Kill Bin Laden

by Dalton Fury

  Ski considered the unexpected tank fire, and the way that everyone on the battlefield looked alike. There was no sure way to differentiate enemy fighters from friendly looters, even at close range, so he let the unknown men live, thinking, Hmmm, look out for the friendlies. The battlefield was becoming more confused as it changed.

  The muhj main force finally returned to Jackal Team early in the morning on December 15, and the boys fully expected them to advance to the next ridgeline. Instead, the muhj needed babysitting.

  The muhj stalled and bitched about the DShK heavy machine gun that had laid down so much fire and ignored American arguments that the weapon had been eliminated. It had not fired a shot for many hours.

  No! It was still there, they insisted, and refused to advance without 100 percent confirmation that the gun, some five hundred meters away, had been destroyed. They didn’t like taking risks.

  The American commandos’ patience had worn thin. Al Qaeda was on the run, and the continuous bombing was sapping the enemy’s will to fight and forcing them to leave prepared positions. Each minute wasted, such as with this mini mutiny by the muhj, only provided much needed rest to a vulnerable and disoriented enemy. They had no choice but to prove the DShK had been taken out. Nowadays, they would send a Predator to take a look, but back in December 2001 the only way was to move forward and eyeball it yourself.

  Murph and his fellow snipers Shrek and Scrawny dropped their rucks and headed out, taking along an Afghan guide. Hopper and the Admiral stayed back to cover them. If that gun was somehow still operating, then a long-range sniper shot would finish the job, the Admiral would summon an aircraft, and Murph would adjust the bombs onto the target.

  So, with the muhj apparently more interested in smoking hash than dealing with al Qaeda, the Delta snipers chose to explore a different route to find the heavy gun. Three men crossing open ground was just not a smart idea, and they might as well use the chance to scout for a new path that would speed a general advance. In a training exercise over such terrain, as at Lake Tahoe or Jackson Hole, they would have been able to employ a lot of safety equipment, but this was a real-world mission where not only was such equipment unavailable, but al Qaeda might have them in their sights as they climbed.

  The eastern approach took them up the face of a precariously long and ugly ridgeline. One slip on the vertical rock walls could have resulted in serious injury or even a nonbattle fatality. We couldn’t afford that, since no helicopters would be sent in to evacuate an injured American although he might be barely clinging to life. The dead would just have to wait until the mission was over.

  They were on their own, and pressed forward as far as they could to gain a commanding position on al Qaeda’s defenses. It was an extraordinary accomplishment. Al Qaeda must have assumed the route was impassable and had decided not to waste any fighters securing it or establishing any defensive positions that might cover it. Any young soldier knows that failing to overwatch a major obstacle with at least a gun or two reduces its effectiveness from being an impregnable castle moat to being a mere speed bump for any determined foe. It was a grave tactical error.

  Scrawny spotted an al Qaeda fighter about eight hundred meters away, but the enemy fighter did not see them. Instead, the man fired an RPG round in the direction of the muhj who were still lounging about on the other ridge.

  For a sniper like Scrawny, such an easy target was almost too good to be true. He reached for his SR-25 rifle, ready to prone out to engage, but then realized that the sound of a shot and a dead terrorist flopping down would compromise the team. Plus, there had to be more than one up there, so instead of squeezing the trigger, he took a knee, pulled off his Nomex flight gloves, and dug his map from a cargo pocket and the Silva compass from his assault vest, placing them both gently on his thigh. He lined his leg up with the target and oriented his map to the north and quietly told Shrek, who was behind him, to ready a fire request from whatever plane was overhead so that the bigger explosions would not raise curiosity about the snipers.

  Scrawny looked at the spot where the RPG gunner had appeared, looked back at his map, then checked his compass needle. He didn’t have a laser range finder or laser marker with him, but he didn’t need one. Scrawny estimated the target coordinates using good old-fashioned terrain association and commando know-how and passed the numbers to Shrek. Within a few minutes, the first bomb slammed into the enemy position, a direct hit that sent debris whizzing over the snipers’ heads.

