McRaven had the same quiet confidence as Obama, but he was more colorful and animated. He said the plan was pretty simple. He’d assemble a team of twenty-four SEALs, a CIA officer, and specially modified Black Hawk helicopters in the United States. If Obama approved the mission, he’d move the team to Afghanistan.
They’d also have two dozen SEALs waiting in two MH-47 Chinook helicopters inside Afghanistan near the Pakistan border. He would only deploy this quick reaction force to Abbottabad if the SEALs in the compound needed help.
McRaven switched on his PowerPoint presentation. A map showed the 162-mile distance between the Afghanistan border and Abbottabad. Another image showed the Pakistani air defense radar coverage. The red lines on the map were places where U.S. helicopters were likely to be detected. The green lines were spots that were clear. Everyone could see, there wasn’t much green.
Obama studied the path of the mission. “Can you get by the air defenses?” he asked.
McRaven said he couldn’t answer that question right now. “We’re still studying the problem. But if we can use the mountains as a shield, there’s a possibility we can get pretty close to the compound without being detected.”
“How close?” the president asked.
Once they broke from the mountains, it would be two minutes to the compound. But that didn’t mean they were home free. “At that point, the sound of helos will give us away,” he said. “It’s very likely that someone in the compound will hear us.”
McRaven flipped to the next image, an overhead photo of the compound with arrows showing their proposed routes of entry. Twelve men would fast-rope from the first helicopter into the center of the compound, clear out the small guesthouse, and then breach the bottom floor of the main building and clear it from the bottom up.
The second helicopter would drop a small team outside the compound to cover all escape routes. Then the chopper would drop the rest of the team onto the roof of the main house. They would methodically work their way down. During the raid, the two Black Hawks would wait at a designated spot on the outskirts of the city.
“What about the women and children?” Clinton asked. Intelligence said there were up to a dozen children in the compound, and maybe five women.
“This is a challenge we deal with every day in Afghanistan. The men know how to handle large groups of noncombatants,” the admiral said.
“But what if one of them poses a threat?” someone asked.
In his typical direct, no-nonsense style, McRaven answered. “If they have a suicide vest or are armed, or if they threaten the assault force, they will be killed.”
McRaven wanted to make sure everyone in the Situation Room understood the stakes. “Anyone in the compound who poses a threat to the operators will be killed. It will be dark. It will be confusing.”
And even if bin Laden wasn’t in the compound, there were “still likely to be dead Pakistanis as a result of the raid.”
Obama nodded. He understood.
The raid could be executed, McRaven said. Getting the men back out would be dicey.
Obama had more questions. What if Pakistani authorities intercepted the U.S. helicopters on their way in or out? What if bin Laden was on-site but hidden, thus extending the amount of time they’d be on the ground? What if they encountered resistance? How would the team respond if Pakistani police or military forces surrounded the compound?
It was an uncomfortable question, but one that had to be discussed and answered.
McRaven didn’t miss a beat. “Sir, we have a technical term for that in the military.” He paused for a moment. “We call that ‘when the shit hits the fan.’ ”
“Exactly,” the president said.
Gates and Mullen smiled broadly, but the others weren’t so amused.
McRaven said he’d built his plan on the premise that his team should avoid a firefight with Pakistani authorities. If confronted, his inclination was to hold the team in place until U.S. diplomats negotiated a safe exit.
Obama appreciated his candor, but with U.S-Pakistan relations in an especially precarious state, the president had serious reservations about this strategy. No, he would not put the fate of SEALs into the hands of the Pakistani government, especially if bin Laden wasn’t found inside. Public outcry would land them all in jail, or worse.
The president knew he couldn’t rely on the Pakistanis. He knew he couldn’t rely on diplomacy. He didn’t want McRaven’s men “rotting in jail.” So Obama decided to make sure that McRaven had clear and concise instructions on what to do if the Pakistani police or military arrived at the compound. He needed to make sure there was no confusion how he wanted them to handle such a scenario.
