Morell threw himself into the job. He found Bush engaging and down to earth. Bush, in turn, challenged Morell. He briefed the president once about comments made by a Middle Eastern leader to the CIA chief of station in that country. “This is interesting,” Bush told Morell, “but what I really want to know is not what he’s saying about me to the CIA, but what he is saying behind my back to Saddam Hussein.”
From the time Bush took office, the CIA was flashing warning lights about bin Laden. He was planning a high-profile attack, but Morell knew some members of the administration—and the Pentagon—were skeptical about the warnings.
Tenet didn’t back down. He kept pushing the administration to take the threats seriously. Morell was there when a member of Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld’s staff told Tenet the CIA was being fooled. The Pentagon was sure that Al Qaeda was conducting a misinformation campaign to get America to waste resources.
Tenet angrily turned to the official. “I want you to look in my eyes,” he said. “I want you to hear what I have to say. This is not deception. This is the real deal.” In early August 2001, Morell asked terrorism analysts to write a PDB titled “Bin Laden Determined to Strike in US.”
On August 6, while the president was on vacation at his Texas ranch, Morell sat with him in his living room and explained why he had the analysts write it. There was still no specific information to suggest these attacks were aimed at “the homeland.” But everyone knew bin Laden would like “nothing more than to bring the fight here to our shores.”
A month later, the attack arrived, as the CIA had predicted.
Morell was in Florida with the president, who was rolling out a new education policy. There was nothing in the intelligence report that morning regarding terrorist threats. After the briefing, Morell accompanied Bush to an elementary school in Sarasota, where the president was scheduled to read a storybook and pose for photos.
Just as they pulled up to the school, Ari Fleischer’s phone rang. Bush’s press secretary answered, and then turned to Morell. “Michael, do you know anything about a plane hitting the World Trade Center?”
“No,” Morell said, “but I’ll find out. Ari, I sure hope this is an accident and not terrorism.”
“I sure hope so, too,” Fleischer said.
When the second airliner hit the other tower, they had their answer. Bush was reading a book to sixteen second graders in a small classroom when Andy Card, his chief of staff, approached the president. “A second plane has hit the World Trade Center,” Card whispered in Bush’s ear. “America is under attack.”
The president finished. He and his staff raced back to Air Force One. When the plane was airborne, they watched the televisions in horror as people started jumping from the top floors of the buildings in New York City. The towers then collapsed and disappeared in the smoke. The president and his staff were stunned. Word came that another plane had crashed into the Pentagon. Morell’s mind fastened on his family, on the ground in Fairfax County, Virginia. It was all happening so fast.
White House Chief of Staff Andy Card with President George W. Bush.
Card walked into the staff section of the plane.
“Michael, the president wants to see you,” Card said.
Morell nodded. He walked into Bush’s office on the 747. The president looked Morell in the eye. “Michael, who did this?” he asked.
Morell took a deep breath. He hadn’t seen any intelligence, he said. What he was about to say was his personal view, not agency policy.
“I would bet my children’s future the trail will lead to the doorstep of Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda,” he said.
And it had. Now, after all this time, after all the dead ends and frustration, they might be close to finally bringing the mass killer to justice.
Outside his CIA office was darkness. Morell would miss dinner again. His children were older now. They didn’t seem to notice his absences so much. How many late nights had he spent at the office? And when he was at home, how many phone calls had stolen away time that really belonged to them? How much of that time at home was spent with his mind still at work?
The phone rang. Please, Morell thought, let this be something worthwhile.
COUNTDOWN: 198 DAYS
October 15, 2010
Somewhere in eastern Afghanistan
His Navy SEAL team was going in soon, and Will Chesney was already feeling the excitement. He picked up a currycomb and gave Cairo a brisk brushing, smoothing the glossy black fur all over the dog’s muscular body. A high-value target was hiding in a compound dug into the side of a mountain in eastern Afghanistan. They’d fly in as close as possible without tipping off the enemy, then fast-rope down from the helicopter and sneak on foot to the site. It was dangerous as hell, but every one of their missions was. This one was especially nerve-wracking, because Cairo, his seventy-pound part Belgian Malinois, part German shepherd canine partner, was going in for the first time in more than a year. Chesney hoped Cairo still had what it took to be a SEAL. Could he remain cool under fire, having been almost killed in action the last time?
