Thomas P.M. Barnett :: Weblog

DAYS ONE-TWO (Thursday-Friday, 1-2 November)

Day began at Holiday Inn Express sharing a room with Kevin. We get dressed and head over to the church where, years earlier across Vonne’s childhood, her dad served as minister. It was a nice ceremony. I put in about another half hour at the post-service gathering at the attached fellowship hall, but then Vonne reminds me of the time and I run out to the car to input the Indy airport into the nav system. It said 2:45 to get there and it was already 12:20. Since the flight was 3:30, I made quick good-byes and bolted without even hitting the head.

I drove the 160 miles nonstop, changing my suit to travel clothes as I drove.

I got to the USAirway counter to discover a huge snafu with my ticket: Hearst had just cut it only 30 minutes earlier and Lufthansa couldn’t push the e-ticket through to USAirway’s computer system, so USAirways said I needed a paper ticket to proceed on the first leg to Charlotte. Since no Lufthansa office exists in Indy, USAirways forces me to stand at the counter for 2 hours while one of their employees in Charlotte goes over to the Lufthansa desk there, has them print out a paper ticket, and takes it back to the USAirway counter for verification--strangely 20th century, no?

After two hours of haggling and pleading, it all works out okay. I miss the 3:30 flight I was supposed to be on but am able to catch the 5:15, getting boosted to first due to premier status. Jenn was also able to get me upgraded on the Charlotte to Frankfurt overnight, using miles. That flight left at 2100 and was nice enough, getting me to Frankfurt on Friday at 11 in the morning. After about 4 hours of layover there, I was on a Lufthansa proper in economy heading to Dubai. That landed there at 1030 and I was in my nearby hotel room by midnight, getting back up at 5am to head out for the next flight.

DAY THREE (Saturday, 3 November)
Instead of going to the main terminal at Dubai (big and beautiful), I have the hotel shuttle take me to the more out-of-the-way Terminal Two, where the marginal carriers work. I’m catching a flight to Kabul on KamAir. Bit of a drill to get through the system, but a nice duty-free near the gate so I stockpile on some juice and water and peanuts.

On the flight up to Kabul I read the background stuff on Fallon, which is interesting (4th four-star billet for him, 1st of nine kids) and peruse the articles I’ve been accumulating. Lacking a window seat, I can only glance at the rugged mountainous scenery as we descend. Typical of that sort of landscape, it was bumpy going down.

Getting through the customs, baggage checks, identity card stuff at Kabul International was its own set of complications, but everything went smoothly enough. Seeing my bag, I was grateful everything had gone to plan, flight-wise, because a trip of this length can be a monster and often is. I had managed to go from Payne OH to Kabul Afghanistan and I showed up only an hour late.

Two escorts were waiting for me outside the airport and we hopped into an up-armored Ford F-350 pickup, something they’ve just started using here. We drive through Kabul, quick stopping at a military medical hospital for the second escort truck to peel off and pick up a journalist doing a story there, and then we’re into Kabul Green Zone, which includes the coalition HQ, the U.S. Embassy, the presidential palace and the Ministry of Defense.

I’m taken to the Public Affairs’ office where I link up with Fallon’s on-site PAO, Cdr. Jeff Breslau, who’s a great host. I dump my bag at Hotel California, which is one of those container-unit two stories that’s been welded together and given a covering veneer. My VIP quarters is a simple shoe-box unit with a head on the end--very standard.

First off I’m taken to do about an hour interview (taped) with BGEN Andrew Twomey, the American deputy commander here who focuses on “programs” involving the training of the Afghani military and police. That was interesting and informative.

Then Fallon entered the base around 1400, arriving from a morning helo tour of a FOB (forward operating base) in the mountains, and we try to catch him for a grip-and-grin to let him know I’m here, but we miss him as the entourage passes.

I spent the next couple of hours touring the base and chatting up the various PAO officers, one of whom is an avid Esquire subscriber, so I sign the Angelina July issue (“The Americans Have Landed”).

Later, Breslau positions me outside the makeshift chapel and we catch Fallon heading into weekend mass, getting to meet his spouse as well. He’s very cordial, asking me when I got in and extending his condolences regarding Steve’s death. I piggyback on the Mass, which is nice to catch. Italian priest, everyone but a few in cammies and seemingly all save the senior-most flag wearing arms. I have to step gingerly over a series of rifles laid in my “pew” on the way back from communion.

After mass I chat up Fallon again. He’s meeting with Kharzai and the ambassador, and as would have been the case with Musharref the day before, I wasn’t allowed in. But he promises to sit down with me at the end of the day.

I do dinner (Mongolian BBQ) with Breslau and the local PAO senior and I must say that I remain impressed with KBR food--not spectacular but nice.

After dinner we hang in the PAO’s suite and listen to the news from Pakistan. I do some email at the chief PAO’s desktop. While I’m doing that, he stops by to deal with an issue regarding seats for the two UH-60s Fallon’s entourage is taking to Bamyian Province tomorrow. Fallon’s invited somebody else along (I think it was the Deputy Chief of Mission at the embassy) and now somebody’s got to lose a seat. I stare at the seat plan and see my name set in the window side right in the last row in the second helo, and I can’t help wondering if I’m going to get bounced. But no worries, as it’s decided that one of the personal security offices is getting cut. Since everyone but the top guy and us civvies are carrying sidearms, we’re considered safe enough given the fact that we’ll be hosted by a New Zealand unit on the ground (which hosts the Provincial Reconstruction Team, or PRT).

After a while Fallon breezes through, promises me some time as soon as a meeting ends and we finally link up around 2100. I interview him (taped) for 50 minutes in the base PAO’s private office. It’s a great exchange and merely the first of many one-on-one’s promised, so I’m pretty happy to get it in on the first day.

I go back to my container-room, download the pix from my camera and the tapes from my recorder, jot down some notes from the interview (I stayed focused on him in the one-on-one and eschewed the notetaking) and hit the hay just after midnight, using a pill to keep me down as I woke up several times.

Still, getting up the next morning at 0700. Long day ahead.

DAY FOUR (Sunday, 4 November)

I wake up naturally at 0700 feeling great.

