Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man

by Dalton Fury

  Hopper had no intention of remaining a sitting duck behind the small building. They needed to move, and fast. I was on the horn with the Admiral from the schoolhouse as he updated us on their situation, and we all heard the chaos, the rocket explosions, and the stuttering machine-gun fire in the background as the Admiral coolly relayed their plan to reposition.

  He then directed the first available F-18 fighter to drop his payload on the enemy machine-gun position that was pinning them down. The first drop was impressive but did not silence the position, so a second F-18 repeated the engagement and put his bombs right on the money.

  The three Americans then absolutely astonished the muhj by using the lull in firing to dash from safety behind the structure to some trees roughly forty meters to their front—heading even closer to the enemy! This was not the way the game was supposed to be played, but our guys were aggressively moving up to deliver the coup de grace with B-52s.

  At the schoolhouse, we looked at each other with strain on every face. We didn’t need to discuss it; Jim and Bryan had already ensured that the rest of the boys were ready to head out to assist the Jackal unit should it become necessary. The courageous actions of our forwardmost people, worming their way steadily into enemy territory while under fire, made me proud to be not only their teammate, but an American as well.

  Adam Khan managed to coax, or threaten, five muhj into coming along to supply more protection. They moved, shooting as they went, although at what no one was sure. Hopper’s attempts to get them to preserve their ammunition fell on deaf ears. It was as if the muhj figured if they didn’t shoot all of their ammo, they would just have to hump it back down the hill.

  About the same time, we received word of a signal intelligence hit that had been intercepted, stating that “Father [meaning bin Laden] is trying to break through the siege line.”

  Had Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan truly struck gold? Could they be flushing out al Qaeda’s command group?

  The al Qaeda mortars got back into the game with a first volley that landed right in a group of muhj. Remaining active, the mortars opened a tremendous window of opportunity, and Jester, Dugan, and India Team over at OP25-A were hard at work trying to spot the elusive mortars’ firing signature. Just some sign, and they would take out al Qaeda’s favorite indirect fire asset. They hunkered down on the cold mountainside, waiting for the mortars to reveal their position.

  For the next two hours, the Admiral called in relays of bombing runs while contending with enemy machine-gun fire and mortar rounds that sent rock shards and huge splinters from trees whizzing through the air. The friendly muhj continued firing their AK-47s from behind him, often directly over his head. The Admiral had one ear to the radio and the other one pinned to the ground. The muhj began to retreat slowly back down the ridgeline. They had had enough for one day with these crazy Americans who wanted to always get closer to the enemy. Eventually, the majority of them snuck away without saying a word, abandoning Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan.

  Back at the schoolhouse, some thirty minutes before the sun set behind the mountains, George received another special intelligence spotting of bin Laden. Reportedly, feeling pressure from General Ali’s hasty attack and the sustained and increasing bombing, bin Laden had spent too long on his radio conversing with his subordinate commanders, and his general location had been determined. This new information, combined with the earlier intercept of bin Laden “trying to break through the siege line” strongly suggested that not only was bin Laden’s location pinpointed but that the muhj had him surrounded!

  Inside our corner room, George handed me the eight-digit grid location scribbled on a small piece of paper. Wow! An eight-digit grid is accurate down to ten meters. As far as we knew, this was the first time since the late 1990s that our country had such an accurate location on bin Laden.

  Ironhead and I looked at each other, and then over at George. The seasoned CIA operative said he had no further information, but his eyes were screaming: Run with it! His unspoken expectation was that Delta would launch. He got that right.

  Ironhead took off to notify the troop sergeant majors and I grabbed the laptop to send a data message to Ashley. Within minutes, our headquarters sent us a six-digit grid, acquired through military channels. I hoped it would be similar to the one George had gotten, but it was only accurate down to one hundred meters. Either bin Laden was on the move or the data was several hours old. The second grid was almost two kilometers from the first one, a very long way to travel in a relative short time given the rugged terrain and while under duress. No matter. We would go and see.

  It suddenly hit me that Adam Khan, our trusted liaison, was already in a gunfight and therefore unavailable to be our Pashto interpreter. So I grabbed Shag, our special intelligence collector, who had been busy intercepting al Qaeda transmissions, then I reached for my kit and rifle and headed out the door to the waiting trucks and the boys.

  General Ali apparently had undergone a change of heart after having watched Hopper and the Admiral in action from a safe distance. After being so stubborn earlier in the day, he was now radioing back to inquire if the other American commandos were coming. The general was getting excited about the possibilities, but we first had to convince our two Afghan guides that their general was indeed asking us to come to the front. At least we assumed he was at the front. Assuming, once again.

  This might be it, Ali must have thought. Bin Laden might actually be killed or captured on this very night.

  Thirty-three of us loaded onto nine vehicles and we took off, receiving word that Ali would meet us along the main road near Mortar Hill. That was strange. Had the general mentioned in one of his radio calls that he would lead us to within striking distance of bin Laden, say a ridgeline away, or had we simply thought that he would? It’s hard to recall now. In any event, we kept going, thinking that we would link up with the general and probably do some hasty planning on the spot. There was a lot at stake now, and fast decisions and action were called for. Our guys were under fire and we had a hot location for bin Laden.

