The Operator Page 24

  “I can’t, Rob, the batteries in my radio just died!”

  “Well, fucking change them!”

  “I can’t, you have the extra batteries!”

  “Okay, the batteries are in my rucksack … Oh, fuck!”

  That would be the backpack that I thought would be so efficient to drop. It was now in the middle of a wide-open field behind some very-ineffective-as-a-shield little rocks. We needed those batteries, and I needed to get them now. But first I needed to gather myself. Instinctively, I reached in my pocket and grabbed my can of Copenhagen. I put one in my lower lip, and put the can back in my pocket while taking my gun off my shoulder and handing it to Tony. I needed to be as fast as possible and the gun would just be extra weight. I wouldn’t have time to shoot anyway. I’d run, open the backpack, get the batteries, and run back, or I’d get shot somewhere in between.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I got up and ran about 150 meters to my rucksack, feeling a little like Forrest Gump. I knew my guys would try to cover me with as much fire as they could manage from their pinned-down positions. The problem was, it wasn’t enough. The enemy fire became particularly intense just as I broke for the batteries, and I could still hear my newest acquaintance screaming, “Allahu Akbar.” During that sprint that seemed to take forever, I was thinking that once I got to the bag, I’d find cover, open the bag, get the batteries, take a deep breath, and run back. It seemed like a sweet plan until I actually got to the backpack. The nearby cover was useless, virtually nonexistent. There were bullets hitting the bag and I thought, “Screw this!”

  I opened the bag right where it was and reached in for the two square batteries. Naturally, they were at the bottom. I grabbed them, turned around, and ran as fast as I could, another 150 meters, listening to cracks and snaps in the air, the occasional explosion, and one guy yelling at me. At first, it seemed like the goal just kept receding before me, but somehow I crossed the distance and jumped back behind my last position in front of Seth and Tom and tossed the batteries to Tony. “You’re opening them, motherfucker!”

  I grabbed my rifle back as Tony pulled the batteries from their plastic wrapping. I rolled over and reached back into my pocket for my Copenhagen. When I put some in my lip, I heard from behind, “Hey, Rob! Did you just put in a new dip in the middle of all this shit?” It was Seth.

  “No, bro. I just freshened up my old one!”

  Tony managed to get the new batteries into the radio and instantly got Bones 22 on the net. By this point, an unarmed surveillance aircraft had also shown up, and we learned from it that the enemy was moving mortars and ammunition back and forth between the checkpoint right on the border with Pakistan and their positions on the mountain. The pilot, Tony, and I agreed that meant the rules of engagement allowed us to air-drop four GPS-guided bombs on the checkpoint, even though that meant impacting the Pakistani side of the border. Bones 22 dropped all four; three were two thousand pounds that would airburst in a triangle just above the checkpoint. The fourth was a five-hundred-pound bomb that would smack down right in the middle. It was going to be awesome.

  Tony let me know, “Bombs away, two minutes out!”

  “Two minutes???” I shouted, “What, did he drop them from the fucking Space Shuttle??? We need them now!”

  It was then that I found out that Bones 22 was a B-1 bomber that flew at about fifty thousand feet. I guess these things take time.

  While we waited, the enemy fire was at its highest pitch. And so was the screaming, “Allahu Akbar!” Man, I was getting sick of that guy, and he’d moved closer. But I knew my moment was coming. I’d been having trouble returning fire with this guy because he had a bigger gun and a more advantageous position. But I knew something that he didn’t: The tables were about to turn; I simply kept my head down and waited. I was sort of on my back so I could look up the mountain and observe the area where the checkpoint was. It was only about a thousand meters from us, so a loud day was about to get louder. But a bad day was about to get awesome.

  It was barely audible at first, but the sound of sizzling got louder and louder. It was the sound of four bombs falling from the heavens at terminal velocity. ZzzzzzzzzBABOOM!

  The fireball was brilliant, and I felt the shock wave of 6,500 pounds of ordnance exploding right on top of our enemy’s stronghold. It felt like fucking victory. Just boom. Then all the shooting stopped. Everyone inside that checkpoint was surely gone as if they’d never existed. Every other fighter now faced the fact that this wasn’t just a small Afghan force they’d been attacking; there were Americans here, too. Extremely angry Americans.

