Saving Aziz

Saving Aziz Plot Summary

Introduction

Have you ever felt that overwhelming sense of duty to help someone, even when all the odds seemed stacked against you? Imagine watching the news as a country falls into chaos, knowing your friend – someone who saved your life multiple times – is trapped there with his family, facing certain death. What would you do? This is the moral dilemma that transformed one man's personal mission to save his interpreter into an extraordinary humanitarian effort that would ultimately rescue thousands. At its heart, this story reveals the power of unwavering loyalty and the impact that determined individuals can make when governments falter. Through firsthand accounts of daring rescues amid the chaos of Afghanistan's fall, readers will discover how military expertise combined with humanitarian compassion can create miracles in seemingly hopeless situations. The narrative offers profound insights into the true meaning of brotherhood beyond borders, the moral imperative to stand by those who stood by us, and how the mission to save one person can evolve into a movement that changes thousands of lives. This testament to human courage demonstrates that when systems fail, individuals with conviction can still make an extraordinary difference.

Chapter 1: The Killing Pool: How One Sight Changed My Perspective Forever

The air felt eerily quiet as Aziz led me up the steep path toward Bibi Mahru Hill overlooking Kabul. As a Force Recon Marine on my first deployment to Afghanistan, I had come to this country focused on one mission: retribution for 9/11. But what I was about to see would fundamentally transform my understanding of why we were fighting. When we reached the hilltop, an Olympic-sized swimming pool came into view. Built by the Soviets in the 1980s, it now stood empty. Children playing on the diving platforms scattered as we approached. Something seemed off about this place. Then I noticed it – a steel cable with a slip-knot noose hanging from one of the diving platforms about seven and a half meters above the pool. "I've witnessed many public executions here," Aziz said quietly. "Some were hanged; some were thrown off the towers like garbage and died on the concrete floor—and not always immediately." My interpreter's words hung in the air as we descended into the empty pool. What I saw next is seared into my memory forever: thousands of bullet holes, all at the height of a kneeling person's head, riddled the walls at both ends of the pool. In the shallow end, the holes were positioned at the height of a kneeling child. I pulled out my Leatherman tool and dug into one of the holes, extracting two bullet jacket remains. These small metal fragments represented unimaginable evil – the Taliban's brutality toward innocent people who had tasted freedom and refused to return to oppression. I slipped the fragments into my pocket, determined never to forget the anger I felt standing in that place. The Killing Pool, as I came to call it, changed my perspective completely. I had joined the special operations task force in 2003, driven by patriotism and a desire for retribution. But standing there, I discovered a deeper truth: America makes a difference in the world. What we do matters to people who are much more like us than we realize. Despite our different appearances, languages, and beliefs, we share a common humanity and a desire to live free from oppression. That day transformed my purpose in Afghanistan. If I could prevent one teenage girl from jumping from a rooftop rather than suffer rape and abuse by the Taliban, my time there would be worthwhile. If I could save one family from watching their father being executed, I would fight for them. If I could protect one child from being murdered in that empty pool, I would give my life for that child. Before this moment, retaliation had consumed me. Now, compassion for the Afghan people broke my heart open. I had to help. I had to fight for them.

