And it wasn’t just the crews that had prepped for Africa who were losing their chance to go. I was going since I was the chief of squad two, as well as the senior chief of the platoon at the time. Our assault group chief, and the group leader himself, were going on the op. But not everyone from our crews would be accompanying us.
What I had to do was choose the men who would be going with me on the pickup itself. The other squad crew chief also had to pick a limited number of men to go with him. It was not an easy decision to make, even though we both made the mission tasking our guide. Both of us picked three men to accompany us. These would be in addition to other support SEALs who were assigned to the op for different reasons.
Picking the guys who would go was one of the hardest decisions I ever had to make as a SEAL senior chief. These were my Teammates and I had trained hard with each one of them. I knew their capabilities, skills, and attitudes as well as I knew myself. And just as I would have been, some of them would be disappointed at being left behind.
Personal friendships had to be put aside. Length of time in the unit couldn’t be a factor. The choice had to center on who had to do what and which person was the best qualified for the job. A secondary factor was to try and keep shooting partners together. Partners knew each other best, and a hot op was where that knowledge would prove the most valuable.
We were going in to pull people out. The child was the primary target—she was a U.S. citizen and had been born in this country—but her parents were also coming out with us. To make sure any possible protests from the locals wouldn’t be a problem, I wanted heavy guns to go in with us. In the SEALs this meant M60 gunners. Rat was one of my 60 gunners, and for that reason he was one of the first men chosen to go.
Providing security at the landing site had to be addressed, so two men were picked who filled that slot the best. Lastly, we needed communicators, so a pair of radio operators were picked. Mato was the most senior guy in my crew. He was not only good at comms, he was a great point man and general operator. These six men would go along with the two of us and the boat teams from the technical group, who were also fully qualified SEALs we had all trained with extensively.
The technical group worked with their boats constantly. They could do over-the-horizon operations and hit the target in some of the worst conditions imaginable, all without being detected. They could handle any of our specialized boats, from running the engines to piloting the craft to supplying close-in fire support with a boat’s weapons. They would get us there and back. The final insertion, recovery, and extraction would be up to us.
On this op, we would be taking four boats into the target. The boats would be our low-profile Zodiac F-470 inflatables, now called CRRCs, for combat rubber raiding craft. The plan was fairly simple. We would go in from a Navy ship, launching our 470s while still over the horizon, move in to the beach, pick up the cargo, and move back out to our parent ship.
Simple, yeah. But there were still a thousand things that could go wrong. Staying flexible and being able to meet the situation, that’s what the Teams do.
Our very small unit went into isolation and received further briefings. We put together our plan of action based on the intelligence we had on the target and the situation. What was different in the Teams from the rest of the Navy, and the military as a whole, was that the enlisted men could put together an operational plan and the officers would listen to our experience. The assault group leader took the plan we had worked up and moved it forward through the headshed, command headquarters, and higher command.
During our discussions about the op, the question of maybe having to swim the kid out to the boats came up. This was something we all became concerned about. Moving through the water while protecting such a small child was a problem, and I had the solution sitting at home.
“I tell you what,” I told the assault group leader, “I’ve got an eighteen-month-old baby of my own at home. I’ve got a carrier for her that you wear on your chest. What if I go home and get that. We could mount a couple of LPUs (life preserver units) on it. If we had to swim out, at least we would have that to hold the kid securely.”
That made sense to everyone there. Problem was, I had to break isolation in order to go home and get the carrier. Permission was given for me to run home. Rushing off base, I got to my house as quickly as I could.
Kitty knew I had been recalled, and she knew that I couldn’t answer any questions, so she never bothered to ask much. But when I asked her for our brand-new baby carrier, she wanted to know why.
This was not one of the times it’s a whole lot of fun being a SEAL. “Well, we just need it for a gag. I’ll bring it back.”
“Well, don’t destroy it, Chalker.”
“I won’t destroy it,” I promised. “I’ll bring it back, and nothing will happen to it.” And with that, the very specialized equipment needed for our operation was secured.
Getting back to the base, I headed to the rigger’s shop in the air loft to work on the carrier. With the help of the riggers, who maintained and sewed up our parachutes when they needed it, several LPUs were attached to the carrier. Any one of the inflatable LPUs would have been enough to support the baby easily.
The original colors of the carrier were fluorescent orange and yellow, not the best camouflage for a combat environment. Black spray paint changed the colors easily enough. The rigger also helped me put some PT-mat foam padding on the inside of the carrier to be sure the baby would be well protected in case I had to move fast.
Another specialized piece of gear I couldn’t have easily gotten through regular channels now had to be prepared. Taking the pacifier I had grabbed up from home, I sterilized it and sealed it in a plastic bag. Tying the bag to the carrier with a length of 550 parachute cord, my rig was pretty much set. Putting on all my normal equipment, the carrier sat right up high on my chest without any problem. The baby would be secure for a swim.
