“Good afternoon, William.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Who else is on the VTC?”
I went quickly through the roll call, but made a point of singling out General Petraeus, the CENTCOM commander. While I was technically in charge now, as soon as this mission was over, I would go back to working for him, so I was careful to ensure that he was involved every step of the way.
After a few niceties, I jumped right into the brief. “Sir, we have Team Nairobi headed to an at-sea rendezvous with the Bainbridge. They should be aboard the ship within two hours. Intel tells us that the pirates are trying to make their way back to their base camp. However, the lifeboat only makes two to three knots, so we won’t have a problem intercepting them well before they hit landfall.”
I could see Miller showing the Chairman a PowerPoint slide of the current position of the lifeboat and the estimated intercept point by the Bainbridge.
“Sir, we also know that the pirates are in communication with a man named Mohammad, who is located in Somaliland. They are asking for a high-speed boat so they can transfer Captain Phillips out of the lifeboat and get to shore before the U.S. Navy arrives.”
“What do you need from me, Bill?”
“Well, sir, I have been talking with Scott Moore, and we would like to bring the entire hostage rescue package from the States.”
Miller leaned in and whispered something to the Chairman.
“So, that’s sixty operators and four boats?”
“Yes sir. And with that large a package we would need to bring the Boxer along with the Bainbridge and Halyburton. The Boxer could berth the sixty operators and put the High Speed Assault Crafts on the flight deck.”
“What do you plan to do with all these SEALs?” the Chairman asked, his eyes narrowing just a bit.
“Sir, there are over two hundred hostages being held on the Somali coast. Most of them near the anchorage point at Eyl.”
Miller was pointing to something on one of the screens in the Pentagon briefing room, and I assumed it was the location of Eyl.
“Additionally, there are half a dozen other pirate enclaves up and down the coast of Somalia.”
The Chairman continued to look at the screen in the Pentagon.
“Sir, I think it’s time we solved this problem once and for all. If we continue to let these pirates dictate the flow of merchant traffic around the Horn it will distract from our efforts in Iraq and Afghanistan and put hundreds more Americans at risk of capture.”
I could see the Chairman mulling over the idea, but he knew it was a stretch for the new President to authorize so aggressive an operation. No matter how well it went, the potential for American servicemen to get killed or wounded was very high. Still… the idea had merit and I think the Chairman knew it.
“Okay, Bill. Let’s prepare the briefing for the White House and see what they say.”
“Roger, sir,” I replied, and moments later we signed off from the VTC.
April 9, 2009
“Jumpers away!” came the call from the SAR NCO.
Five thousand feet above the deep blue Indian Ocean, Jonas Kelsall and his men exited the small aircraft. Tumbling slightly forward as they dove off the ramp of the plane, they immediately pulled their ripcords, deploying their main parachutes. Gathering in the air under their square canopies, the SEALs floated down in formation, landing close together in the choppy sea. Bobbing erratically in the water, a small boat from USS Bainbridge was standing by to retrieve them. Within the hour, Kelsall and the commanding officer of the Bainbridge, Commander Frank Castellano, had developed a plan to gather intelligence in the event a rescue was necessary. Castellano was an exceptional Surface Warfare Officer and would be involved in every aspect of the rescue.
“Sir, the Bainbridge has communication with the pirates.”
I nodded and watched intently on the screen as the small Zodiac carrying Kelsall and a few other SEALs approached the lifeboat.
“The leader has okayed the transfer of food and water.”
We were receiving a video feed from the Bainbridge’s ScanEagle drone. Even across the thousands of miles from Somalia to the SAR in Afghanistan, the picture was remarkably clear.
Aboard the Bainbridge, a Somali interpreter was talking with the head pirate, Abduwali Muse. Muse’s voice was strained and it was clear that the oppressive heat inside the small lifeboat was beginning to take its toll on both Phillips and the pirates. The interpreter had convinced Muse that they should accept the U.S. Navy’s offer of food and water to keep their hostage alive. Muse had readily accepted.
