Elliot Ackerman - The Fifth Act: Americas End in Afghanistan - Americas End in Afghanistan

2034 (with Admiral James Stavridis)

Red Dress in Black and White

Places and Names

Waiting for Eden

Dark at the Crossing

Istanbul Letters

Green on Blue

A hotel room, Rome, at night

The war has always been there, even though I dont go to it anymore. It is older than my children, who sleep in the room next door. I learned to love it before I learned to love my wife, who fits her body beside mine in the bed. The war is endinghas been ending for some time. And it is disastrous.

Kabul fell five days ago.

But even before that, my phone had begun ringing. The calls have built in urgency and followed me here, unexpectedly, on a long-planned summer holiday with my family. Today, I toured the sights with my childrenthe Colosseum, the Forum, the Baths of Caracalla. They complained about all the walking. They are too young to appreciate the ruins of an expired empire; still, I tell myself theyll remember walking these ruins.

All day, I lagged behind my wife and children, tapping out text messages, taking calls. I am working most closely with Nick, a friend and journalist who has organized a convoy of four minibuses for tonight. There are 109 people manifested on these buses. They are Afghan interpreters, activists, journalists. In the early morning hours, they will gather at the Serena Hotel in Kabul and board the buses for the airport. Another journalist has negotiated the convoys safe passage through the Talibans newly established checkpoints in Kabul. My job is to ensure the convoys safe passage through the American checkpoints, specifically one gate at the airport. On the map, it is listed as the Unnamed Gate.

Afghan paramilitaries are manning the Unnamed Gate. An old friend of mine, Jack, runs the CIA program that pays these paramilitaries. In our twenties, while in the Marines, Jack and I went through training together. He has made a career at the CIA and now oversees a vast network of paramilitary operations around the world. It takes me all morning to get through to him. Eventually, he returns my call. Hat in hand, I ask for his help. He deadpans, Im kinda busy right now. When I ask again, he says simply, Ill see what I can do.

My wifes aunt, who has since passed away, was by all accounts a very glamorous woman and for many years was married to an equally glamourous Roman named Benito. That afternoon, once wed finished touring the ruins, he came to our hotel with his daughter to meet us for a drink. Benito is in his nineties and was once ranked among the greatest professional bridge players in the world, winning tournaments from Monte Carlo to Las Vegas. We sit outside on the terrace overlooking the swimming pool. His memory is faded, but he wants to see the children, who play nearby chasing pigeons that peck the food from our table. Then Nick calls and I excuse myself. He explains that the US embassy has issued an advisory for an imminent terrorist attack at the airport. We debate whether we should postpone the convoy by a night. Nick isnt sure whether the Taliban will let us through tomorrow. All day long Ive been trying to get some confirmation from Jack that our convoy will be allowed to enter the Unnamed Gate. Nick wants to know if Ive heard anything else from him. How confident am I that Jack will come through for us? I tell him that I dont know. We decide to stick to the original plan and go tonight.

When I return to the table, my wife asks if everything is all right. I find myself apologizing to Benito and his daughter. I begin to explain whats going on, figuring theres no one theyre going to tell. They listen attentively. Benitos eyes are upturned for a moment as if he is making calculations on my behalf. Then he says, That is a difficult situation. His daughter frowns. A brief silence settles between us.

Now its time to go. The buses are loading at the Serena Hotel. Im monitoring their progress on my phone, in a chat room on Signal. Ive gotten up from the bed where my wife sleeps, and Im sitting at the hotel room desk. The lights of the city suggest themselves from behind the translucent curtain. Aside from that and the screen of my phone, the room is dark. Most of the passengers on the buses are strangers, but one family is not. My interpreter, Ali, and I fought alongside each other more than a decade ago in Shkin, a mud-walled firebase along the Pakistani border. Our Counter Terrorist Pursuit Team (CTPT) manned the southeasternmost outpost in the country. People called it the end of the line. Our CTPT had T-shirts made up. Ali lives in Texas now. His mother and father in Kabul have received death threats from the Taliban, phone calls and a letter delivered to their house. They are on the bus, along with his two sisters, who, he reminds me, are still young and very scared. Floating ellipses paired with the word