I stepped into the hallway and saw a crew member standing in a T-intersection at the end of the hall. In his hand was a fire extinguisher. One of our shooters was about to cap him for noncompliance.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“This guy won’t listen,” the shooter said.
Maybe he thinks we’re sabotaging the ship. “Down,” I said in Arabic.
The crew member spoke Arabic. “No.”
I looked in his eyes. He seemed confused, not like he was being hostile for the sake of being hostile. Thinking it was simple miscommunication, I lowered my MP-5 submachine gun a little.
He lunged at me with his fire extinguisher.
Damn.
I sidestepped just as the fire extinguisher glanced off the side of my head. Back then, we weren’t wearing assault helmets. If I hadn’t sidestepped, the blow would’ve caught me straight in the face.
Wow. He almost killed me with a fire extinguisher. How would that look? Try to be nice and get taken out with a fire extinguisher. I was furious. I caught him sideways and buried the muzzle of my MP-5 under his right ear, pushed him back, then gave him a butt stroke for good measure.
One of Mr. Fire Extinguisher’s buddies, a skinny little man, put up his hands as if to take me on.
My Teammate was about to cap him.
“No, I got it.” With my left hand, I gave Fire Extinguisher’s buddy a karate chop just below his nose, backing him off. I put enough force into it that he probably needed to get his teeth retightened. He quickly became compliant, not wanting any more.
Then Fire Extinguisher got cuffed the hard way: arm bar, knee behind the neck, grabbing a handful of his hair, lifting him up by the cuffs until his arms almost came out of their sockets, and kicking him in the ass down the hallway. Our guys took him and the other prisoners to the holding area.
Blood trickled from my head down into my ear. Now I was really pissed. Try to be a nice guy, and that’s what happens. In retrospect, Fire Extinguisher should’ve gotten two to the body and one to the head. He’s a lucky sonofabitch.
We found most of the men in the crew’s quarters, which doubled as a chow hall—interrupting their Turkish tea and cigarettes.
We cleared nearly every inch of the ship, top to bottom, stern to bow. SEAL Team Six would take the same ship down with thirty assaulters. Since we had fewer guys and were not as specialized as Six, it took us two hours. My team stayed on the bow with the prisoners in the darkness. Mark commanded our platoon from the wheelhouse while DJ ran coms next to him. Nobody got hurt. Other than me being an idiot. Now the ship belonged to us. Warships surrounded us as we sat dead in the water. Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats (RHIBs) floated beside us carrying Coast Guard Law Enforcement Detachment (LEDET), the lead agency for apprehending drug traffickers on the high seas. To a large degree, the dangerous part was over.
We mustered the prisoners. The ship’s captain, up in the wheelhouse with Mark, sent his master-at-arms down to do a head count. We found out we were missing one of the ship’s crew. Somebody’s hiding.
We asked the prisoners if they knew where he was.
Nobody knew nothin’.
So we had to clear the whole freaking ship again. Leaving four men to guard the prisoners, we went back to after steering and started over. We were beyond pissed, tearing through every inch of the ship we thought we’d already searched. Halfway through clearing the ship, I got a call that we’d found the guy. He had been hiding tucked up between some pipes in an engine compartment—scared.
We took him to join his comrades on the bow, and we cut the flexicuffs off all the prisoners. Except Fire Extinguisher. I made him sit on the capstan, which looks like a giant motorized thread spool, the most uncomfortable seat on the bow.
Meanwhile, Mark spoke through DJ to an interpreter on one of the ships in order to communicate to the captain standing next to Mark.
“Were you laying mines? Where were the mines? Where are you going? Where are you coming from?”
“We’re not laying mines.”
“If you’re not, why don’t you have any cargo? Why are you on a course going away from Egypt when you should be going home?”
These guys were not giving us the right answers. Something was definitely fishy.
Fire Extinguisher complained, “My butt hurts.”
My head was still pounding. Sonofabitch, you’re lucky you can feel anything.
One of the prisoners on the bow reached for the inside of his jacket, going for a gun in his shoulder holster. The snipers in the helicopter aimed their infrared lasers at him as the rest of us clicked the safeties off our MP-5s, about to blow him away—but there was neither gun nor holster, just a white pack of cigarettes.