  “Look at Scrawny!” Murph joked. “Map and compass. Ooold schooool!”

  Scrawny reached down for his gloves. They were gone. He asked the other guys if they’d picked them up. No? Scrawny turned to the Afghan guide who was hiding sheepishly in the rear, with his hands hidden beneath crossed arms.

  “Hey, did you take my frickin’ gloves?” Scrawny growled with disgust. The young man just stared. Scrawny moved closer and asked again. The Afghan remained expressionless. Scrawny finally walked up to the young man and yanked out his hands.

  “You frickin’ thief, give me those damn gloves!” Scrawny demanded, and pulled each one off, finger by finger.

  Within a couple of hours, they found the DShK position, plotted the location and relayed the target coordinates back to the Admiral. Soon, a pair of GBU-31 bombs zoomed in and obliterated whatever had been left of the gun emplacement.

  As the debris settled, an RPG whizzed over their heads from a camouflaged firing position in a nearby cave that was cut deep into the ridgeline. A new player was in the game.

  The snipers quickly sent back the new coordinates and another brace of bombs impacted center mass to crush the cave opening. Once again, before the rocks stopped falling, still another enemy fighter stepped out and launched another RPG at the snipers. More JDAMs were called. They finished the job.

  With the way up having been made safe, a group of muhj fighters caught up with the snipers and pushed ahead to the twice-blown-away DShK location. By midafternoon the snipers had repositioned and for the first time were able to get a good look at several cave openings just below a ridgeline, some six hundred meters to the southwest.

  A frantic muhj commander keyed his radio and began trading transmissions with another muhj. Some of the fighters excitedly reported seeing a figure that they believed to be Usama bin Laden moving among a group of several dozen enemy fighters. They lost sight when he disappeared into a cave.

  That was all that our snipers needed to hear. They got the word back to the team pronto. The Admiral broke into the net and summoned all available aircraft to check in with him and stack up while Murph plotted the exact target location. Could this be it for bin Laden?

  The bombs from the first warplane hammered in with tremendous effect, ignited something flammable, and multiple flashes and secondary explosions lit up the valley like an outdoor rock concert. Something beside humans had definitely been inside that cave. More GBU-31 bombs saturated the cave complex with enormous power.

  The snipers hunkered behind a small rock formation to watch the show as impact after impact shook the ground and detonated even more secondary explosions. Fireballs rose into the air and shrapnel and debris raced over their heads and rattled off the rocks.

  For the next two hours, bombs rained on one small area of Tora Bora.

  Sundown, of course, brought the usual muhj retreat. The three snipers, however, were unwilling either to ease up on this chance to nail bin Laden or lessen the pain that was being inflicted on al Qaeda. They would remain on the steep ridgeline, with and without the muhj, for the next two days.

  The Delta boys were certain that they were as close to bin Laden as any Americans had been in years, certainly since 9/11, and they were hellbent on ensuring that some American pilot would wake up soon and hear that it was his bomb that killed the al Qaeda leader.

  For now, the snipers didn’t think about sleep. Who could? They wrapped themselves in their thin blankets and tried not to long for all of the cold-weather gear that had been left beh
ind in their rucksacks, back when they thought the mission to confirm the demise of the machine gun would be a quick one.

  They were exposed on a six-foot-wide rocky path along the high spine of the ridgeline. It was the only trail up there, but remaining on it wasn’t possible. Their options were limited, and night was on them. On both sides of the path, the terrain dropped off severely, with intermittent trees and stumps protruding from the cliff walls at odd angles.

  After a little discussion, they decided to take their chances as mountain goats. They sat down, slipped over the edge boots first for about ten feet, and then lodged in, as best they could, practically vertical, but within whispering distance. Having started out in daylight, they had only one pair of NVGs between them.

  About an hour after squeezing into the awkward positions, they heard the unmistakable sound of weapons rattling and heavy, fast-paced footsteps approaching. The snipers froze in place and held their breaths, with thumbs on the selector switches of their rifles. Shrek slipped a grenade from his vest and held it close to his chest. As soon as the footsteps faded, Scrawny whispered, “Five or six al Qaeda. No doubt.”

