Seal Team Six

by Howard E. Wasdin

  9.

  Born-Again Sniper

  After General Garrison had thrown the BS flag on all of JSOC’s snipers, both SEAL and Delta operators, we saw the light: There’s no way we could make that 800-yard shot every time under any condition—one of us was so far off that he hit the windowsill. We repented of our sins by spending a month coming up with what we could actually do every single time regardless of climate, time of day, fatigue (which plays a big part), slant, elevation, country, hemorrhoids, etc. Shooting on rainy days, cold days, crawling out of the sewer—we tried it all. We were born again, “We can make a body shot on land at five hundred yards every single time under every condition.” Each day, every sniper would go to the range and shoot his ten rounds—and he better have a killing shot: eight out of ten in the outer five-ring and at least two in the inner four-ring on an FBI-regulation target.

  * * *

  SEAL Team Six held a shoot-off to determine its best sniper. Out of the eighteen snipers there, I came in first. That didn’t go over well with the snipers who’d been around longer than I had. Country, who had been in Team Six a year longer than me, came in second. From Alabama, he was a big, fun-loving good ol’ boy with sandy brown hair who often spoke in his native southern drawl about hunting—what he killed, how he prepared it, and how it tasted. Probably started hunting when he was ten years old. Unlike me, he had more shooting experience from childhood. That experience can be a double-edged sword, though. Some snipers have to unlearn bad habits.

  SEAL Team Six sent Country and me as a two-man team to the big sniper competition on the Delta compound in North Carolina. Each of the other SEAL Teams also sent their best two. So did Delta, Ranger (a rapid army light infantry unit that can fight against conventional and special operations targets) battalions, FBI Hostage Rescue Team (HRT), Secret Service, the local Cumberland County Sheriff’s Department, and others.

  Each morning at the Delta range, we started out doing a cold-bore shot from 200 yards on a clay pigeon, a small target made of pitch and pulverized limestone rock in the size and shape of an inverted saucer, taped on a white silhouette target. For Country and me, it was an easy shot. When the bullet struck, the clay pigeon sprayed into dust. Everybody who missed had to buy a case of beer. The FBI and Secret Service snipers bought a case of beer almost every day.

  We also did an unknown-distance cold-bore shot—the hardest—using no laser range finder. After the target popped up, we identified it as friend or foe, shooting enemies before they ducked out of sight. In slant range shooting, we shot from high in a building down to a target—requiring a calculation different from other shots.

  In another event we had to run to a position, set up in a sniper hide, and shoot. Country ran up the four-story building with my rifle and set it up. I ascended the stairs behind him. Because I didn’t have the extra weight of my weapon, when I arrived in position, I could calm down my breathing more quickly—within a few seconds. Clearing my mind to think about nothing had become automatic. I squeezed off the shot at a target across from me in another building—bull’s-eye.

  Our long-range event ranged from 500 to 750 yards to the target. Only a few teams could really compete at that distance: SEAL Team Six, Delta, some Rangers, and the Department of Energy (DoE) nuclear power plant (they had great training and equipment) sniper pairs.

  Country and I became the top sniper team at the competition—until the morning of the last day. We finished some preliminary shots. I spotted one target for Country, and he engaged it. Then I spotted another target.

  Country had his crosshairs on the target, and as he squeezed the trigger, the hostage target moved. “Damn!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I think I just grazed the Hotel.” “Hotel” meant hostage.

  If we had not shot at all, we would have scored zero points, still having enough points to win the competition. Even though it wasn’t a killing shot, we still lost ten points for nicking a hostage. The winning sniper pair included a Ranger who had gone to marine sniper school with me in Quantico. I think Delta came in second. The Savannah River Department of Energy sniping team placed third. Do not mess with DoE nuclear sites.

  Even though Country and I lost big points for that mistake, we still finished fourth overall. In the Teams, though, fourth only means third-place loser. Country and I were not pleased. The FBI HRTs and Secret Service finished last—even behind the good ol’ boys from the local sheriff’s department. Even so, it’s better to make mistakes during training and learn from them. For me, the next shots would be for real.

  10.

