by Eric Blehm
“Canceled,” said Dave when Adam opened it. “The jump is canceled due to weather. We’ve got a day off!” His grin was so big it barely fit his face.
Lifting both of his arms in the air, Adam shook his fists and looked up toward the heavens. “Thank you!” he said. Then, to Dave, “What do you want to do?”
“Let’s just relax. Go to town, grab some food, see a movie, and do nothing.”
The following day was clear, calm, and “stable” for Adam and Dave, both of whom made it through to the next phase of Green Team.
Adam called Kelley right after he got the news. “Hey, Itty Bitty, how y’all doin’?”
“Doin’?” Kelley replied with trepidation. “I don’t know, Adam. How am I doing?”
“You’re doing just fine, because your man passed free fall. That’s one step closer to DEVGRU, baby. We’re almost there!”
15
Top Secret
WITH ONLY HALF THE TRAINEES REMAINING, Adam graduated from Green Team in late November 2006, a feat predicted by his chief from SEAL Team TWO six months earlier when he wrote in his final evaluation that Adam was “clearly in the top one percent of the [SEAL] community.”
In Virginia Beach Adam enjoyed a quiet celebration with Kelley, Nathan, Savannah, and their closest friends, who understood the need to be discreet about this fabled tier one counterterrorism special mission unit. The trail of publicly accessible military records that began when Adam enlisted on July 24, 1998, ends with a sheet of paper that notes his transfer to the Naval Special Warfare Development Group in November 2006:
NSWTACDEVRON 3 is a special duty assignment, CNO Priority 1 command developing advanced NSW tactics, techniques, procedures and equipment and supports a classified National Mission. Each member is extensively prescreened and among the top performers in the Navy.
From here on, anything pertaining to the newly designated Special Warfare Operator First Class (SEAL) Adam Brown would be stamped TOP SECRET.
Behind the barbed-wire-topped walls of the closely guarded DEVGRU compound in Virginia Beach, a draft was in progress among the tactical squadrons of SEAL Team SIX. The squadrons’ leadership had reviewed the Green Team graduates’ ranks in the class as well as the comments of the cadre. Word of mouth among squadron team members also weighed heavily.
While Adam was not ranked at the top, his personal recommendations were superb, so he was quickly drafted into the same squadron his friend and mentor Chief Harley had been in years before. Brad Westin joined him, while Dave Cain went to another. The previous year Austin and Christian had been drafted into separate squadrons, which meant three different rotational schedules for Adam and his friends, who would all be gone from home eight to nine months of the year. Each had a month of block leave and would be deployed, on standby alert, or training for the remaining eleven months.
Most of their training would be abroad or out of state, but even while on standby alert, these SEALs trained. They were always a private jet ride away from anywhere their services might be urgently required: a hostage situation involving Somali pirates, the disposal of a drug cartel, or an operation intended to kill or capture the most wanted terrorist in the world.
After the draft Adam, Brad, and Dave checked in at their squadrons’ “team rooms”—their first glimpse behind the top-secret curtain of DEVGRU, where a classified number of operators work together, with multiple support personnel seeing to their every possible need.
“Think of them like the Knights of the Round Table,” says a former DEVGRU SEAL. “The knights had a contingent of support—weapons bearers, two or three attendants to carry their armor, tend to their horse, whatever. While the SEALs don’t have those types of personal assistants, the command takes care of everything they need to operate at the highest level—administration, supply, medical, logistics, communications, intelligence, operations, and weapons training. The support team numbers work out to two or three people, both military and civilian, for each operator, and even the support personnel are critically screened and have top-secret clearance.
“It’s a team effort, a tight-knit community, and everybody knows if they’re working there, they’re proud Americans who are trustworthy, motivated, and talented—the best at what they do. They’re all patriots.”
February 2007 found Adam in a mud hut within the walls of a compound leased from a tribal leader in northern Kunar Province, Afghanistan.
