Battle Ready sic-4

by Tom Clancy

  After Bahrain, I went to Nairobi, Kenya, to meet the military chief of staff, General Mohamed, and other government officials. We intended to use Mombasa as a base for our AC-130 gunships and as a logistics and staging base (to stage forces that would link up with ships sailing in from the Pacific).

  In Nairobi, we picked up Ambassador Dan Simpson, the President’s special envoy to the Somalia mission, and Ambassador David Shinn, the State Department’s Africa bureau head, and then flew to Mogadishu to coordinate with the UNOSOM forces and meet with warlords.

  In Somalia, General Aboo Samah, the Malaysian commander of the UNOSOM forces, and Ambassador Victor Gbeho, the special representative of the Secretary-General, were professional and cooperative; and the initial meetings with warlords were also encouraging. Essentially, our message to the warlords was: “Look, we’ll take you on if we have to, but that’s not the point. We’re not looking for trouble. We just want to get these people out of here. So lay back. It’s over. Let’s get these people out of here without making waves.” And they all bought that.

  But our visit to Aideed was a near disaster.

  Aideed was never the most punctual of men, and, true to form, he was a little late that day. But when he came rushing in, he was in a very up mood — in his statesman mode, which was fine with me. He’d just been to a political rally, which had gone well; the UN departure favored his interests and objectives; so he seemed happy to see us.

  For some reason, however, from the very start of our discussions, Ambassador Simpson took a very provocative line with Aideed. He clearly wanted to get in Aideed’s face (and, God knows, there was plenty of bad blood between our people and Aideed); and here was his chance to show Aideed that he was a very hard-ass guy who couldn’t be pushed around by a two-bit warlord. The discussion quickly grew heated; threats were tossed back and forth; and the whole situation seemed headed for a bad crash.

  By then, Aideed had switched into his black mode; my brain was working on all cylinders; and I was really pissed. “What in the hell are we doing?” I was thinking. “We don’t need to piss Aideed off and take on more enemies than we need. We just want to get these troops out of here and avoid confrontation.”

  Somehow we got through the rest of the meeting without a renewal of open warfare.

  At the conclusion of the meeting, we stepped outside with Aideed for a photo at the bottom of the building steps. Afterward, as the others were preparing to leave, Aideed grabbed my arm and drew me aside.

  “Zinni,” he said, “you look worried.”

  “You’re right,” I told him. “We don’t need a confrontation at this point,” I continued. “I’m here to protect the UN, and I will; but we don’t need more casualties on any side.”

  “Don’t worry, I will not attack the UN or interfere with the withdrawal,” he promised. “But,” he added, “I don’t control all the militia or gangs; and the militia and gangs at the end of the airport will fight you. I will try to control things where I can.”

  It was good to know that Aideed had sense enough not to be thrown by the provocations. He knew he was getting what he wanted — the UN’s departure; he’d have been nuts to jeopardize that success. His warning, meanwhile, proved accurate; but he also delivered on his promise to control whatever his forces were able to control.

  I immediately left Somalia for wrap-up meetings back in Bahrain, then flew on to Pakistan to brief General Abdul Waheed, the chief of staff of the Pakistani military. Since his forces had suffered more casualties in Somalia than any other national force, he wanted to be sure the scheme for withdrawal was sound. His support meant we were now completely on track.

  I then headed on to Kenya, to board the USS Belleau Wood, which would be my command ship.

  In addition to our twenty-three ships, the force we assembled for United Shield included and totaled 16,485 soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines from seven nations. It also included the Pakistani Brigade and Bangladeshi Battalion that would be the last UNOSOM forces that would hold the airport and port and would be put under my command for the final withdrawal.

  We sailed from Mombasa on the first of February; stopped off the coast of Malindi, Kenya, for rehearsals of our landing and withdrawal; then moved north to begin our third phase — setting the conditions for the withdrawal and assuming control of the UN forces.

  We arrived off the coast of Mogadishu on the seventh of February and began setting the stage for the final withdrawal. For the next three weeks, the UN drew down its presence until they controlled only the port and airfield. Meanwhile, United Shield forces prepared for the final withdrawal. This would take four days. During this period, I began taking increasing responsibility for functions like medical care and fire support, as we moved toward the moment when General Aboo passed command of the UN forces to me.

  In addition to our physical preparations (defensive positions, barriers, and the like), we conducted a series of sand table exercises, thoroughly rehearsing our plan with the UN forces, to ensure everyone knew his role cold. Again, we had time — the rarest commodity — and I intended to use every second to our advantage.

  Mogadishu’s airfield is located near the seashore and south of the port. Just south of the airport is a wide expanse of beach. Our plan was to land our forces, take control of the port from the Bangladeshi Battalion, then hold it and move them out by ship. The Pakistani Brigade which held the airport would then withdraw through our lines to the port, where we would also move them by ship.

  During these operations, United Shield forces would maintain control of the beach areas east and south of the airport. After the UN forces had departed, we would move out of the port, then off the high dunes overlooking the airport, and finally off the beach south of the airport. We would, in effect, pull back from north (the port) to south (the beach below the airport). This would be the most dangerous phase of the operation, since we expected militias, gangs, and mobs to close in rapidly behind us. Our physical preparations involved extensive engineer work; we erected barbed-wire obstacles and huge sand mounds to cover our withdrawal.