Chapter 2: Brotherhood Beyond Borders: Aziz and the True Meaning of Loyalty

The Taliban fighters had set up an ambush on the winding mountain road ahead. I received word through intelligence channels that they knew our convoy would be passing through. As the xxxxxxxxxxxx Special Operations task force's logistics coordinator working with Afghan interpreters, I faced these scenarios regularly. But this time felt different. The intel suggested this was a sophisticated trap. "We should take the northern route," Aziz suggested, his voice calm but insistent. At twenty-five years old, my Afghan interpreter had proven himself indispensable countless times. Though he had no formal military training, his street smarts and unwavering commitment to our mission made him exceptional. "I know another way. It will take three hours longer, but we will avoid the ambush." I trusted Aziz implicitly. Unlike many interpreters who simply translated, Aziz fought alongside us. We changed course, and later learned that the Taliban had indeed been waiting with a substantial force that would have likely overwhelmed us. It wasn't the first time Aziz had saved my life, nor would it be the last. Our bond grew through shared danger and daily life. In the evenings, we'd watch bootleg copies of Dave Chappelle's comedy shows, laughing hysterically and quoting our favorite lines as we traveled throughout Afghanistan. Aziz taught me about his country's rich culture and complex history while I introduced him to American customs and humor. He felt personally responsible for my safety – not just as an interpreter, but as his guest in Afghanistan. One afternoon, unaware of protests erupting over Danish newspaper caricatures of the prophet Muhammad, I stepped outside our safe house to watch what appeared to be a parade. Sipping chai tea at the edge of the street, I didn't recognize the danger until Aziz grabbed me forcefully. "What are you doing?!?" he shouted, pulling me back inside. "Those guys are looking for a Westerner to kill." His quick thinking had saved me again. This pattern repeated throughout our eight deployments together. Whether rescuing a trapped American contractor during a firefight between Taliban and international forces, or sensing a weapons buy was actually an ambush, Aziz repeatedly put himself in harm's way to protect me and other Americans. "I can't let you go first," he would say whenever we navigated dangerous areas. "You are my guest in Afghanistan. It is my responsibility to keep you safe." The loyalty Aziz demonstrated wasn't simply professional duty – it represented the profound Afghan cultural value of protection and hospitality. In Afghan culture, a guest is considered sacred, and their safety becomes the host's highest priority. Aziz exemplified this principle daily, even as bullets flew around us. When I eventually returned to the United States, diagnosed with severe PTSD after my final deployment, the memory of Aziz's unwavering loyalty remained my brightest light from those dark years. True brotherhood transcends borders, languages, and cultures. It manifests in the willingness to sacrifice for another without hesitation or expectation of return. Aziz didn't just translate my words; he translated the meaning of loyalty through his actions. In a war that would last twenty years, this bond between an American Marine and an Afghan interpreter would ultimately prove more enduring than any military strategy or political agenda.

Chapter 3: The Fall of Kabul: When Politics Abandoned People

The WhatsApp message from Aziz arrived at 3:17 a.m.: "Brother, Taliban is in Kabul now. They are searching houses for people who worked with Americans. My neighbor told them about me. We are hiding. Please help us." The desperation in his message was palpable, even through the digital text. After eight deployments together where he had saved my life multiple times, Aziz and his family now faced execution because of his service to America. Earlier that day, August 15, 2021, the unthinkable had happened with stunning speed. The Taliban had entered Kabul virtually unopposed. President Ashraf Ghani had fled the country, reportedly with millions in cash. The Afghan government had collapsed completely. Within hours, the American flag at the U.S. embassy was lowered as helicopters evacuated diplomatic personnel – images eerily reminiscent of the fall of Saigon decades earlier, despite President Biden's assurance just five weeks prior that "there's going to be no circumstance where you'll see people being lifted off the roof of an embassy." The signs had been visible for months. When President Biden announced in April 2021 that all U.S. troops would withdraw from Afghanistan by the 20th anniversary of 9/11, I immediately feared for Aziz. For six frustrating years, we had been caught in the bureaucratic nightmare of the Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) process, designed to bring interpreters who helped American forces to safety in the United States. With a contract document missing a critical number and endless administrative loops, Aziz's application had gone nowhere. Now, the Taliban swept through provinces with shocking speed. Afghan cities had been falling for weeks – first remote areas, then major population centers like Kandahar and Mazar-e Sharif. The Afghan National Army, trained for twenty years but suddenly without American air support, melted away before the Taliban advance. Contrary to popular narrative, these weren't cowards unwilling to fight for their country. Over 66,000 Afghan troops had been killed fighting alongside Americans since 2001. But now, facing an emboldened Taliban without promised U.S. support, many made the heart-wrenching choice to protect their families rather than die in a battle they couldn't win. For Aziz, the situation was dire. "Bashir is looking for me," he messaged. Bashir – a former teammate who had flipped to the Taliban years ago and was responsible for killing ten of our Afghan team members – had been released from prison and now commanded Taliban forces. He would undoubtedly seek revenge against Aziz for his role in Bashir's capture. The message continued: "They will make me watch as they rape my daughters, then they will kill me." The promise of America to its Afghan allies was unraveling in real time. The withdrawal had been announced with a date but no terms or conditions – a fatal strategic error that gave the Taliban freedom to wait us out. The administration's assessment that Afghanistan wouldn't fall for 90 days proved catastrophically wrong. Within hours of the Taliban entering Kabul, the streets filled with desperate Afghans rushing toward the airport, their last hope for escape. Among them were thousands of interpreters and others who had staked their lives on America's promise to protect them. What unfolded wasn't just a military withdrawal; it was the abandonment of a moral obligation. The true cost wouldn't be measured in equipment left behind or political fallout, but in the lives of people like Aziz – people who had believed in America's word and now found themselves hunted for that very belief. As Kabul fell and chaos enveloped the country, one thing became crystal clear: politics had abandoned people, and only decisive action could save them now.

