by John Weisman
“Questions?” Walker scanned his SEALs.
They were silent.
Of course they were: they’d been through this sequence hundreds of times. “Great. Okay, you guys go jock up.”
Joint Operations Center
2145 Hours
Wes Bolin checked the live video feeds from the two Sentinels that were loitering twelve thousand feet above the Khan compound in Abbottabad. Thermal imagery indicated that both the guest house and the main house were occupied. Three other Sentinels were already in position above Peshawar, Hasan Abdal, and Rawalpindi, where they’d spoof the Pakistani radar sites and shut them down if necessary, as well as monitor all of Pakistan’s secure communications networks.
If the Paks sounded an alarm, Bolin would know it. And he’d scramble air assets immediately to protect his people.
He ambled back to his office, sat at his desk, and stared at the big clock on the opposite wall ticking off the seconds. This was the one part of being an admiral that he didn’t much care for. Tonight he’d be in the JOC, watching from the sidelines and relaying information back to Washington. He would much rather have been on one of the chalks as an assault leader, or at the very least a part of the command element riding the enabler helo.
He did, of course, occasionally accompany his troops. And once in a while he even saw action. But not as often as he would have liked. He envied his junior officers, the kids like Dave Loeser and the up-and-comers like Tom Maurer and Scott Moore. They could still be a part of the rough-and-tumble, edge-of-the-envelope stuff, the kick-ass take-names part of Warriordom that had made them become SEALs, or Rangers, in the first place.
Rangers. Crap. He hadn’t passed on the identity of the Ranger that McGill had asked him to check on. Frantic, he checked every sheet of paper on the desk. But he couldn’t find his note or remember the name. “Dammit.”
He picked up the phone and waited for the lieutenant colonel manning the operations desk to answer. “Gary, ask Captain Maurer to find the OGA guy on CONOP Hotel 53 and get me the true name of their Abbottabad asset.” He listened. “His call sign is Archangel. And ASAP, will you? It’s urgent.”
45
Hassan Town, Abbottabad, Pakistan
May 1, 2011, 2255 Hours Local Time
Charlie Becker rolled off the pallet he’d been using as his bed and onto the rug-topped dolly. He patted himself down in the old “spectacles, testicles, watch, and wallet” mode. Knives, check, check, check. Phone, check. Fireflies, check.
That was it. The begging bowl would be left behind. Charlie didn’t want any extraneous souvenirs from this particular TDY. The memories, he decided, would be quite sufficient.
Especially if tonight’s festivities went as planned.
He flipped his phone open and checked the time. It would take him one and a half hours to reach the end of the four-hundred-plus-meter street on which the Khan compound stood. He’d been instructed to be on-site at 0100.
Piece of cake. In fact, he planned to get there early, so he could check the compound and make sure nothing was amiss, then watch them come in. Charlie pulled himself onto the dolly, took padded sticks in hand, and cast off into the night.
46
Special Operations Apron, Jalalabad, Afghanistan
May 1, 2011, 2310 Hours Local Time
“Dave, you’re replacing Jack Young on Chalk Two, right?” Tom Maurer checked the watch on his left wrist. “We’re twenty minutes from Start Point.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.” Dave Loeser grinned as he headed toward the stealth Black Hawk to check that everything was shipshape. He’d ridden Chalk Two during most of the Fort Knox JTXs and could easily step into the injured SEAL’s position. He was pumped. He had expected to be included, but as part of the command package on the enabler helo. Now he’d been made an assaulter. It didn’t get any better than that.
Even though he was Red Squadron’s commanding officer, tonight Loeser would be working for Master Chief Danny Walker, Hotel 53’s assault leader, call-sign Jackpot. It made sense. Loeser had gone on perhaps a dozen capture/kill missions in the past year and a half. In that same timeframe, Jackpot had almost a hundred under his belt.
