by John Weisman
Hallett laughed. “Will do. In fact I’ll have two.”
“Yeah—rub it in.”
“Stay safe, brother. Talk soon.”
The phone went dead. Woodward stood, hitched his pants, and headed for the communications shed. He had to burst Abbottabad immediately.
37
107 Miles Northeast of Fort Campbell, Kentucky
April 24, 2011, 0027 Hours Local Time
It was dark enough inside the aircraft so that life was easier with NODs down. And it was cramped. There were six 6-Charlie SEALs, five Rangers, the K-9 and its handler, and the helo’s crew chief all in there, with full gear.
They’d been airborne for fifty-seven minutes, the Night Stalker pilots twisting and banking as they contour-flew a route that would set the SEALs and Rangers on target within thirty seconds plus or minus. Tonight was the third Joint Readiness Exercise, or JRX, for the SEALs and the Task Force 160 aircrew, flying 160-plus miles from Fort Campbell, where the 160th was based, to Fort Knox, where the target site was located.
The target tonight was “Muhammed Maulavi,” code-named Tombstone, a high-value target who was described by Red Squadron CO Dave Loeser to the assaulters during the evening’s BUB (Battle Update Brief) as a Haqqani Network captain. M2, as Loeser referred to him, would be portrayed, as would his family and bodyguards, by life-size mannequins dressed in Pashtun clothing and placed strategically in the target house. Those mannequins bearing weapons were hostile and could be killed. The others could not.
The flight from the 160th’s home base at Fort Campbell, which sat on the Kentucky-Tennessee border, to the training area at Fort Knox, located close to the Indiana border, was 164 miles as the crow flies. But it would take ninety minutes because the aircraft wouldn’t fly a straight course. Instead, they’d take an irregular route, allowing them to contour-fly the topography at extra-low altitude. The SEALs and Rangers didn’t know it, but the distance from Fort Campbell to Fort Knox was just about equal to the distance between Jalalabad, Afghanistan, and Abbottabad, Pakistan. Which was precisely why Wes Bolin and Tom Maurer had selected the two sites for the assault package’s predeployment JRXs and had ordered the 160th to take a circuitous route that would, although the pilots didn’t know it, more or less resemble the flight path they’d be using on the real mission.
For Troy, Padre, Jacko, Cajun, Heron, and Rangemaster, however, it was just another night’s work. These drills were really for the aircrews. Flying formation at night, with no lights, following a complicated, evasive flight plan, and doing it in formation so that both Black Hawks arrive on target simultaneously and within thirty seconds plus or minus of H-Hour, with the MH-47G Chinook enabler aircraft coming in precisely twenty-five seconds later, takes precision, confidence, and above all, practice.
Which is why the three-craft assault package, the backup package of Rangers and SEALs who’d be held in reserve, as well as the tertiary arming and refueling package known as FAARP, positioned no more than thirty-five minutes’ flight time from the target, would practice infiltration, assault, and exfiltration in real time repeatedly. Until they all got it right and they all got it smooth. Until the aircrews could fly while compensating for the weights they were carrying, maximize their speed and stealth while keeping a minimum separation between the aircraft so as to minimize signature, and get the entire assault element, blocking force, command package, JMAU and SSE sections delivered exactly where they had to be delivered, all while making sure that Mr. Murphy of Murphy’s Law fame hadn’t snuck aboard any of the aircraft as a stowaway.
Oh, yeah, and also do it with on-time delivery right down to the second, Mr. Murphy notwithstanding.
The most decisive element was weight. Where the weight was, and how it balanced out, was absolutely critical to the ability of the helicopter to perform at the outer limits of its capabilities. Edge-of-the-envelope flying was what Task Force 160 pilots did better than anyone else in the world. And if the situation called for it, they could fly their helos unbalanced. But they preferred to trim out as much as they could because it made doing the impossible just that much easier.
All three aircraft in the assault package were equipped with avionics suites and multimode radars that allowed them to evade detection. The Black Hawks—top-secret stealth model MH-60Js—were specially configured with radar-spoofing composite exteriors and silencing-configured main and tail rotors that cut operational noise by forty-six percent. If they made an into-the-wind approach, they couldn’t be heard until they were virtually on top of the target. The MH-47G wasn’t anywhere near as silent, but it too was equipped with a huge array of sophisticated electronic countermeasures that gave it the ability to operate in the most hostile of environments and survive.
