Yes, they still had to conduct the run-through, but Mullen was confident that would go off without a hitch. Before they adjourned for the dress rehearsal, Mullen spoke to each SEAL involved. He looked them in the eye as he asked them the same question: “Are you confident that you can do this mission?”
And each one, without hesitation, responded the same way: “Yes.” Then Mullen handed each one a challenge coin, a traditional way for a military leader to show his appreciation for a phenomenal job.
After the briefing, Mullen pulled McRaven aside. “I see that you added another helo.”
McRaven nodded. “It might not be necessary if all the conditions are right. But we need to plan and rehearse as though it were necessary,” McRaven said.
Mullen agreed.
As the SEALs left the hangar and loaded into the helicopters, McRaven felt confident of Mullen’s support. If Mullen believed, the president was likely to give the mission greater consideration.
The day was far from over. Today’s full-scale dress rehearsal would be taped and shown to Obama at tomorrow’s meeting in the White House. McRaven knew he had done everything to plan the operation, down to the last detail. Still, that wasn’t enough. After the rehearsal, he had one more thing to do: He’d prepare his pitch for the White House briefing. It would be his last chance to convince the president that they were more than ready for one of the most dangerous missions in U.S. history.
COUNTDOWN: 12 DAYS
April 19, 2011
Washington, D.C.
The dress rehearsal went off just fine. McRaven and his people flew back to Washington. The admiral was tired, but he didn’t sleep. He spent his time going over the plan again. He couldn’t let himself get too confident, as he didn’t know what Obama was going to do. He might still call off the raid in favor of a less risky drone strike. He might decide to do nothing at all. The intelligence was good, but the CIA still didn’t have the key element: No one could say, for sure, that The Pacer was bin Laden.
The stress of not knowing weighed on McRaven. Maybe by the end of today’s meeting, he’d have an answer. In any case, he had to be perfectly prepared, able to answer every question—not only from Obama, but from anyone else in the Situation Room, every heavyweight in the administration: Panetta, Gates, Clinton, Biden. Mullen would be there, too, and all the top military brass. There were some great minds among them, and McRaven didn’t want to be blindsided.
The room began to fill up. McRaven took a deep breath. He’d have to wait his turn, but he was ready. Finally, the president arrived. Obama greeted everyone, but he didn’t waste time socializing. They all knew why they were there.
Obama started with Panetta. The CIA director said the dress rehearsal went well, but he would leave the details to others. Analysts and operators continued to watch The Pacer walk in tight little circles around his vegetable garden every day, but they still couldn’t provide a definitive identification.
He pushed the president for action. Panetta said the intelligence community faced “the law of diminishing returns” in gathering any new details about the compound. There was an opportunity cost to waiting. Every day they didn’t act increased the chances that The Pacer would disappear. Panetta didn’t want to lose the chance to possibly get bin Laden, not after all these years.
And there was another factor, one adding to the sense of urgency. The SEALs wanted to launch the attack under the cover of darkness. Only two or three nights a month were moonless—and they were coming up soon, the first few nights in May. So if they didn’t go then, they’d have to wait until June. But by June, the heat might make it impossible to carry off the raid. It was either now or they’d have to wait until September. More time for bin Laden, if it was him, to decide to leave. More time for the trail to go cold again.
Obama didn’t want to squander the opportunity. But the president was still weighing the risks and the rewards. He listened to everyone’s opinion and read the reports. He wanted to hear the latest—if the SEALs were ready, if the weather was right.
Panetta updated Obama further on the dress rehearsal. The noise signature—the time the people in the compound would have to react after the helicopters emerged from the darkness—was now down to sixty seconds. He told the president that the teams had methodically assaulted the structure standing in for the compound. Once the Black Hawks reached the target, the SEALs fast-roped into the complex, cleared the area, and returned to the choppers with stopwatch precision. That part of the operation took about twenty minutes. It was only a rehearsal, but it was smooth and fast, a good sign.
When Panetta finished, John Brennan spoke next. He said the consensus among the national security deputies was to go with the helicopter assault.
Gates told the president that Mullen and the Joint Chiefs of Staff agreed that a raid was the best option. But Gates still had doubts of his own, and this meeting was another chance for him to express his concerns.
Gates’s opinion carried a lot of weight. He was a soft-spoken but tough-minded career security analyst who had seen it all. He said he had confidence in McRaven’s plan, but he felt the risks were too great. He envisioned a nightmare scenario where the Pakistani military would encircle the compound and take prisoners. Operation Neptune’s Spear could easily devolve into a disaster of international proportions.
Obama understood Gates’s concerns. He had been wrestling with them himself. That’s why he’d held off this long. The room was quiet as McRaven took his turn.
He said he had planned for every little detail, every possible scenario. He watched his men work together, coming up with answers to potential problems. That’s how they discovered they needed another helicopter. The additional helicopter with the fuel pod would eliminate the risk of emergency refueling inside Pakistan.