Chapter 4: Task Force 6:8: Answering the Call When No One Else Would

"I have to get my brother," I said firmly, ending the call with my media agent who had just informed me about President Biden's withdrawal announcement. No expense would be spared. After learning that the withdrawal date had been moved up to August 31st, a sense of urgency consumed me. What started as a personal mission to rescue Aziz mushroomed as the dire situation in Afghanistan became clearer by the day. I reached out to my old Special Forces teammate Andy first. Without hesitation, he agreed to help. Then I texted Tim Kennedy, a Green Beret, top-ten UFC fighter, and trusted friend with extensive special operations experience. "Want to help us rescue Afghans?" The reply came quickly: Tim and his friend Nick Palmisciano, a West Point graduate and former Army Ranger, were both in. Four friends with a common desire to get it right when our government was failing. Our team grew rapidly. We brought in Dave, a retired Army Special Forces officer; Sean, a career Army Special Forces officer; "Seaspray," a Special Forces veteran and paramilitary officer; and several others whose identities needed protection. My oldest son Hunter, who had served in the Marines for almost seven years and deployed to Afghanistan himself, insisted on joining despite my initial reluctance. "I have an obligation to go," he said firmly. "These guys I fought with kept us safe and kept us alive. They have no help right now." We needed a name for our team, and Isaiah 6:8 provided the perfect inspiration: "And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?' Then I said, 'Here I am! Send me.'" Task Force 6:8 was born – a group of veterans answering a call when official channels seemed paralyzed by inaction. The logistics came together with astonishing speed. Wayne Hughes Jr., a longtime supporter of my Mighty Oaks Foundation, provided initial funding. Joe Robert, another Recon Marine, contacted the crown prince of the UAE royal family, securing their support. To our astonishment, the UAE offered two C-17 airplanes, pilots, an airstrip, and access to their humanitarian center in Abu Dhabi for housing refugees. The center included food, lodging, medical care, and processing facilities – resources worth millions. We established a nonprofit called Save Our Allies, partnering with Sarah Verardo of The Independence Fund. Sarah set up a Joint Operations Center in Washington, D.C., while I made media appearances to raise awareness. Within days, we received over 22,000 requests for evacuations. The flood of support was overwhelming – individuals, organizations, and nations offering help regardless of politics, nationality, or religious beliefs. In just over a month, we raised $2 million, half from five major donations, the rest from about 5,000 individual contributions. One memorable example came from a Jewish organization that initially hesitated to donate through my Christian nonprofit Mighty Oaks. When we pointed out we were rescuing Muslims, laughter followed, and they contributed $1.6 million specifically for evacuation flights. Even political opponents who had criticized my conservative views sent supportive messages and donations. The humanitarian crisis transcended typical divisions. As we prepared to deploy, I couldn't help but feel we were answering a higher calling. Each team member left behind comfortable lives and safety to venture into chaos. We weren't authorized by any government agency or acting in any official capacity. We were simply citizens who could not stand by while those who had risked everything for America faced death. The scripture that inspired our name said it all: Here we are. Send us.