  Scrawny had been in worse spots.

  He and I were in the same Ranger Class, 10-84, and after a few years with the 2nd Ranger Battalion, he joined Delta. He stands roughly five feet, seven inches tall and has a wiry set of muscles on a fat-free frame, and many in Delta refer to him as the Punisher.

  He made his rep firm as a young assaulter in 1989 during the rescue of American hostage Kurt Muse in Panama. [18] Scrawny toted a M-249 SAW with twelve hundred rounds of linked 5.56mm ammo onto the roof of Modelo prison. It took his mates only six minutes to breach the rooftop door, descend the stairs, secure the hostage, and return to the roof to get picked up by helicopters. During that short time, Scrawny fired a thousand rounds at Panamanian defense forces while under heavy fire himself. He did not get so much as a scratch, but his number of confirmed kills exceeded fifty.

  The team of snipers hugging the cliffside like spiders discussed their next move and Murph decided their best option was to stay where they were. Within minutes, another group of the enemy passed, but this time the risk of compromise was increased, for these fighters carried several white-lens flashlights to illuminate the trail of slippery, loose, and uneven rocks. A glance over the side would have exposed the Americans.

  For the next several hours, more groups of fighters used the busy trail, hustling along in both directions. Was al Qaeda reinforcing their forward lines? Were they moving into ambush positions to await the routine midday return of the muhj? Or, were they simply swapping out forces? The isolated Delta boys had no way of knowing what the footsteps in the night meant.

  Any thoughts that Usama bin Laden might still have of victory and retaining his mountainous redoubt were gone by the evening of December 15. The top terrorist, who was apparently being chased around the battlefield by our bombs, had already apologized to his fighters for getting them into this mess. He placed blame for their failures on the apostate regimes in Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Egypt, and Pakistan, saying he expected those countries to rally around the cause and come to the rescue. He also had passed that strange permission for women and children to arm themselves to defend the caves.

  Now he was undergoing a sea change of attitude. He authorized his battered subordinate units to surrender if they so desired! That surprise guidance came as no surprise at all. In the last signals intercept we had of bin Laden the day before, on December 14, his voice indicated obvious distress, and since then our attacks had not let up.

  The British commandos who went into the mountains to keep Haji Zaman motivated radioed back that scores of al Qaeda fighters had decided to quit, opting to remain in the present world for the time being. Martyrdom would have to wait. Having lost their will to fight, they dropped their weapons and walked off the battlefield.

  The image of bin Laden hiding, surviving, and contemplating surrender was confirmed by the numerous radio calls gathered by our special intelligence collectors at the schoolhouse and also being intercepted by both MSS Grinch and MSS Monkey. Al Qaeda had lost its nerve, and it appeared that their leader also was cracking.

  But was he really in panic? Or was he just putting some fighters out there to surrender as a ruse to buy time and stall our attack, hoping to get breathing room to slip out the back door? Even when things are looking good, you have to consider other possibilities.

  Whatever bin Laden’s choice, we knew this battle would be decided shortly.

  There were spies among us.

  One commodity at the top of every supply wish list was a request for interpreters fluent in speaking Pashto. Adam Khan was our only trustworthy ’terp, and being unable to clone him meant that communications between the locals and the Americans continued to present problems.

  In the Tora Bora Mountains, the job skills needed for these interpreters included the ability to survive in austere commando conditions-more specifically, to keep their balance, manipulate a trigger in freezing weather, and pull their own weight.

  So when a suitable linguist popped up, he was put to work. A man in a passing patrol stopped for a moment near MSS Grinch and caught the eye of Adam Khan. The guy looked like a real find. Not only was he fluent in Pashto, but he also spoke and understood English at about a grade-school level. More than good enough. He was paid a handsome signing bonus.

