by Fred Burton
A. swung sharply to the right, rising up on the curb to avoid hitting the men, and then moved cautiously through the roadway filled with a sea of heavily armed men. The terrorists, and those who were summoned from the roundup in town, were huddled too close together to start firing without the real risk of hitting one another. Otherwise they would have simply emptied as much ammunition into the Land Cruiser as possible.
Once A. saw a bit of daylight on the road, he distanced the Land Cruiser away from the mob. But as the DS vehicle moved farther down the road heading east and purchased some real estate between itself and the crowd, the Land Cruiser began to take fire—heavy fire. The bullet-resistant windows began to absorb incoming rounds. The glass fractured in telltale spiderweb patterns; in some cases, rounds nearly penetrated, causing the glass spall to spray into the vehicle’s interior. It was deadly to breathe the toxic fragments of glass and polycarbonate. When the small particles and chunks were sprayed into eyes already damaged by fire and smoke, it significantly cut down the agents’ ability to see. Bullet-resistant, after all, did not mean bulletproof.
It was difficult for A. to control the vehicle. He swerved at an accelerated speed in the attempt to race clear of the men still firing wildly behind him. The terrorists were not truly skilled at the inner workings of the RPG—especially when firing at a vehicle twisting and turning at top speeds. They bounced several grenades, like a father and son skipping stones on a pond, at the fleeing Land Cruiser; the bright green light of 7.62 mm tracer rounds made the DS agents and their attempt to flee the area resemble the center of a fireworks display.
The fast-moving vehicle, and the rounds impacting nearby, created a difficult-to-negotiate cloud of smoke and kicked up dirt and sand. A. was wary of crashing the vehicle or being overturned in a mangled wreck. It was doubtful that the terrorists carried the Jaws of Life in their armored pickups. The fear was that if the vehicle was disabled or wrapped around a light pole, the terrorists would simply set the agents alight in a death trap. They would either burn to death, with the footage aired a few hours later on one of the jihadist Web sites and chat rooms, or be overcome and overwhelmed and beaten to death. The images of past instances where Americans had been killed or mutilated on camera for the shock-footage appeal were never far from their thoughts. The ghoulish images of the Black Hawk pilots in Mogadishu, Daniel Pearl in Karachi, and Nick Berg and the Blackwater contractors in Iraq came to mind. DS was at all of these locations after all; DS special agents participated in the investigations.
As A. proceeded east, he made a point of recalling the landmarks of the neighborhood so that he could solidify his bearings—the Rishwan villa on the left, the resort-looking estate to the right. In daylight the real estate looked so familiar and so extravagant. The plants and trees were so exotic and wondrous and the grounds so magnificent, even though some were vacated by their owners because Benghazi had simply become too dangerous for themselves and their families.
Approximately three hundred meters east of the Special Mission Compound, A. squinted and saw a man standing on the south side of the road. He carried an AK-47, but so did just about everyone in Benghazi. A. slowed down, wondering if the man was a member of the SSC or the February 17 militia. He appeared calm and looked as if he wanted to help. After all, had he been intent on killing the occupants of the car, he could have simply opened fire. The man motioned for the Land Cruiser to veer off the main road and make a right into a small private dirt road surrounded by walls and concealing trees that separated the properties of two very lavish estates. The road, large enough to accommodate two lanes of traffic, led to a small and grubby patch of land that the neighboring villas used as a dumping ground. The man motioned as if to direct the Land Cruiser away from the gunfire; instead, he was leading the DS agents into a death trap. Hidden inside the darkness of the alleyway and concealed behind the trees were a dozen or so men armed with RPGs and PKM squad-support machine guns capable of firing up to 650 rounds per minute.
Remarkably, given his smoke inhalation and burns, A. maintained his wits. All of the battered men inside the Land Cruiser did as well. They realized that the gesture could have catastrophic repercussions; A. glanced at the man and sped off east into the darkness. The terrorists waiting inside the darkness emerged from their firing positions and unleashed whatever they had at the fleeing DS agents. Two or three RPGs were fired; one or two impacted at the rear axle and set the vehicle ablaze. The tires, run flats, were shredded by the explosion and the penetrating shrapnel of the cone-shaped grenade. Hundreds of PKM rounds were thrown down range, many punching the armored exterior of the Land Cruiser. A Land Cruiser that was not armored would have already been destroyed, chewed up like a plastic toy by the RPG hits and the machine gun fire. But the run flats proved true to their name, and the armor specifications that dictated the level of protection to the Toyota SUV enabled the vehicle to push on.
Smoke filled the Land Cruiser’s interior. The underside of the vehicle was ablaze, and the agents were unsure if they would make it back to the Annex. They couldn’t roll down their windows; all they had by way of firefighting equipment was a small fire extinguisher. Stopping for anything before they reached the gates of the Annex was not an option.