0054 Hours
“Six minutes.” The pilot’s voice played inside Rangemaster’s head. He was senior SEAL on the Chalk One aircraft. As Chalk leader he was plugged into the aircraft’s system.
He swiveled, made a megaphone of his hands, and shouted loudly above the jet engine noise and wind. “Six minutes. Six minutes!”
The SEALs and Rangers turned their radios on, made sure the wires were plugged into their Peltor talk-through hearing protection, and pulled on their helmets.
“Three minutes.” In the cockpit, the pilot brought the airspeed down to ninety knots. His eye on the mission clock, the copilot activated the PAIT, a secure passive airborne interrogator transponder, which turned on the infrared firefly devices that indicated the landing zones.
“Two minutes.” The SEALs double-checked their weapons, ensured the magazines were seated, yanked the charging handle, which slammed a round into the chamber, performed press checks to ensure the rounds were seated properly, then made sure the safeties were engaged. They secured the weapons so they wouldn’t get in the way during the fast-rope, and checked their safety harnesses.
Some pulled on the Outdoor Research gloves that were thick enough for fast-roping if the drop was under forty-five feet, and thin enough to use as shooting gloves. Others felt, to hell with rope burn, and went with Oakleys, or the unit’s new favorites, classic mechanic’s gloves.
The aircrew, also wearing night vision, adjusted their safety harnesses, then took their positions by the open port and starboard hatches where the thirty-foot fast-ropes were coiled. Just as the helo approached and flared above the target, the crew would drop the thick lines, get out of the way so the SEALs could drop unimpeded, then pull the pins and drop the lines.
The Black Hawk was bobbing and weaving now, slaloming as it careened toward the target.
“One minute!” sounded in Rangemaster’s ears. Counting backward silently, he disengaged from the aircraft system, pulled on his own hearing protection and helmet, and dropped his NODs.
“Thirty seconds!” Rangemaster shouted into his boom mike. “Thirty!” he repeated. The Rangers unsnapped their safety lines and pulled themselves away from the doors as the helo rapidly decelerated from ninety knots. They, the K-9, and its handler would not fast-rope, but land inside the compound’s western courtyard. Two of the Rangers would blow through the walls; the others would clear the courtyard, provide security for the helo as long as it stayed on the ground, and back the SEALs if necessary. The K-9 would be deployed if anyone tried to run or if one of the target’s occupants decided to play hide-and-seek.
In the cockpit, the copilot yelled, “Fifty knots!” The pilot could see the box-and-one infrared flashers that would line him up with his target.
“Forty knots.” He maneuvered the helo.
“Thirty knots” came in above the three-flasher line.
“Twenty knots.” Dead on.
He pulled up, his eyes fixed on a point in the sky.
The ground drops away.
The helo’s nose flares up, forty-five degrees.
The aircraft stands on its tail. Motionless for an instant.
Ropes go out.
Helo’s nose drops almost horizontal.
Rangemaster yells,
“Go!”
0:02. NODs down, Troy clears the dangling rope, Padre and Jacko behind him.
0:03. Troy rolls over the edge of the roof.
0:04. Drops onto the terrace nine feet below. Lands.
Weapon up. Safety off.
0:06. Scan and breathe.
Behind him, a shout: “Oh, shit!”
0:08. “Go!” Padre’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him on.
0:10. Kick the door. It collapses inward.
Into the darkened room. Scan. Sweep.
Nothing.
Empty?
Scan.
Something behind the bed. Top of human head.
AK muzzle visible. “Gun!”
Troy: three quick shots.
Closes on target.
Fires a double-tap.
0:13. Cajun and Heron leapfrog Troy and Padre. Cajun’s hand on hallway door.
Troy checks the bed. Hostile target is down. Dead. “Go.”
0:16. Door opens inward.
Cacophony of voices in Troy’s headset: “Gun” “One down.” “Clear” “Go left!” “Gun!”
