Naturally, THE unavoidable question arises: Why is bin Laden still at large? Even setting aside geopolitical questions like the distraction of the Iraq war or the danger of destabilizing Pakistan, you would think he would have suffered a betrayal or some simple bad luck by now. (And it is said that he has heart and kidney problems, which may defeat him before his enemies do.) In October of 2001, U.S. Special Forces began arriving in Afghanistan to hunt for him. These were mostly white guys with recently grown beards (to make them blend in better and be less distinguishable for snipers), aviator sunglasses, high-tech military everything, Rolex Submariner diver's watches, mementos from the NYPD and the FDNY, and so on. The reasons they didn't catch him appear to have been bureaucratic obtuseness and too many cooks for the broth. In the confusion of bombing raids, undependable Afghan allies, and insufficient troop support, focus on the target wavered.

After bin Laden was positively located in the Tora Bora hills by intercepted radio transmission in December of '01, the bombs flew, a general called for backup, backup was denied, key Afghans apparently folded, and bin Laden got away. Predator drone aircraft searched and searched the cold mountains for him, glycol de-icer weeping from their wings. In time a Predator would find and kill one of his top associates in Waziristan; but no drone managed to scare up bin Laden.

Had the Special Forces guys come upon bin Laden, the chances of him being taken alive would have been small, given their preference for VOA ("Violence of Action"). To my perhaps naive and sheltered sensibility, catching him alive seems the coolest thing to try. Catching bin Laden alive seems like the world's most fabulous feat—a task given to a hero who wants to win a princess's hand in a fairy story, just as bin Laden himself is a figure from old-time lore, someone you could have explained to Richard the Lionheart, or Saladin. Catching him is a quest, a situation of personality against personality. The occasion does not call for numbers or bureaucracy. We had too few troops in Iraq, but in the search for bin Laden we may be using too many.

There are of course a whole lot of skilled outdoor people in America who could catch bin Laden. Military guys, hunters, mountain climbers, people who read this magazine. I can think of a few excellent candidates myself. In fact, I know just who I would pick: the Rinella brothers—Steve, Matt, and Danny. (Steve has an article in this issue, on page 178.) I've hunted with Steve and Matt, and they're incredible. See a deer on a ridgetop and they're gone across the prairie like a pair of hunting hounds. Two-for-a-dollar convenience-store hot dogs and cold coffee are their usual fare; water, bread, and dates in the Afghan backcountry would be a step up for them, nutritionally. I say take everybody else off the hunt, drop the Rinella brothers in the Hindu Kush or Waziristan, and wait a while. If that doesn't work, there's always diplomacy.

Our problem in the so-called War on Terror, it seems to me, is that we're not fantasizing enough. The other side is having fun with their just-crazy-enough-to-work plans and their jihad insanity. Meanwhile our job is reacting to and absorbing the terror. But we're on the same planet they're on. We can climb as high, endure as long, sleep as cold, live as hard. Nowadays our fantasies are played out only in preposterous action films, no more realistic than a video game. But imagine rappelling down the cliff face, swinging into the cave mouth, and somehow coming up with a prize so huge the world would remember your name permanently. The president has said he's not that concerned about bin Laden—a ridiculous assertion. I mean, there's deathless glory to be had!

If I went after bin Laden, I think what I'd like to do first is surprise him. Maybe drop a three-foot dhub on his sleeping bag, for the sake of nostalgia; or else I'd just be waiting by the trail to the men's room behind the cave one morning when he came by. I'd be reading a copy of Modern Romance magazine, and I'd address him in flawless Arabic, because I know he's picky about language. (I don't speak Arabic, so a crash course on the flight over would be required.) I'd ask him a few tough questions, such as whether the fact that killing noncombatants is unavoidable in wars makes it, as a deliberate act, acceptable. I'd finally find out what those blue slippers are he's wearing. Then the drop net, a quick shot with a tranquilizer dart, into the support chopper, and we're out of there.