The sharp Hindu Kush peaks to the west were topped with snow. To the east was the bloated Kunar River; Adam could hear the rushing waters as he drifted off to sleep. If he walked the hundred yards from the outstation to the river’s edge, he could fling a rock and nearly hit Pakistan on the opposite bank. Considering the location and the fact that Adam was a Naval Special Warfare sniper who had consistently hit targets a mile away, should an opportunity arise, say, across the river, he could engage the target from a lofty crag, camouflaged within the dark shadow of a rock overhang.
As this outstation’s assistant team leader, Adam and his boss—a senior DEVGRU operator—were, among other things, a sniper team on a “classified national mission.” By definition among the brotherhood, Adam was a “hunter” employed by a unit that did not officially exist, and so it was fitting that his first deployment abroad as a DEVGRU SEAL had landed him in what was described by a teammate as the “vague, mysterious, even shadowy” Kunar Valley, filled with enemy combatants dug into the surrounding mountains, blending among the populace in the villages and using the river valley as a highway from Pakistan to Afghanistan. Impossible to identify (“They don’t carry the ‘I’m a bad guy’ flag,” says one SEAL), these hard-line Taliban insurgents, foreign jihadists, aspiring terrorists, and good old-fashioned organized criminals all had the same goal: upset any attempts at regional (thus national) stability for either their own monetary gain or to accomplish Allah’s will.
The coalition outstations in northern Kunar and the observation posts (OPs) surrounding them were mortared and shot at almost daily, but that was nothing compared to the Pech River Valley, which was the Wild West, Indian Country, Ambush Alley, and other wartime clichés rolled up into one huge disadvantage if you’re the outsider trying to gain a foothold. That’s what all the outstations, forward operating bases (FOBs), command outposts (COPs), and observation posts represented: footholds in the uphill battle being waged in Afghanistan seven years after 9/11.
While the presence of Afghan National Army and coalition (predominantly conventional U.S. Army or Marine Corps) forces at these “frontier” outposts was intended to stabilize the regions, they also provided security for regional projects such as building roads, schools, and medical clinics; digging wells; and teaching sustainable farming techniques. In essence, the outposts protected the local population from the neighborhood bullies, who were well armed, motivated, and ruthless in threatening and killing locals who cooperated with coalition forces.
One of the functions of DEVGRU operators was protecting the conventional coalition forces, a job they accomplished by targeting and taking out the “bullies.” The outstations in Kunar and across Afghanistan were intelligence depots for the surrounding areas, with operators ascertaining the viability of targets in their sectors, to judge if a certain reportedly “bad guy” really was a bad guy, and if so, how bad. Was he a priority—actively attacking American outposts and placing improvised explosive devices (IEDs) on roads—or was he only talking about it? Was he working alone or with a cell or a neighboring cell? Where was he getting his weapons, and what kinds of weapons did he have? Was he accessible? Could a regular SEAL team, a platoon of Marines, a couple of squads of Army infantrymen get to him? Was this guy a high-level target, meaning he had a résumé of previous attacks against coalition forces? Did intelligence confirm an imminent attack? This would warrant sending a squadron’s strike force, the bulk of Adam’s teammates based nearby, to go in and get him, but was the risk worth the reward? As operators put it, “Is the juice worth the squeeze?”
Ad
am had learned early in his deployment that two distinct battles were waging in Afghanistan: One was against the terrorist population, primarily al Qaeda but also a plethora of Islamic extremists, both foreign and domestic. The second battle was against the Taliban insurgency. “Even though there was some overlap at times,” says an operator, “we were fighting one to end terrorism and the other to secure Afghanistan as a country.”
Punctuating it all, the hunt for Osama bin Laden was “at the front of the back of everybody’s mind,” says another operator. “We all hoped to stumble upon him, or the clue that would lead us to him, but on a day-to-day basis we had other fish to fry.”
In his daily routine Adam reviewed intelligence reports from a range of classified sources, worked out (a favorite being a run with a two-thousand-foot elevation gain up to an observation post), and gained understanding of the terrain in order to plan better operations. He would hike or ride an ATV into the mountains to visit the observation posts manned almost entirely by Afghan army soldiers.
