the lights were all off and blinds were all pulled. was that unusual? very. the blinds in my area of the reception area were never closed. but they were this time? they were closed. and i reached over to turn the light switch on. and all of a sudden i hear her say, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, i walked over to where she was and you could see pam s body kind of laying in the fetal position. reporter: julily is a nurse. she checked for signs of life. i remember leaning down and seeing, checking for a carotid pulse. i remember thinking, everything has changed in my life right now. everything has changed for those kids and their life will never be the same. so there are two things going on at once? right, that s how you are trained. you immediately feel emotions are put aside and i knew something was then, i knew
was that unusual? very. the blinds in my area, the reception area, were never closed. but they were this time? they were closed. and i reached over and turned the light switch on. all of a sudden i hear her say, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. and i walked over to where she was, and we could see pam s body kind of laying in a fetal position. julie is a nurse. she checked for signs of life. i remember leaning down and, you know, checking for a carotid pulse. and i remember thinking, everything has changed in my life right now. everything has changed for those kids. and their life will never be the same. so, there are two things going on at once there. right, right, that s how you re trained. you immediately focus, emotions are put aside. i knew something was bad. i knew something wasn t right. i knew not to move her.
In early 2006, I sat in the Pashtun tribal areas on the Af/Pak border. When not rinsing grit out of my teeth from the thick fog in the air, I awaited information from capricious “allies,” on whether their informant could identify a senior al Qaeda leader who I’ll call “The Moroccan.” At the time, he was al Qaeda’s regional operational commander and well worth removing from the board.
I lusted for certainty on the whereabouts of the Moroccan. He remained stubbornly elusive, while I chafed with impatience aggravated by living conditions halfway between a prison and an armed bunker. I watched tantalizing video from “eyes in the sky” of vehicles associated with the Moroccan heading towards the funeral of a militant. The funeral was attended by hundreds of men, all sporting traditional bushy beards and the long, baggy shalwar-kameezs Pashtuns favored, topped by either a turban or pakol cap. Making a positive ID in that crowd was like locating a particular stalk of wheat i