No Hero: The Evolution of a Navy SEAL

by Mark Owen

  My troop chief asked each of us for our assessment.

  “What do you think, fellas, can we pull this off?” he said.

  We knew the hard truth: If we didn’t roger up to conduct this mission, the bad guys would get away. They would go on to conduct more attacks or set IEDs that would in turn kill American or Coalition forces.

  “I guess they’d rather send us in, with the possibility of getting one of us shot, than to drop a bomb,” Steve said with a short pause and a disgusted look. “We all agree that this is a ripe target. If we don’t take a swing at it tonight, we’re going to miss them.”

  Steve paused for a second.

  “I’m in.”

  In a way I was happy. The deployment had been too quiet. We all wanted to get outside the wire. Our job was dangerous, we knew that, but we preferred work to sitting around. Boredom was worse than danger.

  Steve and I had been swim buddies a long time and I knew he was doing the same mental checklist I was.

  It was a good target. The illumination was low—not zero percent, but close. The enemy was located so far up an enemy-controlled valley they wouldn’t be expecting us. Add the freezing-cold temperature, blowing wind, and snow, and you’d have to be insane to attempt this mission. I loved the harder missions. My mind wandered back to the miserable conditions and freezing-cold days spent in Alaska. I’d grown up in these kinds of conditions.

  “OK,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  All the team leaders gave him the thumbs-up.

  The troop commander and troop chief left the planning to us. Steve and I sat down along with our recce team leader and studied all the possible routes in and out of the village. The target’s current position sat at the end of the valley.

  There was no way to land our helicopters uphill from the target, and if we landed over the ridge in the next valley, there was no way we would be able to patrol over the extremely steep mountains in waist-deep snow in one cycle of darkness.

  Everyone knew the dangers of being caught in the valley when the sun came up. With our small force, we could quickly find ourselves in a very bad position. Plus, there was tons of snow, making any cross-country travel slow and miserable.

  We had only one choice: fly in and land well down the valley, far enough away from the village that the Taliban wouldn’t hear the noise from our helicopters. The planning wasn’t anything special—we were relying on our ability to shoot, move, and communicate. It was pretty basic, and besides, we’d been conducting these types of missions for years at this point in the war. The only thing different tonight was the snow and cold.

  I didn’t relish the thought of slogging my way up the valley, but my hope was the weather would keep the bad guys inside. We were banking on being the only ones foolish enough to be out.

  Helicopters had heaters, but they never worked that well and the ride to the target was a suckfest. We sat huddled together on the jump seats with huge down jackets draped over our shoulders. The trick was to wear just the right amount of layers so that you’re not too hot on the patrol when moving, but not freezing once you stop. I had my Arc’teryx jacket and gloves, but nothing on my legs except an extra pair of long underwear. Some of the guys had on Gore-Tex bibs to protect their legs, but I always got too hot in those.

  “One minute,” I heard the crew chief yell as the ramp of the helicopter began to lower into the open position.

  A rush of even colder air entered the cabin as I threw off my large parka.

  “This is going to suck,” I thought.

  I could tell by the howl of the engines that we were close to landing. From the one-minute call until we touched down I always looked out of the window. I tried to gather as much situational awareness of the immediate area as possible. You could never know what piece of information was going to be necessary in a firefight, especially if we were ambushed as soon as we landed.

  Tonight, all I could see was white. Snow covered everything, and I could see the moon glistening off the ice. It was beautiful. The snow and mountains of Afghanistan rival some of the best ski slopes in the United States. This place could be a resort if the locals weren’t always trying to kill you.

  All around me, my teammates shrugged off their jackets and started to work the circulation back into their legs. I moved my rifle into my lap and held on to the crossbar of the seat. This deployment we were working with National Guard helicopters, and their aircraft lacked the high-speed avionics of the special operations squadron. Let’s just say their landings weren’t the best. We hit the ground with a thud, and I could feel the helicopter’s wheels skid as it lurched forward.

  From my position looking out the open ramp of the helicopter, it seemed as if the ramp was stuck. I refocused my night vision goggles and could see that we’d landed in such a deep snowdrift that the ramp couldn’t open all the way. Our recce guys began climbing through the small opening between the top of the ramp and the top of the helicopter.

  When we emerged, the air was bitter cold. I trudged through the waist-deep snow to get out of the rotor blast. I looked back to see my teammates dropping off out of the helicopter and into the snow one at a time. The rotor wash blew snow in my face, all over my equipment, and down my neck.

  I began to get my bearings and could see our snipers moving into a position out in front of me. Just then, the helicopter powered up, blowing a second batch of snow down my neck. I stood in place, not moving until the snow subsided and the helicopter noise faded. Up ahead, the snipers started to break trail. Thankfully they’d remembered their snowshoes. The snipers started stamping down the snow so we could walk off the drop zone.

  I just wanted to walk.

  I knew from my childhood growing up in Alaska that movement was the best way to fight the cold. When we finally got on the road, I started to warm up. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the long line of men, dark against the fresh white snow, snaking its way to the road. Besides my troop, we had a group of Rangers and some Afghan commandos with us.