“He would push out farther than anybody,” says one OGA (other government agency: for example, CIA, DEA, FBI) operator who frequented Adam’s outstation. “He happened to be visiting an observation post when it got hit. I’d been in the region for years, and we never went into the surrounding mountains to pursue these guys; we just dealt with the attacks and held the ground. But Adam was a JTAC [joint terminal attack controller] and he didn’t like getting shot at. He was at the right place at the right time, and called in artillery from a firebase and fast movers [jets], vectored them in on these guys he was tracking visually, killed some of them and had the others on the run. He asked why they’d never done that before, and the Afghans told him he was the first American they’d seen that far out.”
In short, Adam came in and, as usual, pushed the limits. “He was aggressive,” says the OGA. “Loved to talk football and said, ‘Sometimes the best defense is a strong offense.’ He wanted to overpower them and believed we could. He was definitely the ‘glass half full’ kind of guy. He believed in what we were doing, and you could tell he wanted to make a difference.”
Rarely did Adam leave an observation post without first helping with fortification efforts, such as filling sandbags. He also handed out extra MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) to children in the surrounding villages until he witnessed an Afghan man taking one away from a little girl. From then on he would hand out two to each child: one for the child’s family and one for the child to eat right then as he stood guard.
In addition to providing meals, he was known for giving local kids rides on an ATV. “That ATV and his smile were probably Adam’s most effective weapons,” says the OGA. “Those kids who he put up front and let them drive down the road, they probably don’t remember too many of the Americans, but I bet they remember Adam because of those rides. He played with them. That’s important. When some AQ [al Qaeda] recruiter tries to tell them Americans are evil and they should be killed, they might think twice because of Adam.”
Adam at a frontier outstation in Kunar Province, Afghanistan.
“Coming home to the wife and kids after being over there,” says one of Adam’s teammates, “is like the space shuttle coming back to Earth from outer space. It’s all about reentering the family atmosphere with the proper trajectory, speed, and timing. If you come in too fast, you’ll blow up.”
Adam was able to ease back into home life more smoothly than many of his teammates, according to Kelley. In fact, he continued to tell her that her job was far more difficult than his, recognizing that for the several months he’d been gone, Kelley had assumed the role of both parents—homemaker, coach, chauffeur, cheerleader—and shouldered single-handedly everything that had gone wrong or right. “He didn’t step in and expect to be the boss overnight,” she says.
Kelley ran a tight ship, and Adam respected her greatly for it. “The house was always immaculate,” says Austin’s wife, Michelle. “She’d do things like organize the cupboards. I’d throw my kids a Pop-Tart, and she’d have a snack tray with all the food groups. Her kids were polite. They had a schedule, and she stuck to it. I don’t think anybody would disagree that she set the bar pretty high in almost everything, and she was always put together. I’d be like, ‘You can look like that and bake brownies?’ ”
No matter the time of day when Adam returned from a deployment, Kelley piled Nathan and Savannah into the car to pick him up at the compound gate. “In the military they’d teach the men how to assimilate back home,” says Kelley. “They’re supposed to go to their wives before they hold their babies, that kind of thing. But Adam didn’t need any schooling. He’d just wrap us all up. Falling into his arms and then watching him lift up the kids was like a blanket. Like I’d been cold while he was away and he warmed me up.”
Following Adam’s return, there was always one “Daddy Day” each for the kids, such as a day at the mall for Savannah or laser tag for Nathan. There was a date night for Adam and Kelley when they could catch up on all they’d missed out on in each other’s lives. Because of operational security, Adam couldn’t talk in any detail about what he’d been doing. But if something big had been reported in the news, “like one of the guys on the ‘deck of cards’ had been captured in Iraq,” says Kelley, “or an al Qaeda leader was killed in Afghanistan, I’d mention it and he’d say, ‘Hmm, how about that …’ That was how I knew he’d been part of it. I’d look into his eyes and see if they were different, like if what he’d seen or done had changed him, but he was still my Adam.”
