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

by Dalton Fury

  Skoot and his tactical signal interceptors had been going 24/7 since they arrived four days earlier. They were an incredible asset to have on the battlefield, so we attached one of his operatives to move with MSS Grinch and another to MSS Monkey. The other two worked under Skoot’s watchful eye at the schoolhouse.

  Skoot was a tall, athletically lean, Bill Gates type with wire frame glasses and wavy blond hair. He had an incredible energy level and a sense of humor that helped keep everything in perspective throughout the fight. Each time a bin Laden transmission was intercepted, Skoot would jump up from the cold, hard floor, yank off his headphones and come tearing into the corner room to give us the news. His positive attitude was contagious.

  Skoot worked his guys in shifts, and they either grabbed a few minutes of sleep when they could or when they were forced to go down for a few winks. It was necessary to rest the brain because of the mindnumbing nature of intercepting and interpreting al Qaeda conversations in real time, taping and replaying conversations for translation, and trying to identify al Qaeda’s many radio frequencies. They kept netting information out of the air, confirming that the enemy’s morale and will to fight was slipping, while their vulnerability increased.

  Skoot came running into our room the morning of December 13 with new intercepts that strongly suggested al Qaeda was preparing to make a final stand. Morning enemy radio calls requesting “big and small land mines” were overheard. Another al Qaeda commander was overheard confidently stating “victory or death” before telling of plans to reposition a couple of hundred brothers. Al Qaeda fighters had no idea that they were passing critical battle damage estimates and targeting information to us each time they keyed their radio. News of each cave or tunnel that was dropped by bombs was relayed from one group to the next on the terrorist net. They weren’t the voice of bin Laden, but it wouldn’t be long before his lack of stomach for the fight surfaced.

  General Ali was getting his second wind and stopped by our room on his way to the front on the morning of the thirteenth to express his thanks for the ruthless bombing. As I followed him out to his truck and waiting fighters, the general smiled and gave a gesture like cutting someone’s throat, running his hand palm down and fingers extended across the front of his neck. He believed victory was close at hand.

  Ali’s cocky rival, Zaman, had left the day before, upset and embarrassed at the outcome of the surrender negotiations, and we had not heard from him since. The general did not know whether the warlord would continue the fight.

  Actually, Zaman was having even more trouble at the moment.

  After seeing how professional the first eight British commandos were out with our forward teams, we were tickled when four more came rolling in. But before heading to the schoolhouse, the commandos and a British intelligence operative had a meeting with Zaman in Jalalabad, during which they sternly voiced their displeasure with his antics. He obviously was not giving our closest allies their money’s worth and the Brits felt it was time to adjust the warlord’s attitude.

  We had been pondering the idea of pairing up some of our operators with Zaman’s men just to keep him honest and on track. We even considered marrying up the Green Berets with Zaman’s forces, although we knew that request would be squelched back at Task Force Dagger headquarters. The entrance of the additional Brits took care of this issue nicely. They would hook up with the stumbling Zaman and keep his feet to the fire.

  MSS Monkey departed for OP25-B again just before dusk on December 13 with two new Afghan guides, and neither spoke a lick of English. Having traveled part of the route once already, the navigation was much easier, but the terrain remained painfully rugged. It gets dark quickly in Tora Bora. Dusk gives way to total darkness in a blink. Within an hour and a half after leaving the schoolhouse, MSS Monkey was moving through early nighttime hours that were already pitch-black. With al Qaeda having been pushed back and their frontline mortar position destroyed, our force had the luxury of using their vehicle headlights, but the guides still managed to screw things up. They stopped in the middle of a dry streambed while the Afghans began yelling and screaming at each other about the correct route.

  Air strikes were lighting up the sky just a few terrain features away, and the boys weren’t sure if the guides were just frightened by the bombs or were setting them up for an ambush. Two more locals needing a lift jumped in the back of one of the pickups. One said, “Bush good!” and communicated further by making obscene screwing motions with his fingers and mumbling something about American women.

