Sea Stories

by William H. Mcraven

  “The problem is twofold. First, timing. We will have about a fifteen-minute window in order to target Nabhan when he is not in a high-collateral-damage area.”

  I circled the short stretch of road on the map that we had colored green. Our task force targeteers had surveyed every mile of the road to determine the area with the least possibility of civilian casualties. With the exception of that small portion, the rest of Nabhan’s route was red—a “no-go” for the operation.

  “The second problem is trying to hit a vehicle moving at over forty miles per hour. It can be done, but it’s tricky and the potential to miss the target is high.”

  The expressions on the faces of those sitting around the Situation Room were predictable. I was not making my case.

  “I’m just concerned about a helicopter raid into Somalia,” Secretary Clinton said. “Last time it didn’t work out so well.”

  And there it is. Just as I had worried. Black Hawk Down, October 3, 1993, Mogadishu, Somalia. On that day in October the task force, along with an element of UN soldiers, were attempting to capture lieutenants of Somali warlord Mohammed Farah Aidid when everything went wrong. An hourlong mission turned into the deadliest battle since Vietnam, costing the lives of eighteen American soldiers and the loss of several helicopters. Despite the incredible courage of the special operations forces, the fallout from the battle caused a fundamental shift in U.S. policy abroad, and the memory of that day lingered over every special operations mission involving helicopters.

  Now was the time to play my hole card. “I do have a bombing option, but it’s experimental, and”—I paused—“at some point I will still have to put helicopters on the ground to retrieve the bodies to ensure it’s Nabhan.”

  Admiral Mike Mullen nodded at me to continue.

  “We have been working on a new piece of ordnance that can be dropped from a small airplane and, using laser guidance, can hit a target moving at forty miles per hour. It’s only about a thirteen-pound warhead, but it’s enough to do the job.”

  President Obama shifted in his chair and sat upright. “So where would you launch this plane from?”

  “Sir, we have a clandestine base in a neighboring country that we would use to stage and launch the aircraft.”

  “Would that country be witting of our operation?” Clinton asked.

  “Yes ma’am. We have already cleared the concept with the U.S. ambassador, who will notify their president before the strike. The ambassador doesn’t think there will be any problems getting host nation approval.”

  Around the table, the mood began to change.

  “So, you would drop this small bomb and then the helos would come in and pick up the remains? Is that right?” the President asked.

  “Yes sir, that’s right. But if I may, sir. I still believe using the helos as the first option is the best approach. If the small bomb misses its target then Nabhan will make a run for it, and that will complicate the mission considerably.”

  I glanced at Gates and Mullen to see if I had overstepped my bounds. They both remained expressionless. Clinton still seemed concerned, but I sensed she was supportive. Contrary to public perception, I had found Clinton to be almost hawkish. She asked all the hard questions, but never shied away from making the tough recommendations. I liked her style.

  “Okay, Bill. Let me think about this,” the President said.

  “Mr. President, with your permission, sir, I would like to move the destroyers off the coast of Somalia and position the four Little Birds and SEAL assaulters on board. If you decide not to conduct the mission then no harm no foul. But at least they will be in position if you give us the go-ahead.”

  The President looked at Gates and Mullen, who both nodded in the affirmative. “Okay, Bill. Do what you need to do in order to be prepared.”

  The President thanked me and then asked me to step out so the principals could talk in private. I lingered outside the Situation Room for twenty minutes until the meeting finally broke up. As the members filed out of the room, General Hoss Cartwright came over to talk.

  “I don’t think the President is going to approve it, Bill.”

  I nodded stoically.

  “They are worried about helicopters in Somalia.” Before I could say anything, Cartwright continued. “I know, I know. But that’s just the way it is.”

  Outside the main entrance of the Situation Room I could see the President still talking with Clinton. He was listening intently. She finished, he thanked her, and then he walked out into the main West Wing corridor.

