When the Killer Man Comes

by Paul Martinez

  John’s terp finally got his head back in the game and was shouting practiced instructions in Pashtun, telling the men in the compound exactly what to do. His bullhorn was useless after having been dunked during the water crossing.

  Meanwhile, Platoon Sergeant Pack was wrapping things up in the first village we cleared, and he sent a fire team from Two-One to help them take down the Taliban compound. While we had things under control for the moment, six Rangers weren’t enough to search a compound, provide external security, and detain and question a large number of personnel.

  Suddenly, to my southeast, I heard a cacophony of Soviet-era arms clashing with M4 fire. I slid down my mini-mountain in that direction, trying to get eyes on. I could see Mac and Wade on another steep hill just like mine. I knew they were both using M110s, and I knew what kind of range they could get from that weapon. I heard the whispering noises of their suppressed shots snaking rounds into the darkness.

  I flipped to 1st Platoon’s net and heard them calling their shots. Armed men were fleeing from 1st Platoon’s half of the village, but Mac and Wade cut them down mercilessly. A couple of the fleeing fighters managed to get 900 meters out, but Mac snapped off two rounds in quick succession. They looped through the air before cutting the squirters down at the edge of the open ground they were trying to cross.

  Meanwhile, four members of 1st Platoon’s 3rd Squad were moving across flat ground through elephant grass when they were ambushed by seven Taliban fighters.

  Back on the FOB, I went to the firing range every chance I got, and 3rd Squad was usually there too. Their team leaders and the rest of the squad were absolutely “students of the gun,” and that extra commitment to training was paying off now. As soon as the Taliban fighters jumped up, 3rd Squad Leader and Alpha Team Leader registered the shape of their Soviet-era weapons, and both Ranger teams began firing at the same instant.

  The Rangers’ practiced motions meant that they didn’t miss, while the Taliban fighters did. The two Ranger privates, only an instant behind their leader’s seasoned reflexes, didn’t miss either, and they cut down four of the enemy fighters immediately. The other three Taliban were wounded and fled the hail of bullets, trying to make it to the momentary safety of the village. One never made it. The Alpha Team Leader and the two privates gave chase immediately, while the 3rd Squad leader followed a few steps behind, hurriedly radioing reports of what was happening.

  The two remaining Taliban fighters split up. One fled deeper into the village, while the other one, who was carrying a PKM machine gun, ducked behind the walls of a rubbled-out building. His machine gun must have been damaged, or had a malfunction, because he never turned and fired it at them.

  The Alpha Team Leader rushed headlong into the building. He could see the Taliban fighter frantically trying to get his machine gun into action, slap home the feed tray cover, and swivel its barrel straight at him. Alpha Team Leader wasn’t completely certain where his squad leader was and feared he might be on the other side of the wall. The Alpha Team Leader dropped his M4, letting it hang from its sling. Then he ripped his tomahawk from its sheath and rushed straight at the machine-gun-wielding Taliban fighter, hitting him with two rapid blows. He rode the man to the ground, and his next blow struck somewhere around the man’s collarbone. He stood on the man’s chest and fired his M4 into the Taliban fighter’s face, sure now that the ground beneath them would catch the bullets.

  The rest of the night was fairly pro forma. We did our battle damage assessment, destroyed Taliban weapons, and walked out of the village to our HLZ exfil site. If we learned anything on this mission it was that our work here wasn’t done. The Taliban were here in numbers and were eager to take us on.

  9

  EYE ON THE PRIZE

  If I this book had been written in strictly chronological order, what I’m going to tell you in this chapter would have already been told several chapters ago.

  I attended what is now the Special Forces Sniper Course (SFSC) at Fort Bragg Special Warfare Center (SWC or JFKSWC) late in 2010, three months before our Team Merrill deployment. It had previously been called the Special Operations Target Interdiction Course (SOTIC), and the names are used interchangeably. When I attended the course, I did well enough to be the lead student and in the running for honor grad until the last few weeks, mostly thanks to my partner, Stuart.