After examining and planning for all possible scenarios—and after a flawless dress rehearsal—McRaven said he was confident the SEALs could “get to the target, capture or kill bin Laden, and get back safely.”
Obama nodded. The president still hadn’t approved the raid, but he wanted to move on to the next phase. He authorized the assault team to move into position in Afghanistan. They would deploy in a week, April 26. The president would still have time to decide. But if they were going to strike, they had to go soon. They couldn’t wait any longer.
COUNTDOWN: 7 DAYS
April 24, 2011
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Will Chesney picked up his cell phone. This was the last thing on his list. It was time to call his father. He knew he wouldn’t stay on the phone for long. He took a minute to prepare himself.
Chesney had always been an overachiever, a nose-to-the-grindstone type. He was never the flashiest guy in the room, the smartest guy in school, or the best athlete on the field. He was the guy who got things done through sheer will and perseverance. He succeeded when others failed, and his father was a large part of his success. He’d shown Chesney how hard work paid off. He’d encouraged him, in quiet ways. And even though he didn’t see his father much these days, the SEAL still felt very close to his dad. That’s why this call was so tough. It might be the last time they’d ever speak.
When Chesney and the other SEALs had returned from the drill in Nevada, they were told to get ready, to “get their affairs in order.” They were being deployed to Afghanistan. No one knew if they’d actually carry out the mission—that was up to the president. But they had to be in place in Jalalabad just in case.
Chesney didn’t have a wife or children. Taking care of business before the deployment meant making sure he paid up his life insurance premiums. It meant saying goodbye to family members, without telling them anything about the mission. He didn’t have to worry about Cairo. His dog would go with him.
He never called his mother before deployments. She was hearing-impaired, so telephone calls were hard going. Chesney sent her text messages instead, to let her know he was being deployed and that he’d try to stay safe. If he called her now, she wou
ld suspect something was up. No, he had to stick to his routine. Better she didn’t worry.
But his father was a different story. It was routine for Chesney to call him and talk before he deployed. He wouldn’t deviate from the script. But this time, as he held his phone, he felt different. He wanted to tell his dad how much he loved him, how much he appreciated everything he’d done for him over the years. Chesney started to tear up just thinking about that. He didn’t know how he would get through this call.
He didn’t waste any time on the phone. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving. It’s unexpected, but there’s something important going on.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. His father knew not to ask him where he was going or any questions about the deployment. But this time, Chesney opened up.
“There’s something important going on and I’m part of it. You would be proud.” Chesney paused for a moment. “You can’t ask me any questions, but… I might not make it back.”
He didn’t have to see his father’s face to know he was upset. He knew his father was searching for the right words to say.
“Be careful, OK?” his father whispered.
“I will. And Dad?”
“Yes, boy?”
“I love you.”
There was a long pause. Chesney had broken the routine, told him this might be it, told his dad he loved him. He’d never done that. It was time to go. But before Chesney hung up, he heard his father’s voice. “I love you, too.”
* * *
Meanwhile, in another part of Virginia Beach, Robert O’Neill was sitting at a table in a Chick-fil-A restaurant, watching his four-year-old daughter chattering with a new friend in the play area. As soon as she’d spotted the other girl, she’d left her chicken nuggets and dad behind and jumped into the ball pit. The children laughed as they dived and leapt. O’Neill sat and smiled, sandwich in hand. The other girl’s grandmother was talking to him. He smiled politely and made believe he was listening, but all he could think about was the goodbye to come. The mission had cast a pall over his entire visit home.
When he’d returned from Nevada, his wife, Amber, suspected something was up. He had never been able to say much to her about his deployments. She knew not to ask. And these days it was even harder for them to talk about anything at all. The silence and the long deployments had taken a toll on their marriage. Beyond all that, this time felt odd. It was unusual for her husband to return home unexpectedly from training. Why was he being deployed to Afghanistan now, when plenty of other SEAL teams were already there?
A day earlier, O’Neill had taken his daughters shopping at the mall. He was trying to wrap a lifetime with his children into these few days, hoping to give them happy memories. They’d gone from store to store, buying toys and clothes. They’d had a blast. But as much as he tried, there were constant reminders of the mission—the pain in his ankles and his arms.
He was on his way to a suicide mission. The Pacer was Osama bin Laden. He had to be. Of course they wouldn’t know for sure until they got there.
As he was leaving the mall, O’Neill spotted a Sunglass Hut. He walked over and spotted a cool pair of Prada sunglasses. He tried them on. They were perfect. The price tag was hefty: $350. O’Neill had never paid more than $50 for shades.
You really shouldn’t, he thought. You’re an E-7 in the navy. You can’t afford it. But standing there that day, his daughters by his side, he decided to splurge. What the hell? A week from now, he might be dead. So he pulled out his American Express card and handed it to the woman behind the counter.
O’Neill glanced at his watch. It was time to go home. His oldest daughter would be home from school in a little bit, and he wanted to be there when she walked in the door. He’d say goodbye to the girls then, and head to the base.