Shower and pack and then Breslau’s at the door. We run my big bag to his quarters and then head over to breakfast at the DFAC (can’t remember acronym, but it’s a fancy phrase for chow hall). Breslau has a meeting so I try to enter on my own and am turned away due to the backpack. You’re not allowed to have any bag whatsoever in the chow hall unless you’re a flag aide. Since I want to type some, I beg off breakfast for a bit and sit outside in the attached food court plaza where we ate yesterday. It’s cold but not so cold I can’t type.

When I get enough done I pack up the Mac and drop my backpack at the PAO’s office. Breslau and I then check out my jacket and helmet and that’s all good. With ten minutes to go, I run back to the DFAC and wrangle up a quick breakfast. I ate only because I was worried I might get queasy on the helo if I was empty and I knew we were heading up into the mountains west of Kabul.

Around 0830 everyone who’s going on the trip converges at where the convoy of armored vans/cars is assembling. Strapping on jackets and helmets we climb in (not easy with the extra, stiffening protective gear), and make the none-too-long run to the military airport (first time I’ve ever skipped out of a country like that). I’m in the third vehicle and so I’m treated to the usual tactics employed by the following vehicle when the VIP’s ahead. Suffice it to say it take a seriously steady hand to do that in crowded traffic. Imagine walking protectively behind your toddler in a crowded room and you get a sense of the aggressive hovering.

We arrive at the tarmac and they’re two black UH-60s sitting out there. Fallon and the senior-most go in #1 and the supporting military officers and personal security guys fly in #2. The UH-60 has two up front, then two guys manning guns out the side, then a three row facing forward. The main part in the back is four facing back and four facing them forward. When we all slip into the back eight seats and park our backpacks and helmets, it’s awfully cramped. You slip on a four-point harness that, in combination with the flak jacket, keeps your posture just so. There’s also a headset that, at least on this trip, works mostly to keep out the stunning rotary noise.

We take off and head west to Bamyian.

The ride is amazing visually. Stunning landscape. Very desolate and whatever signs of life are all crowded into narrow valleys (fields here and there, along with the homestead compound that always looks like some wild west fort from above). Such an amazing array of browns. Few trees, mostly clustered in dry river-bed valleys, where almost all of the agriculture is. The mountains have a thin peach fuzz of some low scrub but that’s it. It looks like the moon a lot. Trails here and there, but roads awfully rare. When you see one, inevitably there’s some lonely truck trudging along. You can see why banditry is the ancient and even present-day criminal norm. If you move through this void, you’re almost always traveling low with everything--and everyone--above you, just waiting to pounce. It’s easily apparent why this would be a hard place to physically occupy.

Then again, given the sparseness of the population, you can also see why you could conquer the place with few people. What you’d do with it then is another thing, but it’s not the sort of place you take on with divisions of ground troops.

I snap loads of pictures, I am so entranced with the visuals. I try not to think about what it would be like to crash land there (helicopters are seriously hard to pilot), although I can’t imagine a better bunch to do it with.

Still, there’s a part of me that can’t help marveling at how I’ve gotten myself into this position of cruising the rugged Afghan countryside in a military helo. If you had asked me six weeks ago if I’d ever be doing that, I would have said, “Absolutely not!”

But any sense of danger was mostly self-inflicted, I’m guessing. It’s just when you see the gunners tee up their weaponry and man them with complete seriousness that the thought crosses your mind. After all, you’re traveling with one of the world’s great targets in this relatively hard-to-govern space and all you’ve read in the papers recently is that fighting’s increased, even around Kabul . . .

Then we land in Bamyian and the local Kiwi commander tells Fallon, who relays it to me casually, that a couple of rockets landed in the neighborhood yesterday but that, all things being equal, the province has been amazingly peaceful for a long stretch. And so you’re left reaching for those Wild West metaphors: you’ve pulled into the frontier town and the mayor casually mentions a recent bit of scary business involving some rancher and you take it all in stride because that’s the way it’s been around here for as long as anyone can remember and--quite frankly--most people can remember helluva lot worst recent memories (Sovs, Taliban) so nobody sweats these small details in the here and now. I mean, the memories are buried all around this place: rusting Soviet tanks sitting in fields, a mass grave of Taliban victims not far from the Kiwi post (according to the local governor).

Fair enough, think I, as I bask in the security glow of traveling with the commander of CENTCOM.

We hop into armored pickups, with me and the top aides and security guys jumping in the bed, which is kinda cool way to see the countryside, although you eat a lot of dust in the process. Still, I haven’t ridden in the back of a pickup since I was maybe 18, and my knees are a bit stiff from the hour-long helo ride.

We drive through the town of Bamyian, which is centered in this large, very flat valley. In the distance you can see the cliffs where the two giant Buddhas--and the smaller one in between them--were carved into the sides centuries ago by monks who lived in a warren of caves surrounding them. The framed carved-in spots are now empty, the Buddhas having been blasted out by the Taliban in 2001, using a combination of dynamite and mortars. It’s awfully sad to look at the holes now and realize how magnificent the giant Buddhas must have looked, towering over the valley. This place was basically Afghanistan’s Mount Rushmore, and it brought plenty of tourists over the years. As such, the locals are mounting a long-term effort to recreate the giant statutes, but don’t expect to see them anytime soon.

But it would be awfully cool to go back someday and see the reconstructed sites.

We enter into the small forward operating base that the Kiwis have here. It’s a lot like the contingency operating location Manda Bay that I stayed at on the coast of Kenya--again, very Wild West fort-like in its simplicity and scale. Hosting a PRT, the set-up is much like Manda Bay: no real pointy-end (as the commander himself pointed out in the command brief), just force protection and a home base for patrols who mostly do humint and scout the countryside for possible civil-military aid projects, all very coordinated with USAID and New Zealand’s aid agency.

Next up is the meeting with governor--the only female provincial governor in Afghanistan, I am told. It’s the usual sort of meeting at first, with an exchange of pleasantries and boilerplate pledges of this and that. Then Fallon basically lets her know he’s willing to hear criticism and she lets him have it on the coordination of aid. Some of the criticism is well deserved (bureaucracy of USAID drives her nuts) and some is just the province’s lack of prioritization in the national scheme. Fallon’s points, though, are telling enough, as he says he doesn’t see the nation-level strategic thinking, which is a constant theme. This is a guy who invokes the need for a “big picture” all the time, which is--of course--why I wanted to profile him: I figured doing that would make me smarter strategically on stuff I’m weaker on (the Central Asian stuff for me has been backburner since my regional studies MA at Harvard, which actually included the CARs, or Central Asian Republics [why we casually used that last word with them has always puzzled me, because it’s buying the Sov terminology wholesale when it’s never really fit]).

