A crowd of people rushed to the scene, surrounded Davis, and refused to let him leave. Meanwhile, a consulate car rushing to the scene struck and killed a pedestrian.
When Pakistani police searched Davis’s car, they found the pistol, five magazines, a GPS device, and a Motorola radio. They concluded that Davis was a CIA officer.
The Pakistani public was calling for Davis’s execution. Obama asked Panetta to defuse the situation. The relationship between the United States and Pakistan was rocky enough already.
Panetta called his counterpart, Ahmad Shuja Pasha, Pakistan’s intelligence chief. He told Pasha he would hold him personally responsible for Davis’s safety. Meantime, Davis languished in a Pakistani jail, charged with two counts of murder.
Then things got weird. Umar Patek, an Indonesian Al Qaeda terrorist implicated in a 2002 bombing in Bali that killed more than two hundred people, suddenly turned up in Pakistan. After nine years on the lam, he was picked up by Pakistan’s ISI authorities at the end of January… in Abbottabad.
What the hell was he doing in Abbottabad? Was he hoping to meet with bin Laden? If so, would he disclose that to Pakistani officials?
Gary told Panetta that time was running out. “We have to act now,” he warned Panetta.
Panetta didn’t need Gary to remind him. These operations took time. Everyone was already working long hours, looking at all the options. They weren’t hitting a house in Brooklyn. They were going into a heavily armed fortress in a nation ten thousand miles away.
Everyone had to be on board with the operation. And that meant endless meetings with all the parties. They were still drawing up plans to get bin Laden if they could prove he was in the compound. McRaven had just joined the team. After meeting with Morell, he sent two aides to the CIA to draw up plans for an assault on the fortress in Abbottabad. Panetta hoped to present all the options to Obama soon.
At his meeting with Donilon and Brennan, Panetta filled them in on everything the CIA was considering. They were Obama’s gatekeepers. Panetta knew they’d take the latest news to their boss. It would show the president that the spy agency was doing the “nitty-gritty work” as promised.
Obama was a stickler for updates. He didn’t micromanage. He just wanted to make sure everyone was doing their job, and reported their progress to him in a timely manner.
More than anything else, he wanted to make sure there were no leaks. Now, with the Defense Department involved, the circle of information was widening. Obama still demanded the fewest possible people know details about the man in Abbottabad.
Donilon and Brennan heard it all at the session. Panetta described several proposals but reminded them that they were still working out the details. The men said they understood. After an hour, Panetta left.
The bin Laden operation was moving along, and Panetta let himself feel good about that. But his mind kept returning to Davis, the CIA man in the Lahore lockup. They had to get him out of there before the bin Laden hunt picked up too much momentum. If he was still in Pakistan when the United States went after bin Laden, Panetta knew he’d have another horror show to handle.
COUNTDOWN: 70 DAYS
February 20, 2011
Virginia Beach, Virginia
With another deployment in the rearview mirror, Will Chesney was home and already restless. Family, friends, maybe some vacation—he had a few weeks to burn. He’d do another round of training in Florida before moving on to his next assignment. Where that would take him, and when, he didn’t know.
It was silly, spending his downtime on base, but Chesney was headed to the kennels again, to visit his buddy. One thing was certain about the near future: Cairo would not be with him on his next overseas tour. Chesney could only do two tours as a dog handler. For the next round, Chesney would go back to being a shooter.
Cairo was close to six years old, and had lived through two deployments. The injuries he’d suffered were starting to take a toll, Chesney could see. But the navy, in its wisdom, thought Cairo still had more to offer. He was being scaled down to backup canine, a spare dog. He’d spend most of his days in a kennel in Virginia, or on training exercises, but Cairo would still be available for deployments if he was needed.