“No, no, no, no,” pleaded the prisoner. His eyes looked like two fried eggs. He was lucky we had such tight trigger discipline—not like the four policemen in New York who shot Amadou Diallo forty-one times reaching for his wallet.
One of the crew spoke English, and we translated through him. “No sudden movements. Don’t be reaching inside your clothes for anything.”
Fire Extinguisher whined, “My butt hurts.”
I hope you give me a reason to shoot you.
Later, a teenager burst onto the bow running. We took him down rudely and abruptly. After calling Mark, we found out the kid was the captain’s messenger coming to get the keys to something. Maybe whenever the captain gave him an order, he was supposed to haul ass, but we made it clear to him: “No fast movements, and no running.” I felt sorry for the poor kid because we took him down so hard.
The captain and crew still weren’t giving us the right answers, so LEDET, armed with shotguns, came aboard and high-fived us, and we turned over the ship and prisoners to them. They would sail the ship to a friendly port in the Red Sea, where it wouldn’t be the end of the story for the prisoners by any means.
Fire Extinguisher still had his cuffs on as LEDET took over. I hope he still has them on to this day.
Our job was done. The weather worsened, so we couldn’t take a helicopter out. Instead, we lowered ourselves on caving ladders and left the vessel on LEDET RHIBs. The RHIBs took us to the LEDET’s amphibious ship.
We boarded the amphibious ship in the early morning, having been awake for more than twenty-four hours. The last time we’d eaten was lunch the day before. Add to that the physical exertion and adrenaline dump—we were starving to death. In the chow hall, even though it was before breakfast hours, they brought out an amazing meal for all sixteen of us. I don’t remember exactly what they fed us, but it seems like they fed us breakfast and dinner: quiche, grilled ham, buttermilk pancakes with blueberry topping, orange juice, hot coffee, steak, creamed asparagus soup, steamed cabbage and white sauce, mashed potatoes, and hot apple pie.
The head cook came out and shook each of our hands. “I’ve made some of my secret recipes. Hope you like it.”
“Incredible,” I said.
“We just found out you guys were coming, and this is all we had time for.”
The debrief took place while we ate. All the officers on the ship seemed to be present. They treated us like kings. It seemed like everyone who could cram into the chow hall had come. People just wanted to meet, talk to, and be a part of us. Their hospitality meant a lot to me. Made me feel important.
Near early afternoon, our birds landed on the fantail of the amphibious ship, we waved good-bye, and flew back to the Kennedy.
Later I would receive the Navy Commendation Medal, which read:
The Secretary of the Navy takes pleasure in presenting the Navy Commendation Medal to Hull Technician First Class Howard E. Wasdin, United States Navy, for services set forth in the following citation: For professional achievement and superior performance of his duties while serving as air operations specialist for SEAL Team Two Foxtrot Platoon while deployed to the Red Sea in support of Operation Desert Storm from 17 January to 28 February 1991. During this period, Petty Officer Wasdin consistently performed his demanding duties in a
n exemplary and highly professional manner. As the air operations specialist responsible for all SEAL helo fast-rope operations his consistent hard work was instrumental in maintaining the assault team’s capability to conduct rapid and efficient insertions onto designated targets. During one SEAL mission, he expertly directed the insertion and was the first man on deck to provide critical cover for his shipmates. He continued as lead member of a prisoner securing element displaying superior war fighting skills which proved critical to mission success. Petty Officer Wasdin’s exceptional professional ability, initiative, and loyal devotion to duty reflect great credit upon himself and the United States Naval Service.
“I’ve been asked to select three men for a classified op, but Intel won’t tell me what it’s about until I select the men,” Mark said.
Outside the Carrier Intelligence Center (CVIC), Smudge, DJ, and I stood in the passageway as Mark disappeared inside for a moment. Mark reappeared and said, “OK.”