  “Anyway,” Cartwright said, “I should have an answer for you within the next day or two.”

  “Thanks, sir. I appreciate it.”

  Cartwright departed and Mullen came over to talk with me.

  Mullen looked around to ensure no one was listening. “I don’t know, Bill. This is a tough one for them. But I think you made a good case. We’ll just have to see.”

  “Yes sir, I understand,” I said. “But just so I’m clear. I do have the authority to move the destroyers, the Little Birds, and the assaulters into position off the coast?”

  As Mullen started to speak, several senior White House officials were gathering nearby for the next Deputies Committee meeting in the Situation Room. We stepped a bit farther into the corner so no one could hear the conversation.

  “Yes,” he started. “We discussed the pre-positioning after you left, and everyone agrees that this is a prudent thing to do. The President just needs a day or so to mull over his decision.” Mullen smiled. “You’re doing a great job, William.”

  “Thanks, sir,” I replied, knowing that when Mullen called me “William,” there was no greater expression of his support.

  That evening I returned to my headquarters at Fort Bragg. The staff gave me a quick update on all the ongoing combat missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, and by 2200 hours I headed to my quarters on base, exhausted from the overseas travel and time in D.C.

  As I opened the front door to my house, I could hear Georgeann on the secure phone upstairs. “He’s at work,” she said.

  “I’m home! I’m home!” I yelled, bounding up the staircase.

  Georgeann handed me the phone, covering the receiver. “It’s General Cartwright,” she said.

  I grabbed the phone. “Yes sir.”

  “Bill, the President gave us the go-ahead.”

  That didn’t take long, I thought.

  “Great, sir!”

  “But before you take any direct action against Nabhan, you will need final approval from the Secretary.”

  “No problem, sir. We’ll have a twenty-four-hour video teleconference set up between the Pentagon, the White House, the embassy in Nairobi, and our State Department liaison officer.”

  “So what’s your plan right now?”

  “Sir, I am already coordinating with Central Command and Africa Command to reposition the two destroyers off the coast of Somalia. The SEALs and the Little Birds will start moving by C-17 tomorrow, and we should have all the players in place within about seventy-two hours.”

  “Where will you command the operation from?”

  “Sir, I’m heading back to Afghanistan tomorrow. We have a lot going on in theater, but I can easily manage this mission from my headquarters in Bagram.”

  “All right, Bill, good luck!” Cartwright said and then hung up.

  The next morning, I kissed Georgeann goodbye, boarded my jet, and fifteen hours later was back in Bagram, guzzling Rip Its and trying to fight the war.

  “He’s moving,” came the call from the operations officer.

  “Roger,” I said, watching four people get in the blue sedan and pull away from the compound. The video feed from the Predator zoomed out slightly as the car exited and turned onto a side street.

  On another screen was the face of Captain Pete Van Hooser, the commander of the SEAL unit in charge of the mission. Pete had tactical control of the operation. From his command center in Virginia, he could communicate directly with
the SEAL assaulters aboard the lead destroyer.

  Van Hooser was a remarkable officer. At sixty-two years old, he was the oldest captain in the U.S. Navy. A former Marine, he decided to become a SEAL late in his career. A parachute accident and subsequent complications from the operation left him as a below-the-knee amputee. Still, there was nothing that could stop Pete. He was a good runner, a strong swimmer, and never complained about his disability. He was an inspiration to all who knew him and one of my best commanders.

  “Sir, I’ve got blades turning,” Van Hooser said.

  “Roger. Blades turning,” I responded, watching the blue sedan as it meandered around the small town of Barawe. Van Hooser would keep the helos on deck until we knew for certain that the car was on the coastal road and heading north. The time from launch to interdiction was ten minutes. The flight of the helos would have to be perfectly timed so as not to interfere with the bombing run from the aircraft above, but at the same time be in position to land immediately after the strike. All of this movement would have to be tightly choreographed to occur within the low-collateral-damage area. If Nabhan or one of his lieutenants heard the overhead aircraft or saw the helos before we were ready to strike, he would evade into the nearest town and the mission would be scrubbed. It would be years before we would have another opportunity to get him.

