This is a creative non-fiction story about designing apparel for U.S. Special Operations troops to hunt for Osama bin Laden in the Hindu Kush mountain range between Afghanistan and Pakistan. I finished this project in 2003.
While the events and core truths are based on real experiences, some details may have been altered. This includes names, identifying characteristics, and sometimes even timelines. These changes protect privacy or enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to places, real people, or situations is not intended to be exact.
The New York-New York Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada is home to a Statue of Liberty replica.(Photo Courtesy of Ethan Miller/Getty Images)
I was willingly recruited into the world of covert operations by a Special Operations officer dressed all in black. It happened at the Las Vegas Convention Center. Any fan of “Casino” and the “God Father” would rather meet the mob bosses, Sam Rothstein and Michael Corleone than Joubert of “Three Days of the Condor,” or Jason Bourne, the trained assassins. At the least the Rothstein and Corleone characters embraced brotherhood like a family of gorillas.
As long as you never refused an offer, they would always make room for compromise. But assassins are a different kind of animal. With assassins, things are over before you know what happened. Like mountain lions, assassins hunt alone. Assassins do not negotiate. On that day in Las Vegas I meet an assassin.
Disguised as a procurement office for the Army, the assassin was dressed impeccably in the best-selling and most important color in any apparel collection, black. I thought I was meeting a fellow couturier. With the erroneous knowledge that clothes make the man, I started the project thinking I was working with a compadre; better yet, a man who knew how to dress.
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This misconception filled me with a false security. I thought this would bridge the gap between me, the designer, and Eddie, the hitman. I knew he would be ‘pack’n.’ I wasn’t afraid of guns; I grew up in a family of hunters. However, hopefully, I wouldn’t become the prey.
It all started at 8:45 a.m. Eastern Standard Time on that fateful morning in September 2001, when I woke from a dream where red balls of fire chased me down an endless hallway. When I turned on the television and saw the burning tower in New York City, my dream made sense.
I didn’t know it yet, but life would never be the same. The next thing I knew, I was in Las Vegas on a sweltering January day in 2002 when the country still shared a collective fear that a terrorist could live on their street and be attending flight lessons at their municipal airport preparing for another attack.
“How did I get here,”[1] I asked myself, “by letting the days go by without thinking, pursuing the American dream, and designing clothing for the self-absorbed,” I said.
I watched as gamblers followed the presidents advice to “enjoy life,”[2] so they headed to the slots and blackjack tables. They spent their money on entertainment. This helped them forget about the problems of the world. But I was not enjoying myself. I was working.
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The long, hot walk from my hotel along the Boulevard, seem to become longer and warmer as I passed the miniature replica of the Statue of Liberty. I wondered if freedom, like the statue, would shrink following the attack on New York City. Congested with noisy taxis, people rushing to their gambling destinations, and neon lights flashing at all times of the day and night, Vegas epitomized the ideal of the U.S.A., get rich. The black gold on the ground seemed to radiate under my feet as if the heat was coming from the underworld. I felt like I was walking on red hot lava.
I thought have I “found the “cost of freedom” [3] buried in my soul?
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Regardless of the danger ahead, I continued moving forward. While the oder of hot oil mixed with concrete filled the air, I convinced myself that I believed in the pledge of allegiance to the republic that had sheltered me all my life, but really I needed the money, so I continued walking towards the meeting. I was sweating, and the moisture under my arms was dripping down my skin inside my crisp white business shirt, puddling at the belt buckled tightly at my waist.
I arrived at the stairs to the convention complex and looked up to see the building towering over me like a colossal statue of Commodus, the blood sport-loving emperor of Rome who was assassinated by his gladiatorial trainer.
“One can never be too careful,” I thought.
The Greek columns seemed to be holding up my world. They reminded me that even a military power like the great Roman Empire did not guarantee eternal supremacy. This is true even for a country like America. The gargantuan doors seemed to suck me into the maze-like complex. The oversized tiger statues that flanked the doors looked at me with large hungry eyes.
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I entered the convention hall and temporarily disappeared into the self induced State of Vegas coma were no clocks, windows, or light of daylight existed. Suddenly I lost track of the time of day, leaving my old life behind outside the doors closing slowly behind me, and I wondered if the gods would “shed their grace”[4] on me.