Overall, the mini-summit of local leader and CENTCOM boss was great atmospherics for the piece, providing a decent vignette for possible use, and that’s what you’re looking for beyond the direct interviews with the man.

Then we hit the chow hall for lunch and all the 82nd Airborne guys riding along are psyched because everyone says the two female sailors who run the place are amazing: use the same food supplies everyone else gets in-theater but somehow they make a far better meal. After the meal, which included some fab sushi, I have to agree.

Then we’re in vehicles for about a three-mile drive to the base of the left-most Buddha (as you face the cliff walls--it felt like southernmost). The right-most Buddha frame is already thoroughly scaffolded for reconstruction and the middle, smaller one is wiped clear with no signs of work. The left-most one is also empty, but as we draw up, there is a sign pledging the UN’s work to reconstruct and recently constructed buildings at the base where the fragments are housed (the original plan was to “glue” the whole thing back together, sort of like the “old man in the mountain” in Maine, but locals were predicting something else--like a remaking using new stone).

The cave network that runs throughout the cliffs is readily apparent as you get close. The rock cliffs, which are like 15-20 stories high, are riddled with them. I would imagine you could run all over the place if you wanted to. The locals point out window holes near the top of the Buddha frame that indicate you could ascend through the cave network and peek through to the Buddha at roughly its head height--like being able to go up inside the Statue of Liberty.

We walk up to the empty frame, led by the governor, and then enter a carved-out dome chamber at the bottom right--sort of a temple space with rudimentary but wonderfully symmetrical wall carvings.

Climbing back in the trucks, we go back to base one last time, getting the command brief from Col. Brendon Fraher, the Kiwi boss who’s run the place for a couple of months. Then it’s a head call and we’re off to the local air strip for the hour-long ride back to the Kabul tarmac. We take a different route, so lots more scenery to check out. Bit choppier. My ass feels like it’s been vibrated enough for the day by the time we’ve landed.

As we land, I see this big “United States of America” jet (painted in the rough manner of Air Force One) and I wonder what USG dignitary has landed. Then I realize it’s Fallon’s own C-40, tricked out nicely: galley up front, then comms suite, then a spread of first-class-style seating, then another section where the seating’s organized around coffee tables, and finally a back section reserved for the boss (which I did not see on this flight but may in a subsequent one if that’s when Fallon wants a future interview session).

I sit up in the first seating section with Breslau, the POLAD (State Dept. political advisor), and others. Pretty nice to blow off the rules, as we can use PCs during takeoff (the plane’s connectivity is naturally very high-end), and the galley serves a nice Mexican snack, which totally fills me up.

About 90 minutes from Kabul to Manas, where we have had an Air Force base since 2003. The base does all the refueling for Afghanistan ops and is the processing transit point (both in and out) for all NATO troops, so guys always coming and going.

As we fly we skirt the Western edge of the Hindu Kush. The visuals are even more stunning than what we took in across the two hours in the helos.

We land and do a chow hall scene where Fallon’s put in a special room (the rest of us eat together) so he can dine with all the recent soldiers-of-the-month. Our local embassy handler tells me he’s set up a special roundtable for me with a bunch of country team specialists familiar with my writings. It’ll be tomorrow during Fallon’s office call with the ambassador, to which I’m not invited (go figure!).

I don’t eat much, despite it being lobster-and-steak night (a Sunday tradition here). I just graze on some iceberg lettuce and a piece of pecan pie. I’m still full from the combo of breakfast, lunch and plane snack.

Then it’s an evening right on a bus into Bishkek, 30 miles away. We get the country security brief, which is pretty standard for a developing country capital.

The combo of buildings and people is a bit incongruous. The people are an ancient mix of Chinese, Mongolian, Turkic and Persian flavors, but the city is all done up in Cyrillic Russian, so I can read all the signs. During Soviet rule, the educational system and government were so thoroughly Russified that it’s been a long, slow re-emergence toward the native tongue.

We disembark at the Hyatt in the downtown, overlooking the opera house. The downtown has a lot of Soviet-style architecture, so visually, it’s like being in a Soviet Russia that’s been overrun by Mongolians. Again, very interesting.

I get to my room and experience one of those jet-lagged moments where you think you can’t move. You’ve stopped just enough to feel the weirdness and you’re ready to pass out. I wait on the possibility of Fallon being available for an interview, but as 11pm rolls around, I realize that ain’t gonna happen. I speak with Breslau about lining up the POLAD for Monday.

Then I realize it’s only about 60 minutes from kickoff for the Packers vs. Chiefs!

I link up the Max and go online, taking care of a bunch of reporter business (downloading pix from camera, sending some pix plus interview files to Hearst’s transfer site so the transcribing can begin, updating my notes, and rejiggering my question list for the next crack at Fallon). Despite it being the end of another 17-hour workday, I can’t help but get excited once I hear the radio broadcast, so I end up staying up to 3am to hear the whole game, which the Pack pulls out 33-22 to up their record to a stunning (to me, at least) 7-1 with a 4-0 road record. Next up? Vikes and scary-good Peterson at Lambeau. I’m psyched because it’s my last game at Lambeau for the year (unless I win the playoff lottery, which I’ve done in the past).

DAY FIVE (Monday, 5 November)

I wake up naturally just after seven and get dressed before the room service comes (I ordered overnight). Breslau stops by with today’s schedule: we start at 0900 and end at 1630, which is positively glacial for Fallon. According to his chief of staff, Fallon travels three out of four weeks every month, with two of those weeks being in the AOR (the Horn, Persian Gulf or Central Asia). He visits Iraq and Afghanistan every month. The guy is in constant motion. Staff joke about the token day off every month.

So I have an hour to kill and catch up on this blog, plus watch a bunch of NFL.com video (sad to see Colts let Pats off hook, as that will come back to haunt them).