  It shocked them all at first, none more than the man shooting at me. He immediately stopped shooting and yelling and got up on his knees to look over his left shoulder toward the impact site. He was about seventy-five yards in front of me. “Allahu Akbar, motherfucker!” I yelled as I shot him in the head several times. He fell dead. Finally, I could take a knee and really survey the battlefield.

  I could see most of the enemy positions, and the fighters had all started to head in the opposite direction. They were still taking potshots but they wanted to get back to the Pakistan side of the border. The mortars had definitely stopped, and that told me that the first strike had been successful. But I still considered all the fighters threats and maintained our situation as “Troops in Contact.”

  Most of the enemy was trying to get into a valley directly in front of us, just about three hundred meters behind the position of the white guy I’d just shot. It seemed like the easiest place to take cover from the aircraft while trying to get back to the checkpoint and their vehicles. The others who’d been setting up an ambush to our south were now moving northeast, trying to get to the same place. Most probably didn’t realize that there would be nothing left when they returned.

  As I watched this, I worked with Tony and figured out the coordinates for four more strikes walking right up the valley to our front. We coordinated the movement of the B-1 and Bones 22 dropped again. Two minutes later, four separate explosions walked in from west to east all the way up the hill. These impacts weren’t quite “danger close” but they were close enough that we could feel them. These four large blasts lit up the entire valley, and when the initial smoke cleared, I could see enemy fighters running around on fire.

  Now the enemy was in full panic mode as they frantically ran toward the top of the mountain. They were continually in our view and that of the aircraft flying overhead. Because they were moving farther from us, we began to use what the pilots could see. Since I was the Ground Force Commander I’d be ultimately responsible for what was happening on the ground.

  I was informed that a new jet had just arrived. His call sign was “Dude 12,” and I got excited. Dude was an F-15, and those bad boys were usually flown by cocky young stud pilots, just the type who’d want to drop bombs on Pakistan. I was also informed that the insurgents had reached the Pakistan side and had stopped running. They were actually attempting to set up more positions, thinking they were safe. They weren’t.

  “Tony,” I said, “clear Dude to drop on that position. They are ID’d as the same fighters, and I still consider us in contact.”

  Tony did just that, and Dude went at them. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall inside that cockpit listening to the clever shit that pilot was saying as he flew in to drop on the “troops in the open.” They were in Pakistan, and they were now lollygagging, sure they were safe. Once again, I knew something they didn’t. Dude dropped four five-hundred-pound bombs and hit the men directly. For those not killed in the blast, the race was on again. All they could do was run as fast as they could farther into Pakistan.

  At this point, we trusted the pilots to follow them with cameras mounted on the aircraft. We couldn’t see any more fighters but we remained on the radio and followed the progress. Several minutes later, Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Those blasts turned out to be four more GPS-guided bombs dropped by Dude about two kilometers inside Pakist
an. It was brilliant. I remember thinking, I’m totally gonna hear about this the next time I see my boss.

  The former battlefield was now relatively safe. There were still munitions on the ground and God knows how many unexploded RPGs, but we finally had attack helicopters overhead and we were coordinating our extract. There were three helicopters coming for us—one CH-47 and two H-60 Black Hawks. Most of the Afghans and some of their advisers would fit on the 47, the rest in one of the Black Hawks. My small team of Americans would fly out on a single Black Hawk. I’d leave last.

  The first two helos landed and loaded and took off. The third bird, my Black Hawk, came in last. I loaded up Tony and Jesse, Tom and Seth and their ’terp. Then I got on. I’d been on helicopters nearly every night on every deployment, but this one seemed cooler. I was sitting on the floor with my legs out of the starboard side. We were flying south to northwest, and I wanted to observe the battlefield. It was abused and smoky but the scenery was breathtaking. Flying down the steep cliffs, the trees and Konar River seemed so beautiful. And oh, yeah, I was still alive.