  The convoy finally cleared the streambed and moved to higher ground, only to have a repeat performance by the Afghan guides. While the guides went at it again, Ironhead and Bryan unfolded their own maps to check their location.

  Mysteriously, the recent hitchhiking Afghans had already disappeared, quite likely to pass the patrol’s presence on to the highest bidder.

  Acouple of the boys sitting with Lieutenant Colonel Al decided that everything might not be going according to plan, but was pretty much as expected in this nutty land.

  “Well, it’s about time. Let’s get them out,” said one.

  The other operator pointed at Lieutenant Colonel Al and asked, “He’s okay, right?”

  “Yeah, he’s okay,” the first said.

  The operators reached into their assault vests and pulled out rubber clown noses, slid them into place on their faces, and honked them. One declared, “It’s now an official full-up three-ring fucking circus.”

  They took off the noses and carefully stowed them away for use on future appropriate occasions.

  One of the boys looked at Lieutenant Colonel Al and said, “Before you come back out here, I recommend you get one, too.”

  After a three-hour drive to the base of the mountain followed by an exhausting two-hour climb, Ski and India Team reached OP25-B just prior to nightfall on December 13. The mules, on the other hand, showed little sign of fatigue. The team was anxious to get in on the bombing and looked forward to alternating with Jackal and Kilo teams of MSS Grinch a few thousand meters away to the east.

  As the team dug out their equipment, they quickly noticed the Darth Vader thermal imager was busted. After a little delicate Delta ingenuity, detail work that would make a Swiss wristwatch artist take notice, the priceless piece of kit was back in business.

  Unfortunately, the sharp advances made by MSS Grinch and the others had put MSS Monkey out of business before they even got started. Monkey would have to push farther south to get in the game.

  Before they could get going again, though, we tasked them from the schoolhouse to take control of the airspace for preplanned bombing missions. MSS Monkey’s combat controller, Spike, took up where MSS Grinch had left off, and for the next six hours, Monkey would not let al Qaeda rest for more than a few minutes at a time. Bryan decided to remain in place at OP25-B for the rest of the night and move south early in the morning.

  At the schoolhouse early on the afternoon of December 13, Skoot and his interceptors picked up the startling call that “Father” was “moving to a new tunnel with two Yemeni brothers.” And then we heard bin Laden himself break radio silence, and there was desperation in his voice. “The time is now,” he said. “Arm your women and children against the infidel!”

  Calling out the kids to fight wasn’t going to be enough for bin Laden to retake the lead, because things were going our way.

  After hours of massive and accurate bombing directed by Pope, Lowblow, and a talented Brit with Kilo Team, the Admiral with Jackal Team, and Spike with India Team, Usama bin Laden was on the radio again. Skoot threw open the flimsy door with authority, and entered our room quickly and smiling widely. His eyes were wide and wild as if he just hit a ninth-inning walk-off home run. He held the small black transistor radio up with his right hand and thrust it toward us. “Listen,” he whispered softly. “It’s him.”

  His Arabic prose sounded beautiful, soothing, and peaceful. But the words were very portentous, and I para
phrase him here. “Our prayers have not been answered. Times are dire,” he said with an uncanny combination of surrender and despair. “We didn’t receive support from the apostate nations who call themselves our Muslim brothers. Things might have been different.”

  His final words to his fighters that night revealed a tired and weary warrior, “I’m sorry for getting you involved in this battle, if you can no longer resist, you may surrender with my blessing.”

  Before the nightly chat with General Ali on the thirteenth, two unexpected guests arrived at the schoolhouse: One was a representative from Pakistan, the other, Zaman’s brother. Both were there on behalf of the warlord and passed information that, in their opinion, bin Laden had already departed for Pakistan. Curious. Could Zaman have engineered the odd cease-fire earlier to allow bin Laden time to escape?

  After the two visitors departed, George asked General Ali about the progress they had made that day. The tired but enthusiastic general said his men had uncovered a large cave stocked with weapons, ammunition, uniforms, documents, and a large carpet. The general seemed to consider the carpet the most valuable item. George accused the general of allowing his men to halt the attack to loot caves for personal gain. Ali shrugged, almost as if he felt helpless to fix the problem. Or perhaps he just didn’t consider it a problem.