“Fight your way out,” the president directed.
McRaven smiled. The president’s words meant McRaven could put together combat air support to protect his men in the compound, or during their return to Afghanistan. His “gorilla package” would include everything in his military arsenal, including fighter jets and AC-130 gunships. McRaven then showed a few more slides, including the helicopter route out of Pakistan. If everything worked well, McRaven estimated the mission would take three and a half hours—ninety minutes of travel each way and a half hour for the mission. No more.
“How quickly can the Pakistanis react?” Gates asked.
McRaven didn’t know yet. They were still gathering intelligence. When the presentation wound up, Obama turned to McRaven with a solemn face.
“Can you do the mission, Bill?”
McRaven said he didn’t know yet. It was still just a concept, a sketch. But he said he’d put together the assault team and start running rehearsals. Builders in rural North Carolina were already creating a full-sized replica of the compound. It would be ready soon, and then his team would start preparing. If Obama approved the raid, the optimal time would be the first weekend in May, when a couple of moonless nights would provide the SEALs with extra cover.
“How much time do you need to train?” Obama asked.
“Three weeks.”
Obama paused for a moment. He knew it was still early to decide anything. McRaven was on a roll and he didn’t want to kill the momentum, but with every step, more and more people were being brought into the circle, increasing the likelihood of a leak. Obama wasn’t ready to approve a raid, but he knew they should prepare like it was a go.
“I think you have some work to do,” Obama said to McRaven.
The meeting ended. Everyone got up and began to leave. For McRaven, the real work was about to begin. But Donilon knew McRaven had just passed a critical test.
The national security advisor could tell that Obama was impressed by McRaven’s honesty. When the president asked whether the mission was doable, McRaven could have said, “Yes sir, Mr. President. No problem.” But he didn’t. Instead, McRaven said he didn’t know, but promised to come back later with an informed answer. McRaven didn’t bullshit the president.
After that, Donilon knew that the president—and everyone in the room—would have complete confidence in McRaven. No one knew whether the president would authorize an operation and, if he did, whether it would be a success. But after today’s meeting, they were all sure about one thing: With McRaven, they had the right commander.
COUNTDOWN: 26 DAYS
April 5, 2011
Miami, Florida
After seven combat deployments and two weeks back home visiting with family and friends, Robert O’Neill was finally in paradise: Miami! Palm trees, clear skies, and blue water. He was enjoying some sand and surf with his team after a day’s work performing a new combat diving training exercise at a nearby base.
He smiled every time he thought about it. Sometimes he loved his job.
This was the perfect assignment, an opportunity for everyone to decompress. They were navy, after all… and had spent the last five months inland, in eastern Afghanistan’s mountains and deserts. They needed to get back in the water and work on their tactics, in case they had to conduct
another high-seas life-or-death operation.
Two years earlier, O’Neill and his team had taken part in a high-profile rescue in the Indian Ocean that unfolded on live television. In a short time, the daring rescue of Captain Richard Phillips from Somali pirates had become etched in SEAL Team 6 lore.
Phillips, a U.S. merchant mariner, was taken hostage by four Somali pirates after they seized his cargo ship. The pirates removed Phillips from the ship and placed him in a eighteen-foot-long enclosed lifeboat. They were either going to extort money from the United States for his safe release or sell him to a group of extremists with ties to Al Qaeda. Either way, the pirates hoped to make millions.
But things didn’t go as planned. U.S. warships quickly arrived and blocked the pirates’ escape route. Phillips was stuck in the tiny vessel while the pirates tried to figure out their next move. The situation was tense. The pirates threatened to kill Phillips. To defuse the situation, the U.S. Navy struck a deal with the pirates. The USS Bainbridge, a destroyer, would attach a one-hundred-foot line to the lifeboat and tow it to shore.
Meanwhile, a SEAL team in the United States began planning a rescue. O’Neill was at his four-year-old daughter’s preschool Easter party when his pager beeped and up came a top-secret code. He had to get out of there, fast. He called his wife, Amber, with the news.