If things went right, Chesney would continue to play a role in Cairo’s life. In a year or two, Cairo would retire from the military. Then, Chesney would do everything possible to adopt him. Dog handlers in the military—like in law enforcement—were given the “right of first refusal” when their dogs’ careers came to an end. Chesney wanted nothing more than to keep Cairo with him for the rest of the dog’s life.
The two had become brothers in arms. They’d served in war zones together, gone after the bad guys together. Hell, how many times had Cairo saved his life, sniffing out insurgents before they opened fire, or detecting bombs before they exploded? Cairo deserved to have a little peace in his old age, and Chesney knew when the dog retired, he would be there for him.
Chesney didn’t have many ties in his life, no steady girlfriend or wife or children. The big black-and-tan dog had become his near family, by his side through good times and bad. How many times had Cairo jumped into Chesney’s lap when he sensed the SEAL was having a bad day? And how could Chesney stay angry when Cairo was wagging his tail? The SEAL always felt good when the dog was around. Just remembering the fun they’d had… like the time in Afghanistan when he dressed up the pooch and brought a load of joy to the whole barracks.
Chesney had overslept that morning. When he got up from his cot, Cairo was pacing around the hut with a guilty look on his face.
“What’s up, buddy?” Chesney asked.
When Chesney put on his boots, he found them “practically swimming in a puddle of liquid.” Cairo had peed in Chesney’s boots.
“What the hell?” he grumbled.
Apparently, Cairo had wanted to go outside to relieve himself, but Chesney had taken an Ambien tablet to help catch up with sleep between missions. Cairo had tried to wake him, but to no avail—so the dog did what he had to do. Chesney knew Cairo was well trained. He had never had an accident before. But if he had to go, why did he do it in Chesney’s boots?
Chesney took Cairo outside. When they got back inside the hut, he decided to turn the tables on his pooch.
“Let’s do a little boot work,” he said.
Military dogs had little shoes to protect their feet from broken glass when they worked in urban areas. Cairo hated his. Putting them on his feet would be a fitting but harmless punishment, Chesney thought.
Once Chesney got the boots on the dog, he struggled not to laugh. The big dog took one step forward, two steps back. He looked like he was tiptoeing across the hot sand on a crowded beach. Chesney grabbed a pair of earmuffs—the kind they used to block out the sound from loud explosions—and slipped them over Cairo’s ears. Then he placed Cairo’s “doggie goggles” over the dog’s eyes. Now Cairo looked like a comical cartoon superhero. No one in particular. Maybe a military Scooby-Doo.
Some of Chesney’s buddies walked into the hut and saw him laughing so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. One look at Cairo and they joined Chesney. The room filled with laughter.
Finally, after snapping a few pictures, Chesney removed Cairo’s boots, earmuffs, and goggles. He gave the pooch a big hug and apologized.
“Sorry about that,” Chesney said to him. “I know you didn’t mean to piss in my boots. It was totally my fault.”
The SEALs took Cairo outside and played fetch until they all felt worn out. Yes, Cairo had become more than his teammate or friend. He was almost like a shrink. How many times did Chesney find himself talking to the dog, bouncing ideas off him? Chesney felt empty when Cairo wasn’t around. He didn’t open up to many people. There were times when he felt a little depressed and anxious—early signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. He had seen a lot of action in Iraq, some of it brutal urban warfare. He had always been resilient. He wasn’t always the best athlete or swimmer, but no one worked harder than
he did. He had enough inner strength and self-will to thrive under all kinds of pressure.
Cairo dressed up.
But for some reason, this separation from Cairo, this goodbye—although temporary—was harder than before. His friend Angelo would be Cairo’s handler through the months until Chesney could adopt him. But it still didn’t make it any easier.
For now, Chesney resolved to distance himself slowly from Cairo. With time, maybe he’d feel better. He would be headed to Florida in a few weeks for ocean training. He could scuba dive during the day and relax at night with his buddies. He’d fill up on good seafood. Maybe he would drink a little. Nothing too crazy.
