We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  Also confiscated in the raid was a bounty of small arms, grenades, ammunition, and papers. One case of submachine gun ammunition had been concealed under the bedding of a baby crib—complete with baby! Our soldiers left the baby with its mother but seized the ammunition and the very nice PPSH-41 Russian submachine gun to which it belonged. The weapon, dated 1943, was in museum-quality condition. Later we took it for a spin, much to the pleasure of all who got to fire it.

  John’s SOF men were closing in on Khader after dragging information from his cousin, Nasar Farhan Jasim. They planned a coordinated raid focusing on a house in Bagdad belonging to one of Khader’s uncles. We awaited word of the raid and continued our combat patrols. Still nothing.

  Faris Sahim Shehab and his cousin, Sami Muhad Shehab, were enraged. The Americans had been far too active, and nothing, it seemed, was being done. The strategy of standoff attacks and roadside bombs was not working. Perhaps the older men had lost their courage. True, there had been some setbacks in the summer when they tried to fight the Americans toe-to-toe, but surely, they were not invincible. After all, it appeared that the occupiers were becoming overly confident. They were all over the streets day after day just walking about as if they owned them. The soldiers would be easy targets if surprised.

  After seeing their countrymen and even their own family members struck down at the hands of the Americans, they decided to mete out a measure of justice for Iraq. Full of anger and Tuborg lager and armed with AK-47s, Faris and Sami hit the streets in their late-model, black Toyota, waiting for an opportunity to materialize. They would strike quickly, race away undetected, and arrive safely home before curfew.

  On the evening of December 12, Tikrit was still fairly active. Our soldiers discovered another roadside bomb on Highway 1 and blew it up with gunfire. Raids in the last 48 hours had yielded a harvest of cell leaders and weapons from the city proper, down to Auja, Oynot, and Samarra. The trigger pullers were in disarray, desperately trying to reorganize after losing their chain of command.

  It seemed to me that the insurgents, in their desperation, were taking more risks so I ordered increased patrols in the city. Even the engineers were patrolling the Tigris River in their bridge boats. Our mortars were still conducting harassment and interdiction fires to keep enemy mortar fire and rocketeers at bay. Brad and Mark had their company patrols out, and Jon had tank observation posts and ambushes out in Cadaseeyah. I circulated among all these points.

  In the heart of Tikrit, near the upscale 40th Street district where so much action had been seen, Staff Sergeant German Sanchez led his 2nd Squad of “Cobras” from 2nd Platoon, C Company, 1-22 Infantry on an evening patrol just before curfew. Zigzagging his soldiers on both sides of the road like the points of a lazy letter “W,” Sanchez posted Sergeant Michael Trujillo’s A-Team at the nose of the formation and Specialist Jaime Garza’s B-Team behind him. They were heading south from the Birthday Palace into the neighborhood immediately to the south of what we called the “Evil Mosque,” otherwise known as the Saddam Mosque.

  As the last soldiers of B-Team made the turn, a black car was spotted moving slowly in the distance with its lights out. Sergeant Trujillo watched with surprise as it suddenly began to speed toward them. Instinctively, he locked his eyes onto the driver’s side of the car to determine what was happening. As he did, gunfire sailed toward the squad from the window of the car.

  Faris Sahim Shehab saw the first of the American soldiers walking down the dark alley. He and Sami sat quietly observing their actions. They seemed to just saunter along casually down the street, hardly an imposing threat. The opportunity that they had been waiting for had just presented itself. If they maneuvered up the street inconspicuously, they could race past the Americans, spray them with fire, and be down the street and around the corner before they could react. Faris also had the advantage of surprise. He was on the left side, but his cousin, Sami, was actually driving in the right-hand-drive vehicle. The soldiers would not know what hit them.

  Advancing at normal speed, they passed the first few soldiers. This was it! Faris leveled his AK-47 on the edge of the left window and blasted away as Sami drove at full throttle down the street.

  Sergeant Trujillo couldn’t believe his eyes. The guy had brazenly propped up an AK-47 and fired at his team! Instinctively, he spun around and squeezed off six shots at the driver. He might be shooting, but that guy was not going to get away if he could help it.