  Stuart and I were the youngest service members in the course, both by age and rank (we were sergeants, or E-5s, while the rest of the class were E-6 and above), and we also had the least time in service overall. Not only that, but many of the other students were sniper instructors at their various units. Despite having the highest marks in the class for six out of the eight weeks of the course, a sergeant first class who was a marksmanship instructor, and who had three times my time in service, finally surpassed my score.

  No excuses here; the sergeant first class was a pro who earned his win. I felt that I had an edge with Stuart as my partner, as he had exceptional knowledge and skill in long-range shooting. He had competed in the President’s 100—our nation’s most prestigious long-range shooting match for civilians—as a teenager and was a formidable competition long-range shooter prior to his military service.

  I was a little disappointed in myself, but after a while I saw the errors I had made during the SOTIC/SFSC course as lessons I couldn’t learn anywhere but here and in combat. I had the luxury of making them in a controlled environment under the tutelage of the finest sniper instructors in the most rigorous sniper school on the planet.

  I know now, just as I knew during my deployment with Team Merrill, that those hard lessons not only saved my bacon on numerous occasions but also saved the lives of the better men I was tasked with overwatching. Coming so close to being an honor grad and seeing the time and resources my instructors had to refine their knowledge made me covet their job.

  I knew then that I might one day have what it took to be a sniper instructor. It seemed like the perfect fit. I could pass on my hard-won combat knowledge, and I would be able to hone my skills even further at these one-of-a-kind facilities surrounded by not only the best instructors but the best students as well. Coming in second in the course planted a seed, and I still feel a sense of pride at having held my own against those giants of men, each of them decorated war heroes many times over.

  A few weeks after we completed the SOTIC/SFSC course, Stuart and I were back in Fort Bragg to compete at the Annual Sniper Competition at USASOC (United States Army Special Operations Command). Our competitors were a veritable who’s who of Special Operations snipers from a wide array of agencies and units, some with names I can’t reveal. It was the Super Bowl of sniper competitions, and we would be competing against the very best and dedicated gunslingers, men who live and die by the long gun.

  Going into the competition, I realized that, at least on paper, Stuart and I were the underdogs. Just as in the SOTIC/SFSC course, we were the most junior competitors. Most of the other sniper competitors had two to three times as much time in service as we did, as well as time behind a long gun.

  Stuart and I showed up with our service guns. We each had our M110s and our Mk-13s. With Stuart leveraging his uncanny shooting and spotting ability, and with the expert tutelage of the SFSC cadre fresh in our minds, we found ourselves firmly in the lead for the first two days of the competition. As the competition evolved we went back and forth, but in the end we slipped out of the lead, finishing, to our disappointment, in second place.

  It was a sniper’s dream and the best shooting experience of my life. We were running and gunning and stalking through the urban and jungle terrain in Fort Bragg. When the competition was over we had a large formal banquet and everyone was awarded prizes. The prizes were substantial and generous. Stuart and I were on a high at the banquet, and there was a good reason for it.

  The day before, we had a chance to talk with the Cadre running the competition, many of whom had been our instructors from the SOTIC/SFSC course. We told them we we
re disappointed with second place and that it felt like losing. The NCOIC (NonCommissioned Officer In Charge) was quick to “adjust” our negative attitude.

  He told us that not only did we “look like shit on paper” compared with our older, more experienced competition but we had defied all expectations as two young “buck sergeants” (the old Army’s term for young sergeants). He patiently explained that anyone who “showed” here (meaning a top three finish) was a winner. “By tonight, you will feel like a winner. Wait until we hand you your guns,” he said with a big smile.

  That grizzled master sergeant had a way of smoothing the edge of our disappointment. He had the experience and the savvy to put our accomplishment in perspective, and he was right. We ran the field, but in the end the more experienced team won. It took the very real weight of our holding our new custom rifles and scopes in our hands as we stood for a picture next to the USASOC Commander, General Mulholland, before what we had done really sank in. Most snipers never get the chance to compete in a military-wide competition. Fewer still get a chance to go toe-to-toe with the real-life version of men that video games and movies are based on.