  Ali placed blame on the journalists and the CIA. He said his men were hungry and poor, and since the media and George’s people were paying such a high premium for anything coming out of the mountains, his subordinate commanders were becoming businessmen.

  The tenuous relationship between the boys in MSS Monkey and their local guides worsened at sunrise of the following day. Ski and Catfish had gone forward early in the morning darkness of December 14 to scout out another forward area for MSS Monkey, and after finding a spot that provided excellent angled views into the valleys, they radioed back to tell Bryan to bring up the rest of the team. When Bryan gave the order to saddle up, their muhj escorts again hit the panic button. OP25-B was far enough removed from the real fighting now that it was relatively safe. Moving forward meant entering the dreaded no-man’s land, territory owned by al Qaeda.

  The escorts had been give strict orders by one of General Ali’s lieutenants not to let anything happen to the Americans. Unfortunately, they took this guidance too literally. Obviously, this was bullshit and unacceptable.

  After failing to convince the muhj guides to relax and let the highly trained MSS Monkey folks move out to join Charlie and India teams, Bryan grabbed the radio and dialed up the schoolhouse.

  On his end, the situation had to be handled with kid gloves but at the schoolhouse, Ironhead and I could be a little more aggressive with General Ali. Unfortunately, the good general could not be found in time to overturn the decision in the field.

  Bryan ordered Ski and Catfish to return to OP25-B, and MSS Monkey’s combat controller, Spike, settled in where he was and resumed control of the airspace for preplanned targets for another six hours.

  In the relatively finite black SOF world, assaulters and snipers are a dime a dozen. Yes, these men are trained in multiple deadly skill sets and the dark arts of counterterrorism. But if you asked what tool of the trade would be the very last thing they would leave behind, you might be surprised at the answer. You would likely hear that it is not a tool that makes one nervous when it isn’t there, but rather a capability that is not organic to a troop of Delta operators or Navy SEALs.

  Just because you are the best of the best does not mean you are the best at everything. Any Delta operator can vouch for the capabilities of the air force combat controllers, and very rarely goes on a “hit” without the men who wear the scarlet berets.

  Arguably they are the best-rounded and uniquely trained operators on the planet. The initial training “pipeline” for an air force special tactics squadron combat controller costs twice as much time and sweat as does the journey to become a Navy SEAL or Delta operator. Before their training is complete someone brainwashes these guys into thinking they can climb like Spiderman, swim like Tarzan, and fly like Superman—and then they have to prove they can do so if they plan to graduate. And that is just to get to a place where they can do the job for which they are really trained, calling those deadly air strikes. The life of a combat controller is split between working with Delta and the SEALs, with a little moonlighting with the 75th Ranger Regiment now and again.

  They carry the motto that would be hard to look another operator in the face and say—if it weren’t true. “First There.” In Tora Bora, we counted ourselves lucky to have the Admiral and Spike, and their capability.

  Shortly after Jackal Team first started directing bombs on previously unseen al Qaeda caves and bunkers, bin Laden was picked up again on SIGINT. We plotted the location, which was only several hundred meters away from the snipers’ current strikes. Unfortunately, most SIGINT hits are not real time and are often not very accurate. But we again picked up bin Laden’s voice over a short-range radio the CIA had taken off a dead al Qaeda fighter.

  Adam Khan and a gentleman known to us as Bilal stood in the school yard listening to the unmistakable voice of the al Qaeda leader. Bilal, himself an Arab American and former marine, was considered the CIA’s foremost authority on identifying bin Laden’s Arabic prose and voice. He had appeared out of the darkness one day at the schoolhouse, but in fact, unbeknownst to any of us, Bilal had been in the mountains for the past few days with General Ali’s fighters. His personal assignment, and an incredibly dangerous one, had been to serve as somewhat of a liaison officer for the CIA to provide firsthand reporting of the attitude, performance, and genuine effort of Ali’s men in pursuing the terrorist mastermind.