We walked in. There was a small break room off to the right with a coffee machine and a refrigerator. The left opened up into the main room with a conference table and chairs around it. On one wall hung a whiteboard, and in front of another stood a TV and video player. A couple of dark leather couches sat off to the side. In the middle of the room stood the ship’s intelligence officer. Beside him was a man we’d never seen before. I didn’t know if he was a spook or what. Without identifying himself, the man said, “Morning, gentlemen.”
“Good morning, sir.” We didn’t know his rank, but it was safer to be overly polite than disrespectful.
“A Tomahawk missile was fired that missed its target and did not detonate. It landed in friendly territory, but there are enemy forces in the area. We need you to detonate the missile so the Iraqis cannot get the technology, which is invaluable. Also, we don’t want them converting the explosives into an IED [Improvised Explosive Device].”
We returned to the berthing, where our beds (racks), lockers, and a small lounge were located, and began gearing up. “What’s up?” other guys excitedly asked.
“The four of us are going out on an op.” It sucked not being able to tell them the details.
Their excitement level dropped once they knew the twelve of them wouldn’t be included.
I’d be using my CAR-15, which had a telescopic buttstock and held thirty rounds of .223 (5.56 mm) ammo in the magazine. Inside the stock, I put a few hundred dollars. In my left thigh cargo pocket, I stuck my E&E kit: pencil flare, waterproof matches, compass, map, red-lens flashlight, space blanket, and MRE entrée. Into the right thigh cargo pocket went my blowout kit: 4" × 4" gauze bandage with tie straps, a cravat, and a Vaseline-coated dressing for a sucking chest wound—all vacuum sealed in plastic to be waterproof. This was a minimum kit, mainly for a gunshot wound/bleeding trauma. Although SEALs often dress differently and carry a variety of weapons, the location of our blowout kit is universal. This way, if one of our shooters goes down, we don’t have to play a guessing game of where his kit is to patch him up. Of course, I could use my own blowout kit to patch up an injured Teammate, but later if the need arose for me to patch myself up, I would lack the materials to do it.
The four of us boarded the SH-3 Sea King with light brown and sand-colored stripes and blotches painted on our faces. Smudge carried 4 pounds of the off-white colored modeling clay with a slight odor of hot asphalt—C-4 plastic explosives. I carried the blasting caps, fuse, and fuse igniters. The C-4 couldn’t blow up without the smaller explosion of a blasting cap, which is why we separated the two. Smudge had the safer cargo. Although blasting caps alone aren’t powerful enough to blow off a hand, they have been known to blow off a careless finger or two.
We traveled light because this would be a quick in-and-out. The helo flew a few miles before slowing down to 10 knots, 10 feet above the water. I stepped out the side of the bird with my swim fins pointed straight down, falling through the stinging ocean spray kicked up by the helicopter. I couldn’t hear my splash over the sound of the rotor blades chopping the air overhead.
One by one, the guys jumped out the side door and into the ocean. Similar to fast-roping, when each man jumped, it lightened the helicopter’s load, making the helo gain altitude—the pilot had to compensate. The last SEAL to die in Vietnam, Lieutenant Spence Dry, was doing a helo cast when the helo rose significantly higher than 20 feet while flying faster than 20 knots—breaking Dry’s neck.
Treading water, I looked around. Everyone seemed to be in one piece. A light blinked from the shore—our signal. I started to feel cold. We formed a line and faced the signal. Swimming the sidestroke, I kicked long, deep, and slow, propelling myself quickly, trying to stay in formation with the others. The swim warmed me. As we reached water shallow enough to stand in, we stopped, watching the shore. No danger signs yet. I removed my fins and hooked them to a bungee cord strapped across my back. Then we slithered onto the beach. Smudge and DJ spread out to the left and right flanks. I covered Mark with my CAR-15 as he approached the light source, a pear-shaped Arab who was our agent. They exchanged bona fides. Mark pulled his left ear. The agent rubbed his stomach with his left hand. So far, so good. Turning the agent with his back to me, I cuffed him and searched his body for a weapon, a radio, or anything that didn’t belong. Nothing seemed out of place. I cut off his cuffs.