“Slowly, slowly,” I muttered to myself as the Zodiac edged closer to the lifeboat. The hatch on the lifeboat opened and one of the pirates leaned outward, the barrel of his AK-47 pointed toward the American sailors. Inching forward, the bow of the Zodiac bumped the stern of the lifeboat and I could see the SEALs and the pirates talking. Soon the food and water were transferred and the Zodiac pulled away. Within minutes we were getting reports from Kelsall.
“Sir, the SEALs report that Phillips is fine. But the pirates seem intent on reaching the coast of Somalia.”
My intelligence officer chimed in. “Admiral, we’re getting intercepts that the pirates are calling for reinforcements from Eyl. They know they can’t reach the shore in the lifeboat. Apparently another high-speed skiff is moving in their direction.”
Part of me was hoping that the reinforcements would show up. The .50-caliber gunner on the deck of the Bainbridge would love the opportunity to show off his skill set. It would not go well for the pirates.
Throughout the day, the Bainbridge was in constant contact with the pirate leader, Abduwali Muse. While our interpreter and Muse appeared to be developing a rapport, Muse still threatened to kill Phillips if we attempted a rescue. As the heat of the day wore on, I knew tensions inside the small lifeboat were getting high. With temperatures soaring to over a hundred degrees, the pirates would occasionally jump in the water to cool off. But there was no sign of Captain Phillips.
I straightened up in my chair as Admiral Mullen came on the VTC. “William, the President has authorized the deployment of the SEALs,” he said. “But he also wants a deliberate action plan for how you intend to rescue Phillips.”
I looked up on my video screen at the tiny twenty-eight-foot lifeboat gently rolling across the ocean waves. It barely had enough room for the five men inside. This wasn’t a cruise liner where the SEALs could fast-rope from a helicopter or assault from the sea.
“Sir,” I said, with an unintended tone of frustration, “it’s a lifeboat.”
“I understand, Bill, but the White House wants a deliberate action plan and William—” He paused. “You will give them a deliberate action plan.”
As always, Mullen had a sly smile that meant he understood my predicament.
“Yes sir,” I said, somewhat reluctantly. “We will get you a deliberate action plan.”
“By tomorrow.”
“Yes sir, by tomorrow.”
Mullen left and we talked through the next steps with Scott Miller and the Joint Staff. Scott Moore and his SEALs would be arriving the following morning, April 10. The sixty SEALs and their four High Speed Assault Craft would parachute from four C-17 cargo planes, land in the water near USS Boxer, and be brought aboard the ship.
Vice Admiral Bill Gortney had CHOPed (change of operational control) the small fleet of ships to my control. Surrounding the lifeboat were the large-deck amphibious ship USS Boxer, the guided missile destroyer USS Bainbridge, and fast frigate USS Halyburton. Together they formed Combined Task Force 151 (CTF 151), commanded by Rear Admiral Michelle Howard. Admiral Howard was an exceptionally capable commander, and her leadership throughout the hostage rescue would prove essential to our success.
As the day ended off the coast of Somalia, we just watched and waited, hoping for an opportunity to end the standoff.
I grabbed another Rip It from the small refrigerator in the SAR and took
a quick sip. It had been almost forty-eight hours since the beginning of the hostage crisis and I hadn’t stepped away from my desk except to use the head. It was almost 0330 in Afghanistan, making it two o’clock in the morning off the coast of Somalia. At that time of the night, the infrared picture of the small lifeboat slowly motoring across the vast ocean was lulling everyone to sleep.
“Admiral, Admiral. Something’s happening!”
On the screen, there was a figure in the water, the heat signature strong against the cooler temperature of the ocean. Was it just another pirate cooling himself down from the nighttime heat?
“What’s the Bainbridge saying?” I asked.
“Sir, they are seeing the same thing we are, but they can’t tell who is in the water.”
“The boat’s turning.”
