Countdown bin Laden

by Chris Wallace

  Chesney smiled. The intel had been right. He wanted to go up and see for himself, but he knew he should stay out of the way, help to find evidence down here.

  As he exited a bedroom, he spotted O’Neill in the hallway. Chesney had known O’Neill for years, they’d flown dozens of missions together. During an operation, O’Neill was all business, one of the toughest and most disciplined SEALs. O’Neill never showed emotion, but now, as he approached Chesney, he smiled. “Dude, I think I just shot that motherfucker,” O’Neill said.

  “Seriously?”

  O’Neill nodded. He never said “bin Laden,” but Chesney knew who he was talking about. For a moment, they just stood there. Over the years, they had seen the worst combat imaginable, some of the deadliest missions in Iraq and Afghanistan. They saw friends die in front of them in bloody firefights, and had dodged many bullets themselves. They had never celebrated in the field. It was uncool, unprofessional, wrong. But that day, on the second floor of bin Laden’s hideout, Chesney held his right hand high in the air and shared a high five with O’Neill. When the smiling O’Neill smacked his hand, Chesney shouted, “Fuck yeah!”

  Jalalabad, Afghanistan

  Time was running out. The SEALs had been on the ground in Abbottabad for twenty minutes. They had ten to go before they hit the danger zone.

  Some of the SEALs started placing explosives in the downed Black Hawk. People were starting to mill around outside of the compound.

  Van Hooser told McRaven the men had requested more time on the ground.

  “They found a whole shit-ton of computers and electronics on the second floor,” Van Hooser said.

  McRaven was torn. For all they knew, the Pakistani police or military were on their way to the scene. But the opportunity to seize important Al Qaeda documents didn’t come along every day. McRaven decided to give them a little more time. The Chinook was on its way.

  As soon as he gave the OK, McRaven realized the Pakistanis knew something was up at the compound. Pakistani civilian and military channels in the city were lit up with chatter. Did a helicopter crash in Abbottabad? Were they Americans? All McRaven could do was watch, listen, and hope the SEALs were getting close to leaving.

  Abbottabad, Pakistan

  The CIA translation officer waded into the crowd. Several dozen people were gathered outside the compound. He calmly told them that this was a Pakistani military exercise. They needed to stand back, he said. For the time being, they bought the story. They started moving away from the walls. It bought them some time. But how much?

  Inside the main house, the SEALs scrambled, stuffing everything they could find into garbage bags. O’Neill pulled a duffel bag from under a bed. Inside was something that looked like “freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed rib-eye steaks.” But when another SEAL examined the stash, he realized it wasn’t meat. It was opium. Hundreds of pounds.

  They continued searching the house, but O’Neill felt their time was running short. They had to get out soon. So O’Neill rushed back upstairs to help move bin Laden’s body. He stepped into the room where an Arabic-speaking SEAL was interrogating two of bin Laden’s daughters. He asked them who was the dead man on the floor. At first, they lied. Then they said, yes, he was “Sheikh Osama”—bin Laden’s nickname.

  The SEALs put bin Laden’s corpse into a body bag and took pictures to help officially confirm his identity and place of death. O’Neill stared at bin Laden’s face. It was a mess, split wide open above the eyebrow. O’Neill bent down and pressed parts of his skull together to try to restore his facial features so the guys could get better pictures. They snapped a few frames, then sent them to the ground force commander, who passed them along to the intel folks in Jalalabad.

  They zipped the bag closed. O’Neill and three SEALs carried the body outside to the driveway. O’Neill’s friend Jonny was there, waiting for the evacuation helo. “Here’s your guy,” O’Neill told him.

  “You got to be shitting me,” Jonny said.

  O’Neill said he wasn’t joking. Bin Laden was inside, covered in plastic.

  Meanwhile, Chesney noticed the crowds were returning, approaching from a different street this time. There weren’t enough of them to be a problem, but Chesney knew this was a heavily populated city, and it was just a matter of time before they outnumbered the SEALs. And there was another worry. What about the police? Or military? At some point, they’d show up at the compound, right?