First stop for day is the U.S. embassy, where Breslau and the local diplomat, Mark Cameron (a fan of PNM) get me into the Country Team brief for Fallon. That’s a bit tricky because it’s sensitive/bordering on classified, so I’m warned I’ll need to sign a non-disclosure agreement. No big deal. Having held clearances for years and just getting a new one (DoE’s Q), you’re pretty much always exposed--for the rest of your life. Then again, in Enterra’s world, we sign NDAs all the time, and--quite frankly--we’re more likely to come after your ass if you transgress us on one.

The country team in Kyrgyzstan was quite impressive. The ambassador, Marie Yovanovich, speaks both Russian and Kyrgyz (Turkic) fluently, as does a lot of the staff. The DCM (Deputy Chief of Mission) was equally impressive, giving a highly nuanced and sophisticated rundown of the country’s politics, economics, social-demographic, religious and security. This guy was like out of some movie, never dropping a line and packing a wallop in every sentence. Cameron, who works public diplomacy, and the USAID lady, were also top-notch in their delivery. Again, I came away from that meeting deeply impressed.

And I don’t typically say that after an embassy visit.

Fallon’s capacity to skip domains and drill down at will was on great display throughout the meeting. He’s fluent in a ton of stuff besides the kinetics, arguably more systematically sophisticated on economics and politics and social issues than any flag I’ve ever encountered. Seriously, he’s up there with DeAngelis. In fact, the thought crossed my mind during the meet that Fallon could easily become a major political figure if he wanted to, or run a global corporation. He’s got that breadth of skills and natural command style.

Prior to the meet I get a dump from a naval officer who works intimately with Fallon day-in and day-out (something easy for me to verify when we’re going 24/7 on this trip) and he tells me the whole alleged brouhaha between Petraeus and Fallon is a complete fabrication because, when these guys interact, there is nobody else in the room or on the phone. It’s that tight and it’s that professional. Having spent plenty of time around the man now, when he’s up, when he’s beat at the end of a 20-hour day, when things don’t click and he’s got every reason to ream out staff, and I’ll tell you I just don’t see it. Just not the way he operates.

Not that he’s a tight guy. Get him alone and he’s anything but. It’s just not his style. Like his take on Iran, he does not engage in gratuitous antagonism. Just a waste of his time.

After the Country Team meet I spend a few minutes with two locals who do media work for the public affairs team. Good discussion.

Then we bolt the embassy and the fleet of vehicles moves on. Whenever the man is moving, every one starts hopping because no one wants to get left behind, so the urgency is sort of interesting and fun.

Next stop is the Ministry of Defense. Zipping out of the bus that trails the lead suburbans, I have to make sure I’m always close enough behind Fallon so that no door or gate closes in my face. Quite the trick.

We move through this classic Soviet style heavy-set, heavily-marbled behemoth of a building. Lots of big mural paintings on the wall of Mongol cavalry battles from the past.

Then we zip into a big, classic, formal Soviet-style meeting room. Heavy, long table under chandeliers and all of a sudden I’m shaking hands with the minister and a slew of flags. When Fallon and the ambassador start lining up at the long table, then begins the delicate dance among the supporting officers as to who goes where (unless name tags are set). As the seats fill up you try not to look too obvious that you’re scrambling.

I get a seat at the end of the table, next to one of Fallon’s mid-level officers and take copious notes. I regret not bringing my camera in, because there’s a ton of videographers and photographers working the scene early, and I feel like I could have snuck a few cool shots. Still, I am very grateful to PAO Breslau for talking me into a sport jacket and tie. I was planning to wear black pants, white shirt and my travel vest but he was nice enough to clue me in on the formality of the day. To keep my baggage down, I brought two black slacks and a black sports jacket and a black tie with light stripping and that’s it for formal. The previous day in Afghanistan had been so dusty and jump-in-pickup-beds and climb-over-rocks that I would have regretted wearing anything but fairly rugged gear, but today is just the opposite.

The meeting with the Defense Minister (Ismail Isakov), who’s quite the charmer, is your standard opening statements and then exchange of views and items of interest. Whole thing translated (Kyrgyz), which gives it a relaxed rhythm. This goes from 1100 to noon.

Then outside in hall for pix and joint impromptu press conference.

Then down and out of building and back in the convoy. Tough to shoot any good pix with my camera because the cop cars and sirens and everything else mean we blow through all intersections at fairly high speed. Word is, Fallon really cut back on the aggressiveness of the accompanying protection vehicles, but the speed remains relatively high but not as superfast as some I’ve been in.

Next up is the ambassador’s residence (very nice), where Fallon, the ambassador, her two mil attaches, the POLAD, and I have an intimate-style lunch with two local opinion leaders (Maratbek Imanaliyev, President of the Institute of Public Policy, and Marat Tazabekov, President AKI Press). It was a frank exchange of views. I was--again--impressed by Fallon’s command of, and interest in, economics as the main driver of change/reform. Also impressed by the two visitors. They get their country’s strategic situation and express its challenges with great sophistication. They also could follow my English, which was better than my ability to follow their Russian.

After lunch Fallon is up and gets to use the head right next to the front door. Both the POLAD and I gotta go bad and the ambassador can see the problem: we can’t get left behind when his car pulls out at high speed with her. So she lets us go upstairs to her private quarters and use her head. POLAD gets first bid (I know my place), and when he comes out I make him promise not to let the bus leave me behind. As fellow Packer fan, he gives his solemn oath.

So I do my business and then go dashing down the staircase and run out just in time to catch the bus.

And off we speed again.

Next stop is similar drill as the morning meet, only this time with Foreign Minister Edman Oskonovich, who’s very slick and charming. This time, as befitting a fussy MFA, I have a name tag at the end of the very long and large polished wood table. More chandeliers and tons more marble everywhere. This place lacks not for marble, being a mountainous country. That’s another hour meet.

At the end of the meet, I get a note passed on need for ID and the upcoming drill on getting into the Kyrgyz White House for the sit-down with the national security advisor (equivalent). Much nervousness in the entourage that the bus will get stopped for ID checks while Fallon and ambassdaor’s Suburban gets pass and then we’ll get too far behind and get shut out of the meeting!

I know, unbelievable, right? Except it’s their White House and their security and their procedures and when your support staff, you’re not about to make some big, annoying scene.