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The grandeur of the oatmeal-colored walls towered above me like ramparts of granite, and the cornfield maze hallways seem to intentionally distort my location like walking in a field of “amber waves of grain.”[5] I continue moving forward as if the meeting beckoned with a silent signal, “walk this way.” The artificially bright and ominously cavernous room mocked the “purple mountains majesty”[6] with massive signage overhead like “star-spangled banners”[7] precariously hanging from the sky.
Outdoor Retailer set up (Photograph courtesy of Outdoor Retailer)
The names on the signage represented capitalism in the outdoor industry whose canons preached verses of optimism for the planet’s soul. Still, in reality, most of their products’ raw materials were made from petroleum and polluted along with every other industry on earth. “Just do it,”[8] “Never Stop Exploring,”[9] and “Reject Fast Fashion”[10] are not words to live by; they merely exchange one narrative for another.
Outdoor Retailer set up (Photograph courtesy of Outdoor Retailer)
The truth is that there is simply no way around making consumer products without polluting the earth; it’s still a rose that stinks no matter its name, no matter its slogan.
The hallways, filled with gas-powered forklifts, raced sinisterly down the aisles, transporting large, hazardously sized crates to locations marked by a small white number painted on the concrete floor. The crates that could instantly crush a human sat twelve feet in the air, precariously positioned atop the fork, as they sprinted down the aisles towards their temporary plot of “land of the free.”[11]
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The crates held the makings of houses where no one would ever live. Two-hundred-thousand, four-hundred-thousand, six-hundred-thousand-dollar homes were used for four days, two times per year, and no one even slept there.
The first sheet music publication of The Star Spangled Banner (Thomas Carr, 1814) (Photograph courtesy Wikipedia.org)
These were not the” home(s) of the brave”[12] instead; they were temporary day quarters for the brands and sales representatives to sell their wares to professional buyers who then sold the goods to the consumers who had more money than they would ever spend.
Along the cavernous compound walls, numerous oversized garage doors were standing wide open, welcoming the warm air in and allowing the cold air out. It was the only daylight in the room, and the open doors acted as a mirror if the businesses would only look at themselves.
The Outdoor Retailer trade show returns to Salt Lake City Utah. (Photograph courtsey of Salt Lake Tribune)
The outdoor industry collectively claims they will save the planet by building the best products yet cause no unnecessary harm.
We will “use business to inspire and implement solutions to the environmental crisis,”[13] one leader who will go unnamed said. ‘Then close the damned garage doors and stop wasting the energy that is producing this air conditioning,” I thought.
As I walked to meet my contact, I though, “maybe he’s short,” or “handsome” like Matt Damon’s character in Bourne Identity’. Or, maybe he’s “scary,” like a special operations soldier.
I arrived at a small, unmarked booth, unencumbered with slogans or signage. I met the man dressed all in black.
“I am a procurement officer,” he said.
‘That’s strange, I thought, I was told he was a Special Operations officer.”
The “procurement” officer freshly shaven and smelled of the clean fragrance of soap. He was much younger than I had expected. I found it odd that he never stood up from his chair.
He ran the back of his hand seductively down his smoothly shaven muscular cheek. He told me he had just cleaned up after his workout. ‘Cleaned up, after work, that doesn’t sound good,” I thought.
He stuck his hand out and said, “I’m Michael, but everyone calls me Mr. Bengal. You can call me Mr. Bengal.”
“OK, like the cat?” I asked.
“Yes, actually like the tiger.”
And without taking a breath, he launched into describing the Army assignment.
“The Army has a classified mission. If you accept it, you will work on a need to know basis,” Bengal said.
“OK,” I said, thinking this must be a cosmic joke.
“Your mission, if you accept it,” he said.
Was he practicing his lines for the next “Mission Impossible” movie, or did he talk this way? I pretended to understand what the hell he was talking about regarding “on a need to know basis.”
I thought, ‘well I’ll need to know your physical measurements if you expect me to fit you with clothing.’