  The moon hadn’t set yet, and there was a decent amount of moonlight, so looking through our night vision the landscape was super bright. Above me, the stars seemed to go on forever. Is this what “the Chosin Few” in Korea felt like?

  “The Chosin Few” were UN troops, mostly Marines, who fought in the Battle of Chosin Reservoir during the Korean War. It was legendary in our circles. The Chinese encircled the UN troops, who fought for seventeen days in ice and snow before breaking out of the encirclement.

  The weather and terrain in some ways were more hostile than the enemy. Temperatures at night bottomed out at thirty-five degrees below zero and just barely reached zero during the day. Food rations froze. Vehicle engines refused to start after being shut down. Marines suffered from frostbite.

  It made this march look easy.

  During the Korean War they didn’t have the cool-guy, top-of-the-line Arc’teryx gear that we had. That’s how I rationalized it in my mind. I knew I couldn’t bitch about it; plenty of soldiers in the past suffered through much worse.

  The crystal-clear night only made it colder. There were no clouds to trap even the smallest amount of heat. I slid one hand at a time into my pocket. My fingers reached for the balled-up chemical hand warmer I carried.

  For three hours we patrolled up the valley and toward our target. The march was just plain miserable. The weather was more brutal than even my worst days in Alaska riding on the back of my father’s snow machine. There was no avoiding it. My fingers stiffened each time I took them out of my pocket. Gusts of wind blew snow into my face.

  Up ahead, I could see enormous wisps of snow blowing off the top of the mountains that towered over the end of the valley. With every gust, I had to make a conscious effort to focus on the mission and not the cold. We were deep within an enemy-controlled valley, outnumbered, and our assessment said we were heading toward some pretty hard-core fig
hters.

  Over the radio, the drone pilots were still reporting just the three guards. The rest of the fighters were holed up in the building.

  “The warm building,” I thought.

  We took a quick break and one of my teammates gave me an Atomic Fireball candy. My feet were numb from the cold and I was reluctant to even take my gloved hand out of my pocket to accept it.

  “Maybe it’ll warm me up,” I thought as I popped it in my mouth.

  At the very least, it would keep my mind on the burning sensation on my tongue and off my cold feet. When things get miserable, especially this miserable, the only thing to do is laugh about it. The roads were icy and very slick. Every five minutes or so, one of the guys in the patrol would slip and crash to the ground. I laughed to myself each time, until I hit a slick patch. My foot instantly started to slide and I knew I was going down.

  Wham.

  I was on my ass looking up at the stars. I could feel the cold snow soaking my pants. A few guys snickered as I scrambled to my feet. Karma is a bitch.

  We made it to the ORP—the observation ready point—three hundred meters from the target, where we stopped to make any last-minute adjustments to the plan and get prepared to assault the target. I slid my hands reluctantly out of my thick winter gloves and into my thin shooting gloves. I could feel the cold metal of my weapon through the material. I blew on my fingertips and flexed them back and forth, hoping to get the blood moving so my trigger finger would work.

  I gathered with the troop commander, troop chief, Steve, and the other team leaders to make sure there were no last-minute changes. Behind me, my teammates, the Rangers, and the Afghan commandos all took a knee and waited. Two soldiers from the closest base—battle space owners—were with us to handle the village elders after we left. They had gotten on the helicopters at the last moment dressed in their standard-issue cold-weather gear. I could see them nearby shivering and looking around, waiting to move again. If I was cold, these poor fuckers had to be nearly frozen.

  There was a sense of urgency to get moving again as soon as possible. As we confirmed our last-minute assault plans, word came down that the building where the fighters were hiding was indeed a mosque. That automatically changed everything. I could hear the troop commander over his radio trying to work out if we would be allowed to enter and clear the mosque or if only the Afghan commandos could go inside. We knew the bad guys were there, and we knew the bad guys purposely stayed in mosques because they knew Americans weren’t allowed inside.

  After walking for more than three hours, I was sweaty, and the sweat was starting to cool. I’d ditched my warmest gear to prepare for the assault. I didn’t want to fish it all out again for fear we’d get the green light to go and I’d have to put it all away a second time.

  As the wait dragged on, people started coming up to where the troop commander, troop chief, and team leaders were meeting. At first, it was the Afghans. We often used a SEAL officer to supervise the Afghan commandos. The officer showed up at the ORP with the Afghan commander. He looked exasperated.

  “I couldn’t get him to stop; they want to know what’s going on,” the officer said.

  “Settle down and relax. We’ll tell you when we’re ready to go. Now, get back to your positions and we’ll let you know,” the troop commander said.

  Then the Ranger captain came up and kneeled next to me.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” he asked. “What are we doing?”

  “They’re in a mosque,” the troop commander said. “Just hang tight. We’re figuring it out and will let you know when we’re ready to go.”

  The Ranger platoon leader went back without a word. I was getting pissed. I knew everyone was freezing. I was too, but now, only three hundred meters from the target, was not the time to start questioning things. Our troop commander and chief were both working the radios trying to get approvals so we could continue the mission.

