Sea Stories

by William H. Mcraven

  Somewhere along the way, I had measured up.

  It was a quarter past one and I was hoping the Congressman wouldn’t show. Sitting in Downing’s office, I looked out the window onto the South Lawn. Our spaces in the Old Executive Office Building were small, but it’s all about location, and we were a two-minute walk into the Oval Office. The third-floor offices had once been home to Marine Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North. North had infamously been involved in the Iran-Contra scandal, using his position at the White House to move arms to the Contras. Although it was fifteen years later, the specter of Ollie North hung over every thing we did. The White House was supposed to do policy, not operations. With New York City, Washington, and a field in Pennsylvania still smoldering, I sensed that was about to change.

  There was a pounding on the door. I opened it and in barged Congressman Dana Rohrabacher and his assistant Al Santoli.

  “Where’s the general?” Rohrabacher demanded, moving quickly from room to room.

  “Sir, General Downing’s out of the office. I’m Bill McRaven,” I said, extending my hand. “He asked me to help, if I could.”

  “You’re the SEAL?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Damn it! I really need to talk with Downing.”

  No offense taken, I thought.

  I moved into the small office and offered Rohrabacher the one extra chair. Nicely attired in a blue suit and maroon tie, Rohrabacher could have been mistaken for a retired general. He was clean-shaven, his hair was closely cropped, and he had a confidence and a swagger about him that came from years of being in a position of authority.

  Santoli leaned against the wall and Rohrabacher began talking fast.

  “Look, I got a call from General Dostum. He needs supplies fast—and airstrikes. Lots of airstrikes. His men are under attack, and unless we help them there is no way they are going to survive.”

  Rohrabacher got up from his chair and started pacing. “You need to call George Tenet right now and get the Agency birds to start providing supplies. Or call the Pentagon. Call somebody and get those Afghans some help!”

  A phone suddenly rang. I turned to pick it up and realized it wasn’t Downing’s phone.

  “Sir, it’s Dostum,” Santoli said, pulling a satellite phone from his attaché.

  Rohrabacher grabbed the large black Iridium phone. “Yes! Yes! I know! I know!” he yelled into the receiver. “I’m working it as fast as I can. Can you give me some coordinates for the drop?” He motioned for a piece of paper. “Okay. I’ve got it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have it confirmed.”

  Santoli gave me a look that seemed to imply this was routine business for the California Congressman.

  “Okay, SEAL. Here’s the coordinates for the drop. Call Tenet and let’s get this thing moving.”

  I stared at the eight-digit grid numbers on the paper. Somehow I thought calling the Director of the CIA and asking him to resupply an Afghan warlord was just a bit above my pay grade.

  “Sir, I know this is urgent.”

  “Damn right it is. Our allies are going to die if they don’t get supplies soon.”

  “Yes sir, but I don’t think Director Tenet will take my word for it. As soon as General Downing gets back I’ll run this by him and have him give you a call.”

  “Give me a call! Give me a call! Son, I need this done now. Can you do it or not?”

  I looked down at the numbers on the paper again. Was this the way we were going to run the war on terrorism? Congressmen calling directly to the front lines? Was I just too naïve about how things happened in Washington?

  “No sir,” I said, somewhat reluctantly. “General Downing will have to take care of this.”

  “I knew it!” he fumed. “This was a wasted trip. You tell Downing to call me the moment he gets back.”

  Rohrabacher shook his head again for effect and he and Santoli left the office in a hurry.

  Downing returned an hour later and I relayed the details of the visit, adding color commentary where I thought appropriate. He muttered under his breath, called Tenet, and a day later supplies were airdropped into the mountains of Afghanistan. Three days after that I finished my letter to the Pope, and in a meeting the following week, President Bush presented the letter to the papal nuncio for delivery to His Holiness.

  This job was clearly not going to be what I expected.

  The document on my desk was marked SECRET. It read like an action novel.

  “Gunfire erupted in the early morning of May 27, 2001, at the Dos Palmas resort on the island of Palawan in the Philippine archipelago. Fanatics from the Al Qaeda affiliate Abu Sayyaf screaming Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar stormed through the peaceful hotel complex and within minutes captured twenty hostages, forcing them aboard a thirty-five-foot speedboat. Among the hostages were two American missionaries, Martin and Gracia Burnham. The Burnhams are members of the New Tribes Mission, an evangelical Christian organization that ministers to people around the world. Martin is a qualified pilot who ferries supplies to those in need around the Philippine islands and Gracia helps with everything from monitoring his flight routes to teaching English to the locals. They came to Dos Palmas to celebrate their wedding anniversary.”

  I read the document a second time: “May 27, 2001.” It was now November 27, 2001.

  “WTF,” I said. “You mean these Americans have been hostages for six months and nobody’s doing anything?”

  There was uneasiness among the members of the Interagency Hostage Coordination Group. The senior FBI representative spoke up.

  “Well, we can’t get DoD’s support, and with everything going on in Afghanistan the Agency just doesn’t have the resources. The Bureau is also shorthanded, and the Philippine government just doesn’t have the capability to rescue them.”

