It’s a bit disconcerting dropping in here for a visit. And I do mean ‘dropping’. The gigantic Air Force C-17 that dropped us here offers no windows, so it’s difficult to know exactly what’s going on. But I could tell we were at a substantial altitude—I’m guessing 20,000 feet or so—when the pilot dropped the gear.

Suddenly the roar of an already-loud aircraft notched up another dozen decibels as the outside air screamed past the landing gear now hanging out in the airstream. A pilot will ‘fly dirty’ (meaning the airframe isn’t smooth and clean) if he wants to get down in a hurry. The exposed gear creates a huge amount of drag that helps the jet fall out of the sky.

I could feel the giant craft tip nose down for our steep approach to the runway. The C-17 is a huge target, and with a 4-star general onboard, the Air Force was taking no chances. There would be no low flybys of the jagged peaks surrounding Kabul, just in case some lucky-shot insurgent might be waiting with a shoulder-launched missile.

Once on the ground it was a mad scramble to get off the plane, but executed with military precision. I can honestly say that the worst part of this entire trip—repeated over and over again—is donning the mandated body armor for any trips outside secure NATO installations. The “bulletproof” vest is heavy and of course, doesn’t allow air movement, so almost as soon as I’ve put this thing on in the 90-plus degree heat, I’m drenched with sweat. That’s not so bad; I can deal. What’s absolutely awful is the heavy protective “one size fits none” helmet. The thing weighs about five pounds with virtually no padding, only a taut spiderweb of nylon webbing that grinds into my scalp. More journalists should be required to wear this stuff when dispatching stories about battlefield conditions; I have new respect for our troops, fighting in conditions like these wearing much heavier gear than the cumbersome load now burdening me. I’m told mine is the “old style” helmet; the new ones are more comfortable. Yeah. Right.

We piled in the back of a convoy of British military vehicles, sitting sideways on bench seats, knees interlocked with whoever’s sitting on the opposite bench. We’re given a briefing about the drive ahead, how to react if we should come under fire. Somehow it seems a bit less ominous delivered in a crisp British accent. I notice mine is the last vehicle of the convoy. Great. When insurgents do attack—not that I’m expecting such a thing—they like to go for the either the head or tail of the procession. How comforting.

We tear off, weaving through the dusty streets of Kabul. Even on straight stretches of road, our driver constantly makes “S” turns using all available lanes—if these so-called roads actually had lanes. Not because traffic is a problem–which it is. The constant change of course is a protective maneuver designed to make us harder to hit in case our convoy should come under attack.

The vehicle commander in the right seat is talking into a radio headset, keeping up a constant chatter with the rest of the convoy. Eyes peeled on nearby traffic, looking for anything out of the ordinary, hoping to spot any potential car bombers that should happen upon us. It’s all very professional and executed with cool caution; but a smooth ride, it is not. Accelerate sharply, hit the brakes, clutch, gas, swerve, bounce—the helmet feels like it’s shaving my scalp at the follicles as we lurch along these potholed paths.

The Brits’ delivery mission is successful, and after what seems like a very long fifteen minutes we are pulling up to the ominous concrete barricades and blast walls marking the entrance to the ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) compound in Kabul. Once inside, I-D’s are checked, more gates are lifted, the armed soldiers traveling with us climb out to clear their weapons of live ammunition.

We drive past a mustard-yellow building, a fairly grandiose structure for this impoverished and war-ravaged country. I’m told it now serves as the headquarters of the ISAF forces. In a delicious (and deliberate) bit of irony, it was the headquarters of the Taliban when that repressive regime ran this nation a scant few years ago.

We’re given another briefing and dispatched to our rooms. We’re safe.

Welcome to Kabul.