But we luck out: no ID check at gate and we zoom up behind Suburban and I dash out with the POLAD and mil attaché (smallest crew on this one, and Fallon’s staff is being very nice to get me in). The White House is classic Soviet behemoth. So much marble (basically every surface, inside and out), you wonder why it doesn’t sink into the ground.

Fallon and the ambassador blow past the security checkpoint and here’s the trick: we can’t. I have my Indy driver’s license in my shirt pocket and whip it out, while the others whip out their USG stuff. Officer just wants to check off names. I hold my breath on that one, but there’s my name. Naturally, I’m the last one he can find and so I have to dash--literally--about 30 yards across a slick marble floor to jump into the vator before the door slams shut.

Here we are in this tiny, Euro-style vator, and everyone’s tensing out a bit about the speed of ascent. Door opens and we piling out like it’s on fire and then we running down this enormous and long, totally-marbled hallway, with Fallon in the distance just rounding a corner.

We’re running at a good clip, round the corner like we're racing, and see the ten-foot doors of the ballroom slowing shutting in the distance. I get my ass just inside before it slams shut.

Very small table here, so I’m on the back wall with three officers. Two huge paintings (like 12 x 30 feet) dominate the walls. One is of old-style Mongol-style tents glowing under the moon. The other is a somewhat luridly impressionistic rendering of mountain tops at sunset. These are the two big cultural images here: we’re mountain people and we’re nomads.

This meeting is the least interesting, because it basically recaps the other two, so I suppose it’s the summit of the summits. Various offers and opportunities dangled each way--the usual stuff.

After another impromptu press conference, we’re out the door and zooming back to the Hyatt.

Being the reporter, I have to hover and try to catch Fallon re: our next interview. He goes over his night sked with me and promises something after a walk with his wife and before their dinner with the ambassador.

So I hit up the POLAD at that point and interview him in his hotel room. Decent haul that I tape. Nice guy fairly new on the job, and a Packer fan to boot.

The promised time with Fallon doesn’t materialize, but hanging around, I get him to commit to something later in the evening (actually, he’s very considerate and proposes it himself, and that’s a constant theme with him; the guy actually poured me coffee during the Country Team brief this morning before pouring his own, talking the whole time--a neat, little vignette that tells you something about him [like the way he takes time to chat up and thank the translators throughout the day]).

So I beg off the organized dinner out on the town with staffers and retreat to my room to download pix and the POLAD interview and push what needs to be pushed to the Hearst ftp site. Then I rework my question sheet for Fallon, prep my baggage for the next day (bags must be out at 0615 for transport to his jet), work email, etc., and then watch a spot of TV before Fallon knocks at the door around 2120.

He’s causally dressed and we head downstairs to the lounge, where a couple of ladies work the piano and some wind instrument. Me? I’m just worried about how well the digital recorder will capture the admiral's voice with all the background noise. So I place if very close to him on the table and lean in tight. We order some non-alcoholic beverages (he’s fairly ascetic, and he’d have to be with this killer travel sked, because he travels 3 weeks a month, with two of those weeks being roaming around his AOR, which stretches from the Horn of Africa up to Kazakhstan).

Fallon seems relaxed and ready to talk. I was falling asleep (almost) in my room when he knocked, but I perk right up with the obvious opportunity. So I run through my questions with some urgency, because an aide comes up right at the beginning and says Petraeus is hoping for a secure comm in the next 30 or so, so I realize my window doesn’t extend deep into the evening.

We go about 50 minutes and I get through all my questions, including the final, personally-focused one about being the first of nine kids growing up. As 8 of 9, I found it fascinating to hear the top-down perspective, and--sure enough--the two young boys at the bottom (like me and my brother Ted, forever the “two little boys”) were “complete smart asses who got away with stuff my parents would have killed me for doing.”

We head up after that and say goodnight. I push the audio file to Hearst, recheck all my gear, and get to sleep about 0100, getting up at 0600.

Long day, but great capture overall. I’m feeling very confident about the piece now, and tell Mark Warren so in an email to end the day.

DAY SIX (Tuesday, 6 November)

Get my bag out in time, lounge a bit more in bed, then shower, get dressed and down to the front desk to settle my bill for two nights in this top-flight hotel, including a breakfast and dinner on room service, and tons of internet time. I top a thousand--easy. Gratefully, that total is in som, the national currency, so it works out to about $120 bucks USD.

As always, I’m a cheap date.

I hang out with everyone else at the front door, waiting for word that the admiral’s party is moving. When we get it, it’s off to the bus for the high-speed dash to the airport, with me snapping my final photos (I learn to shoot a lot as we make turns, because that’s the only time the convoy slows down at all).

Another nice flight on the big jet. Served breakfast. Catch up on my blog. More conversation with PAO Breslau. Fork over $10 and order my lunch for our time at the US embassy. Also fork over $66 bucks for my visa, which State has worked out for me. Really breaking all the rules to just show up in Tajikistan and ask for a visa, but my handlers handle it with aplomb, even though there was doubt expressed right up to the point of takeoff.

We touch done at airport (that does both mil and civil) outside Dushanbe. Same drill: Fallon and spouse head down first, get the official greeting. Rest of us slink down following and then steer clear. Two official vehicles for top people and there’s supposed to be van for us, but it’s nowhere in sight. Official cars drive off and we’re getting nervous.

Then the van appears and we pile in. With all the special armoring, the quarters are shrunken, and given extra reinforcements in suspension, you can easily compress your spine nicely by whacking your head on the ceiling following a good bump, and there’s plenty of good bumps around Dushanbe.

Luckily, official cars wait for us at edge of airport, and then we drive into town. I can’t shoot any photos because there’s no windows in the back of the van where I am, so I listen in on facts provided by J5 desk officer from Tampa: Tajikistan is size of Wisconsin and about 95% mountainous, 7 million people and the poorest of the CARs (Central Asian Republics), had the bad civil war in early-mid 90s but reconciled and is doing okay now, very remote and poorly connected (Gap of the Gap in that sense) and people with little sense of outside world (cause few ever leave and almost no one comes here).

Looking the place over as best I can, it seems like a nicer, brighter, more relaxed version of Bishkek. Today is Constitution Day, so national holiday and lots of people on the streets.