  When Sami Shehab saw Faris shoot at the Americans, he was filled with adrenaline and completely focused on the end of the street when glass and ricochets began to fly around him. The crack of Faris’s AK-47 was replaced with the sharp crack of enemy fire. Something was terribly wrong. Faris jerked violently and slumped against the dash, his head shattered and bleeding. His rifle dropped inside the car. Terrified, Sami stopped the car, shoved the door open and put up his hands.

  With weapon raised and aimed, Sergeant Trujillo fixed his attention on the stopped car and the occupants. That our soldiers didn’t shoot the driver is a testament to their discipline. “Standish, Arispe, check ’em out!” ordered Trujillo.

  “Roger, Sergeant!” replied Private First Class Jason Standish as he approached what they believed to be the driver’s side of the car. Private Brian Sorrels went toward the guy on the other side.

  “Sorrels, pull security at twelve o’clock,” ordered Trujillo.

  “Roger, Sergeant,” acknowledged Private Brian Sorrels, one of the newest members of the platoon.

  Staff Sergeant Sanchez then ordered Specialist Garza’s team to pull perimeter security. Specialists William Gilstrap, Jason Klepacz, and Private Joseph Morris rounded out the perimeter as Standish dragged the bloody Faris from the car about twelve feet into the street, kicking his AK-47 aside. Private Abel Arispe moved on Sami and ordered him facedown as the soldiers searched and cuffed him.

  “Red 6, this is Red 2, over,” radioed Staff Sergeant Sanchez.

  “Red 6, over,” replied First Lieutenant Jason Lojka.

  “Contact, on Kansas, one enemy wounded, one detained, over,” reported Sanchez.

  “This is Cobra 6, monitored and en route,” intercepted Captain Brad Boyd. After getting the details, Boyd then switched radios and called me. “Regular 6, Cobra 6, over.”

  “Regular 6, over,” I answered.

  “Roger, sir, we got contact near 40th Street, one street to the east. One enemy WIA and one detained, over,” Brad informed. He relayed the details and then requested media support. We both felt it would be enlightening for the press to see that the enemy was still intent on destruction and that our troops were up to the task. After grabbing a few interested reporters from the press pool, my command group soldiers, Bryan Luke, and I headed for the site.

  On arrival, I was amazed at the outcome. Sergeant Trujillo’s marksmanship in the dark, at a moving target, and under fire was exemplary. Of the six shots fired, four hit their mark—the head of the enemy who fired at the squad. Not a single one of our soldiers was hurt. They were all pulling security.

  In the street lay the enemy, flat on his back in a pool of his own bodily fluids, most of them oozing from his head. The soldiers had attempted first aid, but with four shots to the head, it didn’t take a doctor to know he was a dead man. Faintly breathing, he lay splayed in his underwear on the cold street. In moments, he exhaled his last breath.

  His driver, his own cousin, Sami, lay facedown on the sidewalk with Private Arispe pulling guard. The driver’s legs were shaking violently with fear. We pulled him to his feet, and Joe Filmore questioned him. He claimed they were just celebrating from a wedding party. Yeah, right. Perhaps a marriage with death, I thought. As we would soon decipher, these enemy were a part of the Shehab family. Their rashness had cost them dearly.

  “Colonel, why is the man lying naked in the street?” asked Robin Pomeroy from Reuters.

  “The soldiers attempted first aid, but there was nothing they could do.”

  “The driver stated th
ey were coming from a wedding party. What do you make of that?” the reporters asked.

  “We know the difference between a wedding party and this,” I answered. “Driving through the streets firing an AK-47 isn’t a wedding, it’s a funeral.”

  We secured the area as the Iraqi police arrived to collect the body and a wrecker arrived to collect the vehicle. The fire department washed the blood and fluids from the streets. With the ordeal concluded, Brad’s men resumed their patrols.

  While Brad Boyd’s men were taking life in the city center, Mark Stouffer’s men would save it in the south part of town. A man hoping to make it home before curfew was driving a bit too fast to negotiate a curve and lost control of his car. His car jumped the curb, spun, and hit a light pole, which fell and crushed the top of the car. The driver had been ejected and was pinned beneath the back of the car.