  CIA Safe House—Hunting for Aidid

  Less than half a year after Casanova and I finished sniper school, we received a mission: Capture warlord Mohamed Farrah Aidid and his lieutenants. Educated in Moscow and Rome, Aidid served in the Italian colonial police force before entering the military and becoming a general of the Somalian Army. Aidid’s clan (Habar Gidir), Ali Mahdi Muhammad’s clan (Abgaal), and other clans overthrew Somalia’s dictator. Then the two clans fought each other for control of Somalia. Twenty thousand Somalis were killed or injured, and agricultural production came to a halt. Although the international community sent food, particularly the UN under Operation Restore Hope, Aidid’s militia stole much of it—extorting or killing people who wouldn’t cooperate—and traded the food with other countries for weapons. Starvation deaths skyrocketed to hundreds of thousands of people, and the suffering rose higher still. Although other Somali leaders tried to reach a peace agreement, Aidid would have none of it.

  JUNE 5, 1993

  A Pakistani force, part of the UN humanitarian team, went to investigate an arms depot at a radio station. There Aidid’s people gathered outside in protest. The Pakistani troops went in and completed their inspection. When they came out of the building, the protesters attacked, killing twenty-four Pakistani soldiers. Aidid’s people, including women and children, celebrated by dismembering, disemboweling, and skinning the Pakistanis.

  Admiral Jonathan Howe, Special Representative for Somalia to the United Nations, was horrified. He put a $25,000 warrant out on Aidid for information leading to his arrest. Howe also pushed hard for JSOC assistance.

  AUGUST 8, 1993

  Aidid’s people used a command-detonated mine to kill four American military policemen. Enough was enough. President Bill Clinton gave JSOC the green light. The task force would include four of us from SEAL Team Six, Delta Force, Rangers, Task Force 160, and others. Task Force 160, nicknamed the “Night Stalkers,” provided the helicopter support that usually operated at night, flying fast and low (to avoid radar detection). We would conduct Operation Gothic Serpent in three phases: First, deploy to Mogadishu and set up a base; Second, go after Aidid; and Third, if we didn’t succeed in apprehending Aidid, go after his lieutenants.

  * * *

  At the Team compound in Dam Neck, Virginia, Little Big Man, Sourpuss, Casanova, and I joined in getting ready to go to Somalia: training, prepping our gear, growing beards, and letting our hair grow out. Part of prepping our gear meant going to the encryption room and coding our radios for secure voice. It was time-consuming because we had to enter a lot of codes, and they had to be the same for every handheld radio. We decided what the common frequency would be. As a sniper, I had to communicate with Casanova, my partner, and the two of us had to communicate with the other sniper pair, Little Big Man and Sourpuss. Then we all had to be able to communicate with our forward operating base. I made sure my E&E kit was complete and I had bribe/survival cash. Then I test-fired my weapons one last time. Not knowing exactly what we’d be tasked to do, we prepared for everything.

  After completing our preparations, we flew down to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where the Army Special Operations Command and others sit on more than 150,000 acres of hills and scattered evergreens near Fayetteville. There we received more specific information about our mission.

  We brought stacked cases of food. “You won’t be needing that,” an army officer
told us. “We’ll be bringing plenty of food.”

  So we left the food at the Delta compound.

  Instructors from the Defense Language Institute taught us important phrases in Somali: stop, get down, walk backward toward my voice, hurry, etc.

  After a few days, we were told the op might be called off, so we flew back to Dam Neck.

  Then a Delta officer phoned us. “The op is on, but you won’t need long hair and beards.”

  So we got shaves and haircuts and flew back to Fort Bragg.

  AUGUST 27, 1993

  We boarded one of six C-5A Galaxy cargo planes carrying Task Force Ranger. After eighteen hours in the air, we landed at Mogadishu Airfield within the UN compound south of Mogadishu. Egyptian peacekeepers guarded the outer perimeter. Inside the compound were peacekeeping forces from Italy, New Zealand, Romania, and Russia. West of the landing strip stood an old aircraft hangar where we would stay. Beyond the hangar stood a two-story building with a lopsided roof—the Joint Operations Center (JOC). Antennas poked out of the roof like spines on a porcupine.