O’Neill gathered up his youngest from the play area and headed home. He felt his heart aching. If something happened to him, who would tell her? Would she remember him? It was too much for him to think about.
Moments after they got home, his oldest daughter arrived. She ran over and gave her father a hug. O’Neill smiled and held her close, inhaled her scent, wondered if this was the last time. Inside he was breaking down. He didn’t want to cry in front of his children. They’d know something was wrong, and he didn’t want to scare them. He gave each of his girls a big hug and kiss. He embraced his wife, then grabbed his bag and headed to the door.
With his home in the rearview mirror, he let himself cry. For three and a half miles he sobbed like a baby, right up to the guard shack at the front gates. He took a deep breath, wiped away the tears, slowed for the security check. He had to focus. Focus. That was the only way he’d have a chance to see his family again.
COUNTDOWN: 6 DAYS
April 25, 2011
New York City
Jessica Ferenczy woke to the sounds of spring. Birds sang, rain pattered down. It was early on a Monday morning, but she’d taken the day off work. It was Jerome’s birthday.
Jerome would have been forty-seven years old. He would have been retired by now from the force, and running his own law enforcement training facility in the mountains. Jessica would probably have been getting two or three kids ready for school. They had planned that for a while. Jerome had wanted a big family. And how many times had Ferenczy heard Jerome’s parents say, “We can’t wait until you have children.”
In a perfect world, Ferenczy would’ve spent this day rushing around preparing for a big birthday party. The house would be filled with balloons and cake and music—loud music—and laughter. Lots of laughter.
Ferenczy got up and dressed. She was still living with her supervisor, Larry, and his family, but she was planning to get her own place. It was time.
She was moving on, making plans now. She’d retire in less than two years, collect her pension, and move up to that piece of land she’d bought in the Adirondacks. She was only biding her time now. Once she retired, she’d figure out what to do with the rest of her life. She was in no hurry.
Her friends still worried about her, but she assured them she was improving. She was going to therapy, and that helped. It would be ten years soon. Ten years since she lost Jerome.
How long do people grieve? There wasn’t a right or wrong answer. Everyone grieved differently, she’d learned. The wound was always there. Yes, a scab grows over it and you can go on. But then something triggers a memory—it could be a song on the radio, or the scent of a toasting bagel—and the emotions come rushing back. The cut will feel as deep as it ever was.
Ferenczy didn’t want to wallow in pain, but she didn’t want to forget Jerome, either. Some days it didn’t hurt so much. Today, she would look at pictures, write in her journal, and strive to remember. Someday she’d be gone, and without children to tell stories to, no one would be here to keep his memory alive.
So this April 25, just like on every September 11 and December 19—the day they met—she’d spend the day concentrating, focusing on “every single little detail of every single minute” of their time together.
The last ten years hadn’t been easy. There were times she’d tried to self-medicate. Friends said she was still young and pretty, she should get out in the world again, find a nice guy. Jessica dismissed that idea. What if that man fell in love with her? It wouldn’t be fair to him. She was never going to fall in love again. It would be cruel.
That part of her—dating and relationships—was dead. Jessica knew she could never be emotionally available again.
And that was all right. She liked to tell her friends that she’d had her “good shit up front.”
“Some people get old together and they have a lifetime of sweet happiness. And when they die, they die together, in their beds. Now, I have to pay for the happiness I had up front. Jerome ruined me for other men,” she said.
She didn’t want anyone to pity her. This was just the way things had turned out.
Ferenczy smiled and reached for a notebook by he
r bed. She closed her eyes for a moment, then scribbled for a good ten minutes. It felt good. Therapeutic. Then she put down her pen, closed the notebook. It was time to face the day.
COUNTDOWN: 4 DAYS
April 27, 2011
Washington, D.C.
Obama had had enough. There were so many issues on his plate he didn’t have time for this nonsense. A civil war in Libya. Violence in the streets of Syria. A deadly insurgency in Afghanistan. The U.S. economy still struggling to recover from the Great Recession. And of course, the bin Laden decision.
Yet in the midst of all these serious problems, the president was fielding questions about where he was born. Every week, stories about Obama’s birthplace had proliferated on right-wing media outlets. Real estate developer and self-promoter Donald Trump had been pushing a wild theory that Obama was born in Kenya, and not in Hawaii. That supposedly meant Obama wasn’t really president because only someone born on American soil could be commander in chief.
So, in the middle of everything, Obama decided he had to put the “birther” issue to rest.
Now, the controversy centered over his short form and long form birth certificates. The long form was the actual copy of a birth certificate on file at the facility where a baby was born. The short form was a notarized document saying the long form existed.
Obama had already released his short form birth certificate, issued by the Hawaii State Department of Health. The form was adequate to obtain a passport, a Social Security number, or a driver’s license. But to Trump and his allies, the release of the short form meant nothing. They demanded Obama release the long form version of his birth certificate. “What is he hiding?” “Is he a Muslim?” “The short form has been doctored.” The nonsense went on and on and on.
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