The SEALs were all jocked up now: lightweight ceramic body armor in hydration-capable carriers, Gen-III helmets with NODs. Their 416 magazines were loaded with heavy, solid 70-grain Barnes TSX rounds that worked so well in the AFPAK theater, their Sig-Sauer 226s held +P Speer Gold Dot 124-grain loads. The two breachers, 6-Charlie’s Heron Orth and 1-Alpha’s Myles Fisher, wore their breacher kits high on their chest, above the magazine pouches, as did the two Ranger breachers.
The assault element personnel would be cross-loaded. Each of the Black Hawks would have breachers, Rangers, snipers, and assaulters. That way, if one of the helos went down, there would still be enough personnel and equipment to get the job done and get out safely.
Maurer checked his watch again. Things were going relatively smoothly. The FAARP was ready to fly to a safe location within thirty-five minutes’ flight of Abbottabad. There were a total of five Sentinel drones in the air. He could get the secure feed from the one dedicated to the Khan compound on the tablet computer in his thigh pocket.
He watched as the assault package made its way to their respective aircrafts. Their radios had been synched so that the entire group could talk back and forth. Their comms would be piped back to the JOC, where Wes Bolin and Eric McGill would watch the Sentinel feed.
The Sentinel feed would also go straight to the White House, where Air Force Brigadier General Joseph Franklin, Bolin’s deputy, was set up in a small annex adjoining the Situation Room. And the feed went to Langley, where Stu Kapos and Dick Hallett would monitor it in the CIA operations center, and to JSOC’s National Capital Region Task Force Command Center in Pentagon City, Virginia.
Maurer turned back toward the JOC to see Wes Bolin and Eric McGill coming at him. The admiral was carrying a secure phone, which he handed to the SEAL.
“Call for you,” Bolin said.
Tom put the unit to his ear. “This is Captain Maurer.”
Wes Bolin enjoyed watching the younger man’s reaction. It was, he thought, wonderfully genuine and also well-deserved.
Maurer said, “Thank you, Mr. President. We will. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He handed the phone back to Bolin, his eyes still wide with surprise.
“Go to work, Tom,” Bolin said. “Do it right. Make it look easy.”
“The only easy day was yesterday, sir.”
“Hoo-yah, Captain. Good hunting.”
Special Operations Apron, Jalalabad, Afghanistan
May 1, 2011, 2330 Hours Local Time
Chief Warrant Officer Tom Letter, the lead SOAR pilot, started the mission clock at precisely 2330, as he lifted Chalk One off the ground. Delivery in Abbottabad would be 0100, plus or minus thirty seconds. Chalk Two followed immediately. Less than half a minute later, the enabler aircraft, an MH47-G containing the command group, JMAU, SSE, and OGA contingents, lifted off. It was followed by a nonstealth Black Hawk holding four SEALs and nine Rangers. The security craft would drop off when the assault package crossed the border and head for the FAARP.
The stealth MH60Js headed almost due south at an altitude of four thousand feet, until they passed over the U.S. Forward Operating Base at Shahi Kowt. That was Hotel 53’s first checkpoint.
2337 Hours: Tom Letter spoke into his secure radio. “Buick.” He banked the aircraft left, running parallel to the power lines eight miles to his north and gradually gaining altitude as he headed for his second checkpoint at Tawr Kham, thirty-three miles southeast. It was a natural border: a mountain range that formed the crooked spine between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Thirty miles south of Tawr Kham, the mountains reached more than eleven thousand feet. Here there was a natural dip. Letter climbed to ten thousand feet, and the top of the ridge passed safely, thirty-three hundred feet below the helicopter.
2359:37 Hours. “Cadillac.” Letter grinned inwardly. They would cro
ss into Pakistan in twenty-six seconds. Whoever had given the checkpoints these names certainly had a sense of humor.
They’d go stealth now, running fast and low, threading the needle between Pakistani air defense zones and military commands. Far behind, the FAARP aircraft were leaving Jalalabad for their forward basing location. Thirty-three miles to the southeast lay his third checkpoint. The mountain ridge was dropping fast. Letter descended slowly so he could hug the ground.