  On that day, the two CIA assets and former marines listened to what would prove to be the last intercepted transmission of bin Laden to his fighters. They picked up something odd about this particular transmission. Bin Laden was giving more of a sermon than issuing orders, and it was clear to them that the primary target was on the move and intending to leave the battlefield. They also thought the transmission might have been a recorded sermon that would give the impression that bin Laden was still in the middle of the fighting when he could have been on his way out.

  The Admiral noticed something odd about one of the caves on which he directed bombs that day. Typically, a bomb at the base of the cave opening or on top of a bunker resulted in the flash of a momentary fireball, a storm of hot shrapnel and debris, and then a slow and billowing thick black, gray, and brown cloud. This one particular strike ignited large secondary explosions of something hidden inside the cave. It was also answered by futile attempts to engage the U.S. aircraft high above with multiple missile launches. Something valuable had been hidden in that cave.

  Within an hour or so, Murph came up on the net with an exciting report. The muhj commander with the forward Jackal OP said his forces had captured bin Laden! Murph, who was out there at the scene, was skeptical, and the communication gap on his end prevented any detailed explanation as they were without a ’terp.

  Back at the schoolhouse we grabbed Ali’s trusted aide Ghulbihar and brought him into our room. Murph gave his hand mike to the muhj commander and we gave ours to Ghulbihar, with instructions to ask the commander if he had captured bin Laden. After a few moments of back-and-forth discussion, Ghulbihar reported the commander had not in fact captured bin Laden but “they are very close to doing so.” Being close was not at all the same as having done it.

  Still, with our boys positioned in the forward OPs, this was good news. At worst it suggested bin Laden had not fled the battlefield. Interestingly, during Jackal Team’s bombing missions we received another intercepted al Qaeda radio transmission which told the story very clearly. Under obvious duress, an unidentified al Qaeda commander passed a message to a fellow fighter: “We are surrounded by the American commandos from above.”

  The reports were sobering because they reminded us that after hundreds of thousand of taxpayer dollars in bombs alon
e, after weeks of bombing this same ten-mile-by-ten-mile piece of an Afghan mountain range, somehow the resilient al Qaeda leader Usama bin Laden was still alive.

  As Jackal Team patiently worked its magic on the east ridgeline, the rest of MSS Grinch punched straight up the middle. Each day, with Pope, Lowblow, and four Brit commandos in the lead, the allied team linked up with the muhj forces and supported their advance by putting bomb after bomb on key terrain, suspected enemy locations, cave entrances, and al Qaeda foot soldiers.

  These seemingly simple linkups were an adventure of their own as our expensive and secure radios weren’t compatible with the Dollar Store versions used by the muhj. Even if they had been, it would have made little difference, since the muhj didn’t speak English, nor was the word spread that they should be on the lookout for the Americans at any specific place.

  In one incident in particular, a group of friendly muhj returning to the battlefield crested a hill within forty meters of Stormin’s Bravo Team and MSS Grinch. The local dress of the boys perplexed and alarmed the Afghans, and an anxious fighter shouldered his RPG and leveled it at the boys. Adam Khan quickly yelled out in Pashto to stop the confrontation, but the results could have been tragic. Once the linkups were completed, the muhj could now advance some three to nine hundred meters per day, burrowing deeper and deeper into the mountains.

  Much has been written about this battle being fought solely with proxy Afghan fighters supported by American bombers, the implication being that American soldiers remained safely in the background, out of harm’s way. The facts are different. The muhj we were tasked with supporting flat-out refused to stay in the mountains overnight. After a day of fighting, they licked their wounds, counted their booty, slung their Kalashnikovs, and left the field.

  This low tide of performance was repeated for the first three nights in the mountains. Our boys watched in amazement as the muhj left the field, each time relinquishing hard-earned terrain to al Qaeda forces. Ramadan certainly played a role, but to us Westerners, trained to keep the momentum and reinforce success, this standard tribal-warfare dick dance was annoying.