Chesney knew he had to stay focused on right here, right now, but the past kept replaying itself in his mind.
It was night, July 29, 2009. Chesney’s team was out to overrun a possible improvised explosive device manufacturing operation. Two helos took them to the destination, and as the choppers approached, four men fled the building. Chesney’s team chased them by air, and watched the scene unfolding below.
The men split into twos, jumped onto small motorcycles, and raced away from the building. At first, the motorcycles were in the open, but then they disappeared into a cluster of trees. The helicopters landed and the SEALs chased the heavily armed insurgents on foot. Chesney knew this was risky, but they had no other option. They couldn’t let them get away.
Cairo quickly picked up the insurgents’ scent. Chesney unhooked his leash and let him go.
The canine easily cleared a four-foot-high stone wall and disappeared into the trees. Shots were fired. Panicked, Chesney called for Cairo to come back. There was no response. Chesney moved toward the trees, toward the gunfire.
“Cairo! Come on, buddy!”
Chesney scanned the field, wall, and trees with state-of-the-art night-vision goggles. About a hundred feet away, a figure emerged. Chesney shouted loud enough to be heard over the gunfire.
“Cairo!”
The dog lurched toward Chesney, then collapsed. Chesney ran to him. Cairo had been shot in the chest and front leg. He was bleeding out, struggling to breathe. His eyes closed.
“Hang in there, boy,” Chesney whispered.
The call went over the radio. “FWIA!”—friendly wounded in action. The team made no distinction between human and canine. Cairo was a SEAL like all the rest of them. A combat medic rushed over and pushed piles and piles of gauze into the bullet hole as the dog’s blood kept gushing. When the medevac landed, Cairo and Chesney were loaded onto the helicopter.
There were no veterinarians at the base, but a team of combat surgeons and nurses performed emergency surgery on Cairo. Chesney did not leave the dog’s side.
He later learned that Cairo had struggled to make it to Chesney’s sightline; gravely wounded and unable to jump that tall stone wall, Cairo had to walk his way around it.
That first night, Chesney stretched out on the chilly tile floor in Cairo’s room, his arm gently slung across the dog’s back. In the morning, Cairo woke Chesney with a lick.
“Hey buddy,” Chesney said. “Welcome back.”
Recovery took a while. Cairo was shipped back to the United States for physical rehabilitation. He’d make a full recovery, the doctors said, and as far as Chesney could tell, there were no psychological ramifications related to his injuries. But the only way they’d know for sure was to take the dog back into combat.
Chesney smiled to himself. It was crazy, being so attached to a dog. He didn’t set out to become a dog handler back when he’d enlisted in the nav
y, but like so many things in his life, it just happened to work out that way.
Will Chesney and Cairo.
Chesney grew up in a trailer park in southeastern Texas, near the Louisiana state line. He was a bit of a loner, “a self-sufficient kid.” He worked hard for everything he had. Chesney wasn’t the best athlete. He wasn’t blessed “with great intellect,” but he knew he was more resilient than the other teenagers around him. He could get his “ass kicked and come back for more.” He could go to a shitty job every day and not complain about it.
Just before he graduated high school in June 2002, Chesney enlisted in the navy. He didn’t want to go to college. He didn’t want “just to be a sailor.” He wanted to do something special; he wanted to be something special. He wanted to be a Navy SEAL.
His father encouraged him to go for it. Chesney’s mother wasn’t so thrilled. She read the newspapers and watched the TV news. There was a war on. Kids in the military were coming home in coffins.
In June 2002, America and its allies had defeated the Taliban and bin Laden was on the run. But it was just a matter of time before the United States invaded Iraq. And then what? The United States would be involved in two wars, and she wasn’t ready to sacrifice her only child.