0:21. Heron cuts the pie. Sweeps the hallway. “Third floor clear.”
Move.
Scan and breathe.
Moving fast.
Stairs ahead.
0:25. Shit.
Rangemaster: “Gate.”
Heron: “Got it.”
Troy’s muzzle sweeps the far end of the hallway because he’s rear security. No threats. He calls it: “Hallway clear.”
Heron smacks small shaped charges on hinges. Pulls primer from the kit on his chest. Places shock tube initiator. Backs off unspooling wire.
6-Charlie backs up into the bedroom.
Heron plugs the igniter.
Padre: “Burning!”
Heron hits the igniter. Concussion and smoke. Screws with NODs. Shit.
1:21. Rangemaster kicks gate out of the way.
Padre into his mike: “Six-Charlie moving down to level two.”
From outside the target building: explosions as Alpha 1 blows the outside wall and moves to clear the smaller target building.
Rangemaster repeats the call. “Repeat: Six-Charlie down to level two.”
Rangemaster understands Murphy’s Law of Combat Number 8, which goes, FRIENDLY FIRE ISN’T.
1:59. Second floor has two doorways. 6-Charlie splits up. Cajun, Heron, and Rangemaster go left, Troy and Padre right. They’re one man light.
Troy: “Where’s Jacko?”
Rangemaster: “Jacko’s down.”
2:49. Troy checks the hinges. Can’t see them. Door opens inward.
2:52. He kicks it. Smashes the lock.
Cuts the pie. Makes entry. Hooks left back to wall. Sees . . .
Padre: “Target right.” Three quick shots.
Troy: “Friendly left.” The target is a life-size woman holding a baby.
The 6-Charlie SEALs hear call-sign Jackpot, Master Chief Danny Walker, the mission assault leader, in their ears. “One-Alpha—entry first floor. Burning!”
Followed by a massive explosion. They feel the concussion through the soles of their boots. Probably a Spider Charge.
Smoke and cordite smell floods the second story. Gotta love it.
Padre: “Cuff her.”
Troy: “Roger.”
4:05. Jackpot’s voice in 6-Charlie’s heads: “Tombstone EKIA. Repeat: Tombstone EKIA.”
That didn’t mean the SEALs stopped. Until every inch of the site had been cleared, until the K-9 had swept the house to make sure no one was hiding under floorboards or behind a false wall, until the JMAU had taken DNA samples, fingerprints, and digital photos of both corpses and survivors, and the slurpers had scooped up every bit of intelligence-related material they could lay their hands on, 6-Charlie’s antennas were up, and they were on guard.
29:42. The helos sweep back from the logger site, a safe, secure predetermined location within three minutes of the target. Tonight they had set down and idled for the duration of the assault. Other times, they might loiter airborne. It depended on the mission parameters.
30:45 The exhausted SEALs, Rangers, and enabler personnel clamber back aboard their various aircraft for the ninety-minute flight back to Campbell. It has been what is known as a full mission profile: run as if it was for real. There has even been one casualty that morning. Jack Young, the ebullient chief quartermaster, call-sign Jacko, broke his ankle when he rolled off the roof onto the terrace nine feet below and landed badly. It was a clean break and would heal in time. But he’d be out of action for the next two months.
Nor was the night’s work over. Back at Fort Campbell, the entire assault package—pilots, SEALs, Rangers, as well as command element, JMAU, and SSE crew—would go through a thorough debrief. The raid had been captured by a dozen night-vision-capable video cameras. Tactics would be evaluated and tweaked, rough edges smoothed. The hot wash, as the after-action critique was called, was never personal, but it could be brutal. The goal, after all, was perfection: total speed, surprise, and violence of action resulting in the capture/kill of an HVT, the exploitation of intelligence materials, and the identification of all those on-site.
But it was the killing part that lay at the core of everything the SEALs did. Because they knew, every one of them in their own heart, exactly what Charlie Becker knew in his: that there are some people on this earth who just deserve to die.
38
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
April 26, 2011, 1125 Hours Local Time
“What’s the latest from Abbottabad?” Vince Mercaldi peered across his desk at Stu Kapos and Dick Hallett.