The agent in the right front was in direct touch with the Command Post at the Annex. He called out the initial departure, then radioed in the ambush and taking incoming rounds, then gave the Annex a five-minute out with injuries. “Please have medical help waiting.” Like those of air traffic controllers during the most tumultuous days, the communications were surprisingly measured.
The Land Cruiser continued east for another quarter mile before making a sharp left turn on a main road heading south. A. steered the difficult-to-maneuver, heavy, and hulking Land Cruiser another 675 feet down a main road. He still had control of the vehicle, however, even though it was a struggle. He drove down the central median in order to bypass vehicles that had been stopped by the gunfire or that had been used to transport the terrorists to the compound. A. made it a point to drive in the center of the road and was prepared to crash into anyone or anything that got in his way. The DS agents were close to the Annex—too close to stop.
The Land Cruiser left a burning trail as it struggled to make it the last mile or so. Two vehicles initiated a pursuit of the DS agents. A. floored the gas pedal. The agents inside the car checked their weapons once again. They braced for a firefight. One of the pursuing vehicles, a pickup truck with a mounted heavy machine gun, it is believed, followed the Land Cruiser east, along a main road another 650 feet, and then followed close behind heading south, until it suddenly turned right into a maze of warehouses and industrial buildings. Relieved, the DS agents moved south another 1,100 feet until they banked a sharp right and drove the last 900 feet toward the Annex. The security guard anxiously standing watch in his full battle kit lowered the wedge gate to help the agents in. The agents pushed into the compound and veered right, in front of the two main buildings of the secret CIA base. A.’s driving skills showcased during this escape from hell were extraordinary; DS personnel back in Washington would later speak of his cool under fire as an example for game-board training to teach young agents how to get out of the “X,” the kill zone, to save yourself and your team members.
A medic rushed to the Land Cruiser and began treating the agents. It was 2330 hours.
* * *
The GRS team could not leave with the DS agents. Their sniper team was still atop the villa’s roof, and several of the agency security specialists were still inside the safe haven looking for Ambassador Stevens. They remained behind for another five minutes. The drone footage would have shown a herky-jerky start/stop of the two G-Wagons, as the second wagon waited for the operators from the perch to get off the rooftop. But they were losing the high ground. The drone took over being the eyes then, with calls from Stuttgart, relayed to Tripoli, then passed along to the Annex Command Post, then passed by radio to the GRS team.
The roami
ng gun battle continued. The encroaching force of armed men became cockier with each inch of real estate they gained; inexplicably, their numbers grew minute by minute. The three February 17 militiamen urged the CIA men to leave. It was impossible to hold on for much longer. The southern gate, just in front of the Venezia Café, had been compromised. Grenades were being hurled over the wall. Gunmen moved quickly amid the guava trees and the dark grounds and got as close to the villa as they could before being engaged by the GRS operators. The TOC and the DS residence had been overrun. The villa was slowly becoming surrounded. The GRS team leader knew it was time to leave—especially with the DS agents en route already to the Annex. He ordered the sniper tandem off the roof, and he ordered the search for Stevens to end. Sean Smith was respectfully loaded into one of the G-Wagons.
The GRS operators would have to shoot their way out of the compound. Nothing was ever easy in Benghazi. The men advanced in a synchronized brilliance of tactical choreography, moving in on the encroaching threats rather than retreating from them. By closing the distance between themselves and the attackers, the operators forced the terrorists to retreat and flee. When the terrorists retreated, seeking cover, the CIA shooters would be able to push their way out of the battle zone.
Just as the team prepared to exit, the AFRICOM drone made it to the skies over the Special Mission Compound. At a command center deep inside a labyrinth of buildings at Kelley Barracks, the drone’s video feed was transmitted at first telephonically to the U.S. embassy in Tripoli, AFRICOM, and the top levels of government in various locations in Washington, D.C., including the Pentagon and CIA headquarters. An eye in the sky, it was hoped, would help the decision makers understand exactly what was transpiring on the ground. It was good that someone somewhere knew what was happening; the men on the ground inside the kill zone were most certainly reacting to the chaos one minute at a time.
The GRS two-vehicle convoy pushed out, absorbing hellish gunfire. The G-Wagons had a platform atop the roof where gear could be stored, and a spare tire was tied to the top. Fearing that the Americans had brought a weapons carrier with them, the terrorists aimed much of their fury at the spare tire and not at the transparent armored windshield or the doors. It is not known exactly how many rounds hit the vehicle, but the sounds of the 7.62 mm rounds impacting the doors, tires, and windows resonated as if angry men with ball-peen hammers were pounding at it with all their might. The thirty seconds seemed endless. As the lead vehicle burst through Charlie-1 gate, anyone caught in its way soon found himself under its tires.
The vehicles headed west in a high-speed rush. They covered a quarter-mile stretch in a matter of seconds and then headed south. They would maneuver back the way they had come until they reached the Annex. The operators knew that the night was far from done. There were too many armed men with lethal intent riled up so close to the Annex. Ambassador Stevens was still missing.