  Things had turned from bad to worse for the Jackal boys: Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan. An enemy machine gun opened up from the north, which was behind them! Evil green tracer rounds tore the tree trunks apart and forced the boys onto their bellies.

  Hopper’s first thought was that it was friendly fire, since it was coming from their rear, likely from a few muhj who were as uncertain as they were about where the lines began, ended, or overlapped and had already proven they didn’t mind shooting over the heads of the Americans. Adam Khan looked back in time to see some muhj skedaddling down the ridgeline while machine-gun bullets literally drilled holes in their footsteps. In a matter of minutes, these supporting fighters were back in their Toyota pickup trucks and disappearing into the darkness.

  That left only five muhj with the Americans, and none had bargained for this sort of predicament. Too scared to attempt a run through the machine-gun fire, they had little choice but to stay put. Adam Khan could not calm these frightened men, for darkness was falling, and in their minds, the enemy owned the night and a black-clad al Qaeda fighter or two would be behind every rock and tree. They also were convinced that the enemy was maneuvering and searching for the Americans who had delivered so much death and destruction during the past two hours.

  One of the nervous fighters aimlessly let rip his recoilless rifle with its concussive roar and another fired his RPG. A third curled up behind his bipod-mounted PKM machine gun and squeezed the trigger so long that his belt of ammunition ran out. He yelled for more ammunition, but his ammo bearer was long gone.

  Adam Khan chewed their asses for revealing their position to the enemy. Then Hopper tried to settle their nerves and dispel the idea that the enemy owned the dark by letting the muhj look through his NVGs. A green-tinted look at the valley might reassure them that al Qaeda was not counterattacking. Truth be told, however, now that the bad guys had a machine gun in place behind them,
neither Hopper nor Adam Khan could be certain that more al Qaeda fighters were not heading their way.

  The faces of the muhj lit up like kids at a carnival as they looked through the goggles and passed them around. Suddenly, they all were curious as to how the NVGs worked and asked Adam Khan to explain. The machine gun kept firing but they were more interested in this amazing new gadget than the weapon that was slashing away in the dark. They resembled a bunch of beer-bellied men sitting in the nosebleed seats at the World Series, sharing a single pair of binoculars.

  The Admiral had emptied the payloads on nine F-18 fighters and a B-1 bomber, an incredible amount of ordnance concentrated on a small area. He had no idea that he was likely the primary reason that bin Laden, the most wanted man in the world, was on the run.

  With the arrival of night, the fighters and bombers were replaced by an AC-130H Spectre gunship, the side-firing prince of darkness. As the Admiral talked to the aircraft to pass his requirements, Hopper retrieved his NVGs, then thumbed his handheld laser to mark enemy positions. If they could get the gunship to rip into the enemy positions with the deadly 40mm and 25mm cannons, or a couple of 105mm Howitzer rounds, it might take care of the enemy machine gun and also might draw out the enemy mortars.

  While most men would be moving in the direction of safety, Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan moved still another thirty meters toward the enemy machine gun in front of them. The muhj decided to stay put. Green tracers passed by the left side of the Americans and tore up the ground around the muhj they left behind. The Admiral keyed his hand mike to contact the AC-130, and Hopper gave Adam Khan the SOFLAM to help laser the machine-gun nest. Thick cloud cover hampered the gunship, which would have had to break the minimum safe altitude to drop low enough to engage the targets. It was something they were not authorized to do and not smart business for slow-flying aircraft in the mountains.

  Adam Khan had taken inventory of what remained to fight with. All of Ali’s fighters, save five, had abandoned them on the ridge, the gunship couldn’t help until the clouds moved on, and the enemy had a pretty good idea of their location. He told Hopper it was time to go.

  Hopper asked if Adam Khan could convince the remaining few muhj to circle the wagons, hold their fire, and just quietly sit things out until the clouds parted. Once the gunship engaged, its protection could last for hours. Adam Khan chuckled at the suggestion. You’re kidding, right? He recommended that they move back to a safer area.

  Hopper understood the situation was beyond salvage. They had done a mighty amount of damage, but the lowering clouds meant there would be no air cover, and the only people he could rely on were the Admiral and Adam Khan. The muhj were scared and low on ammo and might disappear at any moment. Reluctantly, he gave the order to initiate escape and evasion.

  The admiral keyed his handset and, as calm as ever, passed the code word: “Warpath. Warpath. Warpath.”

  Now all they had to do was make it out of there alive.

  11

  Men and Mission

  Attacking is the only secret. Dare and the world yields, or if it beats you sometimes, dare it again and you will succeed.

  —WILLIAM MAKE PEACE THACKERAY

  It took us about twenty minutes to get loaded after George gave us the bin Laden sighting report. Shag and I jumped in the backseat of the lead vehicle. We basically had to threaten a pair of locals to motivate them enough to take us up the road for the linkup with General Ali. Neither man spoke a word of English, nor was either a fighter, so they were pinging off the walls, nervously rocking back and forth in the front seat as we rolled out.