  The voice of the drone pilot over my radio finally shook me from my thoughts of a warm tropical beach somewhere.

  “We’ve got movers,” the pilot said. “They just left the mosque headed north out of the village.”

  “Roger,” the troop commander said. “Can you identify weapons?”

  Since the enemy patrol was leaving the village, maybe now we could get an air strike. We’d patrolled through the freezing-cold weather for most of the night, but there was still no need to get into a gunfight if there was an easier way.

  “Negative,” the drone pilot came back. “We can’t identify any weapons.”

  I looked at Steve and almost laughed.

  “Could there be anybody else except bad guys out here at three in the morning in patrol formation?”

  Steve looked angry.

  “They just left a mosque,” Steve said. “They’ve correlated the group to the Taliban commander. Three guards have been out all night. What the fuck is wrong?”

  As bad as we all wanted to go get these guys, we all knew the inherent danger of getting into a shootout. We were putting ourselves at significant risk because we weren’t being allowed to drop bombs.

  We weren’t even sure why they decided to move. Had some early-warning network alerted them? Sure we had landed miles away from the target to avoid the enemy hearing the noise from the helicopter, but who is to say there weren’t more Taliban farther down the valley who’d heard us land and called their buddies up the valley? The only benefit was we didn’t have to worry about getting approvals to enter the mosque anymore.

  My blood was pumping now, so I didn’t feel the cold. One hundred percent of my attention and focus was on making sure my team was moving, alert, and in the best tactical position. Walking into a gunfight can warm the blood. The long, cold walk to the target was now over, and it was time to focus on the hunt.

  We made the call to go. We quietly maneuvered into the village, careful to make little noise. There was no need to wake up the whole village at the last second. The gate to the mosque was unlocked. The Afghans went in first and started to clear. The Americans—Rangers and SEALs—stayed outside and waited.

  The search took a few minutes, and the Afghans didn’t find anything. We didn’t really expect anybody to be left inside, but we weren’t about to pass it by without checking.

  Overhead, the drone was keeping track of the fighters as they picked their way up a nearby hill. Again, our request to hit them with a missile or bomb was denied. No visible weapons. We had no choice but to pursue them and deal with the situation accordingly.

  After close to four hours of walking, we were not only cold but also tired. I could tell it was taking a toll on the Afghan commando unit that was with us. They weren’t being proactive and we had to order them to pull security. They weren’t focused on the mission. They wanted to go home.

  Our snipers found the enemy’s trail and we slowly started the chase. After about a half hour of moving, the drone pilots once again reported in that the Taliban patrol had come to a building and stopped. Hopefully bedding down for the night.

  At least one guard was positioned on a little saddle overlooking the valley.

  The only approach to the new target was between the saddle and a small knoll. As we moved into position and began slowly making our way toward the target, the Taliban guard spotted us. I was near the front and watched the guard stand up and stare at us for a long second. I could see an AK-47 slung across his chest. He then turned and tore ass toward the house where his buddies were sleeping.

  The radio traffic cracked in my ear.

  “We have multiple movers,” the drone pilot said. “I say again, we have multiple movers.”

  We were in the low point of the saddle. We needed to get to the high ground as quickly as possible. Sprinting up the snow-covered hill, I led my team to the end of a line of compounds opposite where the fighters were running. I was no longer cold. There was no doubt we we
re about to get into a fight.

  The snipers, at the front of the formation, were already set up. As I got up to the knoll, I could hear their rifles firing. I saw two fighters in a dead sprint attempting to run down an adjacent knoll. Our snipers dropped them like rag dolls from more than one hundred and fifty yards away. The rest of the fighters stopped running and dove for cover.

  I moved my team farther up the knoll looking for a way to flank the enemy. Our snipers were in place and had the enemy pinned down and unable to escape. The Rangers had now made their way to the top of the knoll and were stacked up on the back side of the hill behind the line of compounds.

  I grabbed the Ranger captain.

  “Hey,” I said. “Your guys want to have some fun?”

  I took the captain up to the crest of the hill and told him to set up his machine guns and lay down a base of fire on the enemy position. The Rangers carried the heavier belt-fed machine guns and ammo, and I knew they would love to lighten their loads and get in some action.

  The Rangers set up with their machine guns and grenade launchers. I shouldered my rifle and aimed my infrared targeting laser at the enemy location, marking them for the Ranger platoon.

  “We’re going to flank right and I’ll hit you up on the radio when it’s time to lift your fire,” I said. “Until then, fuck ’em up.”

  Before I even got off the knoll, I could hear the rattle of the machine guns and thump of grenades. Nobody likes carrying the big guns until you need them. It was an awesome sound as the Rangers laid down covering fire that would hopefully keep the enemy busy as my team flanked their position.

  “We have squirters moving on your left,” the drone pilot said over the radio.

  The snipers stayed in position and focused on the enemy to our front, while Steve’s team maneuvered to intercept the movers to our left. My team, with the combat dog, or “hair missile,” and the troop chief, continued to move around from the right to eliminate the small pocket of enemy still remaining in the house. We had a perfect “L”-shape ambush on the enemy position.