  “Is it him?” I asked no one in particular.

  My technical intelligence liaison looked at me without expression. “Not sure, sir. All I can tell you is that the device we’ve been tracking is in that car. I have no way of knowing if Nabhan is with it or not.”

  This was always our dilemma. We knew Nabhan never carried a phone, and the only way we could identify him was through his courier. If we struck the sedan and it turned out to be the courier and his wife and kids, then I would have to live with that mistake for the rest of my life.

  The blue sedan suddenly turned west, heading in the direction of the coastal road. Everyone in the SAR perked up, but for all we knew he could just as easily be going to the market for bread.

  “What’s the status of Charlie Three Five?”

  “Sir, the aircraft is ten minutes out. The Griffin is armed and ready for deployment.”

  “Joint Staff, this is McRaven,” I said, speaking into the small microphone at my desk.

  “Yes sir,” came the response from an Army two-star manning the video from the Pentagon.

  “Request permission to conduct strike operations.”

  “Sir, Secretary Gates has authorized me to grant approval upon your request. Good luck, sir.”

  The request for approval was fairly perfunctory. I knew well ahead of time that if the conditions for the operation were met—that is, the blue sedan was heading down the coastal road, strike assets were in place, and low CDE was confirmed—the Secretary would agree to grant permission. But it was a step I had to take to comply with the President’s orders. While the blue sedan still wasn’t on the coastal road, I didn’t want to wait until the last minute.

  “Sir, the targeted vehicle has just merged onto the coastal road and is heading north.”

  I could hear the excitement in the operations officer’s voice, but like everyone in the SAR, he tried to remain dispassionate and professional as he called out the checklist for the mission.

  “Roger,” I replied, watching the blue sedan as it gained speed on the poorly paved road.

  If the blue sedan maintained forty miles per hour they would be in the targeted area within fifteen minutes. I looked up at the fifty-inch face of Pete Van Hooser.

  “Pete, the Secretary has granted approval. You are cleared hot to execute the mission on your timeline.”

  “Roger, sir. I understand we have approval to execute the mission,” Van Hooser said, repeating the operative words so no one was in doubt of the order.

  My staff began providing me minute-by-minute updates.

  “Sir, Charlie Three Five moving into position.”

  “Sir, helos set to launch in five minutes.”

  “Sir, targeted vehicle maintaining course and speed.”

  My operations officer leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Sir, it looks like we may have some weather moving in.”

  “Weather?”

  “Low clouds. It’s possible they could obscure the target for the bombing run.”

  On the screen there were patches of light, airy clouds drifting across the coastal road. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t have presented a problem, but the Griffin’s guidance system needed an unobstructed view of the target or we couldn’t guarantee a direct hit.

  Over the radio, I could hear the weapons officer aboard Charlie Three Five. He was making final preparations for launch and didn’t seem concerned about the cloud cover.

  “Pete, are you catching all this?” I asked, looking into the large TV screen.

  “Yes sir,” Van Hooser responded.

  I could see Pete’s operations officer lean over and whisper in his ear. Van Hooser nodded back to the officer and then pushed the talk button. “Sir, if the Griffin can’t be launched, do we have permission to use the miniguns?”

  Two of the Little Birds were equipped with highly lethal side-mounted miniguns that put out six thousand rounds a minute. In the SAR, my executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Pat Ellis, looked at me as if to say, Sir, be careful before you answer. In my briefing to the President, I had agreed to use the Griffin as the primary strike platform. The SEALs and the helos were only there to pick up the remains. I had sold the mission as a bombing run, not a direct action mission by the helos and operators. Any deviation from the original plan would be counter to my guidance from the President.