Says Austin, “Adam didn’t take the kids to play—he played with the kids; there’s a difference.” Savannah and Nathan with Daddy at a Virginia Beach waterslide.
After his most recent deployment to Afghanistan, Adam did “repeat something he’d told me before, something that got reinforced when he was over there,” says Kelley. “It wasn’t bragging; it was just matter-of-fact. He told me, ‘I’m not afraid. God gave me this gift—I don’t feel fear.’ ”
“That,” says Kelley, “terrified me.”
In June 2007, after two weeks with his family, Adam was off again, this time to Holland for training in specialized fighting techniques. He returned to Virginia a month later with a limp, nothing unusual for him, but at the DEVGRU medical center an orthopedic surgeon reviewed his x-rays and pointed out the loose bone fragments in both ankles from years of pounding abuse.
The surgeon was amazed that Adam could walk, much less perform as a SEAL, and told him he would usually recommend ankle-fusion surgery for such battered joints. That would leave Adam with stiff, permanently flexed ankles—a career ender. “Not an option,” Adam told the doctor, which left the alternative “Band-Aid” option: removal of all the loose cartilage and bone shards “floating” in and around his ankle joints.
The day after the surgery, Adam showed Kelley what the surgeon had taken out of his right ankle. “This,” he said, holding up a jar containing a four-inch-long bone fragment, “was the problem.”
Three months later, Christian was getting ready to deploy to Iraq with his squadron when he asked Adam to have a beer with him. “I’ve got some things I need to tell you,” he said.
On his way to meet Christian, Adam noticed a young woman staggering down the sidewalk a few blocks from the bar. He pulled the car over and offered to call her a cab, but she waved him off.
Adam found Christian sitting alone at the bar counter and told him about the drunk woman.
“Unreal,” Christian said, meeting Adam’s eye. “That’s my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” asked Adam in disbelief.
“Yeah,” said Christian. “It’s a long story and I’m not proud of it. I’ve been cheating on Becky, and I wanted to come clean to you before I deploy. I was going to introduce you to her, but we got in an argument and she stormed out of here.” He explained to Adam that he hadn’t told him because he didn’t want Adam to look down on him. “Becky doesn’t know, and you can’t let her,” he said. “I’m going to tell her aft
er this deployment.”
“I won’t look down on you,” said Adam, “and I won’t tell a soul. That’s your job.”
“Adam kept his word,” says Christian. “And even though I took two years to tell him about my affair, I knew that was how he would react. Deep down, the main reason I hadn’t before was because I knew he’d tell me to stop, and I wasn’t ready—I was getting the best of both worlds. I was a dirt bag, but Adam didn’t rub it in.
“He never took the holier-than-thou approach as a Christian either. He wasn’t a snob. But he and Austin spent a lot of time trying to convert me. He didn’t do that with everybody—he wasn’t a Bible thumper—but we were best friends and respected each other and ribbed each other about everything. We exhausted ourselves arguing; every example he had that God existed, I had a comeback of why he didn’t. But I was way too much of a wussy to call myself an atheist, and because I wouldn’t commit to being a true nonbeliever, Adam saw that as a chink in my armor. He tirelessly tried to get us to go to church and give it a shot. Finally, I promised I’d go … someday.”
Planners for DEVGRU don’t discount the potential for any type of mission—they can’t allow their SEALs to fall into the rut, for example, of only taking down compounds and caves in Iraq and Afghanistan—so training exercises are planned in a variety of places, including major American cities. DEVGRU often partners with business owners or local government officials to use old or condemned buildings as training facilities, turning them into temporary “kill houses” for realistic Close Quarters Battle drills and breaching exercises. In some, these tier one SEALs plan and execute the explosive takedown of an entire building, bridge, or other structure.
Toward the end of September, Adam’s squadron visited a professional football stadium. While the city slept, assault and sniper teams worked various scenarios that could present themselves at such a location, say on Super Bowl Sunday.