  Captain Stouffer’s command convoy and the battalion snipers were making their way northward on Highway 1 toward the center of the city when they observed the crushed car centered high on the median. Flames were leaping from the engine. Uncertain of the cause of the commotion, the soldiers deployed for action. One of several Iraqi bystanders reported in broken English that a man was trapped inside. He directed their attention to a man they had pulled from the car and then to a pair of legs protruding from the back of the car, pinned by the fuel tank. Determining it to be a car accident, Mark ordered his men to barricade the highway and grab the fire extinguishers.

  “Hey, Sergeant Owens, there might be someone in the car!” called out Specialist Matt Summers to Staff Sergeant Brad Owens of the Sniper Squad. After talking to the bystander, Summers ran to the car and checked the man for a pulse. He was still alive. Fuel appeared to be leaking from the engine and gravity was slowly drawing it toward the rear of the car. With flames spreading to the interior, there was little time to effect a rescue. Summers could see the man laboring to breathe, but the car was crushing the life from him.

  “Hey, guys, give us a hand!” called out Owens. Staff Sergeant Cesar Tenorio, Sergeant Ronald Wycoff, and Specialist Barrye Saylor raced to the car. What they saw was bad.

  “We gotta get this pole off the top or we will never get him out,” pointed out Specialist Summers. “I tried to lift him, but he won’t budge.”

  The heat was searing. With no regard for his own safety, Summers returned to the man as Wycoff, Owens, and Saylor worked to raise the car. The heat was unbearable. While Sergeant Tenorio ran for his aid bag, the other soldiers decided to use the broken portion of the pole as a lever to hoist the back of the car.

  Flames had entirely engulfed the interior of the car by that time and fuel dripped toward the pinned man. With superhuman exertion and ignoring the pain of the heat, the soldiers managed to budge the car just enough for Summers to extract the victim. They all immediately cleared the car.

  “Keep going, this thing is going to blow!” warned Owens as the car popped and hissed. Mark and the others were already trying to extinguish the fire, but the heat was too severe to contain. After Owens and his group dragged the man to safety about forty feet away, the car exploded and was completely consumed.

  We sent an alert to the Iraqi police and the fire department. Brad Boyd’s other patrols joined Mark’s men to assist with security as the police and an ambulance recovered the injured. The fire department, already actively washing the streets from the C Company firefight, doused the fire. Our men left the scene in the capable hands of the Iraqis who had the debris cleared by morning.

  For their bravery, Owens, Tenorio, Wycoff, Summers, and Saylor would later be awarded the Soldiers Medal for disregarding their own lives to save another. In the two hours before midnight, our soldiers in Tikrit had taken life and saved it. Concurrently, to the south in Baghdad, John’s special operations troops were executing a raid to apprehend Mohammed Khader and, hopefully, the Fat Man.

  PHONE CALLS

  While our evening would be fraught with action, it would not be so for Colonel Jim Hickey, who was restless. Something was troubling him. In a rare move, he did not go out on his normal patrols but instead told his Command Sergeant Major, Larry Wilson, to stand down the command group. Wilson knew that the colonel was definitely preoccupied with something.

  Hickey’s mind turned over and over. He scrutinized all the information unearthed in the last two weeks, but he could not put his finger on the missing puzzle piece. He knew that Mohammed al-Musslit’s apprehension was imminent, but he also knew that, at the moment, it was out of our hands and he could do nothing more to make it happen. Musslit was the key. Perhaps there was one other person who knew Saddam’s location, but he, Izzat al-Duri, remained at large. Hickey decided to get some rest that would surely be needed in the coming days.

  On the morning of December 13, Hickey awoke surprisingly refreshed. Keeping to his back office rather than the command post, he tended to a multitude of little things for which a commander of several thousand troops is responsible. At approximately ten o’clock that morning, his private phone line rang. It was John.

  “Hey, sir. Did you get my e-mail?” asked John.

  “No, I haven’t been where I could check it,” Colonel Hickey answered, as the message would have been on a secure network in his command post.

  “We got him,” John said abruptly.

  “Who?” queried Colonel Hickey, discerning it could be Musslit or maybe someone even better.