  “This is bullshit!” I said. “These are Americans. We can’t just let them rot in the jungle. What’s the process for getting someone to take action?”

  I looked around the room at the other members. The Interagency Hostage Coordination Group was a committee of representatives from around D.C. It included all the three-letter agencies—CIA, FBI, DoD, NSA—as well as Treasury and State. Good people, but we were all mid-level managers with no real authority.

  State spoke up. “We will have to develop a plan and then take that plan to the deputies, the principals, and then get POTUS approval.”

  “Okay! So what’s the holdup?”

  A lot of eyes danced around the room. As the new head of the Hostage Coordination Group, my responsibility was to track Americans in trouble around the world and coordinate the activities of the interagency to try and get our citizens home safely. The HCG had been around for some time, but the reality was, the government rarely did much to help. The United States had a “no ransom” policy, and consequently, negotiating the release of hostages invariably fell to the private company or the family of the victims. While the FBI and State provided advice and assistance, the U.S government was not allowed to intervene directly with the delivery of payment.

  But this was different, I thought. Abu Sayyaf was a terrorist organization and their leader, Khadaffy Janjalani, was a certifiable extremist. Abu Sayyaf and Janjalani had proclaimed their allegiance to Osama bin Laden well before 9/11. Hiding in the jungles of the southern Philippines, they were notorious for kidnappings, beheadings, and political murders. The Philippine Army had been hunting them for years without much success. With just a little effort from the United States, I was convinced we could rescue the Burnhams and destroy Abu Sayyaf. Not everyone shared my optimism, but some did.

  The CIA representative, an experienced field agent named Tom, smiled at my new-guy enthusiasm. “You know.” He paused. “Maybe I can get some aerial reconnaissance assets and see if we can spot them from above.”

  “Great.” I nodded. “Anybody else?”

  State took a deep breath and then chimed in. “Okay… let me reach out to the embassy in Manila and see what they can tell us. I know they have been
tracking this from the beginning.”

  The Bureau guy lifted his hand slightly off the table to get my attention. “Yeah. I’ll also reach out to the LEGAT in Manila and see what negotiations are taking place between the New Tribes Mission and the hostage takers.”

  “Treasury will see what we can find out about Abu Sayyaf’s assets. Maybe we can leverage something there.”

  I looked around the table and smiled. “Thanks, guys. We’ve got some work to do. I’ll pull together some ideas and send them around for comment. We can get together next week and plot a course forward.”

  As the meeting broke up, CIA Tom approached me. “I like your style,” he said. “I’m all in.”

  “Well, be careful what you agree to.” I smiled. “We SEALs aren’t exactly known for our shy, retiring ways. It’s gotten me into trouble before.”

  “Good.” He laughed. “We’re going to get along just fine.”

  Martin looked thin, Gracia pale and drawn. The three terrorists behind them, faces covered, brandishing AK-47s, had the classic menacing pose. The proof-of-life photo did nothing to ease my concerns about the Burnhams’ welfare.

  The Burnhams and their fellow hostages had been constantly on the move from the time of their capture, each evening at a new jungle hideout. Each day hiking miles to avoid capture. From my time as a young SEAL in the Philippines, I knew what the jungle was like. Nothing about surviving in the jungle was easy.

  The Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP), while enthusiastic, weren’t helping much either. They had aggressively and clumsily pursued the Janjalani group, engaging in a series of running firefights and dropping bombs on the small band of hostage takers. I didn’t know how long the Burnhams could survive either the jungle or the AFP assaults.

  Downing grabbed me by the arm as we rushed into the Oval Office. “Just be brief,” he whispered. “Give the high points of your plan and let’s try to get a decision out of him.”

  I nodded without saying a word.

  The President stood chatting with Dick Cheney as we entered. Also in the room was General Colin Powell, the Secretary of State, and Dr. Condoleezza Rice, the National Security Advisor. Downing walked me over to the President and made some quick introductions.

  Bush sized me up, gave me a firm handshake, and in his Texas drawl said, “So, you’re a Navy SEAL?”

  “Yes sir,” I responded, coming to a modified attention in my Brooks Brothers suit.

  He looked me over again. “Can you run a six-minute mile?”

  “Well, sir.” I paused, realizing the President knew nothing about my parachute accident. “I used to be able to.”

  “Hell, Bill.” Powell laughed. “We all used to be able to.”

  The President smiled broadly and everyone else in the room laughed along with Powell.

  “Mr. President, Bill would like to give you a quick brief on our plan to rescue the Burnhams,” Rice said. “We just finished a Principals Committee meeting, and I have to tell you Don Rumsfeld was not at all supportive. He says DoD is just too busy with everything going on in Afghanistan. However, Colin, George Tenet, and Bob Mueller all think it has merit.”

  Powell waded in. “Mr. President, I don’t think we can just stand by and do nothing when we have Americans being held hostage by an Al Qaeda affiliate.”

  “I agree,” Cheney offered.

  “Okay, so what do you have?” Bush asked.

  Downing gave me the look to proceed.