Chesney understood her concerns, but he was an adult, and this was his decision. He spent the summer working out, getting in shape for the challenge to come. In boot camp, he passed the physical prescreening for the SEALs. Then six months later, on November 21, 2003, he graduated from BUD/S. He was assigned to SEAL Team 4 and sent to Iraq. Chesney quickly learned that SEALs spend more time training than they do on deployment.
During a break in urban-warfare training in 2006, he saw a demonstration on how “working dogs” were being incorporated into special operations. He was taken by a magnificent dog, a Belgian Malinois—black and tan like a German Shepherd, but smaller, leaner, and more muscular.
Thirty members of Chesney’s unit watched in awe. The handler told them about the dog’s incredible sense of smell—it could detect explosives better than any technology out there. Dogs could sniff out roadside bombs before they had a chance to blow up. They could detect an otherwise-invisible IED hidden near the perimeter of a mountain base. The dog’s keen senses and killer instinct could be used to discover and chase down fleeing insurgents in a manner “that was at once brutal and efficient.”
On cue the dog attacked one of the handlers, who wore a protective “bite suit.” Chesney was fascinated with how the dog’s eyes fixed on the target, how it shifted its weight, and bounced lightly on its paws, eager to run, waiting for the command.
Chesney realized the dog was a weapon, and an impressive one, at that. The young SEAL had no experience with dogs and had never had much interest in animals.
A few months later, Chesney was deployed to Iraq for the second time. It was during one of the nation’s deadliest periods, and he lost a good friend in the fighting. Now, more than ever, he wanted to join a SEAL team that went on the most dangerous missions, the ones “that had the highest chance of providing lasting change.” He wanted to join SEAL Team 6.
And when he returned to Virginia Beach, Virginia, in May 2007, he got his chance. He persevered through nine months of high-pressure training and was selected for the elite unit.
Team members were encouraged to specialize in particular skills. Chesney remembered the dogs, and soon learned they were being integrated into SEAL teams. The dogs and the soldiers were getting accustomed to working around each other—dogs padded past while the SEALs did shooting drills, tested munitions, shouted, ran, and slept. The canines had to be well conditioned to the sounds of battle and the sudden motions of men at war.
Chesney’s team was deployed to Kandahar, Afghanistan, in the summer of 2008. Two dogs—Falco and Balto—went with them. Chesney was amazed at how well the creatures kept pace. When the group had to jump out of a helicopter and fast-rope fifty feet to the ground, the handlers hooked the dogs onto their drop lines and took them along. The dogs were fierce, loyal, and brave. Chesney began to think of Falco and Balto as members of the squadron. He started spending more time with the dogs.
He learned that Falco’s primary handler was giving up the responsibility at the end of his deployment, so Chesney asked if he could take over the dog’s care when he left. The guy liked the idea, but tragedy intervened on their next mission—Falco jumped on an insurgent, and another bad guy shot and killed the dog.
Once back at the base, the SEALs held a memorial service. They recounted stories of what a great friend and soldier Falco was. They laughed and cried and shared a cake in his honor.
When Chesney returned to the United States, he followed through with his plan of becoming a dog handler. Here was a chance to do something different, as well as important. He had spent many hours with Falco and Balto, so he was familiar with military dogs. He met Cairo in 2008, and the two of them spent seven weeks of intensive training in California. Cairo became Chesney’s roommate, partner, and best friend. For Chesney, it was an awesome responsibility. Cairo was not only a hard worker, but he was as friendly, fun, and affectionate a dog as anyone could ever hope to find.
Chesney and Cairo deployed to Afghanistan in June 2009. On their first mission they had to cross a courtyard with a few dozen sheep penned inside. They had trained for just about everything, but never farm animals. As the sheep began to bleat, Cairo stopped, fascinated. Chesney reached down and picked up the dog. The last thing they needed was Cairo being distracted by “an all-you-can-eat lamb buffet.”
But Chesney underestimated Cairo. The dog stayed cool as they walked through the rest of the compound and interviewed the people who lived there.