Sept. 11, 2001 airplane attacks on the Twin Towers (Dan Howell Phtographer / Shutterstockcom)
“I am allowed to share just a bit with you,” Bengal said. “The mission will occur in a frigid, mountainous place. We will be hunting the man linked to something in New York City.” “I can’t tell you anything more.”
“The attack on September eleventh,” Bengal whispered.
“Oh,” I said. This time I understood perfectly well who Bengal’ was referring to.
‘Shit,’ I thought. ‘Now Jason Bourne has shared the biggest secret in the world with me. I knew what happened to people that know too much.’
“We need warm clothes for the troops to wear in order to catch this guy. We need you to build them for us,” Bengal said. “Can you do that?”
Osama bin Laden. (Photograph courtesy of The Associated Press)
“Of course,” I said, “that’s what I do, but actually, I design them.”
“What’s the difference?” Bengal asked.
That question frightened me more than the realization that his Glock was hidden in his gym bag under the table. Now I realized he was wearing black as a symbol of the covert nature of his profession, not because he was a fellow couturier. He didn’t understand the apparel industry and that made my job more dangerous.
“Think about the money,” I said to myself, “you can do this.”
“How soon can you get to Natick?” Bengal asked.
“Soon,” I answered.
__________________________________________
Seattle Tacoma Airport to Boston Logan Airport flight route (Image courtesy of Direct Flights.com)
It was a long flight “from sea to shining sea”[14] the night I flew from Seattle to Boston. Actually, the lyrics should go ocean to ocean or in this case “from Puget Sound to Massachusetts Bay,” but this isn’t a geography class.
I arrived late and was the last person to pick up my rental car before the office closed. The ice-cold evening was moonless and black, sporting the best-selling color in fashion, maybe things are going my way. I walked alone through the parking garage searching for my car, looking side to side hoping no one would jump out and grab me.
As I climbed into the unfamiliar vehicle the parking garage echoed a reminder that I was alone on this mission and I had accepted it knowing full well the dangers. I fumbled for the overhead light and quickly surveyed the location of the crucial instruments to navigate my drive to the hotel.
Black Ice (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia.com)
The roads were covered with splotches of thin black ice. I recalled the time station wagon spun a complete 360 degrees on the road to Skykomish. My mom simply righted the car and continued without saying a word while the kids screamed in terror.
I drove alone on the snowy road to the small town that housed the military base. I was feeling apprehensive about the trip. The project was clandestine, and I had never held a gun. Shooting a gun was something I had never done. Not that I would be expected to participate in the mission, it’s just that guns are known to kill people and now I would be close to the people that did that sort of thing.
I checked into the hotel and climbed into the bed with crisp, fresh, white sheets that smelled of bleach. No chemicals were strong enough to clean away the reality of the task I’d taken on and I restlessly fell to sleep.
The next morning came fast. It left me groggy at the “dawn’s early light”[15]. I rushed to get dressed, feeling unsure of myself and what to wear. I decided to wear black, how could I go wrong in black?
I covered my head with a baseball cap sporting a U.S.. Army chenille patch of red, white and blue and headed out the door. I was told to be in the lobby of the hotel at 0800. The message was, ‘he would find me.’ The written communication had stated that a Special Operations soldier would contact me at the hotel. This gave me visions of a six feet four-inch linebacker-sized man.
I allowed my libido to get the best of me for a brief moment. However, to my disappointment, a small figure approached me. He stood five feet four inches tall and was slightly hunched at the shoulders. He had the face of a hyena and smiled with a deceptive looking sneer. He too was dressed all in black including his baseball cap, large combat boots, and wrap around Ray-Ban sunglasses. It was eight in the morning and it wasn’t sunny outside.
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“You can tell everything about a subject by looking into their eyes,” he said, “always wear your Ray-Bans.”
I wondered how he recognized me through his shades when we had never met before this moment and the idea triggered an adrenaline rush, making my heart race and I began to sweat.
“Did they already have a file on me?” I thought. bl
Then I remembered reading a scientific study about the smell of fear and struggled to calm my mind with the type of deep, long breaths I’d learned in yoga practice. I knew that animals could smell fear and I wondered if he had sniffed the panic dripping under my clothes. I pulled my sunglasses from my purse and covered my eyes.