We’re only here for six hours and so head straight to the presidential palace. Big place, but not somewhere where you casually snap photos from outside, so I take no pix.

I am told I’m okay/cleared to get into building and Fallon press conference following meeting with president but not okay for sitting in on meet with president. So PAO Breslau gives me the usual advice: just follow Fallon and stay close and brush past anything and anyone you can until you’re stopped. But all his aides say the same thing: you’re cleared as far as we’re concerned, so press the situation or get shut out.

I gotta tell you: that’s just not my personality. This drill of daring your way past guys with guns until somebody grounds you is just too . . . I dunno . . . reminiscent of college kid pranks.

But I do it.

There’s only seven total cleared into the building and only five supposed to go to meeting (Fallon, translator, POLAD, Ambassador and somebody else from embassy). I’m one of the seven.

So gate goes open and Fallon’s striding in and the rush is on: into front door, and guy in front of me (Fallon aide) has this bag of official gifts. Guard wants his ID. I start reaching for mine, but Breslau, right behind me, just whispers, “Go, go, go!”

And so I just waltz past guard and through metal detector, which goes off, naturally. But the key is to act like that’s nothing to you because you’re with THE MAN. So I’m following the entourage up the marble staircase, hoping nobody starts yelling or pulling anything out of their jackets behind me and soon enough I’m on the second floor, staring at another metal detector.

No problem, because now I’m very close on Fallon’s heels and I’m just striding like, “Hey, buddy, I’m on my way to this meeting!”

We keep plunging in corridor after corridor until we’re into this ornate vestibule and I can tell we’re almost there. Then hands appear in faces and Fallon’s exec assistant, Capt. Craig Faller, is stopped dead in his tracks in front of me. Train pile up and we all--literally--start bumping into each other.

Faller’s cool on it because he knew he wasn’t going to make it. It’s just his duty to go as far as he can. I was cool because I knew this was as close as I was going to get. In fact, I was stunned I got this far.

Serious looking security guy approaches about two minutes later and pulls out approved list of names. It’s in Cyrillic and he’s not much of an English speaker, so he’s showing it to Faller and asking questions. I spot “Tomac Bapnem” and tell him it’s me, figuring, who knows? Maybe it’ll get me somewhere.

To my amazement, it does, and I’m led deeper into to an even more ornate sitting room, complete with your official signing desk and flags and chandelier.

Inside is Fallon, the POLAD, Ambassador Tracey Jacobson (flawless Russian, previous post Kazakhstan), the CENTCOM J5 Desk Officer for Tajikistan, and Fallon’s Aide de Camp, Major Johnson.

Jacobson, natural networker (being an ambassador) approaches and asks, “Are you the journalist? You have that journalist look.”

Steno pad plus camera, so it’s a decent bet.

I say yes and give her my name. She says she’s aware of PNM because there’s a senior staff at the embassy who likes to say it should be “mandatory reading” for personnel there.

Very nice compliment to field, but diplomats tend to be pretty smooth on that score. But I silently thank Jennifer Gates once again for talking me into writing my first book. Best business decision I ever let someone make for me.

In walks the three-star minister of defense, General Colonel Sherali Khayrulloyev. Hands shaken, he and Fallon assume the positions in two chairs separated by a coffee table, with the translator hovering on the minister’s side. All of a sudden I’m witnessing Fallon’s first meeting with Tajikistan’s defense minister. It was on the sked in the sense that Khayrulloyev was expected to be in the meeting with President Rahmon. He just dropped in on Fallon before the meet so they could go one-on-one a bit.

I’m a little surprised by events, but then switch into photojournalist mode and start snapping photos of the proceedings, like that’s the most natural thing in the world for me to be doing right then. I mean, when you’re standing there with a camera (our family FinePix) hanging around your neck, all the participants in these summit experiences tend to glance at you with that “get on with it, man!” look.

So I start snapping furiously, getting various angles, but eschew hopping around too much because it’s not the biggest room.

Then I sit down and witness a bit of history.

The defense minister comes on a bit strong, but in a nice way. Basic pleasantries are exchanged and the defense minister is clearly encouraging Fallon to consider something longer and less formal with him the next time he visits. That’s what Fallon is generally pushing (more routine engagement), so he’s obviously pleased.

After a few minutes, the break is signaled by aides at the door and Fallon and the defense minister and our ambassador are all gone and out the door.

The naval J5 desk officer and I just sort of look at each other like, “What do we do now?” But another aide comes back in and says we should wait in this room, so we start chatting.

About five minutes later security comes back and says we must clear out now. The lieutenant commander grabs the fairly hefty black briefcase that’s out in the open (I’m not sure who that belongs too, but I know it’s ours), and then I spot Fallon’s cover (hat) and his personal briefcase under this low coffee table, sort of out of view.

So I naturally grab both (“leave no bag behind” is a basic of security training) and we’re quickly hustled out by the security guys to a point just outside the second-floor metal detector. There we meet the local defense attaché and Fallon’s aide de camp, who’s fighting a losing effort to get to the admiral’s side. I give him the cover and the bag and then head down to the main front lobby to hang out for a while with various members of Fallon’s group and the local embassy. There will be a short Fallon press conference after his meet with President Rahmon.

With time on my hands I ask for the head and get escorted down a bunch of long corridors on the first floor and shown the door. I wander back to the ornate palace lobby afterwards, and about 30 or so we’re taken to this very stylish press conference/theater room deep inside the palace. I hang out with CentCom desk officer and the local press, waiting for Fallon to emerge. He does and takes questions for maybe 40 minutes.

Then its break-break and we’re out the door and down the steps and speeding away in our convoy yet again, sirens flashing and whatnot.

Next we show up outside the equivalent of Tajikistan’s KGB, or security service. This is a very tough guy to see, the top guy, Khrayriddin Adburahimov. Apparently he rarely emerges in public. “Chetire chelovek” is the word at the door, so basically everyone is shut out save Fallon, the translator, the ambassador and the embassy’s senior mil rep.

I make a point of not touching my camera while we mill out front, as I don’t care to make any new friends so fast in that rather unpleasant way. Next door to the HQ is a rather ominous looking building where you can spot bars in small windows high up. Not a place to scam your way into, no matter what your credentials.

