13 Hours: The Inside Account of What Really Happened in Benghazi

by Mitchell Zuckoff

  The operators also learned that the 17 February militiamen who were supposed to block the roadways leading to the Compound either couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to hold off a second assault. The GRS Team Leader called the 17 February commander by cell phone, asking him to fortify their positions so the Land Cruiser and the Mercedes could travel safely back to the Annex. Accounts of the response differ, but several operators said the militia commander admitted that his men were falling back. In that case, the attackers would have a clear path to return and finish what they’d started. Also, there would be nothing to stop them if they decided to move from the Compound to the lightly defended Annex.

  The pings and pops of gunfire began to pick up from beyond the Compound walls. Tanto heard a crack, then another, from the Fourth Ring Road. The open back gate infuriated him more. He also heard shots coming from the east side of the Compound, near the gardener’s shack he’d been watching. Several bullets hit the side of the Land Cruiser, making a sound like coins being flicked against a tin can.

  Even as they prepared to leave, and even though their hopes of finding Stevens had fallen, Jack, Rone, and D.B. continued to search the villa for the ambassador. Tanto took up a defensive position on the ground outside. After a short while he began patrolling the grounds, watching several dozen 17 February militiamen who milled around the Compound. Most were young and wiry, but Tanto became intrigued by a short, heavyset man who looked to be in his fifties. The man carried a shiny, nickel-plated AK-47 and dressed as though he’d just left an office job, with dark-blue pants and a tan button-down dress shirt. Tanto couldn’t tell if the man was a battle tourist or a fighter. Tanto kept watching the gates and the walls through his night-vision goggles, checking the dark corners to see if anyone was climbing over.

  A call came over the radio from the Team Leader for everyone to muster at the vehicles for immediate departure. No one wanted to leave with Chris Stevens unaccounted for. But they’d searched repeatedly with no success, so it seemed likely to several of the operators that he was in enemy hands. If Stevens somehow did remain inside the villa, perhaps deep within part of the safe haven they couldn’t reach through the flames, Sean Smith’s death by apparent smoke inhalation convinced the operators that the ambassador was surely dead, too. In that case, the work would no longer be a rescue mission, but a recovery effort. With a force of attackers approaching from beyond the walls, they couldn’t justify retrieving a body if it meant more American casualties. The T.L. made the call to leave, and all the operators were in agreement.

  Rone and Jack carried Sean Smith’s body to the back of the Mercedes SUV and placed it inside the cargo area as gently as they could. Tanto came over to see Smith and pay his respects. He’d spoken with Smith only once, and he wanted to be sure that this was the man he’d met. Tanto gently turned Smith’s head to see if he recognized him. It was hard to tell, as Smith’s face was still blackened by soot. Tanto laid his head down and shut the cargo door.

  Rone slid into the Mercedes’s driver’s seat. The Team Leader and Henry the translator continued talking with the 17 February militiamen.

  The five DS agents crowded into the Land Cruiser, ready to go. Although still worn out from his ordeal and suffering from smoke inhalation, Scott Wickland took the wheel. An agent from Tripoli rode shotgun. Dave Ubben and Alec Henderson squeezed in back with the other Tripoli agent.

  Before heading toward the Mercedes, the Team Leader and several other operators warned Wickland to turn left, not right, when he drove out of the Compound. Going to the right, which would have taken him to the east, might have seemed the more natural route, because the Annex was located southeast of the Compound. Also, that was the route the DS agents normally traveled to the Annex. But the Team Leader had heard by phone that the attackers were massing in that area, and a right turn would put the Land Cruiser directly into their path. By turning to the left, the DS agents would be retracing the route the operators had used, in reverse, which would steer them through areas that might still be protected by the 17 February militia.

  From the Land Cruiser’s back seat, Dave Ubben opened the door and called to Jack, who was outside near the Mercedes: “Hey, we don’t have a radio. Do you guys have one?”

  Jack went to Rone, who had somehow acquired a second radio. Jack carried it to Ubben so they could remain in contact. As he walked back to the Mercedes, Jack heard a whooshing sound, followed a split second later by an explosion.