Chapter 5: Through Fire and Chaos: The Race to Save Lives at HKIA

The scene at Hamid Karzai International Airport (HKIA) defied description. Thousands of desperate Afghans pressed against the perimeter, hoping for escape as Taliban fighters established checkpoints throughout Kabul. August temperatures soared into the mid-nineties, and people were fainting from heat and exhaustion. Some were trampled in the crush. Sean, our first team member on the ground, witnessed Taliban fighters shoot two people dead just inches from him as he moved through the crowd to reach those we needed to evacuate. Most heartbreaking were the mothers kissing their babies goodbye—likely forever—and passing them overhead through the crowd toward the gates, praying American service members would take them to safety. Behind the walls lay coils of concertina wire about five feet high and twenty feet deep, designed to trap anyone attempting to cross. Joe, who arrived later, reported seeing six dead infants who had bled out in that tangle of wire. The infamous video of Afghans clinging to departing C-17s and falling to their deaths captured only a fraction of the desperation. Our team established a protocol for verifying those we would rescue. Each person needed to send a proof-of-life photo holding documents and displaying that day's date. At pickup locations, they displayed far-recognition symbols—pictures on phones visible from a distance—and provided constantly changing passwords. They then presented their paperwork: passports, national ID cards, letters of reference, military contracts, and proof of service. Only after matching faces to documents would our team escort them through ratlines—secret routes into the airport that we established through sewage ditches, cut fences, and abandoned gates. Our first rescue was a young woman named Narna, a twenty-one-year-old who had worked in President Ghani's office. The Taliban had photographed her and sent the picture with a message saying they would rape and kill her. When we received her request, she was hiding under a stairwell in an office building as Taliban searched for her. Our team coordinated with sympathetic special operations members inside HKIA, who sneaked outside the wire to reach her. They found her being dragged away by Taliban fighters, moments from being raped and killed. They intervened, secured her release, and escorted her to safety as our first evacuee. Working both day and night, we coordinated buses for larger groups and individual escorts for high-risk cases. We faced not only Taliban but also Unit 00 resistance fighters from the Afghan intelligence agency and various military forces guarding the airport. Communication happened through encrypted apps, with our Abu Dhabi command center coordinating rescues in real-time. Every successful extraction felt like a victory, but the victories were bittersweet as thousands more remained outside. The pace was relentless. From 150 rescues the first day, we jumped to 800 the second and set a daily goal of 1,000. Our team inside Afghanistan operated on virtually no sleep, with Seaspray losing thirty-seven pounds during his ten days running rescue operations. "Every second we're away equals lives lost," became our mantra. We tracked rescue groups on white sheets of paper stuck to the wall of our command center, each sheet representing real people whose lives hung in the balance. Then came the devastating suicide bombing outside Abbey Gate on August 26. The attack killed thirteen U.S. service members and approximately 170 Afghans. Our team had been at that very location minutes earlier. The bombing's aftermath created even greater challenges – more gates were welded shut, restricting entry points further. Military leadership began pulling troops back from security responsibilities. Our operations shifted entirely to covert methods, avoiding main gates altogether. Despite mounting obstacles, our team persisted. We leveraged every skill from our military backgrounds, adapting constantly to changing circumstances. When one avenue closed, we found another. When military officials occasionally blocked our evacuees, we found alternative routes. The official evacuation process seemed increasingly focused on numbers rather than identifying the most vulnerable, while our rigorous vetting ensured we knew exactly who we were bringing out. Through the fire and chaos of those desperate days at HKIA, the team maintained unwavering focus. Each person saved represented not just a statistic but a human life with dreams, fears, and a future that would otherwise have been extinguished. By the time the last U.S. military flight departed on August 31, Task Force 6:8 had rescued more than twelve thousand people from certain persecution or death – a testament to what determined individuals can accomplish when they refuse to accept that nothing can be done.