I catch a ride to the embassy with Fallon’s EA and his PAO, finally getting to snap some shots because we’re not in any convoy and so have to actually stop at lights.

The embassy is on the edge of town, and it’s brand new (like maybe a year).

People are milling in a conference room off the front desk, where our pre-ordered sandwiches and other snacks await. It’s about an hour before the admiral and ambassador drive up.

Then we conduct about a 90-minute exchange between Fallon and the ambassador’s staff. Just like in the Kyrgyzstan, I’m impressed with the staff’s verbal brief on the country. Then it’s Fallon’s turn and he does this tour d’horizon of the region that’s really quite fascinating, given the high-level and up-close perspectives he can offer, in addition to his comprehensive grasp of the everything else beyond today’s kinetics.

I’m taking notes like crazy because he’s a quote machine (taping is out of the question) in his low-key, Clint Eastwood-like delivery (he’s one of those guys who gets quieter the more intense the subject). Behind closed doors he’s a blunt, very perceptive analyst who sizes up people and dynamics very accurately, in my opinion. There’s not a lot of officers who can shift domains so effortlessly like he does and sound sharp and sophisticated on issue after issue (he not only notices two major new hotels going up in town, he wants to know the larger how and why). I realize I’m in a rather privileged spot here (something he brings up later in the evening) and so I know that the piece is not only going to be easy to write, but simultaneously rather tricky to negotiate.

Still, it was an impressive performance. Walking out of the embassy, I no longer had any doubts the piece was going to work and work well.

We convoy back to the jet and we’re in the air about five minutes later. Almost three hours to Astana, the relatively new capital of Kazakhstan. During the flight I get to sit in on the senior aides' debrief with Fallon on the last two days of meetings in the back of the plane. It’s a pretty cool around-the-horn, and Fallon’s nice enough to ask me to chime in, which is fun. Naturally, he’s the last word and all sorts of action items follow. Very interesting to observe. We finish just before the pilot announces final approach.

We land at the international airport in the dark (maybe 7pm) and there’s a short welcome at the base of the stairs. Lotsa cars in this convoy, and I’m assigned to #5. My local embassy handler is an Army officer who’s read both of my books and is a font of information about the city as we drive our way to the towering Radisson downtown.

Astana is rather stunning, visually. Apparently the president hired some Japanese architect to be his L’Enfant and this guy came up with an unusual collection of government buildings at the heart of the city. The place is lit up like Vegas.

We migrate into the hotel and I get my assigned room. I get word through PAO Breslau that Fallon’s heading out for another dinner and will seek me out late in the evening.

I retreat to my room, order in, and work the web for a while. I also re-generate my questions so I’m ready for the call.

Fallon rings me up at 1035 and asks, “You still awake?”

“Still awake.”

The admiral asks, “Down in the lobby?”

“Down in the lobby.”

Again, there’s a piano man working the scene, but since the taping went so well last night, I’m not worried about the capture.

We sit on a couch and I go through the list. Sixty minutes later, we’re done and I’m tapped.

I turn off the recorder and we just chat for another 30. It’s a wonderfully nostalgic exchange for me. I haven’t had that kind of conversation with a guy like Fallon since Cebrowski. They’re very different and yet the feeling is the same for me, and again, there’s that sense of privileged opportunity to engage somebody of his caliber--just like with Art.

For the sake of world peace, I order the admiral to bed at midnight. The man’s stamina is--again--rather stunning. I can barely keep my eyes open.

I dutifully transfer everything to the Mac and hit the hay at 0100.

DAY SEVEN (Wednesday, 7 November)

Up at 0730, quick shower and back in black with tie for another rather formal day.

I’m feeling good. The third interview with Fallon last night sealed the deal for me. I was already working sentences in my head, always a good sign as things wind down.

We convoy to the U.S. chancery (why the admiral’s day-schedule card calls it that, I don’t know, because it’s one big-ass embassy, also spanking new). Fallon’s off to an office call with the ambassador (Ordway, another great Russian speaker) and a security-related brief that I can’t attend. So I hang out with the FAOs (foreign area officers) and sign a pair of hard and soft PNM/BFAs. The senior officer says I have a cult following among the FAOs, because they feel my stuff matches a lot of arguments they’ve made for a long time, an affirmation I love to hear.

Then we convoy to the Ministry of Defense, where Fallon does an office call with the minister (Daniyal Akhmetov). The rest of us are escorted into this beautiful briefing room, where the senior FAO introduces me to the Deputy Minister, a 3-star general named Bulat Sembinov. This is the only interaction where I--for some reason--casually launch into Russian, which was fun

I tell him how much I like the room (it would actually put the typical Hollywood representation to shame, which--quite frankly--is almost never the case with DoD facilities). Sembinov then proudly gives me a tour, naming all the stunning cool metal service shields displayed along three of the wall. I say proudly because Sembinov says he designed the briefing room himself in anticipation of a Rumsfeld visit a while back. I snap a ton of photos.

The room’s dominated by one of those long tables set up for a delegation on each side. Fallon enters after a bit and we assume the positions. I’ve got a name plate down on the far right, near the high-tech briefing screens (just like the ones in that theater I always do at ICAF in Washington). But as everyone’s getting seated, I go into photographer mode along with all the video and photo guys in the room from the Kazakh side. So I put a vigorous effort to hold up the American side of the equation, as these guys have me outnumbered ten to one.

Then I’m down in my seat for the series of briefs delivered by the assembled Kazakh officers. I have to say that, not are the slides dead-on in imitating the classic Pentagon style, but the officers deliver pitch-perfect English-language verbal narratives--I mean, word for word. It’s stunning, really. These guys have our style down to a T. Control for accent, and I would have thought I was in the Pentagon. In a professional sense, it was charming.

Naturally, a lot of service bragging about the Kazakh ordnance-disposal battalion that’s been in Iraq from the very start and maintained itself rotation after rotation. The Kazakh military is really proud of that effort.

Then we’re into the official exchange of views, all by translation, so it’s a bit slow going.

After the meet breaks, we head out into the main lobby where the Sembinov’s got about two dozen Kazakh soldiers up from the old capital. These guys traveled about 800 miles to meet Fallon. All have served multiple times in Iraq. Fallon shakes each hand, chats each one up, and gives them a command coin.