It wasn’t known how many terrorists had been killed in the battle for the Special Mission Compound or how many had been wounded. Some estimates at enemy killed in action are a dozen; others list the number of enemy dead at over fifty. Bodies had been strewn all along the lawn, but there was not time to verify the numbers. In this fog of war, all that mattered was that the Americans who were alive departed the kill zone. The battle was just a bloody chapter in what was becoming a bloody long night.
21.
The Cavalry
In Tripoli, the ride to the airport was conducted in typical agency and JSOC manner—high speed and low drag. The armored SUVs flowed along the smoothly paved highways that Qaddafi insisted connected key areas of the country. The headlights picked up dust and large desert flies along the way. Near the airport, as is so customary along main roads in Arab countries, families settled under the stars to grill fresh meats and pigeons for a hefty night’s feast.
The darkness of the Airport Highway enhanced the somber mood of the men who would soon depart for Benghazi. There was no chitchat inside the SUVs, no levity or even the gallows humor so often expressed by men about to enter battle who struggle to maintain a macho veneer to shield their fear and apprehension.
The light in the distance was the airport, Libya’s primary gateway to the rest of the world. International airlines had by now, since the overthrow of Qaddafi, resumed commercial service, though air traffic into oil-rich Libya paled in comparison to the international list of carriers that landed twice daily in Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Doha, and Riyadh. Officially, Tripoli International Airport operated 24/7, but most commercial flights had ceased by 2300 hours.
The vehicles rushed into the airport’s government section protected by soldiers and militiamen. The DCM’s calls to the interim Libyan prime minister, Abdurrahim el-Keib, and foreign minister, Ashour Bin Khayal, ensured that the motorcade would be free from the bureaucratic bullshit that would usually have been meandered through; the helper’s calls made sure that everything inside the military terminal ran smoothly and with great ease. There were instructions that the men departing for Benghazi were to be left alone and allowed to proceed unencumbered by procedure or delay. The soldiers, militiamen, fueling personnel, and other airport workers who milled about at all hours of the night inside hangars were told to mind their own business. Libya’s “in tatters” intelligence services, the internal spy operations that always had people planted at the airport, were ordered to look away. The heaping amount of grease applied to ease the departure of the rescuers illustrated how a few phone calls to the centralized government could make anything happen. The need for the expeditious treatment on the tarmac also illustrated that there was no centralized government in Libya; had there been one, one call could have brought a thousand heavily armed soldiers to the front door of Ambassador Stevens’s villa seconds after the first attack commenced.
The two JSOC operators and the CIA personnel did not let the locals touch their gear. Every weapon, every piece of high-tech equipment, every bag of cash was loaded onto the aircraft by the Americans and under the watchful eye of the senior man who would lead the rescue bid.
C-130H was in good shape. The crew was prepped and ready.
It was just about midnight, as September 11 bled into September 12, when the seven operators boarded the aircraft. The estimated arrival time was shortly after 0100 hours.
Part Four
FIRE BEFORE DAWN
22.
The Anonymous Target
If there was one man in Libya who believed that the CIA didn’t have a secret intelligence-gathering base in the country, he most certainly wasn’t in Benghazi. According to a local Libyan source, even before the first armed men waving black flags pushed their way into Charlie-1 gate, just about everyone in the city knew of the existence of the American Mukhabarat, or intelligence service, site in Western Fwayhat.
The CIA didn’t even go to the trouble to camouflage its existence there with some sort of cover story. There was no fake import/export company created to work inside a cookie-cutter warehouse complex somewhere near Benina International Airport far from prying eyes; there was no elaborately choreographed ruse created with fake offices, fake business cards, and even fake secretaries. There was no need. The cover story of the CIA station in Benghazi was simply that it was an extension of the unofficial U.S. diplomatic presence in the city.
The CIA never seemed to think through the geopolitical ramifications of its Benghazi outpost being discovered. And, apparently, the agency believed that the local GRS contingent could defend the position against most threats. Yet even the formidable veteran special operators of the GRS team could not withstand a siege by an overwhelming force of militants for very long. The State Department, for its part, had failed to effectively support the CIA mission in the city. Had the State Department simply declared the Special Mission Compound as something more than an unregistered ad hoc outpost, it would have been protected by the terms of the Vienna Convention; the Libyan NTC would have been responsible for the safety of the diplomats and the diplomatic grounds. By
being the worst-kept secret in the city of Benghazi, the Annex was a huge red pin on jihadist maps all across Libya.
When the battered and burned Land Cruiser entered the Annex compound, the five DS agents thought that they were safe at home. Looking at the charred and smoldering vehicle, staffers were amazed that anyone could have walked away from it, let alone drive it for more than a mile. The agents, having negotiated a path through hell, finally took a moment to breathe deeply and ponder the horrors that had just transpired.