  Then things could turn ugly fast. Having Cairo, an attack dog, by his side helped. Nobody was going to venture too close to the guys—not with Cairo there, ready to rip them apart.

  As he waited, he spotted several SEALs escorting women and children out of the house. They were taken to a wall at the far end of the compound. They’d have to stay there until after the helos picked up the SEALs.

  At the same time, the ordnance experts set the timer for the explosives. The clock was ticking for the downed Black Hawk.

  Chesney knew four MH-47 Chinooks had been assigned to the mission. Two carried the quick reaction force. Those choppers had waited at the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, ready to jump in if necessary. Two others had crossed into Pakistani airspace and landed in a remote area. They were there for refueling or to help during extraction. Chesney knew they needed one now to get them the hell out.

  He heard rotors, and quickly recognized Chalk 2, the Black Hawk he’d arrived on. It landed in the compound, and the assigned SEALs quickly climbed on board with bin Laden’s body and the bags of computers and materials from inside the main house. The Black Hawk lifted and headed west to Afghanistan, while the other SEALs waited in a grassy area just outside the compound for their ride.

  As luck would have it, Chesney could see the chopper approaching the compound just as the downed Black Hawk was about to blow up. “Oh shit,” he muttered.

  The team leader remained calm. He radioed the Chinook pilot and said, “Abort. Do the racetrack.” That meant something was wrong below and that he needed to take a lap overhead before landing.

  The pilot responded quickly, “Copy that.”

  The Black Hawk exploded, sending smoke and debris all over the compound. If the Pakistani police and military hadn’t known they were there before, they certainly did now.

  The massive Chinook flew through the smoke and landed safely. Chesney, Cairo, and the others dashed on board the chopper. As the helicopter lifted into the air, Chesney picked up Cairo and glanced at the scene below. Flames and smoke billowed upward from the compound.

  It was hard to hear anything beneath the din of the rotors. It was hard to think. But at that moment, Chesney realized he was still alive. They had left behind a trail of death and destruction, but they had accomplished their goal. Bin Laden was dead.

  Chesney pulled out his iPod and scrolled through his music. He stopped when he found one of his favorite songs: “It’s a Great Day to Be Alive,” by country singer Travis Tritt. He sat down on the floor, and with an exhausted Cairo nestled in his lap, Chesney leaned back, closed his eyes, and sang along with the music.

  The SEALs had killed al-Kuwaiti, his brother, his brother’s wife, bin Laden’s son, and the terrorist leader himself. Aside from a few bruises, none of the SEALs had been injured. So it really was a great day to be alive. As Tritt warbled: “Why can’t every day be just this good?” O’Neill strapped in and reflected on the mission. He was the man who’d killed bin Laden. What would he say to people? Could he keep it quiet? He felt his pockets for his chewing tobacco.

  Two years earlier, he’d tried to comfort his friend Jonny, who had fired the shot that killed the pirate holding Captain Phillips. At the time, Jonny had trouble dealing with the spotlight. He didn’t want any fame. He’d just wanted his anonymity back.

  Now Jonny returned the favor. He knew how O’Neill was feeling. When Jonny saw O’Neill had left behind his Copenhagen chewing tobacco, he tossed him a tin.

  “Take one of mine,” Jonny said. “Now you know what it’s like to be a hero.”

&
nbsp; White House

  As the choppers left the compound, Biden placed his hand on Obama’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Boss,” he said.

  Langley, Virginia

  Bash thought the good-guy helos lifting away from the flaming compound looked like the end of a Jerry Bruckheimer action movie.

  But Panetta knew it wasn’t time to roll the credits yet. He still had his rosary clutched in his hand. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, hoping the helicopters made it out of Pakistan.

  With all the gunfire and explosions, there was no question in Panetta’s mind that Pakistan would activate its military. The only question was how soon, and if they’d be able to reach the U.S. helicopters before they crossed into Afghanistan.