She didn’t ask any questions. She could easily guess where her husband was headed, as the hostage drama was all over the news. O’Neill had an hour to get to the military base where a Boeing C-17 Globemaster transport plane was waiting. Amber picked up their daughter. O’Neill gave them both a hug and kiss, then hurried to his car.
It was a twenty-minute drive, and O’Neill was already in uniform. He had time enough to stop at the 7-Eleven outside the base and grab a few necessities. He parked, got some cash from the ATM, and chose a couple of cans of Copenhagen and a carton of cigarettes. He would have made it in and out with time to spare—except for a lollygagging guy in front of him in the checkout line. The man wandered back to the newspapers, scanned the headlines, and finally pulled a copy of USA Today off the rack. The Captain Phillips ordeal was the lead story. The man tottered back to the counter, slammed the newspaper down, and said, “Man, I sure wish someone would do something about this!”
O’Neill snapped. “Hey, buddy, pay for your shit and we will.”
The man stared at O’Neill. This was Virginia Beach, home of several elite military units. He jumped out of the way. O’Neill bought his things and ran outside to his car. Minutes later he pulled into a parking lot on the base and hurried to the team room.
They didn’t have much time. SEAL Team 6 leaders and operators were discussing tactics and finalizing details. A transport plane would carry the squad and four speedboats to a designated area in the Indian Ocean. The SEALs and the boats would drop from a ramp in the back of the plane. Once they hit the water, the men would swim to the speedboats and prepare for the mission.
O’Neill and the others scrambled, grabbed gear bags and supplies from their lockers, and headed to the C-17. They strapped in for the sixteen-hour flight.
The trip passed by in a blur. The racket of machinery roused the men. They were there. The ramp in the back of the plane was opening. O’Neill moved to the edge and looked out. The ocean was beautiful; bright sun glistened on the water. He felt a charge of adrenaline. Forget about being tired. The signal came. O’Neill jumped first. As he dropped from the sky, he looked for the four boats, the landing zone.
But first the plummet, the moments of blindness from the sun’s reflection off the water, then there they were, the boats, in perfect position. When they hit the water, the men swam to the vessels and climbed on board. After a quick head count to make sure everybody was safe, O’Neill’s squadron headed to the USS Boxer, an amphibious assault ship. After all that movement, they were still some five hundred miles east of the Bainbridge.
And that’s when they got their orders. The plan called for a small group of snipers to head to the Bainbridge. O’Neill wasn’t called, but his buddy Jonny was. As they loaded up, Jonny spoke to O’Neill. “This shit’s ending one way. You know that, right?”
O’Neill nodded. “I know. We didn’t come here to talk them out of it.”
When Jonny and his fellow SEALs got to the Bainbridge, they blended in with a crew assigned to deliver supplies to the pirates on the lifeboat.
The snipers took positions on the fantail of the Bainbridge. One of the pirates surrendered, but three refused to give up. Two were visible on the deck of the lifeboat, but the third was below with Phillips. Every once in a while, the pirate’s head would pop up, visible in a small porthole window, shouting threats. There was no toilet or ventilation on the little boat, and the pirates were short on sleep. Phillips’s life was in danger.
It was time to take action.
Jonny kept his gun sights trained on that empty porthole, while two other SEAL snipers focused on the pirates on deck. Jonny knew if they didn’t take out all three pirates at once, the survivor would almost certainly shoot the hostage. Jonny told his buddies that when he next saw the pirate in the porthole, he’d “go hot.”
And that’s what happened. When the pirate’s head appeared, Jonny fired. The two other snipers fired virtually simultaneously. One, two, three! The pirates all dropped.
Within seconds, rescuers slid down ropes from the Bainbridge, climbed aboard the lifeboat, and found all three pirates dead. They freed Captain Phillips, ending the drama at sea that had riveted much of the world’s attention.