  Though our headquarters for the Combined Task Force remained aboard the Belleau Wood, my Special Operations component established a forward command post ashore (called “the Advanced Operating Base”). The special ops forces also provided Coalition Support Teams to each of the allied forces to ensure close coordination and communications. As soon as we arrived off Mogadishu, a shipboard heliborne Quick Reaction Force was activated as a reserve. Another critical component was the Explosive Ordnance Disposal unit, whose task was to destroy the considerable amount of ammunition and captured weapons that the UN forces had amassed over the years. Though the daily explosions from the EOD were necessary, they were often unnerving.

  My landing force was composed of U.S. and Italian Marines. The U.S. Special Forces and U.S. SEAL units also provided valuable capabilities to the forces ashore as well. Each of our four forces had sniper teams; these proved to be key assets when the withdrawal began.

  On the ninth of February, Kofi Annan, then the head of the UN peacekeeping organization, arrived to review the plans for the withdrawal, and also to visit our forces and ships. It was clear that Annan understood the complexity of the operation and appreciated what we were doing. To symbolically mark the entrusting of UNOSOM forces to our protection, he presented me with a UN beret. [69]

  Several days later, a formal ceremony at the airport passed control of the UN forces from General Aboo’s command to mine.

  By then, I was greatly impressed by the competence and professionalism of the Pakistani and Bangladeshi units. We had loaned armor and other equipment to the Pakistanis for their mission in Somalia. Now we had to recover and evacuate this equipment. When our U.S. maintenance personnel recovered the tanks, armored personnel carriers, and other equipment, they found the gear in terrific condition. “This stuff is like new,” a maintenance guy told me. “Every single tool in every single kit is there.” The pride of these coalition units
gave me confidence that their parts in the operation would go without a hitch.

  The media was not so easy to handle. They bristle at any form of control; convincing them to form a press pool proved to be particularly difficult; and loose media were running around Mogadishu unencumbered by pool restrictions. I was determined that the media who joined the pool would be rewarded: They were at all the significant locations during the operation and were denied access to commanders only when that could interfere with the mission. I spent a great deal of time briefing the pool and providing them background. By the end of our operation, the relationship that had developed with the pool was superb, benefiting both sides — the best cooperation between the media and the military I had ever experienced. This took a lot of effort and trust on both sides, but we made it work.

  As the three weeks of the preparation phase came to a close, we could see the problems forming that we would face during withdrawal. The port and airfield were full of material soon to be abandoned by the UN; and these “prizes” were beginning to tempt the desperate Somalis. Soon they were gathering ominously in growing numbers around the reinforced gates and walls of the port and airfield. Militias were already jockeying for control of entry points, hoping to be the first to claim the facilities and spoils for their warlord.

  In the hope of heading off more trouble, I called a meeting with the heads of these militias and my old police commanders, to be held in the open, on a small hill overlooking the city just above the airfield. Everybody showed up, with the exception of the leaders of groups that were especially hostile to us, and everybody was eager to cooperate, quickly agreeing to our plan to set up a thousand-meter buffer, marked off with warning signs and barbed wire, to keep Somalis separated from our forces. Yet like Aideed, they warned that they could not control the more hostile groups (such as the gang at the southern end of the airport).

  Because these guys threatened our last position on the beach as we withdrew (no other beach area would do), we were going to have to do something about them.

  It was a successful meeting; but I was particularly glad to see my old policemen, who offered to take and defend the port for us as we pulled out, if we could give them ammunition, guaranteeing we’d have no problems there. Despite opposition from our political side, who shared the UN’s distrust of the Somali police, I gave them the ammo. I knew they were anxious to prove once again that our faith in them had not been misplaced.

  They lived up to their word; the port area was never a problem for us as we pulled out.

  Another encouraging development at the meeting came from Aideed’s onetime financier, Osman Atto. After his release from the UN’s island prison, Atto had a falling-out with Aideed and then carved out his own faction and militia. Now, during the meeting, he offered to help with security. I took him up on his offer a few days later, when a particularly nasty armed gang outside the main gate of the airport started giving the Pakistanis trouble. They subsequently shot up an Italian news crew and killed the photographer. I called Osman, who rolled out his super-technicals (big, military-type trucks armed with heavy crew-served weapons such as quad fifty antiaircraft guns) and engaged the rogue militia. After a fierce fight, his troops defeated the bad guys and drove them from the area, and then took control of the gate area.

  Later, I had to ask him to pull his super-technicals out of there, since they made our helo guys nervous. Osman gladly complied.

  As the meeting was breaking up, an old militia leader remained seated, staring grief-stricken out over the devastated city and the piles of abandoned UN material around the port and airport. “A lot of resources and lives have been wasted,” he told me, his face close to tears. “For what? We’ll be abandoned by the world and left on our own to suffer more years of killing and devastation.”

  I didn’t have much hope to offer him as he left.