Chapter 6: Crossing Dangerous Waters: The Tajikistan Border Reconnaissance Mission

The wind cut through my jacket as I stared across the Panj River from Tajikistan into Afghanistan. The river marked the border between the two countries, and somewhere on the other side, thousands of Afghans still hid from Taliban persecution. With conventional evacuation routes closed after the U.S. withdrawal, we needed new escape pathways. That's why Dennis, a Marine Force Reconnaissance team leader, and I found ourselves shivering at the river's edge in late September 2021. "The water's going to be unbearably cold," Dennis observed as we prepared for our nighttime reconnaissance swim. Earlier that day, a Navy SEAL corpsman had warned us the snow-melt waters would cause our bodies to cramp immediately. Taliban patrols regularly swept the Afghan side while Russian, Chinese, and Tajik military forces monitored the Tajikistan side. Signs in multiple languages warned that swimming was forbidden, with violators risking being shot on sight. Other signs announced the presence of landmines along the riverbank. None of this deterred us. We had been tasked with finding viable crossing points where Afghan refugees could safely escape. Before leaving the U.S., I had torn my groin muscle completely off the bone during training. My surgeon friend advised emergency surgery, but I refused. "Can I hurt it worse?" I asked. "No, it's detached from the bone, so it's as injured as it can be," he replied. "If I have to run from something—hypothetically—will it fail me?" "No, because you have four other muscles there still working." That was all I needed to know. Our mission was straightforward but dangerous: identify potential fording sites along a ninety-mile stretch of border, measure water depths and currents, locate Taliban and military checkpoints, and document staging areas and routes that evacuees could use. We needed access points free of checkpoints, with slower currents and manageable width, considering elderly people, young children, non-swimmers, and pregnant women would be crossing in freezing water. As darkness fell, Dennis and I slipped silently into the frigid river. The ice-cold water contracted my lungs, making each breath painful. I used long, sweeping breaststroke movements to avoid splashing or making noise, fighting against the current while the sharp pain in my injured groin reminded me of my limitations. We methodically collected data: water depth, current velocity (measured by timing floating objects over one-yard distances), soil composition of the riverbed, and coordinates for rope anchor points. At one potential crossing site, we found ourselves swimming between a Taliban checkpoint about one hundred yards east and a Chinese military position with a spotlight and machine gun three hundred yards to our west. I remember being halfway across, wondering if my life would end in this cold river between enemies. Another night, while photographing a different location, I spotted a Chinese special forces soldier in a ghillie suit with a sniper rifle staring directly at my teammate. I grabbed Dennis by his shirt and pulled him back into our vehicle, ordering the driver, "Go! Go! Go!" The dangers weren't limited to enemy forces. One night, Dennis and I sat against a large rock waiting for Taliban patrols to subside so we could work. Under the most brilliant starry sky I'd ever seen, we discussed the gravity of our situation. "Death is seventy yards from us," Dennis observed quietly, referring to the Taliban patrol visible across the river. "We have so much in common as warriors doing our duty, but we're divided by so much more than this running river." Our mission culminated in an attempt to rescue an Afghan commando and his family, including his seven-months-pregnant wife and two children. After days of planning and gathering equipment including ropes, carabiners, and medical supplies, we prepared for the operation. The family had made it through more than a dozen Taliban checkpoints to reach the final step - crossing the river where we waited. But that night, our drivers abandoned us, fearing for their lives after increased Russian military activity in the area. The family remained hidden just across the river while we, devastated, had to abort the mission with no transportation out of the area. Despite this heartbreak, our mission succeeded in its primary objective. We identified six viable crossing points and created detailed reports that other NGOs and government agencies could use to guide future evacuations. These reports included every detail needed: GPS coordinates, anchor points, water depths, current velocities, cover and concealment options, and routes avoiding checkpoints. Each crossing point documented represented a potential lifeline for those still trapped. As Dennis and I made our dangerous return journey through multiple checkpoints, we carried with us not just the technical data we'd gathered, but a profound understanding of the challenges faced by those attempting escape. Our bodies had felt the freezing waters they would endure. Our eyes had seen the patrols they would need to evade. What we documented wasn't just information on paper – it was a path to freedom that would ultimately save countless lives in the months that followed.