0002.33 Hours. Master Chief Danny Walker listened to the pilots’ chatter on his headset. As the assault leader, he was the only non-aircrew on the helo who was wearing one. The SEALs and Rangers were holding their helmets and hearing protection as they sat, crammed together on the Black Hawk’s deck. Because this was a stealth aircraft, it flew with its hatches closed. Normally, between the engine noise and the wind, it would have been impossible to hear anything. Tonight, however, the SEALs could shout in one another’s ears and actually catch a word every now and then.
He’d heard Tom Letter call “Feet dry” when they’d crossed the border. They were in Pakistan now. He checked his watch. Less than an hour to target.
Then, in his ear, another voice. It was Captain Maurer, transmitting from the enabler.
“CONOP Hotel 53 this is X-ray Romeo One. Target Undertaker was incorrect. New Target tonight is Target Geronimo, also known as Crankshaft.” There was a pause on the line. “Please confirm.”
Danny Walker: “Hotel 53 Jackpot confirm.”
From Chalk Two: “Hotel 53 Rangemaster confirm.”
For one of the few times in his life Danny Walker was actually surprised. He unplugged his headset from the bulkhead, knelt down, and shouted at the troops. “New Target! Call-sign Geronimo.” He saw their puzzled reactions through his NODs, grinned, and shouted, “That’s Crankshaft, gentlemen!”
“UBL! We’re gonna hit UBL!”
“Pontiac.” T-Rob put his red-lensed flashlight on the GRG map he wore on his left forearm. They had passed the third checkpoint. They were just about a hundred miles deep into Pakistan now. Just south of Campbellpore. East of the Indus River. Soon they’d be swinging north, passing Checkpoint Chevy, threading the needle between Islamabad, hiding in narrow valleys between the mountain ridges. That’s where it would get bumpy.
But he didn’t care if half the package heaved big chunks. They were going after Crankshaft. This wasn’t just another mission, it was the mission of a lifetime. Son Tay. Eagle Claw. Entebbe. All the special operations he’d read about in Spec Ops. This is what he and Padre and every single SEAL in Red Squadron lived for, had become SEALs for, endured Hell Week for.
Not that the other missions weren’t special. They were. But this was something else. This was a whole fricking different universe. This was the asshole who’d killed thousands and thousands of Americans. The guy the whole world—well, a good part of it, anyway—had been hunting for ten-plus years. The high-value target that scores of SEALs, Rangers, and other special operators had given their lives trying to find.
Now it was payback time. And—luck of the draw—it was Red Squadron who’d gotten the call, and 6-Charlie and 1-Alpha who’d be the assaulters.
Troy sat there in that incredible aircraft noise, his mind churning.
And then he prayed.
He thanked God for giving him the chance to be in this particular spot, at this exact point in time.
Thanked God for his great shooting skills and the strength of character to have made it through BUD/S.
Thanked God for the blessing of these incredible shipmates, who were also being blessed with His bountiful generosity tonight.
And for an incredible wife and a glorious child and another on the way.
A child who’d be born into a safer world because on the day his new baby drew its first breath, months would have elapsed since Crankshaft drew his last.
It was . . . incredible.
God, Troy thought, is indeed great.
And yet, when he thought about it, there was something else going on that was even more incredible.
Which was this: CONOP Hotel 53 was just another three helicopters full of anonymous SEALs going out to do one of eight, nine, ten, a dozen HVT capture/kills tonight. Except for the significance of the target—which was, he had to admit, a pretty cosmic damn thing—this was just another mission. Another night he couldn’t talk about to anyone—except the other people on this Chalk and his shipmates back at Dam Neck. But bottom line? UBL was just another HVT who wouldn’t be breathing anyone’s oxygen tomorrow morning.
And then reality smacked T-Rob upside the head. Smacked him good.
Holy mother of God. They were probably watching this one live from the White House.
And the Pentagon.
And Langley.
So it had to go perfectly. No Mr. Murphy. No screw-ups. None at all.
T-Rob nudged Padre, turned, and shouted in his ear. “Great news, huh, bro?”