  An army officer escorted Sourpuss, Little Big Man, Casanova, and me behind the JOC to General Garrison’s personal trailer. Inside, Garrison had no visible family photos or knickknacks; at a moment’s notice he could leave without a trace. His aide had just awakened him for our arrival. Garrison took one look at the four of us and said, “Hey, how come you all got your hair cut? I wanted it long, so you could go out in town and operate.”

  “We were told that you wanted us to cut our hair, sir.” We suspected that Delta had tried to disqualify us from the op. Go Army, beat Navy.

  General Garrison gave the op to us anyway. “The four of you are going to be the hinge pin of the operation,” he said, then filled us in.

  After meeting with Garrison, we hooked up with Signals Intelligence (SIGINT), run by a CIA communications officer. Their team would gather information by intercepting signals between people (communications intelligence) and electronic signals emitted from enemy technology such as radios, radars, surface-to-air missile systems, aircraft, ships, etc. (electronic intelligence). SIGINT deciphered encrypted information in addition to conducting traffic analysis: studying who was signaling whom and how much. They could intercept cell phones and radio communications, as well as use directional microphones to pick up conversations from great distances. Most of our SIGINT team spoke two or three languages, and they had aircraft dedicated to their mission.

  Next, we went up to the CIA trailer on top of the hill and met the CIA operations officer, a black Vietnam veteran code-named Condor. Senior to him was the deputy chief of station, an Italian American code-named Leopard. They answered to the thickly built, thick-mustached CIA chief of station, Garrett Jones, code-named Crescent. In the Teams, we often refer to the CIA as “Christians in Action,” and the CIA sometimes uses the same nickname when referring to themselves. In Somalia, the Christians in Action had their work cut out for them—it’s hard to steal a government’s secrets where there is no government.

  Before our arrival, Washington hadn’t allowed the CIA to operate in town, considering it too dangerous. With us on the scene, the spooks could penetrate into downtown Mogadishu. The CIA gave us an excellent briefing about Mogadishu, including some culture and history. They also code-named us in order of rank: Sierra One, Sourpuss; Sierra Two, Little Big Man; Sierra Three, me; and Sierra Four, Casanova. Our safe house would be called Pasha, the title of a high-ranking person in the Ottoman Empire. Ahmed would serve as our interpreter. Behind his round-framed glasses, his eyes seldom looked directly at me when he talked—Ahmed always seemed nervous. Our main Somali operative was Mohammed. Constantly risking his life, he was always serious.

  After meeting with the CIA up on the hill, we returned to the hangar and requisitioned four AT-4s, tear gas (CS) grenades, flashbangs, and fragmentation grenades. Also, we requested an SST-181 beacon so aircraft flying overhead could get a fix on our area if they needed to. We had to prepare to defend the safe house in case the enemy attacked—and prepare our escape in case they overran us.

  That night, we stayed in the hangar with the rest of the American military, about 160 men in all. Each soldier had a 4' × 8' place to call his own. On my cot, four wooden poles stood up, one in each corner, to drape a net on to keep the mosquitoes out. Hawks swooped down and caught rats the size of small dogs, flying them back up to the rafters for dinner. Sections of the tin walls had space between them, allowing Mother Nature in. The hangar doors were stuck open. Beyond the doors, helicopters sat quietly on the tarmac, filling the air with the smell of fuel. The elevation inland rose, and I could see lights and fires in Mogadishu. Behind us an American flag hung from the rafters. I could taste the salt in the air from the ocean behind our hangar. Despite the luxurious accommodations, our four-man team wouldn’t be staying long. Aidid sent three mortar rounds near the hangar to wish us good night. Someone wisely turned out the hangar lights.

  AUGUST 28, 1993

  Saturday, we encrypted our PRC-112 handheld survival radios before gearing up. Outside, the tarmac simmered under our feet as we walked to our helicopter. I put on my Oakley sunglasses. The best sunglasses tone down the sun’s glare and protect my eyes from debris, helping my sense of peace. They also make eye contact impossible. Sunglasses can disguise identity, be intimidating to others, project detachment, and hide emotions. Like a good friend, a good pair of sunglasses is hard to forget.

  Some Delta boys were on board the chopper ready to take off on a training flight.