Loading out for the trip to the airfield, we finished up our preparations in the Team area. Intel had come in on the operation, and it still looked like it might be a simple one. There was a timeline that was pretty tight and had little room for mistakes. A rendezvous on a hostile beach had been set up, not a long way from a city. We had to hit that beach at exactly the right time and place. There wouldn’t be a chance for a second attempt.
With our pallets of gear on the trucks, we headed out to the airfield. Confidence was high, but we each concentrated on our job. It’s when you lose that concentration and take things for granted that problems come up. My Teammates and I had been training far too long to make that particular mistake. Boarding the planes, we flew to a forward Navy base to hook up with a ship.
Waiting for us at the forward base was a fast frigate that would act as our transportation platform for the operation. For the first time, I would be going on an active op aboard a regular U.S. Navy ship. Last-minute intelligence and the final time schedule came down to us at the base. Loading onto the ship, we were on our way.
Things were moving fast, and we kept right up with the situation. During transit we went over our plan, polishing the last-minute details. Our Team skipper was along with us doing liaison between our units and the Army officer from SOCOM who was overseeing our op at that time.
In spite of all the heavy hitters we had in the loop, the planning and execution of the op were still very much a team effort. It wasn’t one guy’s idea or plan. Our assault group leader made certain that his senior enlisted men had their input on the op, and he listened to each man in the unit. He trusted the senior enlisted, myself included, with assigning operational responsibilities to the men. During the briefings, we passed out the details for insertion, extraction, E & E if something went wrong, radio frequencies, call signs, and all the other facets of a modern special operation.
The beef of the plan—the actions on the objective—the assault group leader, the other squad chief, and I ironed out among ourselves. Squad Two, my selected guys, would go in and mainta
in outside security for the meeting site. They would immediately spread out and establish a perimeter after our landing. I would go in with the rest of the unit, including the assault group leader, and we would meet with the target people. My job was to take care of the baby. I would have what we called the “precious cargo,” and my whole world would revolve around getting that kid out safely.
Riding the ship down to the target area was an experience. The crew offered us berthing, but we turned it down, preferring to get what little sleep we might back in the hangar area where our gear was. We did eat in the chief’s mess, which was great. The ship took good care of us, and my hat’s off to that chief’s mess to this day.
Our Team master chief had showed up at the forward Navy base along with our CO and boarded with us for the op. He told me that he wished he was going on the mission just as badly as I would have if the positions were reversed. But the bottom line was that we had proposed a plan for the operation and it had moved smoothly up the ladder in getting approved. This was something our CO was very good at.
“You guys have been doing this business,” he said. “You’ve been in the trenches just doing it. When you say something is going to work, I trust you. If you say it’s not going to work, it’s not going to work. Now, is this operation going to work?”
“We can make it work,” we said.
That was all he needed to know. He brought us the final go-ahead, and we were on.
While we were under way to the target area, we practiced getting our boats and gear into the water. Our dry runs consisted of getting the gear secured on the boats and the boats smoothly into the water, located and spaced properly so that we could quickly board in the dark. The practice showed the teamwork of the SEALs in action. Each of the coxswains knew where his boat would be and how to get to it. Each boat crew could get to its assigned place. This was important because we would have to do the real operation in the dark to minimize the possibility of detection.
In addition, we conducted talk-through drills, practiced our actions once on target, and confirmed that everyone knew where he would have to be and what was expected of him. The coxswains set to work making sure each of their boats was as prepared as the rest of us were. This action lasted through the night and the next day as the frigate continued on its course.
The ship’s crew jumped in to help. Boatswain’s mates, cargo handlers, everyone on the ship turned to. If we needed help, sometimes even before we could ask, one of the crew would show up and things would get done the best way possible.
This made me think of the frogmen of World War II, the UDT operators who are the SEALs’ grandfathers, and all the other amphibious forces who worked from the sea. Was this what it had been like for them? This was the first time I had seen an integrated U.S. Navy ship and crew gear up and focus on a single goal. Each man had his job to do and worked smoothly with the ship and the rest of the crew. They were at battle stations and remained on alert the entire operation. The crew and their ship were like a single entity, like something alive. It was an impressive sight.
In the chief’s mess, we were having our last hot meal before the launch. While we were eating, a silence fell across the ship as the ship’s chaplain came on the MC overhead (shipboard P.A. system) and made an announcement: “We have some people on board who are going into harm’s way. I would like to say a little prayer for them and wish them the best. Until they come back and link up with us, may they be in God’s hands.”
The meal over, the chiefs, including the master chief of the ship, stood to shake our hands. “We’ll be back,” I said. “Have a cold beer waiting.”
“We’ll have cold beer,” the master chief said.
