One night I had dinner with some of my Teammates at a little place called the Raven. I had a few beers with the owner, but these were the seven-ounce bottles known as “Little Micks.” During the whole night, I had maybe four or five of these little beers.
About 10 P.M. I went home to bed. We had to load the truck for the trip the next day, so I figured I would get up real early and go into the base to get a jump on things. About 1:30 A.M. the next morning, I was heading toward the base along a four-lane road, traveling in the fast lane far to the left.
Somebody came around the corner at me and I swerved the truck to the right. The guy moved in and was heading at me again, so I swerved to the left. The front wheel hit the curb, and the truck tilted over to the right. The right side wheel folded and the truck fell over on its side. The guy who had been coming at me just kept going. So here it was 2 A.M., and I had been in an accident with my squad’s truck.
The officer who arrived on the scene was not in the best of moods. He had me blow up a balloon and gave me the standard drunk test. Nothing showed on the meter, but the officer must have thought I had been drinking, because all the bars had just closed. So he took me in to the station to take another test.
I kept asking the cop if he had found any witnesses. People had been coming out of the bars, but it wasn’t the best part of town so not a lot of volunteers came up. I kept asking the cop the same question, and he started to get annoyed at me. The cop decided I wasn’t cooperating fast enough and swatted me with his stick a few times. I told him I was sore from the accident and not to hit me again. When he pulled back his stick to nail me with it again, I responded.
He went for his pistol, and I prevented him from drawing it, smacking him back at the same time. Then another police car showed up, this one with two cops, one large and one small. They proceeded to help the first officer “subdue” me. With me stretched across the hood of the car, the big cop bounced my head off the metal once. Then the little one found he had some trouble getting the handcuffs on me. My comments to the smaller officer got my head bounced off the hood of the car again.
They kept me handcuffed and locked me in a cell. The little cop was still pissed at me and said, “I ought to come in there and kick your ass.”
“Well, little man,” I answered, not doing myself a hell of a lot of good, “why don’t you come in here, take the cuffs off, and we’ll lock the door.”
Later they read me the list of charges: resisting arrest, assault on three police officers, and refusal to take an alcohol test. I made a call to our compound and just had to wait things out.
I figured my military career was over. The next day we had to load out for our trip, and it looked like I was going to miss it. If I missed a training op, I would be out of the Team. If I was convicted of assaulting a police officer, I would be out of the SEALs and the Navy.
Bob Schamberger, Scham, one of our senior chiefs, came and got me out. When I walked out of court, Scham was sitting on the steps of the courthouse with his ever-present cup of coffee in his hand.
“How’s it going, mate?” he asked in that drawl of his.
“Bob,” I answered, “not too good.”
“Just get in Gracie there,” and he indicated his blue Corvette.
Scham had paid to get me out of jail, and when he settled into the car, he told me that the Old Man had talked to the admiral and I was okay to go on the trip. I would do what I had to do, and we would deal with my situation when I got back.
CHAPTER 9
NOW HERE’S TO THE LAND DOWN UNDER
class="chbig">Just like the other SEAL teams, SEAL Team Six had an exchange program with our counterparts in other countries. This gave us the opportunity to learn new techniques firsthand and to teach what we knew to others. Overseas units such as the British SAS (Special Air Service) or GSG-9 would send guys to us for four or five months, and we would do the same with them.
For the exchange program, Purdue and I were sent to Australia to learn from their SAS contingency force. Not only did we get to spend time with their elite unit, we even got to see the Commonwealth Games.
The Aussies were really good people and they took care of us. Hospitality was something they all knew how to offer in a big, open way. They greeted us warmly and treated us like their own from the time they met us at the airport to the moment we left for home.
The beer in Australia was a lot better than in America, and not just the taste either. If you ordered a “mini,” you got a little glass of draft beer. A regular beer was a great big thing that would keep you drinking for a while. It was a very pleasant learning experience.
The local lingo, though, gave our hosts a chance to mess with the “Yanks” a bit. Not that it wasn’t the same kind of thing we would have done if the roles were reversed. At the pub just outside the main gate at Campbell Barracks I had my first language lesson. One of the Aussies came up to me and said, “Hey, mate, you pissed?”
“No, I’m not pissed,” I answered.
“No, mate,” he went on, “yah pissed?”
“No, I’m not pissed at anybody.”
“No, yah fuck’n idiot. Are you bloody drunk?”
“Oh,” I said, the light finally going on. “Yeah, I am a little bit.”
Slang can often be the most fun part of learning another language. For instance, “Do you want a root?” means “Do you want to meet a woman?” Then they call their girls “tarts.” But those are more of the professional-type girls. The Aussies didn’t tell me that bit, though. They just told me that was the way to speak with the local ladies. So I went up to a girl at the bar and started to talk with her. She asked if I was an American.
“Yes I am, tart,” I answered.
She smacked me in the face and went off in a huff, while all the Aussie SAS guys fell all over themselves laughing. So I learned a lesson. And I soon learned that the term Sheila wouldn’t get me slapped.