  Just then it hit me: I’d been in the most intense gunfight of my life, which had stretched an hour or more, and I’d only used up one and a half magazines—a total of forty-five bullets.

  *

  WHEN WE LANDED AT THE Forward Operating Base (FOB) everyone met us outside. I ran into Tom, the guy in charge, and he seemed pleased. He knew what had gone down. With a wide grin he asked me if I wanted a glass of Jack Daniel’s. I said yes, and we went inside.

  He pointed out as we drank, “You know, we’re not at war with Pakistan.”

  “We were today,” I replied.

  “What do you think?” Tom asked.

  “Well, first of all, I’m very happy to be alive, and that all my men are, too. I think that some of our Afghans have minor injuries. It’s a shame that it required a full hour to get any jets while we took overwhelming fire. I guess I’m either getting a Silver Star or going to Leavenworth. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re right.”

  A Silver Star, the third highest military award for gallantry in combat—below only the Distinguished Service Cross (or Navy Cross) and the Medal of Honor—is what they give you when, by acting in ways that are most likely going to get you killed, you end up snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. It’s very hard to come by. I figured this was the unlikely option, but not impossible.

  Leavenworth—the prison you get sent to when you take the fight across the border of a country that is masquerading as America’s ally—was a greater possibility.

  In the end, both sides investigated. Pakistan claimed that the battle started as an unprovoked attack on a Frontier Corps unit and Pakistan military checkpoint and that they, along with a local tribe, tried to defend themselves but were overwhelmed by American airpower, resulting in the death of eleven Pakistani soldiers.

  The United States sent two generals my way, and we told them the truth. They interviewed Tony, Jesse, and me and told us that they had footage of the fight from the beginning—footage that they hadn’t shown the Pakistanis. It was clear that we’d been attacked from Pakistan, and that the supplies for the fighters had been brought in from there. We were well within our rules of engagement, and that would be the end of it. They eventually showed the Pakistanis the footage, and it’s available now on the Internet. I didn’t go to Leavenworth after all. They decided to give me the medal instead.

  We never did get the final count on enemy killed, just reports from paid local informants. Though Pakistan reckoned its losses at eleven soldiers killed, and had its typical “Death to America” funerals all over the news, I heard numbers of up to a hundred killed. We’ll probably never know.

  I did continue to pursue information on Zabit Jalil, wondering if we’d finally served justice. The only report I got was that he’d been wounded in the bombing. He had a big hole in his chest and had a butt cheek blown off.

  When I heard that I said, “So what you’re sayin’ is that I did drop a bomb on his ass.”

  It took some time to adjust to being alive and out of mortal danger. It’s really like entering a different dimension. One of the first normal thoughts I had was that I needed to call home. They hadn’t heard from me for three days, and I knew that my dad, especially, always assumed I was in the middle of whatever shit was happening. Of course, this time he was right. I called and told them I’d been in a fight and everything was fine. I wouldn’t get into the details until I got back. Even then my mom wouldn’t want to hear about it. She’d rather I not add details to her nightmares.

  I flew my family down for my Silver Star ceremony. I figured it was at least as big a deal as my SEAL graduation, and they ought to be part of it.

  Even before I joined the Navy, my mother would worry about me getting hurt—just doing the stuff that guys do in Montana. That’s when I’d say, “Mom, stop worrying. I’m here to do something special. Don’t even worry about me.” She worried even more when I began going on deployments, even before 9/11, and I’d say, “Mother, stop. Don’t worry about me. I’m here to do something special. Chill out.” Then 9/11 happened and I’d try to calm her down. “Not a lot going on, but don’t worry. I’m here to do something special.”

  Then she came to my Silver Star ceremony, and she heard them read the citation. She freaked because it was the first time she’d heard the details, and they were worse than her worst imaginings. I couldn’t really say it was no big deal this time, so instead I said, “Mom, I swear to you, I’ll never get another Silver Star again. That’s the last time.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On Wednesday, April 8, 2009, the captain of the merchant ship Maersk Alabama, Richard Phillips, was taken hostage by four Somali pirates just off the coast of east Africa. During this ordeal, Phillips was forced onto a small lifeboat where he waited to be delivered to his fate. The pirates attempted to drive the small, covered craft to the lawless land of Somalia where they could try extorting a ransom from the United States or sell the American to al-Shabaab, an al-Qaeda-linked terrorist group.