  On the twenty-eighth of February, we began the fourth phase — the final withdrawal.

  That morning, we took control of the port; and the UN contracted ships which were to evacuate the Bangladeshi Battalion arrived. The condition of the ships was appalling. Yet when I raised this issue back up the line, I was told that they were the best available. Still, I was bothered that these fine soldiers were subjected to such horrible conditions. The Pakistanis, it turned out, were going to get a worse deal.

  Appalling conditions or no, the Bangladeshis began their move out.

  As they were boarding the ships, we began to receive sporadic firing at our positions guarding the port, and the crowds at the gate started to get more restless, hostile, and threatening.

  We meanwhile evacuated the final group of 112 noncombatants to our ships — UN contract employees, non-pool media requesting evacuation, and a few civilian relief workers — for transport to Kenya. Our normal procedure is to search such people before we bring them on board our ships, but in this case I waived that requirement. After we dropped them off, however, I learned that a few of them were carrying drugs, illegal wildlife, and other contraband that had to be confiscated by Kenyan customs. This taught me a lesson about trust.

  When these operations had been completed, the time had come for the passage of lines of the Pakistani unit and their move from the airport to the port. Because this operation was sure to unleash the hordes into the airport, I wanted to get the ship carrying the Pakistanis loaded and gone as soon as possible. That way we could quickly leave the port and collapse our lines to the beach south of the airport for our pullout. If everything worked according to plan, we’d be on the beach by nightfall.

  The Pakistanis executed a flawless passage of lines and closed on the port in good order. We recovered their equipment and very quickly loaded it on our ship. We then waited for the ship, which the UN had contracted to carry them to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, from where they would fly back to their country. The ship arrived late, having nearly run aground coming into port. When the ship finally pulled in and tied up pier side, it was clear it was too small for the number of troops it was to carry. Worse, the first officer was reporting that the master of the ship was drunk and there was no food or water aboard. It was to be a trip of several days.

  It was easy enough to transfer pallets of MREs and water from our ships to the UN ship, but the careless treatment of brave and highly professional troops by the UN was unforgivable.

  We were now way behind schedule, and a flood of people, technicals, and looters was pouring onto the airport dangerously close to our lines. There was firing everywhere as friendly militias attempted to take control and chase off the looters. Though the police had taken effective control of the port, we were now taking fire all along our lines. Somali translators shouted warnings and our snipers fired warning shots. This got the attention of the militias, and they started to gain control.

  Late that afternoon, Aideed suddenly showed up to claim the airport, breaking an agreement among the warlords to share control. He simply blew in with his people and grabbed it; and the other warlords could do nothing to stop him.

  Meanwhile, my hopes to be on our exit beach by dark were fading. It looked like we wouldn’t be moving there until later that night.

  As dusk set in, Aideed was not yet in full control of the airport, and rogue gunmen with rifles and RPG launchers were taking up hiding places behind abandoned container boxes and other piled material scattered around, then popping up to take potshots at us. Though we called out warnings with loudspeakers, and close-aimed shots from our snipers were driving them back, my Marine commander, Colonel John Garrett, reminded me that we couldn’t let them stay nearby into the night; it would be very tough to track them then.

  He was right, and I had to order the snipers to take them all out. They did. Later, when the press got wind of the story, they wanted to know how many were killed. My response got a lot of coverage. “I don’t count bodies,” I told them. “This isn’t Vietnam.”

  Meanwhile, the Marine units holding the last exit beach to our south reported increasingly heavy fire from
the militia there. Though helo gunships helped cover the beach area, the militia fighters were well hidden. Because it was growing ever more clear that the last troops off that beach would have a hell of a time, I decided that I would have to leave that night with them.

  During the move down to the beach, we put obstacles prepared by the engineers in place behind us. They had also created huge sand dunes that covered our large air-cushioned vehicles rapidly moving our forces and equipment out. At the beach, we evacuated all but the last two companies; these would pull out by amphibious tractor.

  Around midnight, I joined Lieutenant Colonel Phil Tracey, the battalion commander of these troops and an old friend. The intensity of the firefight was picking up. The militia was now sending squad-sized units at our lines, but the Marines were instantly cutting them down. I listened on the company tactical nets as young lieutenants and captains directed their troops in the fight — taking me back to Vietnam. One of these voices on the radio net sounded familiar, and Phil confirmed that it was the son of a close friend, a fellow Marine general. Another generation had come to take our place and go through our passage to manhood.

  The plan for the final pullout called for the troops on signal to rapidly board the tractors, our AC-130 and helo gunships would keep up their covering fire, and the armored amphibians would make a quick rush for the water before the bad guys could react. Though we had rehearsed this maneuver many times, I worried that a lucky RPG shot could hit a tractor racing for the water. The close quarters fight that followed could be messy.

  As the signal flare was fired, my aide, my chief of staff, and I jumped into the back of a nearby tractor. The hatches quickly closed, and the tractors raced in a line to the water. Soon the rumbling down the beach gave way to the gentle ride through the waves. Though the track seemed to jerk and shudder as we rumbled down the beach — as if the transmission had problems — I didn’t worry about it once we hit the water.