  “Musslit,” John clarified. “Last night in Baghdad,” he said matter-of-factly. “He was with Mohammed Khader. We didn’t know we had him at first, but one of our interrogators broke him and was able to figure out it was him. He puts Saddam somewhere in Tikrit.”

  “You know what this means?” urged Colonel Hickey. “It means we are doing a raid tonight to capture HVT#1.”

  “You think so, sir?” asked John.

  “How much information do we have, and how much chance is there we can get what we need?” followed Colonel Hickey.

  “I don’t know, sir . . . maybe twenty percent,” speculated John.

  “We’ve got to get him up here ASAP.” Hickey’s mind began to race. “We’ve got to get forces prepared for action now. He’s got to know where Saddam is. We don’t have much time.”

  “Roger, sir,” John agreed. “We can move him to Tikrit right away.”

  Immediately after talking with John, Colonel Hickey began to alert his units. I received a phone call on the secure and point-to-point digital tactical satellite phone. This information was not for the radio.

  “Steve, John’s guys got the Fat Man last night,” informed Hickey when I answered.

  “Holy cow!” I replied. “That’s great news!”

  “I want to get all your forces ready,” instructed Hickey. “Pull out everything you have and have it standing by.”

  “Roger, sir,” I acknowledged as I continued to listen.

  “I will request some additional force from the CG to replace your troops in the city later, maybe Dave Poirier’s MPs,” he explained, intending to request this support from General Odierno. “But I want everything available.”

  “Roger, sir,” I replied.

  “Keep the lid on this,” cautioned Hickey. “We’ve got to proceed quickly, but we must keep this very quiet. I’ve got a meeting with the Governor and Sheik Mahmood that I intend to still go to, to give the appearance that everything is normal. Alert your commanders, but keep this close hold.”

  “Roger, sir. We’ll be ready for whatever you need,” I answered.

  “John says Musslit gave Saddam’s whereabouts somewhere in Tikrit,” Hickey continued. “We’re going to get him up here and try to pinpoint that location. I’ve sent Brian Reed over to John’s compound to do the initial coordination. I am also bringing Dez Bailey down from the desert west of Bayjii. It will take him a couple of hours to make that trip, but I don’t think we’ll have anything before then. In the meantime, get everything ready and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Wilco, sir,” I answer
ed, and with that, Colonel Hickey began a myriad of preparations. I hung up the receiver and grabbed Mike Rauhut and Bryan Luke. I then called my company commanders together to relay the situation. We had been through this so many times before but never with Mohammed al-Musslit providing the information. The sense of excitement mounting cannot be fully expressed as we set our own task force in motion.

  By noon, Mohammed al-Musslit was seated in a back room of the small Water Palace complex where John’s SOF team was headquartered. He had been flown from Baghdad, under heavy guard. An intense interrogation began to extract Saddam’s exact location from him. Major Stan Murphy, Chief Bryan Gray, and First Lieutenant Angela Santana of Colonel Hickey’s intelligence staff observed the special operations interrogation team. They listened for subtle clues and links as they were intimately familiar with the upper tier family networks. An hour passed.

  At John’s Water Palace compound, Brian Reed and John conferred about the facts known to date. Musslit established Saddam on a farm near Tikrit. It was still unclear whether the farm was on the east or west side of the river, but they believed it to be south of Tikrit. Expecting Saddam to be well guarded, Brian and John worked out the force needed to strike, cordon, and, if necessary, fight. It was certainly going to require more forces than a typical raid.

  If perhaps 20 or 30 men guarded Saddam, it could be assumed that they would be armed with RPGs and automatic weapons. Armored vehicles would be needed. Colonel Hickey’s entire brigade was either tanks or my mechanized infantry, so that would not be a problem. John’s SOF team had special armored vehicles available and their own air support as well. The basic troop plan was taking shape. But how vast an area would we need to cordon?

  John understood that the key would be finding the exact location. Even cooperative Iraqis were inept at reading aerial and satellite photographs or maps. They were just not accustomed to visualizing things from that perspective. Close tactical reconnaissance was the only way to pinpoint the farm and that meant Musslit would have to accompany the reconnaissance. The plan held a certain amount of risk, but one way or another they would compel Musslit to surrender Saddam’s location. We had come too far and too close to fail now.