  After the banquet, we celebrated to excess with Marc (later my Team Merrill partner) and our sniper platoon sergeant. They had placed somewhere in the middle of the pack, still a feat to be proud of. Heck, just being chosen to field a team was an honor. Our celebration was colored by the anxious uncertainty we felt knowing we’d be in Afghanistan putting these skills to the test in just a few short months.

  Throughout my deployment with Team Merrill, the seed that had been planted in SOTIC/SFSC as a student, and nurtured by the breakout performance Stuart and I had in the USASOC competition, continued to grow. During our base-hopping, the sniper team that had edged us out for first place even sought me out to come along on one of their sniper missions. Mac went too, and I was glad he did. Working alongside those men during combat turned that seed into a sprout.

  By the time we were at FOB Shank at the end of our seven-month tour, I knew I had to take one more long shot. I had always wanted to be a sniper instructor, and the herniated disks in my aching back agreed with my heart. I couldn’t help thinking, after all the impossible odds we had survived, that maybe, just maybe, I could be a sniper instructor for the Special Forces Sniper Course. It was something that had never been done before: a Ranger had never become an instructor at the Special Forces Sniper Course. But it was worth everything to me—up to insubordination—to try to do it.

  I don’t know if it’s this way throughout the regular Army, but within the 75th Ranger Regiment, mentorship was something that went with the territory. I was the beneficiary of that mentorship from two great NCOs, Platoon Sergeant Pack and First Sergeant Hutch. Each of them would meet with me informally and have in-depth conversations about where my career was going. It takes time to gain trust, especially so you can broach the subject of making your own job. But they both genuinely cared about my career, as well as my health, and wanted to help me reach my full potential in the military.

  Throughout Team Merrill’s deployment, slowly, mission after mission, I gained their trust and confidence. By the end of the deployment, that impression was positive enough that they were willing to lobby the Command Sergeant Major of the 75th Ranger Regiment to recommend me for a position as an instructor at the Special Forces Sniper School. Toward the end of July, their mentorship sessions with me became more pointed. They grilled me to ensure that I’d be able to explain to anyone why I was uniquely qualified for this assignment. They also formulated a plan of attack to give me the best shot at fulfilling my professional dream.

  I admit that even with Platoon Sergeant Pack and First Sergeant Hutch in my corner, I was intimidated by the prospect of being interviewed by CSM Merritt, the 75th Ranger Regiment’s Command Sergeant Major. He was a legend, with vast combat experience and military schooling that could fill volumes.

  CSM Merritt was also a ruthless warrior and single-minded in his commitment to one thing: Rangers. He was pushing forty, but he would come to your pre-Ranger selection or Expert Infantry Badge trial and outrun or out-ruck march you and the rest of the teenagers and twenty-somethings who were trying out. And he did it barefoot! He told us he ran and rucked barefoot because if he was ever captured by the enemy, when they took his boots it wouldn’t stop him from escaping. Most humans can’t do Ranger runs at all, and he did them barefoot.

  CSM Merritt was scheduled to meet with Team Merrill in FOB Shank at the end of July, and First Sergeant Hutch’s game plan was to request an audience with this legendary warrior after our task force sensing session—basically, a survey where we give feedback to the most senior NCO in our regiment. I was so nervous, I wondered if I could just walk back into Musa Qala or the Tangi Valley instead; but I knew this was the only way to reach my goal. With Platoon Sergeant Pack and First Sergeant Hutch backing me up, I did my research, built my case, and practiced making my points.

  The night finally came, and I waited patiently while we briefed CSM Merritt on our deployment. I was sure he’d understand the monumental task we had just accomplished. When we had begun this rotation almost seven months ago, we never expected that all of us would be sitting in the same room, physically unscathed, without a single casualty in our ranks. To this day, I still can’t believe it.