  “Sir, the Hostage Coordination Group has developed a three-pronged approach. First, we believe the Philippine Army needs a lot of help with tactics, logistics, and equipment, and we are proposing sending a hundred or so Green Berets to provide training and, if necessary, go along on the missions to help the Filipinos.”

  “What else?”

  “Sir, the Agency is willing to provide clandestine air assets to help locate the Burnhams and provide intelligence to the Filipinos.”

  Bush paced in front of the fireplace as I laid out my recommendations.

  “Finally, Director Mueller has agreed to provide an FBI negotiator to work with the New Tribes Mission and the embassy in an attempt to get Abu Sayyaf to release the hostages.”

  “We’re not making deals with the terrorists, are we?” the President asked.

  “No sir, absolutely not. But that’s not to say we’re going to be absolutely truthful with Abu Sayyaf either. Hopefully, we can lead them on and gather some intelligence that may help guide the Filipino rescue force.”

  Rice spoke up. “Mr. President, President Arroyo is arriving for a short visit in a few weeks. We can use that opportunity to encourage her and the Philippine government to accept our help and get more aggressive against Abu Sayyaf.”

  Bush looked around the room. Everyone seemed to be nodding in agreement.

  “Okay. Let’s get this done.”

  That was it, I thought. It took months to get agreement from the interagency, but only minutes for the President of the United States to make a decision. This was why I had come to the White House.

  I thanked the President and walked out of the room by myself. Downing stayed behind to talk with Rice and the President. I knew there were still some concessions to be brokered between Defense, State, and the Bureau, but after three months of haggling with the interagency, we finally had a breakthrough. The Burnhams were on the White House radar.

  I pushed the phone closer to my ear. Our office in the Old Executive Office Building was a Sensitive Compartmented Intelligence Facility (SCIF), which meant acoustics were terrible.

  “The triple canopy jungle in Basilan is difficult to penetrate. We catch glimpses of them in the pictures, but there isn’t enough time to process the intelligence and get it to the Filipinos,” CIA Tom said.

  “What about your sources?” I asked. “Are they telling us anything?”

  “We think Martin has malaria. Some of the Filipino hostages who were released last month say he has lost a lot of weight and is very weak. Candidly, Bill, I don’t know how long either he or Gracia can survive in the jungle. They are moving every day. The AFP is chasing them. They eat maybe once a day.” He paused. “They’re missionaries, for God’s sake, not Navy SEALs.”

  “They may not be SEALs, but what I do know is that their faith is strong.”

  “I got it,” Tom said angrily. “Man shall not live by bread alone, but this is taking it to the extreme.”

  There was a rap on my cubicle window. It was Nick Rasmussen, my closest friend in the White House and the smartest guy on our staff.

  “Bill, the SITROOM called. They need you immediately.”

  “Is this about the Burnhams?”

  “Don’t know. But they seemed pretty anxious.”

  I finished the conversation with Tom and headed over to the White House Situation Room.

  The Situation Room, or SITROOM as it was commonly referred to, was underwhelming. You entered the space through a door across from the White House Dining Room. Once inside, there was a bank of telephones answered by six or seven young officers from the military, State Department, or CIA. An Air Force colonel and a senior civil servant supervised the SITROOM, ensuring all telephone and facsimile message traffic coming in were properly handled. All crisis management for the U.S. government began in the SITROOM. Off to one side was a small conference room. The only thing that distinguished it from a thousand other small conference rooms around Washington, D.C., was the chair at the head of the table. Embossed on the back side of the leather were the words President of the United States.

  I waved my badge and entered the room.

  “Hey sir. Glad you’re here. We’ve got a problem!” The Army major, dressed in his class “A” uniform with full ribbons, held out a piece of paper. “I just got a call from the FAA ops center and then they faxed this over.”

  I looked over the WASHFAX as the major continued.

  “They are reporting that some nutcase aboard an American Airlines flight from Paris to Miami just tried to blow up
the plane by setting off a bomb in his shoe.”

  “In his shoe?”

  “Yes sir. The guy’s name is Richard Reid. We are running the traps on him right now. I guess he had a fuse sticking out from some sort of plastic explosive in his shoe and when he tried to light it the passengers jumped him.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know that you could put enough plastic explosive in your shoe to make much of a bomb. Besides, it’s really difficult to ignite C-4 or PETN with a match,” I said.

  “Sir, the FAA sent over this schematic of what they think the bomb looks like.”

  I glanced over the crude drawing. Based on my experience, it certainly didn’t look like a workable bomb, but I thought I would call just to confirm my suspicions. I picked up the phone and contacted the operations center at the FAA.

  “Ed Kittel,” came the voice on the other end.

  “I’ll be damned. Ed Kittel!” I said, drawing out the last name.

  Kittel and I had worked together in the Pentagon almost fifteen years earlier. Ed was a former Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal officer and really knew demolitions.

  “Ed, it’s Bill McRaven over at the White House. We’ll have to catch up later, but for now I need to know whether you think this shoe bomb is a real threat?”

  “It is,” he said without hesitation.

  “Really?”