  Several minutes earlier, Tig had decided to make a few final search runs inside the villa. He called the T.L. on his radio: “I’m going in one more time.”

  “No,” the Team Leader replied. Eager to get everyone evacuated, he told Tig: “Stand by. Stand by.”

  Tig complied, but only briefly. The operators and DS agents were hanging around the vehicles, so he figured he’d attempt one last search before they left. He considered it most likely that Stevens was still somewhere inside. Tig had been thinking about the aftermath of the 1993 Battle of Mogadishu in Somalia, memorialized in Black Hawk Down, particularly the part when locals had dragged the bodies of American soldiers through the streets. They’re going to be doing the exact same thing to the ambassador, Tig told himself. That’s something I don’t want to see. We gotta find him.

  Tig stripped off his heavy Rhodesian assault vest and left his assault rifle outside the villa window. He’d broken his night-vision goggles when he banged them on the window frame during a previous search, so he left them and his helmet outside, too. Carrying only his flashlight and pistol, wearing his thin body armor over his shirt, Tig took several extra-large breaths, held the last one, and went inside through the bedroom window.

  The rooms remained hot and smoky, so Tig crawled or slid on his belly. He moved through the bedroom and checked both sides of the bed. Finding nothing, he crept toward the safe-haven hallway, hoping to go deeper into the villa, to other rooms none of the searchers had yet reached.

  Tig was halfway out of the bedroom doorway when he heard the explosion.

  Tanto was walking between the Land Cruiser and the Mercedes when he heard it: Kajoom! He felt the concussive pressure of the explosion, but wasn’t sure where it had come from. He spun toward the front gate and saw 17 February militiamen taking cover. As Tanto ran toward the front of the villa, he came upon two militiamen, one with his left hand bloody and badly mangled.

  “What happened?” Tanto yelled.

  “Grenade!” the injured man’s friend told him.

  At first, Tanto mistakenly thought the man had tried to throw a grenade but held it too long. Moments later, when a second explosion hit, Tanto realized that the Compound was under attack from rocket-propelled grenades, fired from the direction of the open back gate. Gunfire sputtered toward the Americans and their militia supporters from the area of the Fourth Ring Road.

  Counterattack, Tanto thought. They’re going to start coming in. They’re going to try to take this thing back over.

  Scanning to see where the attackers might enter the Compound, Tanto caught sight of D.B. running to join him near the front of the villa. Bullets flew around them in the dark, sounding like whips cracking again and again.

  “Are those motherfuckers shooting at us?” Tanto asked D.B. “Really?”

  They were exposed on the front lawn, so Tanto and D.B. ran to take cover at the Land Cruiser. Tanto saw muzzle flashes coming from the back gate. He placed his weapon across the hood of the armored SUV and began firing. Tanto wasn’t wearing earplugs, so the reports from his rifle blew out his left eardrum.

  After the first grenade, the Team Leader had radioed the DS agents in the Land Cruiser: “Get the fuck out of here! Go! Go! Go!”

  Tanto had arrived at the SUV before Scott Wickland could shift into gear. The DS agents stared at Tanto through the windshield, their faces twisted in anxious grimaces. Tanto called out, “Sorry!” He lifted his gun and stepped back from the Land Cruiser. Tanto gave them a traffic cop wave to send the DS agents on their way.


  With the operators and several militiamen providing waves of cover fire, Wickland hit the gas and drove toward the Compound’s open front gate. When he passed under the entrance arch and reached the gravel road, Wickland either disregarded or forgot the operators’ repeated warnings about which way to go. The disoriented DS agent turned the Land Cruiser to the right, directly into the path of the returning attackers.

  “Those dumb motherfuckers!” Tanto said aloud. “Are you kidding me?”

  Around the same time as the second Compound attack began, at approximately 11:10 p.m. Benghazi time, the unarmed US drone arrived over the city. It immediately began sending live video back to Washington and Tripoli, so policymakers could watch grainy overhead images of the battle as it happened.

