Inside the CIA’s Secret Afghan Army

It was nearly midnight in February 2021 when Nasir Andar’s team of soldiers pinpointed the location of the suicide bomber’s house behind a police station in Jalalabad, a city in eastern Afghanistan. They crept up to the gate and called up the rest of the assault force, who would then surround the target and capture him.

Andar ordered an Afghan soldier to climb a ladder and call the target out to surrender. The house was in an urban area, and a firefight or suicide bomb would cause civilian casualties. As the soldier made his way up, Andar noticed a newer soldier on his team standing in front of the gate.

That’s not a place you want to be right before an assault.

Andar, who is short but stout with shaggy black hair, jogged over to the soldier and told him to get to the side near the wall just in case the terrorists opened fire through the gate. The two of them took a few steps toward cover. Suddenly, the soldier who’d reached the top of the ladder yelled, “Someone’s coming out. They’re going to open the gate!”

Andar looked up just as the man heading to the gate detonated an explosion. The explosion flung Andar into the air, and he landed in a heap. Stunned by the blast, Andar knew he was alive because of all the screaming and gunfire. But he couldn’t feel his legs.

He patted his thighs and shins to confirm both legs were still attached and wiped his eyes. Blood poured from shrapnel wounds in both shoulders and his face. He flexed his left hand but couldn’t move his right one. All around him Zero Unit soldiers with their CIA advisers exchanged fire with the terrorists. Andar was stuck in the crossfire. Pushing his rifle ahead of him, he crawled toward cover. He made it about 60 feet into a clearing before collapsing.

“This is the last moment,” he remembers thinking before passing out. “I’m not going to make it.”

Andar, who grew up in Ghazni province, had been working with the American military for around 15 years, since he was 18 years old. His team was part of a secret Afghan paramilitary unit led by the CIA called Zero Units because of their numeric designation (01, 02, etc.).

There was no other Afghan unit on the battlefield with the same training or equipment as the Zero Units. Trained by American special-operations soldiers, they acted as the CIA’s secret army, carrying out some of the most dangerous missions of the war targeting Al Qaeda and ISIS leaders plotting to attack the U.S., according to CIA officials who served with the units. Often, members of Joint Special Operations Command, including SEAL Team Six, would be part of the mission to call in airstrikes, but the bulk of the fighting was done by Afghan soldiers led by CIA Ground Branch officers.

Andar rose in the ranks, becoming a commander and eventually moving to the CIA Zero Unit compound in Jalalabad, where he did intelligence work. That’s how he wound up wounded by a suicide bomber that day. Soon, other wounded soldiers collapsed nearby, including a unit medic. Andar tried to help his teammates but passed out because of the pain, only to wake up with a CIA adviser standing over him shouting, “You’re going to be fine. You’re going to make it.”

Andar wasn’t convinced. He thought about his new family. How his son would grow up without his father, his wife a widow. He faded in and out of consciousness, waking again when medics started chest compressions. The third time he came to, tourniquets were on all four limbs. He was so cold. Andar learned later he was declared dead after he stopped breathing, only to be saved when a medic noticed his tongue was twisted and opened the airway. Andar’s last memory was the helicopter ride to the hospital at the base outside of Jalalabad.

Today, standing in his apartment in San Antonio, it is impossible not to notice Andar’s service etched into his flesh. His right arm and torso bear jagged scars shaped like crescent moons caused by a burst from an AK-47 rifle. His stomach and chest are a patchwork of pink and white shrapnel scars from the suicide bomber. His arms and legs tell the same brutal tale. Amid the scars, there are tattoos that mark a crude, faded reminder of his past. On his shoulder is the Afghan national flag, the symbol of a country he fought and nearly died for. His left arm is marked with a shield with crossed swords and wings — the Afghan National Strike Unit crest.

“We paid the highest cost,” he tells me. “Every family lost someone. One, two, three, maybe five brothers from each family. I lost two family members. I’m not even the same person anymore. But I have to act like I’m whole. Like I’m strong.”

I COVERED THE WAR IN AFGHANISTAN for 17 years, and the Zero Units were cloaked in legend. I first encountered them in 2005 at a small U.S. Special Forces base tucked into the Hindu Kush near Asadabad. I stood outside the operations center talking to some of the Green Berets when I saw a group of Afghan soldiers wearing night-vision goggles line up vehicles for a raid. The night vision piqued my interest because you didn’t see it on Afghan troops at that time. I asked one of the Special Forces soldiers who the Afghan soldiers were. He shook his head. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with a reporter.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

A few years later, I spotted the Zero Unit soldiers again, at Camp Chapman, near Khost on the Pakistan border. Again, I was told by a special-operations soldier not to ask questions about them. By then, I’d heard about this secret Afghan army. The only news about their operations came in the aftermath of the killing of a terrorist leader or in accusations of war crimes. Even now, U.S. officials cannot officially acknowledge the connection between the intelligence agency and the Zero Units.