On the following missions, Cairo was a total pro. He raced into buildings, chased down targets, and never missed a trick. When Cairo bit someone, the damage was extraordinary. Once he almost severed an insurgent’s arm.
Then, on the July mission to find the bomb-builders, the dog was shot down. He was flown home for additional treatment, while Chesney continued his deployment. When he got back to the United States in October 2009, Chesney visited the rehabilitation center in Texas. The doctors said Cairo had made a full recovery, and there was no reason he couldn’t return to active duty. Chesney was worried about the creature’s health but was more concerned about his spirit. Would he still be the same dog? How would he act in combat? Would he rush into the dark with the same zeal?
When Cairo arrived back in Virginia Beach, Chesney met him at the kennel. It was a joyful reunion, with Cairo dancing, yipping, and finally leaping into his arms.
“Hey, buddy, how you been?” Chesney said and laughed. “It’s OK, Cairo. Dad’s back. Everything’s going to be all right.”
And now, here they were together in Jalalabad, ready for their first post-injury mission. The two of them walked to the flight line and climbed aboard the chopper with the others. The Chinook took off and headed to their target. Cairo was calm, but Chesney felt a little nervous.
Within a half hour, they were there. Chesney clipped himself and Cairo to the drop rope, and with the rest of the team, they fast-roped out of the chopper to the ground. As soon as Chesney hit the surface, he knew there was trouble. They had to scale an extraordinarily steep hillside, a sheer forty-five-degree angle, rocky and uneven.
Then Chesney discovered a bigger problem. The helicopter was about to leave, and he couldn’t unhook the carabiner—a metal loop with a spring gate—that attached him and Cairo to the rope. The rotors roared, he twisted and pulled…. Man and dog were about to be yanked into the sky. He shouted and swore, terrified and angry at the same time, hoping to God the helicopter crew had noticed by now as he grabbed and pulled and twisted the carabiner.
No one is going to believe this, he thought.
He was exhausted, but he kept trying. Finally, Chesney was able to release the catch. The Chinook peeled off into the night.
Chesney dropped to his knees, panting. His arms and legs burned from wr
estling with the helicopter. But Cairo wasn’t going to let him rest. He nudged Chesney with his head—his way of saying, “Let’s go.”
All Chesney could do was laugh. “What are you looking at?” he asked.
With that, Chesney knew he could focus on the mission. Cairo was back.
COUNTDOWN: 192 DAYS
October 21, 2010
Langley, Virginia
Sitting alone at his desk, Leon Panetta watched the sun dip behind the trees outside his window. Another day and still no answers. He didn’t want to feel frustrated, but he couldn’t help it. It was that damn fortress in Abbottabad. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He needed to know everything about the compound and the people inside. So he pushed his analysts to work harder, drill deeper. Every day, he’d ask them if they had anything new.
And he kept putting the same question to two of his closest aides, Morell and Bash. It was clear that somebody had gone to extraordinary lengths to secure his privacy. Panetta knew the compound was larger and more valuable than any home in the area. “Who’s inside?” he’d ask. Morell and Bash would shrug. They didn’t know. Not yet.
With his golden retriever, Bravo, by his side, Panetta realized the compound was consuming his life. It was another late night after another long day filled with calls and meetings. How long would it last? He didn’t know. There were a lot of things he hadn’t known about the job when he told the president he’d take it.
Panetta had been running a public policy school he created in California when Obama called. The president said he needed someone with Panetta’s credentials to lead the spy agency. So Panetta moved to Washington while his wife Sylvia stayed behind to run the school in Monterey. Meanwhile, he took Bravo with him to D.C. to keep him company. Most days, his dog would sit faithfully by Panetta’s desk, greeting visitors.
President Harry Truman once said, “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.” And so it was with Bravo. He went everywhere with Panetta, even to top-secret meetings. And Panetta was glad Bravo was there. When it got too stressful, he’d play with his dog or take him for a walk. And when he did, Panetta would be reminded of all the “humanity in the world.”
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