That wasn’t the only time we had a run-in with the local culture. The unit was going diving, but Purdue and I had to wait for some gear to come in first. Then we were going to drive up to the base they staged from. The distance was only some fifty miles, so we figured there wouldn’t be any problem. But we were about to be introduced to abo culture.
The Australian aborigines are usually very friendly, but they have certain places where they like to hang out and enjoy a cold drink and some company just among themselves. Apparently Purdue and I had found one when we stopped along the way. When we walked into the place, we were the only two white faces in view. Everyone just turned and looked at us. But as soon as we said something, they knew we were Americans. After that first tense moment, we had another good time, grabbed some lunch, and continued on our way.
Purdue was driving a bit over the speed limit, though, so we soon made the acquaintance of the local police. Fortunately, the cop who pulled us over used to be in the SAS himself. He was laughing at us as he came up to the car. “Okay, I know where you’re going,” he said. “Take your time, Yanks, and have a good one.”
Like we said, it was a very friendly country.
The diving area was the Bass Straight off of Victoria near Melbourne in southern Australia. The water there was clear and clean. Normally when you dive you might be able to see as far as your hand. And that would be on a good day. In the Bass Straight, it was like diving in the best waters off Hawaii or the Florida Keys. You could see forever.
As good as the waters were, there were some problems. We weren’t warned about the Great White sharks cruising around. Instead we were told that the sea lions were getting into their mating season. Apparently, as divers swam along with Draeger rebreathers, the local bull sea lions would come up from behind and smack into them, thinking they were a female, or maybe competition. If you were ever struck by one of these critters, you were supposed to turn around and smack him one right back. I guess that was to tell him you weren’t in the mood.
The Australians swam a “W” compass course underwater with fou
r legs and three turns. We were following the compass man when he got nailed by a sea lion. They didn’t seem to hit very hard, more just brushed up against you. They didn’t have any idea who or what we were; they just knew we were on their turf when they wanted to get down to some serious business. And we could understand their irritation.
At one point while we were in the Bass Straight, our SAS hosts took us to a pub right in the center of the town, next to this big Catholic church. While we were in the pub, a U.S. Navy guy from an American ship came up to Purdue and started giving him some grief. When I saw this going on I went up and jumped into the situation. I guess Purdue figured he could have handled it, so he started getting pissed (the American version) at me, and we started arguing.
The bartender looked us over, then asked, “Eh, what’s going on here?”
I looked at the barkeep and said, “We’ll have two Bundys and Cokes. If you’d like one, we’ll buy you one.”
Purdue just kind of looked at me and said, “Okay.” That ended that argument, and soon we were hitting the drink pretty hard. By the time I got around to leaving, Purdue was nowhere to be found. This wouldn’t normally be much of a problem, but he had the keys to the car. I couldn’t find him anywhere in the bar so I started looking elsewhere. I walked around the streets a bit, but I was pretty well pissed (the Australian version) by this time. Coming up on some steps, I sat down and quickly fell asleep.
It was around three o’clock in the morning when I sat down on those wide steps. The sun was well up when I awoke the next day. Looking at my watch, I could see it was eight o’clock in the morning. It was people stepping over me that had woken me up. They were going into the big church on whose steps I had slept the night before.
I quickly hailed a cab and headed back to the sergeant’s mess where we were staying. When I finally linked up with Purdue, I found out that he hadn’t been in much better shape the night before. He had taken a cab back to the barracks thinking I had the car keys. When I told him he had the keys, he soon found them in one of his pockets. Another cab ride got us back to our car.
Up in Sidney, we had an experience with the SAS that would soon become very familiar to us. The Australians staged a mock terrorist takeover of a Quantas Airlines Boeing 747. “Passengers” had been gathered for the exercise, and they were a real cross section of people from all walks of life: government contractors, military personnel, and civilian families from eighteen years of age to sixty.
What these people were told was that they would have a free ride from Quantas to Perth, where the exercise would be conducted, and then a free return. The exercise would take about three days, and they would be involved with a simulated terrorist takedown of the aircraft. The idea was to give the SAS regiment some reasonably realistic field experience with a terrorist situation. Cooperation with the local police forces and negotiation teams would be part of the exercise.
The head pilot from Quantas was in charge of the 747. During a pre-exercise meeting, Purdue and I had a chance to meet and talk with him and the rest of the planners. It was decided to make my partner and me two of the aggressors. This would be my first chance to play terrorist, something I would do a lot later in Red Cell.
The two of us would do most of the talking for the terrorists who had seized the aircraft. To throw another twist into the plot, Purdue would play a “sleeper” agent and act like one of the passengers during the early parts of the scenario. Early in the exercise, Purdue would also be used to get the message across to the rest of the people about how things were going to be run.
During the initial actions, Purdue would react to the terrorists. When he jumped up to try and resist, a terrorist would nail him by punching him hard in the chest. That action should get everyone’s attention real quick. When Purdue was knocked down, he would be taken to the rear of the aircraft, out of sight of the rest of the passengers.
Once there, Purdue could keep an eye on them without being seen. Good old Denny would be playing the part of the Dirty Yank and doing most of the speaking during the negotiations.