  Shag did his best to get my questions answered, but the two locals knew little more than we did about what awaited us. Halfway into the trip to the front, word came from back at the schoolhouse that Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan had been pinned down by enemy fire, had been abandoned by the muhj, and had made a “Warpath” call. Our boys were in deep shit, escaping and evading, which made our mission even more urgent.

  Not only were we on our way to take care of bin Laden once and for all, but we also had to weigh the significance of three of our men being in trouble and needing our help. This same classic dilemma is presented in military schools around the free world. What is more important: accomplishing the mission or taking care of your men? Sergeant Major Ironhead, Bryan, and Jim were wrestling with the situation as well, but they would look for me to make the call. I probably had about fifteen more minutes to ponder our response.

  We had initially felt that the news of bin Laden being found was too good to be true, and as we proceeded slowly along the bumpy and narrow dirt road, that doubt bubbled to the surface again. This just didn’t have the feel of being the ultimate battle that would capture the most wanted man in the world, and the twilight time of day weighed heavily in our thoughts. The muhj had already abandoned three of our guys, so it was no sure bet that they would stick around after dark with us.

  When we rounded a tight corner, we came face-to-face with a long convoy of vehicles that was blocking the road, with the good general himself in the lead vehicle. They were heading away from the fight!

  Ali ceremoniously exited his SUV and approached us, illuminated by the headlights of our two vehicles crisscrossing each other. Ali ignored the jumpy Afghan guys in the front seat and approached Shag’s window, leaned inside and extended his right hand toward me, gave a victory smile, and said, “Commander Dalton!”

  Then came a torrent of Pashto, and Shag and I had no idea what the general said, although it was obvious he was welcoming us and was happy about our arrival.

  After only a minute or two of geniality, Ali was back in his SUV and once again was on the move, heading north, away from the fight. But he left us with the impression that he was merely looking for a place where he could turn his convoy around, so we could all move to the sound of the guns. That was not going to be the case. Not even close.

  I didn’t want to believe what was really happening, but Shag pieced together enough of what our guides were saying to determine that Ali’s fighters were finished for the evening. They were all headed home to break their Ramadan fast.

  The muhj force that we thought had bin Laden surrounded and trapped apparently had packed it in for the day and was hightailing it off the mountain in full retreat. It didn’t matter. We are pressing on and will figure it out when we get there. We proceeded south, hoping that we were wrong and that Ali and his boys were turning around and coming right behind us. Wishful thinking.

  For the next few hundred meters, we wormed through a giant traffic jam as if swimming against a riptide. Dozens of muhj fighters were crammed inside the beds of pickup trucks or perched on the sides, most of them wrapped in blankets. Some strained their necks to get a look at our newer pickup trucks with mounted M-249 squad automatic weapons or M-240G machine guns, and loaded with Delta commandos who were strangely heading toward the fighting after dark.

  Hope was fading that one of the general’s vehicles would eventually zip in front of our convoy, take the lead, and guide us to where we needed to be so that, together, we could all assault bin Laden’s location. The harsh truth was that we would not be seeing General Ali again for the next fifteen hours.

  Something good was happening back at the schoolhouse. Reinforcements were coming in, trained professionals who could be an instant quick-reaction force if we needed help.

  We had scooped up every task force member except Bernie, who was left at the base to monitor the radio and brief our squadron commander, Colonel Ashley, who was bringing in the new force—seven more Deltas and a couple of dozen Royal Marine commandos.

  Lieutenant Colonel Al and another CIA man marked the landing zone for the inbound helicopters. They dropped five infrared light sticks on the sandy ground in the shape of a Y, to direct the pilot of the lead MH-47 helicopter to approach from the north, fly directly over the schoolhouse, and land facing the mountains. Instead, the bird ended up with the tail facing an adjacent building, with
its big rotor whipping up an instant sandstorm.

  Once the ramp hit the ground, the troops exited the helicopter carrying their heavy rucksacks and immediately headed into the nearest, but wrong, structure. The second helicopter mirrored the lead of the first and landed next to it and the rest of the troops hustled into the same building where their buddies had gone. A CIA operative hurried over to retrieve them.

  The rotors of the two helicopters had created a blinding, massive brown ball of dust that roiled and churned over itself, darkening it to the point that only the static electricity of the rotor blades was visible. Within that dark and swirling cloud, one of the helicopters began to roll. . . directly toward the schoolhouse.

  After moving roughly thirty yards, the helicopter’s front refuel probe smacked a three-foot-high stone wall and pierced it like a temperature gauge going into Mom’s roast. Colonel Al ran up the back ramp, grabbed the crew chief, and hauled him off to show him the damage.

  “It was a brownout!” the crew chief calmly yelled over the engine noise, apparently not upset in the least. “Pilot must have taken his foot off the brake!”

  By now the giant rotor blades were spinning violently, with the tips just a few feet above the roof of the schoolhouse in which Bernie was huddled. The helicopter had rolled itself into a mess. The pilot couldn’t back up, because any attempt to change the rotor blade pitch would have sheared off the roof of the schoolhouse and been catastrophic for both the aircraft and anyone inside or nearby.