“We paid the highest cost,” says Andar. “I’m not even the same person anymore.”

But for the Afghans fighting with Americans, Zero Unit slots were coveted because of better pay, better training, and the chance to work alongside elite U.S. operators. In later years, there were also opportunities to immigrate and resettle in the U.S. after at least one year of service and a U.S. government recommendation. In the final days of the war in 2021, roughly 81,000 Afghan immigrants — including almost 10,000 members of the Zero Units, along with many of their families — were evacuated by the CIA and resettled across the U.S., according to reports. Many were promised Special Immigrant Visas for their service — visas meant for Afghan and Iraqi nationals who worked directly for the U.S. government. There are close to 4,500 living in the U.S. who are still waiting to secure legal status because of paperwork delays from the federal government.

While the war in Afghanistan has been forgotten by most Americans, Andar’s story offers a rare glimpse through the eyes of an Afghan who believed in the promises made by Americans to bring freedom and opportunity to his country. Unlike his American counterparts who fought the war in three-month to one-year deployments, Andar was in harm’s way every day for the 15 or so years he volunteered to fight the Taliban. Now 37 years old, he has a new country and mission, to help his fellow veterans acclimate to a foreign land as he mourns the loss of his homeland.

No one just joined the Zero Units. Soldiers had to be recommended by a close family member or friend who vouched for their loyalty. Andar initially served in 2007 with Special Forces before joining the Zero Units in 2012 after his brother referred him. Unlike other Afghan units infiltrated by the Taliban, Zero Units never suffered an insider attack — when Afghan soldiers who were radicalized turned against U.S. advisers — which former CIA officers say was the by-product of a strict vetting program.

Zero Units were like a scalpel pursuing terrorist targets at the highest level. They mainly operated at night. Their war was a series of high-stakes raids against targets making car and suicide bombs, and terrorist leaders with bodyguards. When the Zero Units went out, they had a better chance than their counterparts to get into a fight, which left them wounded or killed.

“We were fighting for freedom,” Andar tells me. “We were fighting for our land. For our flag. For our dignity. We were fighting for our rights and for humanity. We didn’t want our soil to be used to hurt anyone else. We wanted Afghanistan to stand on the same level as other countries — to be respected, to be trusted. We wanted Afghans to walk through the world with the same kind of pride and recognition as everyone else.”

DESPITE HIGH PRAISE FROM BOTH U.S. special operators and CIA case officers, the Zero Units’ operations were surrounded by significant controversy. Media reports and human rights groups documented the units’ tactics, particularly in the Khost and Nangarhar provinces, including allegations of war crimes.

In 2018, The New York Times published a report focused on the devastating impact of these forces on civilian populations. While the Zero Units fought militant groups such as the Haqqani network and ISIS, their tactics raised serious concerns about human rights abuses. Civilians reported brutal raids, torture, killings, and property destruction. Many of the abuses, such as night raids and executions, were attributed to the looser rules of engagement and operational secrecy that characterized the missions.

Human Rights Watch documented several abuses between 2017 and 2019, including targeted raids that killed civilians, such as the shooting of innocent family members during nighttime operations. In a 2020 story, The Intercept called the Zero Units — 01 in particular — “death squads.” The unit’s raids resulted in the deaths of at least 51 civilians, including women and children, according to the report.

In 2022, ProPublica published a story that the Zero Units’ operations led to hundreds of Afghan civilian deaths. The raids were frequently carried out in remote villages where many innocent civilians were caught in the crossfire. Critics argue that the Zero Units’ operations, far from helping to neutralize terrorist threats, often made enemies out of ordinary Afghan families. Moreover, critics say the Afghan government either lacked capacity or political will to investigate, and that the U.S. military largely ignored the issue because the Zero Units worked for the CIA.

A spokesperson for the CIA tells Rolling Stone in a statement, “With regard to allegations of human rights abuses made against foreign partners, the US takes these claims very seriously and works to strengthen accountability and adherence to human rights standards. We are aware of a persistent false narrative regarding their alleged activities.”

When I asked about allegations of war crimes or rogue operations, three former CIA officers and Andar all insist the Zero Units never operated outside of CIA oversight, and the units went to great lengths to avoid civilian casualties. They say there were no rogue operations.

“We’re with them everywhere they go,” says a former U.S. intelligence officer, who requested anonymity to discuss the still-classified units.