  After the Land Cruiser pulled away, Tanto stepped to the other side of the brick driveway, moving across the firing line, for a better angle to engage the attackers. He took a knee and continued shooting. Whenever he saw a muzzle flash he returned fire. Tanto knew that he was exposed, but he felt enveloped by a blanket of protection he attributed to his faith.

  D.B. took cover by the villa when the Land Cruiser sped off. He and the Team Leader weren’t so sanguine. “Tanto! Get over here!” the T.L. shouted over the radio. D.B. echoed him: “Get behind cover!”

  Tanto stayed put. He believed that if he hadn’t been shot yet, a spiritual power must be watching over him. Tanto’s other motive was his training on how to respond to an ambush. Tanto intended to aggressively engage their attackers, to demonstrate superior firepower and prevent the enemy from feeling emboldened. Throw everything at them. Put them back on their heels, he told himself.

  Tanto heard gunfire originating from his right. He looked over to see a 17 February militiaman, none other than the older man with the civilian clothes and the nickel-plated AK-47, supporting his position from about ten feet away. The younger militiamen were nowhere to be found. But this short, stout, fifty-something man was on one knee, firing alongside Tanto toward the back gate. Tanto couldn’t help but smile.

  It was still just the two of them, and despite his trust in angels on his shoulders, Tanto felt outnumbered. He grabbed his radio with his non-shooting hand and pressed the talk button with his thumb: “Hey, I could use some help. It’d be nice if someone could join me over here.”

  “Roger that,” D.B. answered, running over to assist the former Ranger and the senior militiaman, as they poured bullets toward the back gate. Knowing that Tanto had been spending rounds freely, D.B. slid him an extra magazine across the driveway.

  After the first RPG, Jack heard a sustained volley of gunfire, as rounds snapped past his head. Most of the militiamen and operators who’d been standing around the SUVs ran toward the villa for cover. When Jack reached the villa wall, to his right he saw a line of militiamen, laying fire toward the back gate.

  Jack’s training taught him to always establish 360-degree security, with coverage from the front, back, sides, and all angles. He saw the line of militiamen taking cover against the villa and realized that an attacker with an automatic weapon could run down an alleyway on the left side of the villa and mow them down like ducks in a row. It was a textbook example of soldiers leaving themselves vulnerable to attack from an unprotected flank.

  Jack ran to the building’s corner on the left flank, took a knee, and scanned down the alley and to the east to ensure that no one came from either direction. He noticed that Henry the translator was taking cover behind him, against the villa wall. Jack caught Henry’s eye and they exchanged tired smiles. Henry had held up admirably under fire, but now his eyes looked to be the size of baseballs. Jack wanted to place Henry back with the Team Leader, so the translator could talk to the 17 February commander about what was happening.

  The T.L. was thinking the same thing. As he struggled to communicate with the militia commander, he asked Tanto and D.B. to find the translator. A minute later, D.B. came around the corner where Jack was keeping watch over Henry.

  “Hey, follow me,” D.B. told Henry. “I’m gonna stick you with the Team Lead. Hang on to him. Wherever he goes, you go. He needs you.”

  When the first RPG hit, Tig leapt up from the hallway entrance inside the villa and rushed back to the bedroom window. The second rocket-propelled grenade exploded as he stepped through onto the patio. Using the sandbags as cover, Tig threw on his Rhodesian vest and helmet, and grabbed his rifle. As he jocked up, he heard the zips and snaps of rounds coming in his direction. Tig looked toward the front of the villa and saw a 17 February militiaman in jeans, a T-shirt, and a protective vest similar to his. The lone young militiaman returned fire toward the back gate with an AK-47.

  As Tig looked around, he saw the ladder that led to the roof. He climbed to the top, leapt over the concrete parapet, and scanned the roof to make sure he was alone. Although the fire raged below, the poured-concrete roof seemed in no immediate danger of collapse. The more imminent threat came from bullets flying in Tig’s direction. He radioed the Team Leader to report his location. If I get shot, Tig thought, I want somebody to know that I’m up here.