Padre’s head went up and down like one of those toy dogs you see in rear windows. “Frigging awesome.” He steadied himself against his shipmate as the helicopter started to swerve evasively.
Troy: “We’re about to head north.” He tapped the GRG on his wrist. “Islamabad.”
“Roger that.” The pilot was flying low and fast now. Padre hoped they were slipping past the Pak air defenses without leaving so much as a hint of a signature. Padre had lost friends in helicopter crashes. They were nasty.
Then he thought: Nah, not tonight. Tonight, inshallah, they’d get in and get out without a hitch. Tonight it would all go the way it should. Textbook. And end with Crankshaft’s head on a pike. UBL would stand for Used to Be Laden.
Padre punched his shipmate’s upper arm. “Whoever blows a shot at Crankshaft buys the beer. Pass it on.”
“Right on.” Troy gave his shipmate an upturned thumb. “Ain’t gonna be me, bro.”
“Or me either, dude.”
47
The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.
May 1, 2011, 1537 Hours Local Time
The National Security Staff started arriving just after 1 PM, notified that something big was going on. Some carried fast food from the Old Executive Office Building’s machines; others carried coffee in white paper cups embossed with a gold Presidential Seal. Those cups came from the entity that in the Mesozoic Age had been known as the White House Mess, but these days was called the Presidential Food Service.
Shortly after 2, the president arrived, dressed informally in an open-neck white shirt and a windbreaker. He’d been playing golf. He was accompanied by the White House chief of staff, his national security advisor, and Dwayne Daley. By 3, he’d been joined by the vice president, the director of national intelligence, Secretary of Defense Rich Hansen, the Joint Chiefs chairman, and Secretary of State Kate Semerad. Vince Mercaldi arrived at 3:45, accompanied by Spike.
On arrival, each of the principals was handed a white three-ring briefing binder. On the cover, printed in bright red, was the legend
TOP SECRET CODEWORD NOFORN
For Use in White House Situation Room Only
By 2 PM Wes Bolin’s deputy, Air Force Brigadier General Joe Franklin, had set up his laptop in the small annex adjoining the Situation Room so he could feed the live video from the Sentinel loitering over the Khan compound to one of the Sit Room’s four wall-mounted flat screens. The Air Force special operations officer was receiving the same live audio feed that Wes Bolin and Eric McGill were getting in the Jalalabad JOC. While the other officials gathered in the Sit Room, Call Me Vince and Spike stood behind Franklin, watching the video feed and listening to the radio chatter.
There wasn’t much of it. Until 3:54.
Then the audio feed speaker came alive.
“Six minutes.” Vince didn’t know it, but he’d heard Chief Warrant Officer Tom Letter’s voice announcing that Chalk One was six minutes from target.
The CIA director said, “What’s happening?”
Joe Frankli
n: “They’re going into their final onboard prep, Mr. Director. Turning their radios on, pulling on their helmets, inserting mags in their weapons, and loading rounds in the chambers.” He turned toward the director and gave him a smile. “The usual sphincter-tightening stuff.”
“Sounds about right.” Vince turned and pointed toward the Sit Room. “You gonna feed that in there?”
The general shook his head. “No capability to do sound,” he said. “But I can relay the video.”
“Hmmm.” Vince ambled next door. The big flat screen facing the head of the Sit Room conference table showed an overhead of the Khan compound taken by the Sentinel’s infrared camera. There was no movement inside the compound walls and no sound. He looked at the president and said, “The assault package is getting close, Mr. President. They’re about five minutes out right now, and if you want to hear what’s going on as well as see it, you’d better go next door, sir, to General Franklin.”
The president stood up. “I gotta see this,” he said, and headed to the annex.
The vice president jumped to his feet. “Hey, this is a big fuckin’ deal. I wanna see it, too.” He elbowed a national security staffer out of the way and headed next door, the secretaries of state and defense, the director of national intelligence, and the Joint Chiefs chairman in his wake. Within seconds, the small annex was crammed full of VIPs.
4.25 Nautical Miles Southwest of Abbottabad, Pakistan
May 2, 2011, 0057 Hours Local Time