O’Neill knew that kind of precision attack was the result of relentless practice. All that training and planning paid off in the “flick of an index finger.” When they returned to the Boxer, O’Neill and the others greeted Jonny and the other snipers with smiles and back slaps.
But Jonny wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. He told O’Neill he wanted to be left alone for a while. O’Neill kept an eye on him. The ship wasn’t big enough for much solitude, but Jonny walked to the far edges, alone. He’d talk when he was ready, O’Neill thought.
He understood. SEALs are background players, anonymous triggermen. Now Jonny was in the spotlight, the cool-under-pressure sniper, the guy who took out the main pirate. He was a hero. O’Neill wanted Jonny to know that.
When the time was right, he told Jonny, “You realize that you’ve done one of the most historic things in the history of the SEAL teams, don’t you?”
But Jonny said he didn’t care. He felt a great weight on his shoulders. He just wanted to go home.
Now Jonny was here in Miami, sitting with a bunch of other SEAL Team 6 members at the next table at the Marriott patio bar. Mack was there, a former rugby player with a missing tooth; and Paul, an assault team leader with a perfectly groomed beard; and Eric Roth, who’d become a commander during his last deployment.
For O’Neill, it felt great to be chatting in the sunshine about Navy SEAL tactical, theoretical stuff, and not just fighting terrorists in the mountains and deserts.
In the mornings, O’Neill and the guys ran on the beach and swam in the ocean. Then they piled into cars and headed to the training site. When they were done, they went back to the hotel, worked out at a nearby Gold’s Gym, showered, and hung out. It was perfect.
O’Neill and his friends were getting ready to order their first round of drinks when Roth’s cell phone chirped. He got up from the table and walked away. When he returned, he asked O’Neill, Jonny, and Paul for a quiet word.
They moved inside the lobby. Roth didn’t waste any time. They’d pack up and check out of the hotel in the morning, head back to Virginia Beach to meet with command leadership. The rest of the men would continue the training, but without them. That was all Roth knew.
O’Neill understood this was serious. He went to his room and packed. Another hostage situation? He hadn’t seen anything on the news. Maybe Gaddafi? He stretched out on the enormous bed, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. His mind raced over the possible scenari
os. Nothing made any sense. It was a whole lot of unknowns. But O’Neill kinda liked that.
Yuma, Arizona
Almost two thousand miles to the west in Yuma, Arizona, Will Chesney was thinking the same thing. He’d started out in Miami, training with O’Neill’s team, but a few days earlier, two spots in a special skydiving school had opened up. The team leaders sent Chesney and another SEAL out West.
The Military Free-Fall Jumpmaster Course was a great opportunity—something that could lead to a promotion down the road. It was a rigorous three-week program. Chesney knew he’d not only learn to be a better skydiver, but also how to orchestrate a jump for an entire team. Leading a jump was a technical, highly choreographed, and dangerous maneuver. One mistake could be catastrophic.
He was up for the challenge, excited to be there. But before the class even started, his team leader called him off.
“Pack your gear,” the voice on the telephone said. “We need you back in Virginia. Now.”
Chesney couldn’t believe it. He told the man that he just got there.
But the guy was cryptic. Something important had come up and Chesney would find out more later.
After years in the SEALs, Chesney knew better than to ask. Shit happens. Plans change. You get an order, you follow it. And the next one, and then another.
But before the man ended the call, he said he had one more thing: When Chesney got back to Virginia Beach, he had to pick up Cairo.
Chesney was stunned. He’d been trying to put some emotional distance between himself and the dog, but now they were getting him back together with his buddy, sending them into hell-who-knows-where. But so what?
He and Cairo were going to be a team again. He couldn’t ask for anything better than that.
COUNTDOWN: 25 DAYS
April 6, 2011
Northern Virginia
Gary pulled his favorite suitcase from the closet, threw it on the bed, unzipped it. He packed button-down shirts, ties, socks, shoes. Another business trip, but this one felt different. After years of chasing bin Laden, he was on the verge of helping launch a mission that could capture or kill the terrorist. It felt final. It felt good.
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