Chesney pulled up to the kennel and jumped out of the car. A few moments later, there was Cairo, his tail wagging madly. Chesney grinned. It was going to be hard leaving Cairo. But for now, he wasn’t going to think about it. He was just going to relax and enjoy the day with man’s best friend.
COUNTDOWN: 65 DAYS
February 25, 2011
Langley, Virginia
Friday night, late winter. The CIA headquarters was almost dark and largely empty.
A group of black Chevy Suburbans rolled through quiet Washington suburbs, headed west, and pulled up to a secondary entrance. Most of the thousands of men and women who kept the federal government ticking over the course of each day were home with their families. Courthouses, offices, monuments, and museums stood silent in the winter chill.
Panetta thought it was the perfect time to hold an important meeting.
The CIA director was spinning a web like a seasoned spy, or a wily politician. And by now he was both. He knew how to navigate the complicated bureaucracy and schmooze the right people, and he left nothing to chance. This session was characteristically strategic.
Panetta knew his team was right—they had to push hard and get things in place soon. If they were going to get The Pacer, they had to act fast. They couldn’t do anything without the president’s go-ahead, and Donilon, who had been promoted to national security advisor in October, was the key to the president.
Panetta told Donilon he wanted to meet on March 4, to update him on the latest bin Laden developments. He had a list of options for the president to consider, ways to get The Pacer if he turned out to be bin Laden.
Panetta wanted to be prepared for the Donilon briefing, so he’d called in the military. Tonight he would share everything he had—all the intelligence his analysts had collected about the compound at the end of a dead-end street in Abbottabad. This was his dress rehearsal.
The first SUV opened up, and out came General Cartwright, a four-star general and a cyberwarfare and nuclear weapons expert. In another Suburban came Vickers and McRaven, just back from another trip to Afghanistan.
Cartwright, Vickers, McRaven, and some of their staff headed to the large conference room down the hall from Panetta’s office on the seventh floor. Panetta and Morell met them there, along with an impressive replica of the fortress in Abbottabad.
Officials with the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA) had analyzed all the satellite images, then built a scale model of the entire compound. Four feet long by four feet wide, it was accurate down to each bush and tree.
McRaven immediately stepped over to the compound at the far end of the conference table. It’s one thing to talk about a raid in the abstract; another to see the target right in front of you.
Panetta tried to keep his information sessions informal. Tonight was no exception. He was going to “talk about what makes the most sense in terms of the operation,” or, as he put it: “How the hell would we get him out?” He knew the session could go on for a while, so he had sandwiches and soda on hand. Some of the visitors helped themselves to food and sat at the long wooden table.
The military officials already knew bits and pieces. But tonight, Panetta told them everything the CIA knew about the compound, The Pacer, and the civilians in the neighborhood.
This meeting would prepare them for Donilon and the president. It also, Panetta hoped, would eliminate any interagency distrust or competitiveness. In the ongoing hunt for high-value targets in Iraq and Afghanistan, there was often tension between the military intelligence teams and the CIA agents on the ground. Panetta went out of his way to ensure everything ran smoothly and communication channels were clear. This wasn’t the time for turf wars. They were on the same side.
This mission, no matter who carried it out, was going to be dangerous as hell. Abbottabad was a city of two hundred thousand people, about two hours north of the national capital of Islamabad. By Pakistani standards, it was affluent. It was home to the Pakistan Army’s military academy, a large ammunition depot, a barracks that housed a Pakistan Army infantry battalion, and several police stations.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the compound was a half mile from a main highway that cut through the city. There were several houses near the compound, and a densely populated neighborhood not too far away.
While Panetta talked, McRaven stood up and circled the model. The main house was three stories tall. To get to it, you’d have to scale high concrete perimeter walls.
The walls surrounding the north, east, and west sides were twelve feet tall. The south-facing wall was a full eighteen feet high, blocking the interior from the view of anyone in the city. The driveway came in from the north, through a metal double door.