“No change,” Hallett said. “The brothers Khan are in residence. The mystery guest, if there is one, is also on the premises. The families are maintaining radio silence, and the food is still Arab as opposed to Pakistani.”
The director looked at Stu Kapos. “So whatta we do?”
“First? First we break down Valhalla Base. Today and tomorrow. However POTUS decides, we gotta get out and get out clean before the Paks get wise.”
Vince nodded in agreement. “Do it.”
“Second, Wes Bolin wants a Paki-speaking native on site during the operation. In civilian clothes. To play the part of an ISI agent or a cop. Just in case any of the neighbors come around.”
“Good idea. I wish we’d thought of it.”
“Actually,” Hallett broke in, “we did. I discussed this with Larry Bailey, the SEAL Wes detailed to BLG, last week. Been looking for a candidate.”
“And?”
“And we already have one.” Hallett saw the quizzical look on the director’s face. “Charlie Becker. And we save one-way air fare.”
The director laughed. “Brilliant.” He looked at the BLG chief. “Does he have his legs with him?”
“No. They’re down at SAD in his locker. Well, they were. Now they’re on their way to Fort Campbell, because the package is departing tonight. Moon phase determines operational window, and the moon phase—last eighth—starts on the twenty-ninth and lasts until the fifth of May. Go or no-go, Wes wanted his package prepositioned before the window opens.”
The director bit his lip. “Did you send someone Charlie knows?”
“Affirmative. Paul Fedorko, his section chief.”
“Then make sure our guy makes it onto the assault package to deliver ’em. That way Charlie doesn’t get himself shot.”
Hallett made notes in his secretarial notebook. “Will do.”
“Also, he should be there because we need at least one senior Agency officer present. After all, on paper at least, JSOC’s package is under CIA control.”
Hallett looked at the director. “Is that it?”
“Affirmative,” Vince said. “You get moving. I need a little time with Stu.”
Hallett slid his notebook into a folder. “On my way,” he said. “Thanks, Boss.”
Vince waited until the door closed behind the BLG chief. “Stu, we may be in troub
le.”
“Trouble?”
“This whole project may be scrubbed.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I am. And this is very close-hold. But I got a call from someone at the White House at my home last night. Landline to landline. The individual was very, very nervous.”
“And?”
“I was told as follows. The president’s political guy, the guy who took Axelrod’s place, my source heard whispers that he’s supposedly conducting a secret poll—outsourcing it to give the White House very deep cover. And one of the questions they’re allegedly asking is, ‘If a military raid failed and American soldiers were killed, who would you most hold at fault?’
Kapos’s face fell. “Oh, shit.”
“So don’t be surprised if I get a call tomorrow or the next day.”
“Does Wes Bolin know?”
“Nah. He’s got enough to worry about. He’s sending the package out tonight. Three or four Globemasters from Fort Campbell.”
“Godspeed.” The clandestine service chief cracked his knuckles. The sound made Vince wince. “Sorry, Boss.” Kapos sighed. “Do you see POTUS today?”
“No—I asked and was turned down. Too busy, they say. Not tomorrow either. It’s evidently a full day of travel. Chicago—Oprah’s show. Then New York—all politics and money. They want Wes and me in the Situation Room on Thursday morning, eleven-thirty.” He stared at the ceiling. “Wes will be gone by then. I’ll take Spike. Dammit, don’t do that!” He gave Kapos a dirty look because the NCS chief had cracked his knuckles again. “I think they’re putting us off.”
“Because?”
“You want my honest opinion?” The CIA director looked grimly at his top spy. “I think because they’re waiting for the goddamn poll results.”
39
Abbottabad, Pakistan
April 27, 2011, 0300 Hours Local Time
Charlie Becker scooted off the road opposite the compound he called GZ, moving as quickly as he could, his arms and gloved hands doing most of the work. The instructions were simple: a box-and-one of the Phoenix Beacons that lined up with the center of the ten-foot-high wall bordering the western courtyard, the one where they burned the trash. Then five more fireflies in a straight line running east-west, aligning with the southernmost edge of the plowed field just to the east of a newly built white-roofed villa.