured us, our suspicion increased. While our "colleagues" unquestioningly produced stacks of American dollars to ensure their safety, we haggled as if over souvenirs in a tourist bazaar. Frustrated with our insistence, we were eventually handed off to the commander in charge who we found to be entirely reasonable. Then again, the FrontLine Team deems anyone giving us a break to be "entirely reasonable." We shared a large cold room with a freelancer from Japan, a somewhat elderly man who seemed pretty far out of his league. His motives far more benign then most, he had no interest in the conflict at Tora Bora. Instead, his itinerary would take him to refugee camps in distant corners of the country that he could document the miserable living conditions and specifically the suffering of children. Kidnapped in Beirut in the 1980's on a similar mission, he was one of the few captured not to be executed. He showed us his pictures, and although we assured him the sad black and white images were quality stuff, we found the exploitative kiddie-porn quality of the young tortured faces to be suspect.

Settling in, our guide departed to obtain food, returning some time later with a plastic bag filled with meaty rice he claimed required 500 Pakistani rupees, an unbelievable sum. This only furthered our suspicion and concern for the honesty of the FLM team's latest contractor. Disappointed with the fare produced by our guide, we were elated at the ample spread offered in the common room by our hosts. After two weeks of Pakistan, it was the first real meal we could set upon with enthusiasm. While thus engaged in overdue consumption, it was announced that there was presently a press conference by the new governor of Nangarhar; himself recently arrived from appointment in Bonn. Setting aside our meal, we did not want to miss meeting Haji Abdul Qadir, purportedly one of the largest heroin and opium bosses prior to the ascension of the Taliban. Cramming into a convoy of brand new SUV's replete with inset digital video terminals, we made for the previous residence of deposed King Zahir Shah, taken by Qadir as his "governor's mansion." Along the way, we asked one of the Council representatives who paid for the deluxe vehicles. It took some time to understand what he meant when he smiled and answered that I had. Once arrived and past the post-Massoud security check, we entered the great public hall, it's Mughal splendor worthy of the name Diwan-I-Am. At the nucleus of a frenetically orbiting circle of cameras and tape recorders, Qadir appeared every bit the Arabian Emir, resplendent in rich silks and golden turban.

There was nothing substantive from the front, mostly polished sound-bite worthy replies to correspondents more concerned with scooping news items then asking any of the really interesting questions. Adam rolled camera while Todd asked him some questions, one regarding adherence to Geneva Convention specifics provoking a sardonic, dismissive response. Near the end of the conference, it was announced that he was sheltering 800 Pakistani Taliban volunteers who had escaped the fall of Kandahar, now his "guests." At an undisclosed time the following day, he would release them without condition. A politically astute maneuver to discourage the image of him as American puppet and promote relations with the nation bordering his province.

Returning to the compound we socialized with the young mujahadeen on patrol. 20-year-old Nasim took quite a liking to Todd. Discussing the stars in sign-language, he provided the friendly young gunman a business card and had translated "When the day comes that you work for Starbucks and there is an internet café on every corner in Afghanistan, drop me a line." Unbound by arbitrary delusions regarding integrity and professionalism, we were only too willing to accept some of their Kalashnikov rifles and receive some impromptu instruction in proper usage and handling. While our peers busied themselves conferring with staff and family over their sat-phones, we occupied ourselves with exactly the stuff every journalist secretly yearns for in their heart.

Before turning in we negotiated the next expensive necessities; our own truck, driver, and guard. A dramatic counterpoint to our situation the evening prior, we slept confident that the next day would find us arrived at the front.

the capable mr. zalmi did a competent job of running things smoothly and keeping everyone happy. from our experiences in the region, quick determination of authority could be made by the evaluating the lightness of skin color. we always knew we found the right person when we found one white enough.

moving targets

yawn...big deal...old news

Perhaps we really bombed the Taliban because they were not ISO certified.

I'm sure the Persian was flawless.

a heated exchange

when zalmi introduced me to the unsmiling uniformed bearded soldier on the right, he told me his name "Habib" meant "friend." in the coming days i grew more concerned of him issuing some islamic style justice upon us more then any al-qaeda holdouts

with no government at the time i was uncertain for whom this flag flew.

lined up, the first truck loaded with the muj gunmen took point and we fell into a tight formation

near the border refugees lived in these re-purposed cargo containers

in the worst of places, you can always count on Shell

Haji Abdul Qadir holds court

tod and nasim keep watch

adamn enjoys the moment