  “Pete, let’s stick with the plan for right now.” I glanced at the screen showing the blue sedan moving down the coastal road. “It still looks like the weather’s good for the Griffin.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  Before me on five giant screens unfolded all of the action: the blue sedan moving steadily down the road; the helos turning on the decks of the destroyers; the patch of isolated road, now twelve minutes away from the vehicles’ arrival; the SEAL command center and the Joint Staff command center. I knew that several other stations were watching me as well—the White House, the State Department, and the U.S. embassy all had video links into my SAR.

  Mounted high above the TV screens, the mission countdown clock now read ten minutes. Ten minutes at forty miles per hour and the blue sedan would be in the kill zone.

  Van Hooser calmly announced, “Sir, helos launched.”

  The Little Birds lifted off from the decks of the destroyers, linked up in modified V-formation, and began their low-level approach to the coast.

  In the SAR, all eyes were fixed on the blue sedan and all ears on the voice of the weapons officer in Charlie Three Five.

  “Alpha Three Three, this is Charlie Three Five, request permission to drop when target is in the cleared area.”

  Van Hooser, his voice devoid of any angst, responded. “Roger, Charlie Three Five, you are cleared hot when the sedan reaches the kill zone.”

  The blue sedan was now two minutes out. Our technical intelligence assets had a good fix on the phone. The aircraft was lining up for the strike.

  “Sir, we have clouds rolling in.”

  Onscreen a patchwork of wispy clouds was moving quickly toward the target area. Van Hooser was seeing it too.

  “Charlie Three Five, this is Alpha Three Three, how’s it looking?” Van Hooser asked the weapons officer.

  “Sir, it’s all good on this end. We’re about one minute out from release.”

  The blue sedan, rumbling down the road, was completely oblivious to the fact that in sixty seconds all its occupants would be dead.

  Offshore, the helos had established an airborne holding point. Circling just feet above the water, they would maintain their position until Van Hooser ordered them in.

  “Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten. The vehicle is now in the target zone,” came the cal
l from operations officer.

  The clock continued to count down. The blue sedan continued to move. No one said a word. I knew that on board the aircraft the weapons officer and his crew were lining up the vehicle with the Griffin’s targeting system. He had a fifteen-minute window and wanted to ensure success.

  The aviators on my staff had an open chat window with the crew and the SEAL command center. My operations officer turned from his computer and spoke in a low voice. “Sir, I’m watching the chat and the crew seems to be having some difficulty lining up the target.”

  “Roger,” I acknowledged and looked at the clock. We still had plenty of time.

  Van Hooser looked calm behind his desk, but I knew that, like me, he wanted a bomb in the air—now! The clock continued to count down.

  “Ten minutes remaining,” came the call from the SAR noncommissioned officer.

  On a digital map, the intelligence petty officer was tracking the movement of the blue sedan. It was a third of the way into the kill zone.

  Behind Van Hooser there was a small flurry of activity. In my SAR came another announcement. “Sir, Charlie Three Five is having difficulty lining up the target.” And another: “Sir, clouds are on the coast. I don’t know if Charlie Three Five can see the target.”

  I resisted calling Van Hooser, but I could see on his face that concern was mounting.

  Van Hooser mouthed something to one of his officers and then turned and faced the camera. “Sir, I know you’re tracking all this,” he said. “I’m going to reposition the helos a mile off the coast. We’re talking with the aircrew and they still believe they can get a lock on the sedan before it exits the kill zone.”

  “Roger, Pete.”

  I looked at the clock. Seven minutes left.

  Inside the SAR came another announcement. “Sir, Charlie Three Five says they will have target lock in two minutes.”

  “That’s cutting it a little close,” my executive officer said, pacing behind me.

  Seven minutes turned into six and then into five and then into four. Onscreen, Van Hooser was belting out instructions to his staff. We were running out of time. In the SAR, the digital map showed the blue sedan nearing the end of the targeted zone. Soon the car would be entering a small village. Any attack there would surely injure innocent civilians.