  But the new ’terp, known as “Flagg,” had not been fully vetted, so Jim and the boys limited his exposure, either visually or verbally, to what they were doing. Adam Khan kept an eye on him during his probationary period and soon figured out that there was more to this guy than a smattering of English. He spoke five languages! He also was a lot less trustworthy than any of the other Afghans accompanying MSS Grinch, and Adam Khan determined he was a spy and had him detained on the spot. It was quite possible the guy was on the al Qaeda payroll. His pocket litter contained an MSNBC business card, but also handwritten notes on a few pieces of paper, including the call sign of our man Pope. The ’terp denied all allegations, but was escorted down the mountain to see General Ali.

  Before Ali could figure out what to do with Flagg, the guy was caught brazenly trying to use the telephone inside the general’s quarters. One of Skoot’s tactical signal interceptors struck up a conversation with him and noticed that Flagg, among his other languages, spoke fairly good Arabic. This was a big enough spike to arrest him. He was interrogated, roughed up a bit, and shipped off to Kabul to be locked away in some dark, damp, and overcrowded cellblock.

  But Flagg wasn’t the only questionable person around. Another gentleman was constantly following and pestering Adam Khan with personal questions about where the American commandos lived in the United States, wanting to know their names, and trying to gain his trust. He had a British accent and curiously remained apart from the rank-and-file muhj as much as possible. His English was much more advanced, but the most telling discovery about the small, skinny, and dark-skinned Muslim was the way he clearly understood the sophisticated manner in which the boys used infrared lasers to guide the bombs.

  To do that required some advanced training, and Adam Khan soon pegged this one as an agent of the Pakistani Intelligence Service, the ISI, who had infiltrated inside Ali’s forces. He wasn’t allowed anywhere near us. Afghanistan was strange.

  The British intelligence officer and Haji Zaman attended the fireside chat on the night of December 15, for another important cultural turning point would arrive with the dawn. The following day, December 16, marked the end of Ramadan, and not only could the muhj start eating and drinking during the daytime, but traditionally it was supposed to be a time of rest and forgiveness of enemies.

  The bulk of the meeting centered on convincing the warlords to forego that centuries-old custom and continue the attack in the mountains. Al Qaeda was on the ropes, and it was absolutely necessary to keep up the pressure. We were not in a forgiving mood.

  Zaman, apparently having recovered from the
false-surrender debacle, agreed, and bragged about getting an early start, saying he would have several hundred fighters ready to go at first light.

  I laid my map before Zaman and asked him to point out the spot he planned to attack. That, of course, was an exercise in futility because Zaman’s ability to read a map was limited. In retrospect, there really were not too many good reasons why men like Ali and Zaman needed to read a map, for this was their backyard.

  As soon as Zaman left, Ali began openly to question the commitment of his nemesis. Waving his hand wildly, the general said Zaman would never be able to motivate his men to attack, at least without letting them have a regular morning meal, their first breakfast after the month of fasting. Also, Zaman would not strike until he had spent some time at Press Pool Ridge, pandering sufficiently to the media and the cameras.

  Ironically, it was the presence of the press that helped ensure the customs normally attached to the end of Ramadan would be ignored this year. Both warlords understood that public perception was the key to their futures.

  Nestled in a rocky outcrop with not much vegetation, Kilo Team was enjoying an unmolested view of some of al Qaeda’s best positions. Not long after midnight, the crew aboard an AC-130 gunship radioed that they had spotted a dozen or so people running around on a nearby hilltop. The pilot wanted to know if these “hot spots” were friendly. Since Kilo was the forwardmost OP in the center of the battlefield, no friendlies were out there. Pope cleared the gunship “hot,” and after a few minutes of hammering, the pilot relayed to the boys on the ground: “All targets neutralized.”

  As the Americans and Brits passed some quiet, congratulatory high fives around their OP, the distinct and comforting drone of the gunship could still be heard overhead. Then the silence gave way to a strange and ominous whistling sound that grew louder and louder, closer and closer until it stopped with a loud Ding! within their position. An expended piece of 40mm brass casing had spilled out of the gunship at 15,000 feet and landed in the middle of their tight perimeter, narrowly missing all six of them. They looked at each other in the darkness for a few moments, pondering what that big chunk of brass would have felt like if had crashed onto one of their heads.