  As Phillips sat in the cramped and overheated hell of the small enclosed boat expecting to die at any moment, US Navy warships steamed toward the scene even though they lacked the specialized personnel to attempt a rescue. The ships blocked the pirates’ route of sail, sent helicopters to hover just above it to make navigation more difficult, and even watched helplessly as the abducted captain tried to escape by jumping into the Indian Ocean. He was hauled back in by the pirates.

  The pirates knew that getting back to shore was almost impossible, but they also knew that they could negotiate with the captain’s life. The Navy knew it could keep them from shore, but the more time that expired, the more danger the American faced. The situation was at a standstill when the pirates’ boat ran out of fuel. After a tense negotiation, the destroyer USS Bainbridge began towing the lifeboat through the water. Both sides were getting anxious as worldwide media watched.

  Back home, we all knew of the situation as soon as it started. We also knew that politics were going to be a huge factor in how this ultimately would be resolved. Either way, we started planning, excited at the prospect of such a high-profile mission. Though we trained for just this eventuality all the time and were the best in the world at it, Team **** had never completed an entire hostage rescue at sea. Some SEALs had jumped in before, but they were always turned away when it was time to pull the trigger. This time would be different.

  We began brainstorming all the possibilities. We planned and planned. You’d think we’d have thought of everything in twenty-five years of planning, but we’d never thought of a fully enclosed lifeboat being towed by a Navy cruiser. The lifeboat was about twenty-eight feet long, covered, with only one door in the back and a hatch in the front. How the fuck were we going to get this guy out?

  As days passed without resolution, we continued to plan, waiting to get the “green light.” By late Thursday, it was becoming pretty obvious
that negotiations on the Bainbridge were going nowhere. We all had a feeling this was coming quick.

  Friday, April 10, happened to be my birthday. It was also my four-year-old daughter’s Easter party at her preschool. I had agreed to take her and was excited to celebrate with her. The plan was for the children to sit at their tables as the adults went through the buffet line and served them their brunch. We were both enjoying the quality time together, and I was especially aware that there weren’t enough days like this.

  I was in the middle of the buffet line, reaching for cupcakes and whatever other stuff preschoolers like to eat, when my pager went off with a top secret code. This was it. We were going to attempt a rescue.

  I had to call my wife, “Hey, it’s me. I have to leave right now, so I need you to come right away.”

  She already knew. SEAL wives are smarter than we are, and they have a better intelligence network. She was already on her way. She knew I had one hour to get to work. Then we’d be taking off in our two C-17 transport airplanes, carrying two speedboats. Time was of the essence, and we all knew it, including the wives.

  Once Nicole arrived and took control of my daughter, I kissed everyone and left. Off to war. It was going to be a twenty-minute drive to the command and I’d already been waiting at the school for ten. I still had a few minutes to spare, and I had a plan for using them. There’s a 7-Eleven right outside the base where we were stationed, so I figured I’d stop there, get as much cash as I could out of the ATM, and grab a log of Copenhagen and a carton of cigarettes. My thinking was that we were going to jump out in the middle of the ocean, and I didn’t know for sure where we might end up. It could well be somewhere we didn’t intend, somewhere not especially friendly to American SEALs. If that happened, I might be able to buy my way to freedom or barter with tobacco. Or I’d just end up somewhere on my birthday with a bunch of cash and tobacco. I could live with that, too.

  As always, the battle plan didn’t go as envisioned. I went to pay for my stuff, and there was a guy in a hard hat already at the register, obviously not too eager to get back to work digging out sewer lines or whatever. You know the type of guy I’m talking about. Have you ever been at a traffic light and one car in front of you hesitates just long enough for the light to turn red? That’s the guy. Or maybe on the way home from work one day you stop at the grocery to pick up a handful of items for dinner, and the person ahead of you in the fourteen-items-or-less line has thirty items and is writing a check? That’s him, too.