Scale model of Abbottabad compound.
Inside was the main house and small guest quarters, and a smaller building on one side of the driveway. A few goats and chickens were kept in a courtyard. McRaven noticed that one could not easily move from the courtyard to the living areas without passing through several locked metal gates.
What worried McRaven most was what he couldn’t see. They didn’t have a layout of the interior of the living quarters. Who knew what kind of measures had been put in place to protect bin Laden? Were there tunnels? Were they booby-trapped? Surely if bin Laden lived there, he had an escape route. Were the grounds or interiors laced with explosives that could be triggered against invaders? And what about security guards? Were they in the house, or living nearby, ready to rush in to save the terrorist leader?
“If we determine The Pacer is bin Laden, and the president says ‘go get him,’ how will we do it?” Panetta asked, rhetorically.
The CIA had come up with several possible Courses of Action (COAs). Panetta went over each one of them—even ones that he had privately ruled out. He discussed the pros and cons of each proposed operation.
One option: “Inform Pakistan.” They would tell the Pakistanis what U.S. intelligence had uncovered and urge them to take action. This was the safest move from a diplomatic standpoint.
Option two: A joint operation with the Pakistani military. The risk to U.S. forces would be vastly reduced, Panetta said. CIA leaders had bounced around the idea, but Pakistan’s intelligence service—the ISI—had a reputation for leaks and divided loyalties. Many ISI agents had ties to the Taliban. It was impossible to trust them with the information.
That raised another possibility—what the agency called “Compel Pakistan.” Tell Pakistani authorities the U.S. was conducting a raid that night, and press the Pakistanis to come with them.
The problem with all of these COAs, of course, was that they relied on assistance and secrecy from an uncertain ally. Panetta now laid out three other options, based on the U.S. acting on its own.
America could launch an air strike. The benefits of simply demolishing the compound were obvious: No U.S. lives would be risked on Pakistani soil. But how could they be sure that bin Laden was there and had been killed? If Al Qaeda denied their leader was dead, how would the United States explain blowing up a residence deep inside Pakistan in the middle of a crowded city? Intelligence estimated that five women and twenty children lived in the compound. The strike would annihilate the buildings and adjoining residences, too. No one could say how many innocent civilians would die.
Another choice was to authorize a special
ops mission. A team would fly into Pakistan by helicopter, raid the compound, and get out before the Pakistani police or military had time to react. That would take a lot more planning.
They’d have to pick a team. They’d have to pull off the operation inside another country without being seen—or at least, without being stopped. To preserve secrecy—and maintain deniability if something went wrong—the mission would have to be conducted under CIA authority rather than the Pentagon’s.
Panetta said the final option was using CIA operators—the agency’s paramilitary unit. They were mostly former special operators or Marines who helped train and run covert operations around the world. The CIA guys would come in on the ground, raid the compound, capture the target, and find some way to sneak him out of Pakistan.
No matter which option they chose, there would be dangers involved. No one knew if the building was booby-trapped, or if Al Qaeda fighters were living there or billeted nearby, ready to strike.
The briefing dress rehearsal went well. McRaven was impressed by the depth and detail of the intelligence. Ultimately, President Obama would make his decision. If he decided to use Special Forces, McRaven knew he’d have to start planning now. On the surface, this was like a thousand raids they had conducted in the past, but there was one big difference. This raid would take place 160 miles inside Pakistani territory. That changed things and created all kinds of potential problems.
When the military folks had left, Panetta invited Morell and Bash back to his office. The director was excited. Everything was coming together. He broke out a bottle of Dewar’s Blue Label Scotch, the good stuff, and poured them each a generous glass.
“I think we’ve developed good options,” Panetta said.
The plans were ready to present to the president. They just had to get by Donilon. Panetta didn’t think that would be a problem.
They sipped their Scotch, but no one felt any sense of celebration. They knew the hard part was just starting.
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