Andar says he and his unit mates were shoulder to shoulder with Americans on every mission. There were no unilateral missions with just Zero Unit personnel. “We were taking every order from them,” Andar says. “We did not shoot a single round without their permission.”

When Andar talks about the war, he talks about a fight for the soul of his country. He had opportunities to leave Afghanistan. He received his approval to seek a visa in 2016 but never applied. He wanted to stay and fight, and would have continued if his government hadn’t fallen in August 2021.

“We were fighting for freedom,” Andar says. “We were fighting for our land. For our dignity.”

ANDAR WAS IN THE LEAD TRUCK heading into Kabul on Aug. 16, 2021, despite still nursing his injuries — including braces on his legs and shrapnel in his chest — from the suicide bomber. It was a few days after his country was overrun by the Taliban. Behind him were hundreds of Zero Unit soldiers coming from Eagle Base, a former brick factory turned CIA interrogation facility and Zero Unit base located almost three miles from Kabul. The Zero Units’ final mission was to safeguard U.S. and coalition personnel, including at Kabul airport, in the final days of the 20-year U.S. presence.

The Zero Unit convoy entered through a gate on the north side of the airport. A Turkish recon vehicle had been set ablaze in the middle of the road. Andar spotted some Marines nearby and called out to them that he was friendly. The convoy continued advancing. As it approached the runway, there were thousands of people trying to make it to the departing aircraft.

In the months leading up to the collapse, Andar says, the Zero Units were promised a lot of things. For one, they were told each soldier would get a bonus, which he didn’t care much about. They were also promised weapons and ammunition to continue to fight after their U.S. counterparts left. The last promise was if the Taliban took over, the Zero Units would take to the mountains and keep fighting. But when the Afghan government collapsed after the Taliban entered Kabul on Aug. 15, 2021, a CIA adviser told Andar he was sorry, but there was nothing he could do. Andar still won’t accept defeat today, even exiled to Texas, arguing that the Taliban didn’t hold one province in Afghanistan before the fall of Kabul.

“The soldiers never, ever got defeated,” Andar tells me last fall at his San Antonio home. “Never.”

Over the next few days at the airport, Andar and his men worked alongside Marines and State Department officials to process civilians and evacuate as many as they could. The Zero Unit soldiers were instrumental in screening evacuees because the Marines didn’t speak the language or know the culture. They also ran missions into Kabul to pick up stranded Americans. Andar remembers the feeling of dread and desperation. He warned the Marines about the risk of suicide bombers and wasn’t surprised when on Aug. 26, 2021, one killed 13 U.S. military service members and about 170 Afghans waiting to evacuate.

Andar thought after securing the airport, all the Zero Units would push out and retake Kabul. But as time passed, he heard rumors he and his men would evacuate. The CIA advisers ordered him to contact his wife and one-year-old son, who were in Kabul. He called them, and they made it to the gate in time to board a C-17 to Bahrain. From there, they went to Germany before landing in the U.S.

“It wasn’t until the last minute that I realized we were evacuating, and not staying to fight,” he tells me.

Andar and the other Zero Unit soldiers arrived in America with only their clothes and whatever they could carry on the plane. A few weeks later, Geeta Bakshi, a former CIA counterterrorism operations officer who founded and leads FAMIL, a nonprofit dedicated to resettling Zero Unit veterans, and some of the former CIA advisers went to Quantico, a Marine base outside of Washington, D.C., to meet with Zero Unit veterans. The meeting was brief, and the veterans said little. Everyone was still in shock. After the meeting, Bakshi was stopped by Andar, who’d attended the meeting.

“Blackbird,” he said — her nickname while in Afghanistan. “I helped support one of your ops.”

They stepped out of the tent, and Andar confessed many of the soldiers were coming to him for help. They exchanged numbers. A few weeks later, Bakshi’s phone rang. It was Andar. Three families were in a suburban Maryland hotel with no food. The children were going hungry. Bakshi went to the supermarket and delivered a few days’ worth of groceries.

After that, Bakshi and Andar started talking regularly as they solved problems for the veterans. They tackled everything from providing food to hungry families to helping with green-card applications to facilitating prosthetics for amputees. Bakshi founded the nonprofit FAMIL to pay the Zero Unit veterans back for protecting her in Afghanistan.

“I remember thinking, resettlement agencies are not going to be able to deal with these soldiers and all of the things they’ve been through,” Bakshi says. “They’re not going to be able to relate to their experiences. They need people who understand what they’ve been through and what they’ve done to contribute, who can be there to be a lifeline for them.”

Most nights, Andar spends hours in a San Antonio hookah cafe talking to Zero Unit soldiers from across the country on his phone as he helps them finish applications, find jobs, and get benefits. Promises made by the CIA.