Chapter 7: When One Becomes Seventeen Thousand: The Power of Determined Action

The first time I truly grasped the scale of what we had accomplished was during a quiet moment at the humanitarian center in Abu Dhabi. I stood watching families embrace as they discovered they had both made it out safely. I saw looks of relief, tears of joy, and the thousand-yard stares of those still processing their trauma. Children with messy hair ran freely, no longer fearing the sounds of gunfire or Taliban patrols. Among them was a thirteen-year-old boy sitting alone, staring into the distance. With Aziz interpreting, I approached and asked if he was okay. After putting on a brave face initially, the boy eventually shared his story. As he and his parents and sisters tried to reach the airport gate, Taliban began shooting in their direction. The family scattered, with the boy getting ahead. His father shouted, "Just go inside! We will meet you inside!" He made it through the gate but couldn't find his family. He was placed on a plane to Abu Dhabi alone, still hoping to locate them. I handed him my phone to call his parents, but neither answered. Each time my phone rang in the days that followed, I hoped it would be them. It never was. This boy's story was one among thousands. What had begun as my personal mission to save Aziz—my interpreter who had saved my life multiple times during my deployments—had expanded beyond anything we could have imagined. Save Our Allies had evacuated more than seventeen thousand people in total. The magnitude hit me when Aziz, now safe with his family, joined me on a walk through the humanitarian center. "Thank you, brother," he said. "I can't wait to see you." I turned to him and replied, "We care about you so much because you are so important in our lives. We came to get you, and now all these people are here because of you." Tears streamed down his cheeks. What started as one man's desire to save another had become so much more—because it was the right thing to do, and someone had to do it. The stories continued to unfold. There was Abdul Wasi Sharifi, an MMA promoter who faced death threats because the Taliban considered his sport too barbaric. His little girls had sent me a handwritten sign: "Uncle Chad, please save us." We eventually flew Abdul and several fighters to Abu Dhabi, where he started a program teaching over a hundred children in the humanitarian center. There were Maryam and Zahra, two Christian girls whose pastor father had been targeted by the Taliban. Separated from their family during evacuation attempts, they made it to Pakistan alone, where we arranged safe housing while working on humanitarian parole to bring them to America. In mid-December 2021, we partnered with another NGO and evacuated fifty-five US citizens and lawful permanent residents, flying them directly to New York City. Later, we rescued the FIFA girls soccer team—players aged fourteen to sixteen who faced potential forced marriages to Taliban fighters. One hundred people, including family members, were flown from a remote airport in Mazar-e Sharif to Qatar. Even with these successes, the work was far from complete. The State Department's report in July 2022 showed over 74,000 principal SIV applicants still in Afghanistan, representing more than 334,000 people when counting family members. At their processing rate of 200 cases weekly, it would take 140 years to complete—an unconscionable timeline while interpreters were being captured, persecuted, and executed daily. What made our efforts possible wasn't just tactical expertise or operational planning. It was the extraordinary coalition of support that formed: Glenn Beck's Mercury One and Nazarene Fund provided twenty-seven flights costing over $20 million; Ken Isaacs of Samaritan's Purse offered critical support for processing evacuees; countries like Albania, Mexico, and Ethiopia opened their doors to refugees; and thousands of individual donors contributed what they could. The power of determined action manifested in this coalition of unlikely allies. Jewish organizations funded flights for Muslim refugees coordinated by Christian nonprofits. Political opponents found common ground in humanitarian necessity. Veterans, civilians, business leaders, and everyday citizens united in recognition that while governments might fail in their moral obligations, individuals need not stand idle. As Aziz finally arrived in America in May 2022, after eight months in the humanitarian center, he reflected on our journey: "Maybe God didn't allow it to happen because it wasn't His timing. I still had to be there when the US withdrew because God knew that you would come to get me, and that would result in a great rescue of all those other people." What began as a mission to save one had indeed become a calling to rescue thousands—proving that determined individuals, driven by loyalty and compassion, can change the world one life at a time.