  When the briefing was over and everyone had cleared out, it was time to make my case to CSM Merritt as to why I should be the first Ranger to instruct at the Special Forces Sniper Course. To put this in perspective, we were asking the highest-ranking noncommissioned officer in the 75th Ranger Regiment to call in a favor so that I could get my dream job. I hoped that fortune did, in fact, favor the bold, because this was as audacious as inviting the Taliban to a gunfight in their own backyard.

  It took me about two hours to make my case, and CSM Merritt challenged me at every turn. He was the type of senior leader who never forgot what it was like to be a Ranger private, or a sergeant in my position for that matter. He genuinely wanted what was best for each of us in the Regiment, but he balanced that with his solemn duty to do what was best for the Regiment as a whole.

  CSM Merritt didn’t just take me at my word when I said something, and it was the most grueling discussion I have even been in, going toe-to-toe with this legendary Ranger. He came straight at me, picking apart each of my points, demanding that I justify myself completely. With First Sergeant Hutch advocating beside me, CSM Merritt was finally convinced that this was the best thing for me and, more important, the best thing for the 75th Ranger Regiment.

  He explained that there were two ways this could go. I could leave the 75th Ranger Regiment and be assigned to the Special Warfare Center. This meant I would again have to go through the grueling Ranger Selection that had nearly killed me the first time I went through it, when I was five years younger and didn’t have spinal injuries. The alternative was that I could remain assigned to the 75th Ranger Regiment and be attached to the school as a liaison instructor.

  Not only did he give me his word that he would personally do everything in his power to make sure I would get the assignment—which involved calling in a favor and convincing the Army Special Forces that an outsider should join their prestigious ranks—but he even gave me the choice to do so on my own terms.

  When we shook hands I knew I had earned something singular. After he left the briefing room, I sat with First Sergeant Hutch for a few minutes, still in disbelief that we had pulled this off.

  “Well, you got what you wanted, Martinez,” First Sergeant Hutch said.

  “First Sergeant, I … I never thought this could happen,” I said a bit blankly. “Thank you for helping me with all of it.”

  I was in complete shock. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that had arrived completely out of thin air. Platoon Sergeant Pack and First Sergeant Hutch had stuck their necks out to vouch for me, which they didn’t have to do at all.

  “You earned this,” First Sergeant Hutch said. “With all y
ou did for our platoon this deployment, you deserve it. Pass on your knowledge—you have plenty of it.”

  It still hadn’t sunk in. I had joined the Army just hoping to fight for my country, maybe get my jump wings, and go to a cool-guy school like Ranger School or Sniper School. But First Sergeant Hutch was right. I had been given the knowledge by the best snipers in the Army—Rangers, Sniper School instructors, and Green Berets—and I had taken that knowledge overseas and back. Now I was going to get a chance to pass that on to the men who would be fighting for the foreseeable future and teach at the best sniper school on the planet.

  I was overwhelmed, but as I thought back to how I had laid out my case to CSM Merritt, a man I revered and respected absolutely, I began to believe that I was actually prepared for this new challenge.

  * * *

  With the privilege of knowing I’d be going to my dream job once I got back stateside, my last few weeks in Afghanistan with Team Merrill were full of anticipation. We spent my last day or two palletizing our gear. This meant we inventoried and packed all our things, minus my M4, body armor, and a single large assault pack. I also packed an overnight bag with comfort items for the trip home: a poncho liner, or “woobie”; an iPod; a couple of books; hygiene stuff; documents for customs; copies of the inventory I had packed in our pallets; a clean uniform; and a set of PT gear.

  I knew that unless the base got overrun, I was free and clear. As soon as it was dark we’d be going to the airfield to get on a C-17 military transport and head home. We’d make a quick stop at Ganci Air Base in Manas, Kyrgyzstan, then fly straight to Fort Benning.

  I headed to our TOC to make sure we were up-to-date on our timelines and to send emails to coordinate with our chain of command in the States. Going home meant that I’d be back under Headquarter Company’s command and I needed to reestablish myself in their routine. They were my parent company and had loaned me out to Team Merrill.