“It’s not about the war anymore,” he says. “It’s about what we promised those guys we’d do. We said we’d take care of them. And now we’re the ones waiting for someone to keep their promise.”

Living in the U.S. isn’t always smooth for the Afghan refugees. Abdul Rahman Waziri, who served with Special Forces, was recently killed in the parking lot of his west Houston apartment complex after a neighbor allegedly shot him multiple times over a parking spot, according to Houston police. Many of the Zero Unit veterans are viewed with suspicion, especially when dressed in the long shirt and baggy pants of Central Asia or speaking in Pashto, Andar’s native language.

A few months after he arrived in San Antonio with his wife and two children, Andar stopped at a Walmart to get baby formula for his newborn son. It was December 2023, and he’d been in the U.S. for almost two years, when a woman approached him.

“Are you a terrorist?” she asked. Andar didn’t know what to say. “No,” he said. “Why would I be a terrorist?”

“You just look like one,” she said.

When Andar, who wore a T-shirt, jeans, flip-flops, and a camouflage Punisher hat that day, told her he was a soldier, she begrudgingly thanked him for his service.

Last June for Eid, I meet Bakshi and Andar at his San Antonio apartment complex. A few children come outside. The girls wear colorful red and green dresses. I follow Andar into a second-floor apartment for a feast of rice, roasted goat, and fresh fruit.

Over the next few days, I get a glimpse of Andar’s San Antonio. A place we dub “San Antanistan” by the end of the trip because, in Andar’s bubble, Texas falls away. The Afghan community is tight-knit, with the Zero Unit veterans sticking together. Between trips to a halal market, where Andar and the others gather sometimes to eat sweets, and a grocery store owned by an Egyptian who stocks Middle Eastern foods and goods, it is rare to hear a word of English.

Near the end of the Eid celebration, Andar joins the larger Afghan community at O.P. Schnabel Park at sundown to sing and dance. While the boys play cricket, the men gather in a circle waiting for the music. When the first song starts, a hush falls over the men. Slowly, one after another starts to sing the Afghan national anthem.

“This land is Afghanistan; it is the pride of every Afghan; the land of peace; the land of sword, each of its sons is brave.…” The lyrics — written in 2006 when the Taliban were on the run — sound like a ballad now.

“We’ve been through hell and back together,” says Bakshi, who helps resettle vets.

THE RIDE DOWN THE PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY takes about two hours. Some of the most iconic scenery in the United States fades as we enter El Cajon, California, which looks like a town in a Grand Theft Auto video game. A menace hangs in the air. A series of dusty strip malls and fast-food joints line the road. When we stop at a McDonald’s on that Thursday in April 2024, a man is getting high in the men’s room.

We arrive at a ramshackle, ranch-style house tucked in the back of a cul-de-sac in a dusty neighborhood. A tall fence opens into a small courtyard covered in ornate rugs and couches. Andar sits on a couch with a leg propped up scrolling through his phone. Bakshi sits next to him. Bakshi and Andar act like family — they bicker and tease each other. While we wait for the other guests, Bakshi jokingly tells Andar to stop talking because his story about a previous operation is boring. This familiarity comes from working weeks and months through crises — soldiers who died by suicide or immigration nightmares.

“We’ve been through hell and back together,” Bakshi says.

As more Zero Unit veterans roll in for dinner, Andar makes introductions, usually in the form of a humorous story. The men talk and laugh. They like to joke about how ugly someone’s wife was because, until the evacuation, none of the soldiers ever saw their unit mates’ spouses. Men and women in Afghanistan traditionally don’t socialize together. One topic of agreement is the desire to go back to Afghanistan and finish the job. The mission that the United States government laid out — destroy Al Qaeda — is unfinished. And Andar would like nothing more than to accomplish it.

Liberating his country is still his only goal.

“We lost everything,” he tells me. “We lost our country. We lost our flag. We lost our family, we lost our brothers, and we lost our dignity.”

Until that’s restored, the war isn’t over.

When a pile of sandals has grown to a mound, a large plastic tablecloth is spread on the floor and covered with Afghan dishes. Lamb with rice. Fried chicken legs. Bakshi and the men huddle around the spread. Some men have prosthetic legs, and at least one has an eye patch. The talking and laughing fades as they eat. So do the frustrations about delayed visas. For a few hours, everyone is home with the San Bernardino and San Gabriel mountains standing in for the Hindu Kush.

As I leave, it only takes a few steps outside the gate to break the illusion. Kind of like the magic of Disneyland when the happiest place in the world ends and the real world returns with a traffic jam on the way out. But that faint echo of their life and culture is all they have left of home.

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