Walt Disney’s Fantasia (1940 film) (Photograph courtesy of The Whitney Museum)
My contact signaled a command. He ordered me towards the exit with his short, gloved pointer finger. I felt as if the evil sorcerer from Fantasia had taken me under his powers like Sorcerer’s Apprentice Mickey Mouse’s marching brooms. . My hyena-like handler’s power pulled me through the revolving glass doors. I stepped out into the below zero-degree morning.
SUV similar to the Tour de (special force: How the Army and Chevy team up on the front lines by Kirk Bell (Motor Authority. 2017 Chevrolet Tahoe and Suburban Midnight Editions at The Range Complex in Raleigh, North Carolina) (Image generated with Microsoft Design / Melodie Miller AI Graphic Engineer)
Feeling like the protagonist in a Disney movie I floated towards the oversized, black S.U.V. that awaited us. Nearly invisible patches of black ice covered the concrete and I felt encouraged that I could still recognize reality. Trying to act casual, I asked my contact about his position in the Army and he answered without hesitation.
“I’m a sniper, and I’m good. I never miss and I always win.” He said proudly like he was bragging about being an Olympic gold medal winner.
My mind began to fight itself with crazy ideas as I realized I was climbing into the black S.U.V. with a trained killer.
“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”
I hadn’t said I was worried, and I didn’t like the idea of being “taken care of” by a professional hitman who was trained by the U.S. military. But I reminded myself again that the Army’s “C-notes” were just as honest as any other clients money and what’s more, the government paid on time.
I climbed into the imposing, blacked-out windowed Chevrolet Suburban and slid across the frigid leather seat. I was conscious of the fact that I could see out of the S.U.V., but no one could see in. I buckled the hard metal seat belt and cinched it tightly around my small waist. I looked to my right side and there lay a long scarf, handwoven in a distinctive Afghan tribal plaid pattern. I recognize the scarf as one used for wrapping a turban. It had a slight musky odor and as I looked closer, I could see that it was dirty and stained.
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Just then the sniper reached his hand back from the front seat and said, “I’ll take that scarf, my buddy sent that to me from Afghanistan. The guy won’t be needing it anymore,” the sniper said followed by a short burst of hyena sounding laughter. Upon touching the scarf, the sniper appeared agitated and compelled to share his story. I thought it was as if he had pulled the sword from the stone, seemingly empowered as a knight, beyond reproach, entitled to kill for his kingdom.
“You’re probably wondering how I got my hands on that Afghani scarf?” he said.
“Well, OK, how?” I said reluctantly.
“Like I said. The guy didn’t need it anymore and my buddy borrowed it, so to speak, permanently,” the handler said and laughed again.
Isn’t that what he just told me I thought. I remained silent, instinctively understanding that like the spinning car, nothing good could come of where this story was going. But he pivoted to a different topic, which at first seemed like a good move but then reality went from sitting in the back of an S.U.V. driven by a trained assassin to the confessionals of a hit man.
“You’re probably wondering how I became a sniper.” He offered eagerly.
The words of my mother ran in my ears “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Again, I did not respond.
“I was eighteen years old and arrested for stealing a car. This time I knew it would be prison, not juvie detention. I told my attorney that I liked guns and was a perfect shot with an automatic rifle and we made a deal with the judge. The judge offered: “Prison or the Army?” I accepted the U.S. Army’s offer, and here I am, killing bad guys for my country, and I now I own my car.”
The S.U.V. raced down the small-town highway to the Natick Army Base. We passed Wellesley College, my step aunts Helen’s alma mater and my resentment boiled irrationally as I thought about the one million dollars she had given to the college. Had she given me some of that million dollars, I wouldn’t have taken this dangerous job. I reminded myself that she didn’t give any of her money to humans, only institutions like the Seattle Opera House and the Huntington’s Foundation, and that seemed to comfort my foolish subconscious mind temporarily. Besides, we weren’t really family, she was my step-aunt, and I doubt she even remembered my name on the day she died.
Billing Hall, Wellesley College, Wellesley, MA (Photograph courtesy of Wellesley College)
The S.U.V. approached the gated entrance to the military base, and the sniper automatically rolled down all the windows.