Summary

When systems fail and promises are broken, the burden of doing what's right often falls to individuals willing to answer the call. The extraordinary rescue mission in Afghanistan demonstrates that true heroes emerge not from official channels but from ordinary people driven by extraordinary conviction. It reminds us that loyalty isn't just a virtue but an action—one that may require risking everything for those who once risked everything for us. Take time to identify where your unique skills and resources might fill gaps when systems fail around you. Build relationships across cultural, political, and ideological boundaries now, before crisis demands collaboration. Most importantly, when faced with seemingly impossible challenges, remember that determined action, even on a small scale, creates ripples that can ultimately save thousands. The question isn't whether you have the authority to make a difference, but whether you have the courage to try when no one else will.

About Author

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Chad Robichaux

Chad Robichaux is a former Force Recon Marine and DoD Contractor who served on eight deployments to Afghanistan as part of a Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) Task Force. After overcoming his personal battles with PTSd and nearly becoming a veteran suicide statistic, Chad founded Mighty Oaks, a leading non-profit serving the military and first responder communities with highly successful faith-based resiliency and recovery programs. Having spoken to millions of people worldwide, over 500,000 active-duty troops, and having led life-saving programs for approximately 7,000 warriors at Mighty Oaks Ranches around the nation, Chad has become a go-to resource and is considered a subject matter expert on PTSd, veterans care, and national security, having advised Presidential Administrations, Congress, Senate, the VA, the DoD, and was appointed to serve as the Chairman of a White House Veterans Coalition. Chad serves as a board member for the Center for Security Policy and is the Co-Founder of two non-profits focused on the rescue of Americans and vulnerable people groups trapped or captured in conflict zones around the world. In 2021, Chad led the largest civilian evacuation in American history, rescuing over 17,000 people who were trapped during the Afghanistan withdrawal, including his long-time interpreter and friend, Aziz and is now leading operations in Ukraine and other high-risk areas around the world.Chad is regularly featured on a wide range of national media and is a Fox News Contributor. Chad's life story was notably shared in a short film by I Am Second, along with a sequel, and is the focus of the documentaries Never Fight Alone, Send Me, and Escape from Afghanistan. Currently, a motion picture movie is being produced based on Chad's award-winning Wall Street Journal best-selling book, Saving Aziz. Chad is also the USA Today best-selling author of A Mission Without Borders, highlighting rescue efforts and humanitarian aid missions he led on ten trips to Ukraine since 2022. Chad is also a former Special Agent, having served with the US Federal Air Marshal Service and the US State Department Surveillance Detection Program. He holds an MBA from the New York Institute of Technology (NYIT), is a board-certified pastoral counselor with the AACC, and is completing a graduate nonprofit management program at Harvard University.Chad is a lifelong martial artist, Professional World Mixed Martial Arts Champion, and 4th-degree Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Black Belt. Chad is a devoted Christian and resides in Texas. He and Kathy have two daughters, two sons, and five grandchildren. Through his resilience, passion, and selfless heart to serve others, Chad remains an inspiring figure to many worldwide as the host of The Resilient Show. source: Amazon

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