  Jalalabad, Afghanistan

  McRaven agreed with Panetta. “We still have a long way to go. I’ll keep you posted,” he said.

  An intelligence office notified Van Hooser that the Pakistanis were about to scramble their F-16 Viper fighter jets. The pilots would be on the hunt for the U.S. helicopters. McRaven’s analysts said it was unlikely that Pakistani radar would be able to find and then direct the F-16s to the U.S. choppers… but anything could happen out there.

  Obama had directed McRaven to “fight their way out.” McRaven had his gorilla package of U.S. fighter planes, AC-130s, radar-jamming aircraft, and attack helicopters waiting on the Afghan side of the border. If a Pakistani fighter jet came close, they’d do what they could to protect the U.S. crews. If it touched off an international incident, so be it.

  Thirty minutes after the helicopters left the compound, they approached a remote area of Pakistan for refueling. McRaven was concerned. With the Pakistani planes on the move, he had to get the choppers off the ground and over the border. When they landed, McRaven bulldogged Thompson.

  “Refueling done yet?” he asked.

  Thompson could sense McRaven’s impatience. “Sir, we’re almost there. Everything’s all right.”

  Maybe, McRaven said.

  Finally, nineteen agonizing minutes later, the helicopters were refueled and ready to go. They lifted off and resumed their journey.

  Almost an hour later, McRaven finally left his alcove. The choppers had made it into Afghan airspace and were closing in on Jalalabad. McRaven wanted to be on the flight line to greet his men.

  White House

  With the helicopters out of harm’s way, the West Wing of the White House heaved a collective sigh. Obama stood up, and Denis McDonough gave the president a fist bump. But the mood was subdued.

  Jalalabad, Afghanistan

  McRaven had one more thing to do. He had to see the body to confirm it was really bin Laden, and let the president and Panetta know right away.

  McRaven and the CIA’s chief of station jumped into a small Toyota pickup and drove to the hangar. It was 3:30 a.m., but McRaven felt fresh. He wasn’t tired at all.

  He welcomed the men back. They were hugging and yelling and whooping it up. Just a few weeks earlier, they had been drafted for this suicide raid, and now they’d pulled off the most successful U.S. special operations mission since World War II. They were heroes. They had every right to celebrate.

  Inside the hangar, O’Neill and his point man waited for the body bag to be removed from the chopper. They spotted Maya. “You’ve got to give her something from the mission,” the point man said.

  O’Neill nodded. When they reached her, O’Neill pulled the magazine from his weapon and handed it to her. “Hey, do you have room for this?”

  He’d had thirty bullets when he left for the mission. Now he had twenty-seven. She smiled. “I think I can find a place in my backpack,” she said.

  The three of them walked over to the body bag on the hangar floor. It was already open, waiting for McRaven. Maya stood and stared at bin Laden’s face for a few seconds. She showed no emotion. “Well, I guess I’m out of a fucking job,” she snapped. She turned around and walked away.

  When McRaven reached the body, he knelt and examined the face. Even with the devastating wounds, he and the CIA officer both thought it looked like bin Laden. McRaven had to be sure before he reported to Obama. He pulled the body out of the heavy rubber bag. The legs were folded in a fetal position. McRaven grabbed the corpse’s legs and straightened them out. Now it was at full body length.

  McRaven knew bin Laden was about six feet four inches tall. No one could find a tape measure. So McRaven looked around the hangar until he spotted a lanky SEAL.

  “How tall are you?” McRaven asked him.

  “Six foot two.”

  “Good. Lay down next to the body,” the admiral said.

  The SEAL gave McRaven a “you want me to do what?” look.

  McRaven repeated himself. So the guy took a deep breath and lay down next to the remains. McRaven could see that the SEAL was a good two inches shorter than the body. It had to be bin Laden. McRaven left the hangar. It was time to call the president.

  White House

  Obama looked at McRaven over the video teleconference line. The admiral said he had examined the body. They didn’t have the results yet of DNA tests or the CIA’s facial recognition software, but in his opinion, the body was bin Laden’s.