It was good to see the Navy swing into operation with all the chiefs integrating into a smooth machine. We did our last prep and staged for insertion. It was great to watch the guys cammie up and get ready for the op. For the younger guys, this would be their first mission in a combat zone. As they smeared the dark cosmetic on their faces, I could see questions in their eyes, the same questions I had asked myself when heading in to Grenada: Would I be all right? Would I do my job? What would happen if the bullets started flying? And, the strongest of all, would I let my Teammates down?
Hell, I knew those questions, as did every SEAL and frogman who had gone into combat before us. But this was my chance to see it in their eyes. “Hey, look,” I said to the group. “Everyone’s coming back. Everyone does what they’re supposed to do and everything will work out fine. Hopefully, there won’t be a shot fired. We’ll pick the people up and be on our way. But if something does go wrong, well, we covered the what-ifs in your training and in the briefing. If there’s a firefight, we break up into teams and head for the water. There’s other combat vets here. If you get into trouble, just follow their lead.”
In general, that was exactly what we would do. The difference would be if I had the kid on my person and the shit hit the fan. In that case, I had the precious cargo and my whole being would be concentrated on getting into the water and away from that beach. The rest of my Teammates would be putting out a field of covering fire to give me and what I carried the best chance they could. Then they too would head for the water. And as they pulled out, fire would come from the boats to cover their withdrawal.
You don’t dwell on the possibility of failure. You cover the problems and establish the procedures to deal with them. We would remain flexible and face whatever came.
The operation was short, and a success. It was around 0200 to 0300 hours in the morning, after things had finally wrapped up, that getting some sleep became my new mission. Helicopters would be coming in to take the family to another destination. After being up a day and a half, I was in the hangar on the fantail with the rest of my team sleeping soundly when our CO came into the room.
In a situation where you haven’t had much sleep and have come in off an operation, you sometimes don’t react as you normally would when you finally crash. When the captain shook my shoulder to wake me up, I don’t think he expected me to jerk up and grab him. Coming out of a deep sleep, my hand was up before I knew it and the captain was slapping it out of the way.
“Denny, Denny!” he called out. “It’s me!”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry, Skipper.”
“I want you to get up,” he continued. “The mother would like to thank you and get a picture with you.”
So I got up, half asleep, and followed the captain up to the deck. The family was there, all with their helmets and flight jackets on, the baby all bundled up, waiting to board the helo. I had been so deeply asleep that I never heard the bird come in. But the mother wanted to extend her thanks to me again. Standing with them for a photo, I still hadn’t washed all the camo off yet. We said our good-byes. I watched them board the bird and never saw them again.
When the ship returned to the forward base, we downstaged off the ship and thanked the crew warmly for the cooperation we had received. It would have been a much harder op if we hadn’t had that ship and her professional crew to back us up. Everyone lent a hand getting our gear off, and off we went.
At the base we had a big debriefing. Like so many SEAL operations, this one had never happened. But we knew what we had done, and it was something to be proud of. We went out for some pizzas and beers to celebrate after the debrief, but before we went, I had some real startling news dropped into my lap.
In a small office he had available, the Army general in overall command gathered a few of us from the mission. He had a little more to say than the “Well done” we had received from him. And what he had to say shocked me more than a little. Seems there was a bit more riding on our operation than a family’s freedom.
In that office, the Army officer told us, “Good job done. Because if you guys hadn’t pulled it off, your command would be gone and you’d all be reassigned.”
“Pardon me, sir,” I said, stunned. “Off the record, just what are you talking about?”
“Just that. There wo
uldn’t be a specialized SEAL command if you had failed. But both I and your captain had confidence that the operation would come off.”
Apparently the op had been considered such a hot one, sensitive and absolutely necessary, that if we had been unsuccessful, our whole command would have been disbanded. What the logic behind this was, I don’t know. Maybe the politicians who control the purse strings thought that if we couldn’t do the op, we weren’t worth paying for. But such are the politics of the higher commands. I suppose that if we had been disbanded, our future missions would have gone to another SpecOps unit.
After absorbing this news for a second, I asked, “Why weren’t we told?”
“That was your captain’s decision.”
Well, that was certainly a kick in the ass. After thinking about it for a while, I could sort of see why he hadn’t told us. The weight of the future of our whole command would have been a very heavy load to carry on a hot op. Thoughts about a possible failure might be just what it took to cause a failure.
But the consequence of a failure didn’t matter. What did matter was that we had accomplished our mission successfully. Loading our gear on an airplane, we left the Navy base for southeastern Virginia and home.
We were still on standby when we got back. And there was still a little friction with the guys who couldn’t go. But they remained professional about the situation in spite of their disappointment. I know I probably would have felt the same way. It had been a good op, and for some of these hard-trained SEALs, it may have been the last opportunity to get some real-world action before they finally left the service. But the mission came first.
The mission happened so fast that many of the guys at our command never even knew it had happened. The word was put out during a debriefing later, which was the first many of the guys knew about it.
One Perfect Op Page 27