  The Task Force 160 helicopter pilots, among the best in the world, told Delta, “Hey, sorry, we got a real-world op. You know, you need to let these guys on.”

  Delta unassed the helicopter. They were not happy. “Heaven forbid; we wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a real-world op.”

  We boarded the chopper. “Tell you about it when we get back.” The four of us, two sitting in the doorway on each side with our legs dangling out, buckled our gunner’s belts, and the helicopter lifted off. The Delta operators became smaller and smaller as we gained altitude.

  The chopper flew us inland so we could look for routes and alternate routes to drive to and from our safe house. Sunshine and war had blasted much of the color out of Mogadishu. The only structures held sacred by both sides in the civil war had been the Islamic mosques—among the few buildings standing unmolested. Many of the other major buildings had been destroyed. People lived in mud huts with tin roofs in a maze of dirt roads. Hills of broken concrete, twisted metal, and trash rose from the landscape, with charred car frames scattered about. Militiamen wielding AK-47s rode in the back of a speeding pickup truck. Fires steadily burned from piles of rubbish, metal drums, and tires. It looked like flames from hell.

  Turning back toward the ocean, we scouted out possible landing zones near our safe house—just in case we had to call in a helo to get out in a hurry. During our flyover, we also checked the seashore for possible locations where we could be extracted by boat. Light brown and white sand bordered the emerald sea. It would’ve been the perfect setting for a vacation resort.

  After coming back down to earth from our reconnaissance, we drove a Humvee from the compound through a secret hole in the back fence and up the hill to a trailer where the CIA gave us a human intelligence (HUMINT) brief. Technological gizmos and doodads are useful in the spy game, but they mean little without brave human beings to infiltrate the enemy’s territory and ask the right questions—human beings who can see and hear what technology can’t, who can extract meaning from the surrounding context.

  Using a diagram of Pasha, Little Big Man made plans for getting to the safe house and setting up. He delegated the patrol order to me and the course of action for battle stations to Casanova. Little Big Man also worked out the communications drills. Sourpuss loved the training aspect of SEAL Team Six, swimming and running, but when it came to actually operating, he fell behind us in talent and desire. Although he should’ve played a more central role in lea
ding and planning, he limited his role to setting up who would stand watch on Pasha’s roof at what times. The four of us also began constructing a large mosaic map of the city.

  Before we headed out, Crescent gave a brief. Even though my Teammates and I had just met the CIA, SIGINT, and our interpreter, we would be working with them in a district in northern Mogadishu called Lido, close to the heart of where the enemy gunslingers lived. At Pasha, we would add more strangers to our team: guards, a chef, and assets—locals providing us with intelligence. “If you aren’t comfortable with anyone on your team, they’re gone,” Crescent said. “This is your show. If your cover is compromised, General Garrison will get you out of there within fifteen minutes. Good luck.”

  AUGUST 29, 1993

  Under the black cloak of Sunday morning, we flew on a Black Hawk helicopter 3 miles northwest across town to the Mogadiscio Stadium—Somalia’s national stadium for soccer and other events, seating thirty-five thousand people. The trip only took five minutes. Because it housed the Pakistani UN troops’ compound, we called the bullet-riddled stadium the Pakistani Stadium. From there, we loaded onto three indigenous trucks. Only needing two trucks, we used a third as a decoy and also in the event that one broke down. Looking at the vehicles, it seemed a miracle they even ran. The Somalis used things until they were no longer mechanically viable. Then they used them some more. Someone did a pretty good job of keeping those pieces of crap running.

  We drove out of the stadium and into the city. Mogadishu smelled like urine and human excrement mixed with that tangible smell of starvation, disease, and hopelessness. The odor hung in the air like a dark cloud. It made my heart feel heavy. The Somalis dumped raw sewage in the streets. It didn’t help that they used trash and animal dung to fuel the fires that constantly burned in rusted metal barrels. Elementary-school-age boys carried AK-47 rifles. We’d heard that cholera ran rampant because of a nasty water supply. Mogadishu seemed like the end of the world in I Am Legend—our mission was to stop the mobs of evil Darkseekers and save the good Somali humans. No problem, we’re SEALs. This is what we do.