  Tig looked for flashes of gunfire coming from the northeast corner of the Compound, but didn’t see any. Staying low, Tig moved across the roof to the corner facing the rear gate, which led out to the Fourth Ring Road. Gunfire kept coming from that direction, and he wanted to suppress it.

  Tig popped up with his assault rifle ready. Framed by the open back gate was the silhouette of a man. He stood in the road, about five yards back from the gate, with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher on his shoulder. His head was tilted a few degrees off center, in the firing position. The RPG pointed directly toward the villa.

  As quickly as Tig could, he squeezed the trigger on the semi-automatic assault rifle and let loose with ten to fifteen rounds.

  The man with the RPG dropped backward onto the street. His arms flopped down and the launcher skittered off to the side. One of Tig’s rounds apparently struck the grenade as it launched, sending it spinning harmlessly off to one side. The moment was captured on film by a security camera inside the Compound.

  The steady gunfire that had been coming from the back gate stopped almost immediately, as though the sight of the fallen grenade shooter stunned the other attackers into silence.

  When the shooting by the attackers stopped, a radio call went out telling the operators to join Tig on the villa roof. Rone had already begun providing medical care to several injured militiamen. He finished quickly and rose up the ladder.

  Before Tanto went to the roof, a 17 February militiaman approached him outside the front of the villa.

  “Sir,” he said. “I found this.”

  The militiaman handed Tanto a BlackBerry smartphone covered in soot. Tanto wiped the screen with his thumb and saw what looked like a US phone number. He thanked the militiaman and put the device in his pocket. He climbed the ladder, as did D.B.

  Jack felt spent as he moved to join his teammates up the ladder, his body armor weighing him down like a man trying to climb from the bottom of an empty well. He’d known that feeling before, and it reminded him of his SEAL training days. Even more, it reminded Jack how he’d felt when he first tried to pass the screening test to win admission to the SEAL training program. As Jack climbed the ladder to the villa roof, the SEAL screener’s question remained seared in his memory: “If I light a fire under your ass, can you get over the bar?” Now fire literally was under his ass.

  Jack gathered his strength, pulled himself to the roof, and spread out with his fellow operators. All took fighting positions, establishing a defensive perimeter from their elevated vantage point.

  Before heading to the villa roof, D.B. had told the Team Leader that time was their enemy. Not only were they in danger at the Compound, but the Annex grew more insecure the longer it remained without the full complement of operators. “We need to round up all the Americans we can and evacuate,” D.B. told the T.L.

  Within minutes of the operators assembling on the r
oof, their radios rang out again with a call from the Team Leader: “Consolidate now. We’re getting the hell out of here.” They climbed back down, with Tig covering the others as the last man down.

  Rone got behind the wheel of the Mercedes. Jack rode shotgun. Tanto got in the backseat. D.B. and Tig climbed into the rear cargo area with Sean Smith’s body. They positioned themselves to watch through the rear window to make sure no one was following them. The Team Leader and Henry remained outside talking with a 17 February militia leader.

  Jack opened the Mercedes door.

  “Get the fuck in the car,” he told the T.L. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  The Team Leader looked over to him. Without a word, he and Henry got in the backseat, alongside Tanto. The barrels of their guns still hot, seven men and the body of an eighth were crammed together in the armored Mercedes SUV.

  Tanto gazed through the side window at the faces of several stunned-looking militiamen who he felt certain had just experienced their first firefight. Beyond them, Tanto saw the villa and the barracks still on fire. The light cast by the flames across the thick lawn made Tanto think of a flawless soccer field, ready for a night game.

  It was about 11:30 p.m., or roughly two hours since the attack began. As they sat in the Mercedes, none of the operators knew how many of the attackers their bullets had hit in the dark. The Compound wasn’t littered with bodies, as some armchair warriors would later suggest, but the operators knew that in their defense of their countrymen and themselves, they had inflicted damage on at least some of their enemies.

  Rone did a three-point turn, steering the SUV in the opposite direction, toward the front gate. Squeezed shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh, the sweaty, weary men collected their thoughts. Jack braced himself and gripped his gun between his knees, knowing that they might be heading directly into an ambush.