  He even told Obama that he had a six-foot-two SEAL lie next to the body to compare his height to bin Laden’s.

  “OK, Bill, let me get this straight. We have $60 million for a helicopter, and you don’t have $10 for a tape measure?” Obama joked.

  They laughed, a rare moment of levity.

  The president said he knew McRaven still had things to do, but he wanted the admiral to pass along something to his men. “This was a historic night and all of America will be proud of them,” Obama said.

  McRaven was the ultimate tough guy. He thrived under stress. His men loved him. But that night, the president’s words moved him. He fought back tears. “Thank you, sir. I will pass it on,” he said.

  Soon, Obama and his national security team were passing photographs of bin Laden’s corpse around the conference table. Obama knew it was him.

  Still, they wouldn’t be 100 percent sure until the DNA tests came back. During the mission, a SEAL had used a long needle to extract samples from the corpse’s upper thigh. That sample would be analyzed for DNA. Not only that, they had cut off the man’s pinky fingers for the same purpose. In fact, Maya would carry one of them back with her to Washington, in a small box. But they wouldn’t have the DNA test results back for another day or two.

  Langley, Virginia

  After McRaven’s call, Panetta closed the link to Afghanistan. Panetta, Morell, Bash, Gary, and Sam jumped into a black armored Chevy Suburban and headed to the White House.

  It was 6:30 p.m. The sun was setting over Washington. The nation’s capital was quiet.

  When they got to the White House, they headed to the Situation Room, where an NSC meeting was already underway. Everyone looked up when they entered.

  “Great job,” Obama said. “Everyone at the CIA who worked on this deserves the nation’s thanks.”

  It was a touching moment. Panetta knew agents didn’t always get recognized for their hard work. But here the president was, in real time, offering his gratitude.

  Now Obama had to decide what they should do next. Should they announce the raid? Osama bin Laden’s death? The president wanted to wait for DNA analysis, but Panetta argued that it would take too long. “This is going to come out,” Panetta said. They had turned the compound into a war zone. Hell, they just blew up a Black Hawk in bin Laden’s front yard.

  President Barack Obama and advisors in the Situation Room.

  Obama said Panetta had a point. He joked that he just might listen to Panetta, because at the moment, his standing with the president was pretty high.

  “Today, anything you say, I’m prone to agree with,” Obama said.

  But Obama said they had to get this right. That included making sure Pakistan was told about bin Laden before it hit the news. Panetta knew this was typical Obama. He was
a president who carefully analyzed everything before making a decision.

  The meeting was about to adjourn when Morell rushed into the room, carrying the facial recognition report. The analysis measured details like the curvature of his ear, the space between his eyes and the shape of his earlobes. Everything matched.

  “We got him,” Obama said. Now there was no guessing. Obama decided he would tell the nation later that night. A Sunday night. How many people would tune in? So what? They had to get it out there.

  “Let’s have a draft of the speech within an hour,” Obama said.

  The West Wing was up and running. Before they did anything else, they would have to call top U.S. and international leaders to let them know bin Laden was dead. Obama would have to work on his remarks. Speechwriter Ben Rhodes would help him craft the right words.

  U.S. officials had to handle each Pakistani leader a little differently.

  Mullen reached out to his counterpart in Pakistan, General Ashfaq Parvez Kayani. The men had a good relationship, but he didn’t know how Kayani would react to the United States conducting a raid on Pakistani soil—without their knowledge or permission. When Mullen reached Kayani, he apologized for calling so early in the morning there, but he said he wanted the general to know they got bin Laden.

  “It’s a good thing you arrested him,” Kayani said.

  “He’s dead,” Mullen responded.

  Silence.

  Bin Laden, dead? The general was taken aback by that, as well as by the news the terrorist had been living in Abbottabad. But then Kayani made a request. He asked Mullen if the United States would make the announcement of bin Laden’s death in a way that would give the appearance that maybe Pakistan took part in the military action. It was a way for Pakistan to save face. Mullen said Obama was planning to tell the American people in a few hours.