When we got on board the aircraft for the trip out, we were given specific seats at strategic points. All the other passengers were also given assigned seats, with married couples staying together. Once we had arrived at the planned execution point, the four of us who were active terrorists would put on balaclavas and pull out weapons. From that point on, we would be in charge.
As the Quantas plane started taxiing out along the runway, our balaclavas went on, weapons came out, and we started shouting out orders. “Freeze! Don’t move! This is a hijack!”
We quickly took control of the aircraft. Purdue came charging up one of the aisles, and one of the Aussies elbowed him right in the chest as hard as he could. When Purdue was knocked back, the Aussie kneeled down on him and hit him a few times.
When my Teammate was “subdued,” the rest of the terrorists dragged him into the back of the plane. Purdue was okay, but he was grabbing his chest and commenting on the realism of that Aussie’s role-playing. I ignored him and started talking to the people on board the aircraft and the authorities who were trying to control the situation. Everyone knew that a Yank was now in charge.
We pulled the aircraft back up to the terminal but wouldn’t let them bring out the gate to hook up to the door of the plane. Now negotiations started in earnest. When they gave us a phone, we put it away so that we could control when it would be used.
The pilot and crew in the cockpit played their roles and controlled their situation very well. I remained in the rear of the plane with the passengers, and the Aussie who was working the cockpit made sure everything up front went as planned. The hostage/skyjack scenario was planned to last twenty-four hours, so I would have my chance to interface with the pilot and crew.
The passengers didn’t have the easiest time of it during the exercise, but we didn’t abuse them either. About every six hours, we passed out orange juice and allowed them to use the sanitary facilities. As soon as we had taken control of the aircraft, we split up the married couples. Then we split up groups of people who knew each other and kept them separated. The other passengers who received special attention were the military people on board. Those we separated as well.
About halfway through the problem, I brought the captain out of the cockpit and moved him through the aircraft. Before we moved out, I spoke to him about what I was going to do with him. “Sir,” I said, “when we get down to the bottom of the plane, I’m going to act like a different person. I’m going to manhandle you a bit if I feel it’s necessary. I promise I won’t damage you at all, but you are going to feel it.”
“Okay,” he said. “No problem, Denny.”
The 747 has an upper and lower deck, the upper one being the lounge and flight deck where the cockpit is and the lower being where most of the passengers ride. A small staircase connects the two decks. When we got down to the lower deck, he started speaking to the people. He told them he was the captain and that everything would be all right—just generally doing his job and trying to reassure them. I felt the captain was talking too much, though, and I immediately grabbed him and knocked him around.
“Get going!” I growled. “And just say everything’s okay. You don’t have to say any more!”
Then I pushed him through the rest of the passenger area and we went back up to the flight deck. As we went up the stairs, the captain just kind of stared at me a moment. “Damn, mate!” he said, “you’re right, you change one-eighty just like that!”
“Are you all right?” I asked, a little concerned.
He said everything was okay. Apparently I had just startled him. Back down on the passenger deck, I walked to the rear of the plane where some of the SAS guys were. One of the guys, Red, spoke up. “Hey, Denny,” he said, “take a look at our army sergeant over there.”
An Australian Army NCO who was one of the passengers had his shirt unbuttoned and his uniform open and sloppy. No air conditioning was running, and the plane
was getting uncomfortable, but this guy was sweating a bit more than the conditions called for. It looked like the stress might be getting to him.
“You want me to mess with him?” I asked. It wasn’t my show, so in general I just followed the leads I was given.
“Let’s see if we can break him.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
Going up to where the soldier was sitting, I leaned over and said softly, “Hey, Sarge.”
He looked up at me with these big worried eyes. He’d already seen us nail one of the “passengers” when Purdue got knocked down. Then he’d seen me rough up the pilot. The line between a fictional terrorist action and the appearance of reality was getting a bit thin.
“Button your fucking shirt!” I said softly but in a menacing tone. “I used to be in the military and I always took pride in my uniform. So button it up and make it neat.”
Without taking his eyes off me, the NCO started buttoning up his shirt and straightening out his uniform. His hands trembled a bit as he worked the fasteners.
When I walked away, he gave me a look. I didn’t see it, but my teammate did. Wearing a balaclava now and playing the part of another terrorist, Purdue went over to him. Whatever he said to the guy, it was enough to get a reaction out of him.
“If I had a chance,” the sergeant said, “I’d break your arm.”
Red immediately snatched the guy up out of his seat and moved him farther back in the plane. Shoving him into the cramped bathroom, we had that NCO spread-eagled and in a very uncomfortable position in seconds.
“You do that again and I will break your—,” the sergeant started to say over his shoulder.
Wham! Red kicked the guy’s knees out from under him and knocked him to the floor. Now he was leaning over the toilet, which isn’t the nicest place at the best of times. But the sergeant was really starting to lose it now and we wanted to get him separated from everyone else.
It was a little past midnight and the temperature was starting to drop. A little fog was rolling in, so the situation outside was starting to get miserable. Opening up one of the emergency exits over a wing, we pushed the sergeant out of the plane and onto the wing.
One Perfect Op Page 8