It was clear now that something was happening. The pirates were moving around the edge of the small lifeboat, waving their hands frantically.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!” came the call from the SAR NCO.
On the infrared picture, the water around the lifeboat churned green as the propeller spun hard, the small boat turning abruptly.
“Admiral, the Bainbridge reports that Captain Phillips is in the water.”
“Roger,” I acknowledged, watching as the figure in the ocean struggled to get some distance from the bow of the little boat. Rarely have I felt so helpless. The Bainbridge was too far away to be of assistance and no SEAL Quick Reaction Force was going to save Phillips at that moment.
Within minutes the escape had been thwarted. Phillips was dragged back into the lifeboat and any chance of freedom that night was over. I knew that his captors would not go easy on him.
On the Bainbridge, the Somali interpreter made immediate contact with Muse. If Captain Phillips was harmed, he told Muse, the pirates would pay a very high price. Muse seemed to understand. This was a business deal for the pirates. They didn’t want Phillips to die any more than they wanted to die themselves, but a miscalculation on either side’s part could result in tragedy. We continued to play it safe, waiting for an opportunity, an opening, however slim it might be.
“That’s your deliberate plan?” Mullen asked.
“Yes sir, that’s it,” I responded.
During the night I had called Vice Admiral Mike Miller at the U.S. Naval Academy and asked him to provide me their best naval architect, someone who could tell me whether ramming the lifeboat with the bow of our heavily reinforced High Speed Assault Craft (HSAC) would crack the hull and cause the lifeboat to sink. Miller woke up one of his faculty members, whom we spirited away to an undisclosed location so he could do his calculations. By early morning, I had my answer. Ramming the HSAC into the lifeboat would not cause it to sink.
“So, let me make sure I understand this, William. Your deliberate action plan calls for you to ram the lifeboat with the HSAC, sending everyone inside tumbling around, and then the SEALs jump in and shoot the pirates and rescue Phillips. Do I have that right?”
Somehow when Mullen said it, it didn’t sound so clever.
“Sir, it’s a lifeboat,” I said respectfully. “There really isn’t going to be an opportunity for a deliberate action.”
“So how will this unfold?”
“Sir, sooner or later the lifeboat will run out of gas, probably by tomorrow. Once that happens, we own the tempo of the operation. The pirates will need food and water. That will give us an opportunity to engage with them and possibly convince them to give us Phillips back. If that doesn’t work, once the SEALs arrive on scene, we will have snipers available to take out the pirates if the situation presents itself. But however this unfolds, sir, we will be patient and we won’t rush to failure.”
Mullen nodded. He knew we would do the right thing and not jeopardize Phillips’s life.
“Sir, I have been talking with Scott Moore. He says this is the most difficult tactical problem he’s seen in his career. It would actually be easier to take down the Maersk Alabama than the single lifeboat. The lifeboat has only one main entry point, and trying to gain the element of surprise is very difficult.”
Mullen nodded. “Bill, I will be briefing the Secretary and the White House later today. Just keep Colonel Miller posted.”
As Mullen rose and left the room, I knew that sooner than later, this crisis would be coming to an end. The pirates were running out of options, and that would give us the opportunity we needed.
Throughout Friday, April 10, we kept up pressure on the pirates. Playing a little good cop, bad cop, we used the helos from the Bainbridge and Halyburton to buzz the lifeboat, while at the same time offering food and water as we gathered more intelligence on the situation. I wanted to push the pirates to an uncomfortable place, but not push too hard.
At 1800 Friday evening we confirmed again that Phillips was okay, albeit dog tired from the heat and constant harassment. The sun was setting over Somalia and the moon was already up.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
I looked at the lifeboat, but nothing seemed to be happening. No one was in the water, and there was not a lot of commotion. Within minutes, the Bainbridge reported that Phillips was okay. Apparently one of the pirates had accidentally discharged his weapon. The night ended and the lifeboat continued to motor slowly toward the shore.