I work the scene pretty intensely as Mr. Photojournalist again, which I’m really starting to get into (going down on one knee occasionally and slipping in awfully close at points). It’s weird, but I’m having a pretty fun time doing this. When you’re the photojournalist at one of these symbolic events, instead of standing off to the side at relaxed attention, you get to wander around all over the place. It’s quirkily liberating, like you’re getting away with something, and all these really serious officers have to keep the look going while you snap away.

Then break-break and we’re out the door, down the steps and the convoy moves on to another government building where Fallon and a tight crew of three (again, the Kazakhs use the trick of saying the elevator only fits four so that’s the absolute limit) meet with the national security advisor equivalent.

Per the usual drill, the usual assigned crew of supporting officers and I try the bum rush approach and we get all the way up to the second floor before hands-in-faces tell us we’ve topped out.

Back outside, I talk up the FAOs more, standing in the increasingly chilly weather. Winter is arriving overnight, and the snow that falls tonight, I am told, will not disappear til May. Eventually I retreat to my assigned Suburban.

Then it’s back to the chancery where people buy lunch at the cafeteria but I work my camera on the Mac instead. The admiral’s aide de camp asks if he can get a set, so I download the entire package on a memory stick for him, giving a CENTCOM J-5 officer a set too. For some reason, the entourage didn’t seem to include a dedicated photographer, although various local host units provided some here and there, so providing the dump was a nice gift that I was happy to give these guys, who collectively were very good to me throughout. Plus, you travel for a week, and there were tons of small, off-line professional discussions that I enjoyed a lot. I suppose it’s unprofessional as a journalist on some level, but I crossover into the adviser role fairly seamlessly in this situation, and I don’t apologize for that; it’s all synergistic for me.

Then I head into the chancery’s conference room to help the guys feng shui the scene for Fallon’s press roundtable with a handful of Kazakh journalists. As someone who’s done this in the past with great care (I was always a bit maniacal on having the room just so for my wargames atop the World Trade Center, often driving the conference guys at Windows on the World nuts with all my picky demands), this was likewise nostalgic.

At that point, we were getting so metrosexual that we launched into a long discussion of fashion do’s and don’ts (me, the Esquire guy, had to hold court a bit, naturally). But I got my comeuppance when I confessed I have no clue on a full Windsor knot and this young F-18 pilot who works for Fallon had to put me through my paces several times before I finally got it. At one point, I’ve got about three officers all hovering around me offering tips and ribbing me for my lack of sophistication on this crucial skill. Fallon later catches wind of the whole thing and then needles me every time we cross paths the rest of the day about my knot, asking “when are you going to break out the full Windsor, or do you need more practice?”

Sitting through the subsequent press roundtable, I start tuning Fallon out and writing spontaneously some descriptive text about him. It just feels right and so I go with it, using the tableau as inspiration. I catch a few good quotes on Iran, but that’s about it. After all, this is maybe the sixth press conference I’ve seen him give over the week.

Now it’s about 1630 and we convoy back to the hotel for personal time (a whopping 90 minutes). I set up a taxi for the next morn (I flew at 0515) and settle my bill in advance. Then I head to my room and carefully pack up.

When it gets around 1830 I suit up one last time and make Fallon’s convoy to the ambassador’s house for an intimate dinner of about 15, including General Sembinov and a Kazakh official who bears a striking resemblance to Francis Fukuyama. Lots of official toasts. Nice meal. I get a long stretch to share stories with Mary, the admiral’s wife, who’s really charming. I translate some of the Russian for her.

After dinner drink (Johnny Walker for me) and we’re out and gone. Back at the hotel I make my goodbyes with the Fallons and others and head to my room.

Then I get the call saying there’s an embassy ride all set up for me and three others tomorrow morning to make the 0515 to Frankfurt. So I cancel the cab and get my hotel bill adjusted (I put the cab on the bill). Final housekeeping and packing and I’m asleep at 2300.

DAY EIGHT (Thursday, 8 November)

Up at 0245, which is surprisingly easy, although I expect to feel some exhaustion when I get home because I have really gone light on the sleeping this entire week, but hey, that’s pretty easy to do when you travel like that. Most of the time we were 11 hours off kilter.

I look outside my window and it’s sleet-snowing fairly heavily, with two inches already on the ground, and I’m thinking, I’m on the southern steppe of Siberia here, so let’s get the hell outta Dodge before it gets any worse.

Downstairs the usual armored Suburban and I’m off with three others to the airport. A hired Kazakh (actually, blond Russian) expeditor awaits us. Of the four, I have the least complications, which stuns me.

We take off on Lufthansa an hour late, because Astana International has only one de-icing station. I get nervous because my Frankfurt-to-Chicago United flight starts boarding only 45 minutes after I’m scheduled to land in Germany.

I f--king hate Lufthansa. Tight-as-can-be rows and I’m on the aisle, interior. No AV whatsoever. But breakfast wasn’t bad.

I read three books: 1) Reynolds’ An Army of Davids book, which started very strong but then got a bit unfocused as it moved on, but a very nice read and I got a lot of good notes; 2) Johansson’s Medici Effect, which spoke to me deeply on a host of stuff; and this British book of graphical representations of American “empire” that was horribly written (almost straight-up anti-American propaganda) but which had a ton of good stats.

We land right as the United flight starts boarding. Long way to walk and then this slow-as-molasses security station. I just make it on.

Then nine-and-a-half hours to Chicago, where I finish this blog and start working my cumulative pile of articles.

I’m going to send this to Mark Warren to give him a sense of the trip, and then I’ll post this when the story comes out in early January. I posted a rather neutral blog entry this afternoon (I wrote it last night at the hotel and scheduled it). That’s all the explanation I’m offering on the trip til publication comes around.

All in all, a fantastic trip that I’m really glad I made. It was a bear to set up, but it was worth the interaction and spending all that time with Fallon was very rewarding in a professional sense. I look forward to seeing him ten days from now in Cairo.

Hmm, 12,800 words. This “2nd disc” blog series ends up being twice as long as the story!

But I thought it would be cool to give readers a real sense of the mechanics of such a trip. I found it all fascinating.