Mark signaled Smudge and DJ to come in. After they joined us, I handled the agent while we patrolled inland. If he became unusually fidgety as we neared the objective, I’d know he might be leading us toward a possible ambush. If he succeeded in leading us into an ambush, I’d be the first to put a bullet in his head. I haven’t heard of a double agent living to tell about leading SEALs into an ambush. Behind the agent and me followed our leader, Mark. Next came DJ with the radio. Smudge brought up the rear.
After patrolling for half a mile through the sand, we stopped 100 yards away from a dirt road and went prone while the agent picked up a large rock, walked forward, and laid the rock beside the road. Then he returned to our group and lay prone with the rest of us. My wet body started to shiver. The desert is hot during the day but cold at night, and being wet didn’t help matters. I was eager to get moving again, but not eager to get shot for moving too soon. Fifteen minutes later, a local vehicle stopped on the side of the road next to the rock. We covered it with our sound-suppressed CAR-15s. A man in a white robe stepped out of the truck and walked the 100 yards in our direction.
“Stop,” I said in English. “Turn around.”
He did.
“Back up to my voice.”
As he walked backward toward us, we grabbed, bound, and searched him. Then we walked with the driver to his vehicle and searched it. He drove us twenty minutes to the target somewhere in the middle of the desert. The driver parked the car and walked the rest of the distance with us. There lay the missile. Even though it had crash-landed, it was still in good shape. We set up a loose perimeter while Smudge prepared two C-4 socks. Each large green canvas sock had 2 pounds of C-4 in the bottom. He slipped one sock over the tip of the missile and ran the line sewed into the mouth of the sock to a hook in the sock’s toe, cinching it tight. Finally, Smudge did the same on the other end of the missile.
He tapped me on the shoulder, taking my place securing the perimeter while I inserted a blasting cap into each block of C-4. In more ways than I had time to think about, I did not want to screw up. I crimped the two blasting caps into two timed fuses, keeping them straight. After that, I screwed two underwater fuse igniters (M-60s) tightly onto the two fuses. Holding the fuse igniters in one hand, I pulled both lanyards at the same time. Pop! “Fire in the hole.” I could smell the cordite of the fuses burning. Before the big explosion, there would be a three-minute time delay, give or take a few seconds.
I joined the others, and we patrolled away. Swiftly. We took cover behind a natural berm that looked like a giant speed bump. Kaboom! Sand rained down on us.
We returned to the missile, making sure it was in small enough pi
eces. Mark gave the OK signal, so we returned to the vehicle.
The driver took us back to the spot on the road with the rock, but Mark told him to drive us farther, to avoid our parking in front of an ambush. After the driver dropped us off, we waited for him and the agent to leave before we exfilled back to the beach. On the beach, DJ called the helo and told the pilot we were on our way. We unbungeed our fins and entered the water. I was happy to be out of the danger area and swimming fast. Everyone swam fast. The swim heated our bodies. What they told us in BUD/S was true: Mother Ocean is your comfort and safety.
As the helo neared, we lined up 15 feet apart, snapping infrared chemlights attached to our inflatable life vests. The helo hovered overhead, its main rotor stirring up the ocean. Saltwater cut at my face mask. From the helo dropped a caving ladder, and I hooked one of the rungs with the bend in my elbow. I climbed up. When my feet stepped on the ladder, I used them to drive me upward, rather than pulling with my arms, so I wouldn’t expend my arm strength. At the top, I used my arms to pull myself into the chopper.
When we all arrived safely on the helo, a crewman hauled in the ladder, and the helo flew us away. Inside the helo, we slapped each other on the back and breathed easy. The Kennedy must’ve moved in closer to us, because the return trip wasn’t as long. We’d completed a classified op that someone thought was extremely important.
* * *
A few days later, I stood outside the CVIC again. This time it was only DJ and I. Mark called us in and, once again, we met the Man with No Name.
He shook our hands and wasted no time. “Shall we get to it?”
We nodded.
He explained, “The PLO voiced support for Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait. Now they have set up shop in Iraq. The Iranians are working with the PLO to train terrorists to attack coalition forces. Recently, they planted a roadside IED that hit one of our vehicles. We want you to target the PLO-Iranian compound in Southeastern Iraq for a guided missile strike, then report a BDA [battle damage assessment].”
SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper Page 13