Saturday, April 11
“Jumpers away. Jumpers away.”
It was a beautiful sight to see. Catapulting off the back of the ramp of the C-17 was a forty-foot High Speed Assault Craft, and behind it dozens of light blue canopies, all following the craft into the water below. The two giant cargo planes that had delivered the SEALs from the States now banked slowly to the left, dipped their wings as a sign of respect, and headed back to Dover. Within an hour, Captain Scott Moore and his sixty-man team were aboard USS Boxer, with the four HSACs tied up alongside.
“Admiral, good to see you,” came the voice of Admiral Michelle Howard over the VTC.
“Great to see you as well, Michelle,” I said. “Thanks for taking care of Scott and the boys.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “I have my entire flag staff here and we are ready to assist in any way possible.”
In the room aboard the Boxer were about forty personnel: the key members of Task Force 151 from Admiral Howard’s command, Scott Moore, and most of his senior officers and enlisted.
The VTC was being broadcast from the command center deep inside the hull of the ship. The steel frame of the vessel interfered with the communications, causing the picture to freeze periodically throughout the conversation.
Moore began. “Sir, I am moving a fifteen-man SEAL troop to the Bainbridge. We’ll set up on the flight deck and be prepared to take a shot if we get one.”
Moore and I both knew that even the best snipers would find it challenging to hit a moving target bobbing in the ocean, but we had to prepare for every contingency.
“I’m also going to stage the HSACs on the back side of the Boxer where they won’t be seen by the pirates. That way if we have to execute a deliberate plan, they’ll be ready as well.”
Howard chimed in. “Admiral, we would like to continue the helo overflights and the occasional fire hose treatment if you’re okay with that.”
The buzzing helos and spraying the lifeboat had been used to good effect so far. The helos and the hoses were irritating to the pirates, but not too threatening, and the hoses had the positive effect of keeping the lifeboat a bit cooler.
“Sounds good, Michelle. Just let me know if the pirates start getting riled up. I don’t want to push them too far.”
“Roger, sir. Understand,” she replied.
Onscreen I could see that Moore was chatting with his staff, asking them if there was anything else they needed to relay to me. Negative nods all around.
“Well, boss. I think that’s all we have for right now. Anything else you want us to do?”
While I didn’t think it was really necessary, I reinforced the obvious. “Scott, as always, let’s just
move slowly and deliberately. We don’t want anything to compromise the hostage. Keep up the pressure, own the tempo, and look for opportunities. I know the boys will do the right thing when the time comes.”
“Yes sir. I understand.”
I knew he did.
We signed off on the VTC and I went back to the SAR. A new crew of enlisted personnel had come on duty to man the computers and video screens, but all of my key personnel were still in their same seats.
“Hey,” I said with a tone of authority, “you guys need to get some rest. This could be a long haul and I want to make sure everyone stays sharp.”
No one moved. In fact, no one looked up from their computers.
“Is anyone listening?” I asked.
“Yes sir. Heard every word,” Copeland said, still typing away on his keyboard.
Still, no one moved.
“Screw you guys,” I said. “I hope you all die of Red Bull poisoning.”
Copeland snickered and slid me a new can of orange Rip It.
“Just so we don’t die alone,” he said, smiling.
Sunday, April 12
“Sir, they are out of gas, low on food and water, and starting to get very agitated. I don’t know how far we can push them,” Moore said.
“Any sense they are willing to bargain yet?” I asked.
“I think the head guy might be willing to talk at this point, but his fellow pirates are getting pretty hostile. They had all hoped for reinforcements from Eyl, but my guess is they know those aren’t coming. They’re trapped and are looking for a way out, but trapped men have a way of acting irrationally, and we will have to be careful moving forward.”
“Scott’s right,” Howard chimed in. “Last night they threatened to kill Phillips and then they began firing at the Bainbridge. They were just in a pissed-off mood. We settled them down, but it was tense for a while.”
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