“I need you to hand me your identification and exit the car,” the guard said.
I reached for my wallet nervously, pulling out the numerous cards, shuffling through them to find my driver’s license, and handed it to the guard. He scanned my license in a daunting manner, looked at me, asked me to remove my hat, and looked back at the license.
“I’ll need to see your passport,” the guard said, “and get out of the vehicle.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I said and reached back into my purse.
I handed my passport to the guard and began to climbed out, but I was escorted from the back of the S.U.V. and stood in the freezing rain while two other guards ran two bomb-detecting wands under the body of the car will a third guard examined the undercarriage with a mirror. I watched the men examine the S.U.V. while a fifth guard physically patted me down.
“Open the trunk,” the fifth guard said, “and open your luggage.”
The guard emptied my luggage and rummaged through my intimate belongings with the unfamiliar hands of a stranger wearing an automatic rifle over his shoulder. I looked around and noticed there were no other women in sight.
My gaze shifted towards the sky but stopped at the top of the fence that surrounded the base. At the highest point on the chain-linked fence sat a wildly bundled layer of barbed wire, stacked one foot tall like the topping of a vicious birthday cake.
The guard reached out his hand slowly towards me, offering myI.DD. He looked me in the eyes and said softly, “I see your birthday is nine eleven, that sucks. Have a nice day. You’re free to go.”
Hindu Kush Mountain Range. (Explorerweb. Photo Courtesy of Tirich Mir. Photo: Abdul Rehman Joyia)
I emerged from the designated quarantine area sanctioned as a military contractor, hired to design clothing for the Special Operations Joint Services to keep them warm in the Hindu Kush mountain range of Afghanistan as they hunted the suspected perpetrator of the attack in New York City on the twin towers on Sept. 11, 2001.
The sniper and recruiter were my entrees into the dark world of covert military operations and the men that carried out their missions. I learned that Special Operations Forces consisted of an atypical type of person like the hyena man and Mr. Bengal, selected for their unique emotional traits and distinctive temperaments. They were fiercely loyal to each other and their country and slightly paranoid. They were trained in highly choreographed scenarios to extract and kill, and they were now my clients and me their collaborator.
Standing on the Natick Military base, I became overwhelmed with anxiety, conflicted by my ideology and the compromising nature of secrecy. In a split second, I rationalized that even professionally trained military killers deserved clothes that would keep them warm.
I had an important job to do for my country, which meant turning camo into fashion and I would find a way to adapt. I hoped the Glocks would remain concealed.
Natick Soldier Systems Center, Natick, Massachusetts. The U.S. Army Natick Soldier Systems Center (NSSC) is a Department of Defense (DoD) installation with the mission to protect and sustain America’s military forces. NSSC is responsible for the technology, research, development, engineering, fielding, and sustainment of our military’s food, clothing, shelters, airdrop systems, and Soldier support items
My skills were procured by the special operations office and like any true American, I needed the paycheck, so I accepted the mission.
Rob O’Neill, DEVGRU SEAL, Crye shirt. 911 Memorial Museum, New York City, New York (Melodie Miller, original designer) (Photographer Kristy Leibowitz)
- https://home.army.mil/natick/my-fort/newcomers
- https://www.911memorial.org/connect/blog/museum-unveils-exhibit-exploring-raid-bin-ladens-compound
[1] Eno, Brian. Frantz, Christopher. Byrne, David Byrne. Harrison, Jerry. Weymouth, Tina. “Once In a Lifetime.” Warner Chappell Music, Inc, Universal Music Publishing Group
[2] Bush, President George W. “Airline Safety,” The Washington Post. 27 September 2001.
[3] Stills, Steven. “Find the cost of Freedom,” B-side to “Ohio.”
[4] Bates, Katharine Lee. “America the Beautiful.” 1893.
[5] Bates.
[6] Bates.
[7] Key, Francis Scott. “The Star-Spangled Banner.” 14 Sept 1814.
[8] Nike. 1988.
[9] The North Face. 1990.
[10] Patagonia. 2018.
[11] Key.
[12] Key.
[13] Anonymous.
[14] Bates.
[15] Key.
Melodie Dawn Miller 