Honor and Betrayal : The Untold Story of the Navy Seals Who Captured the Butcher of Fallujah -and the Shameful Ordeal They Later Endured (9780306823091)

by Robinson, Patrick

  And the entire population was terrified to admit even an acquaintance with him, so formidable was his reputation as a cold-blooded killer who would have a man’s family systematically slaughtered for the slightest sign of disloyalty to al-Qaeda’s murderous cause. And that fear also applied to the Iraqi police department.

  An update was issued every few days, and the senior commanders shared this with the top SEALs, as most of the new information was geographic, involving possible sightings and likely places where the killer might turn up.

  The TOC never slept. The place was open at all hours of the night as the major brains in Camp Schwedler pored over the incoming data on their most wanted man. And there was always a special intensity when anyone mentioned a forthcoming manhunt for Al-Isawi.

  Everyone knew that one of the burned Blackwater bodies on the Fallujah bridge in 2004 was that of ex-SEAL instructor Scott Helvenston. And that would not be easily forgotten or forgiven. The unspoken pledge was simple: “Scott was one of our brothers. We will, in the end, capture his murderer.” So some SEALs gravitated naturally to the Schwedler ops room because the current activities reflected their own areas of expertise.

  One of these was Petty Officer 1st Class Eric, the “rocket scientist” from Georgia Tech, point man, and cartographer—the man whose boots might well hit the sand first when they finally drew a bead on Al-Isawi. Eric loved maps, and probably knew more about the ancient trails and wadis of the Mesopotamian Bedouins than anyone since Alexander the Great, three hundred years before Christ.

  Petty Officer 1st Class Rob, the ex-lineman from Penn State, was another. Breacher-supreme, he was also a heavyweight in the brains department and was probably born to be in naval intelligence. He loved the subject—loved piecing together mysteries, running his fingers over the charts, measuring distances, working out where the Butcher might and might not be.

  Rob was more than happy to work eighteen hours a day in the TOC, studying the data. He also fancied himself as a professional spy and liked to talk to local people, probing for information and listening for a careless remark that might betray the whereabouts of Al-Isawi. He even had a few shots at recruiting people to join the US intel networks in Iraq. Some of them, according to Matt McCabe, were pretty darn clever.

  Working alongside Rob was another highly intelligent SEAL, a junior officer with a similar flare for intel, Lieutenant Junior Grade Jason, who in the end left the Navy to go to law school. Looking back, Matt said, “I have to say the heart and soul of this entire operation belonged to Rob and Jason. Seemed to me they hardly ever went to sleep, just stayed right there in the TOC, poring over information, trying to second-guess this Al-Isawi character.”

  On the burning hot afternoon of Monday, August 24, 2009, with the air conditioning in the TOC burning more gas than a launching space shuttle, the big break arrived. A trusted informer came on the line and revealed precisely where Al-Isawi was going to be on the morning of Wednesday, September 2.

  It was a remote and secretive place, way out in the Syrian Desert, west of Camp Schwedler, maybe one hundred miles west. Certainly Matt had never been anywhere near it; no one had. No coalition forces had ever set foot in this lawless place. And Eric’s huge fingers were flashing over his computer keys like shafts of light trying to pull up a satellite image, nailing down the GPS numbers.

  Matt remembered thinking, “If this Al-Isawi has a lot of sentries or radar or night-vision goggles, it’s going to be a tough walk in. And we can’t fly in or take vehicles because the desert out there will be absolutely silent. I’ll bet you could hear a camel fart at a thousand yards.”

  Neat turn of phrase, McCabe. But he was right about one thing: the howling twin turbos of the Sikorsky Seahawk, the Navy’s version of the Army’s Black Hawk, could have awakened the sleeping pharaohs. And Matt’s mind raced as he stood with the senior SEAL commanders, trying to visualize the scene as the Seahawks come clattering in to land in that hot desert night, hitherto as silent as outer space.

  And there was a reason for Matt’s close involvement with the upcoming mission to this apparent al-Qaeda stronghold, miles from anywhere. The young SEAL from Perrysburg, Ohio, was next on the rotation to lead the assault Team on this mission, probably twenty-five men, including the compulsory Iraqi contingent. And their objective would be plain: capture/kill the most dangerous al-Qaeda terrorist operative in the Middle East, Ahmad Hashim Abd Al-Isawi.

  Matt stood staring at the map. The target area was almost 150 miles from Baghdad, in the middle of the Al Anbar Desert. So far as he could see there was nothing between the Euphrates River all the way west, 580 miles to Amman, the capital city of the desert kingdom of Jordan.

  He could see a tiny village along the one single road that leads across that desert—Ar-Rutbah, situated where the road crosses the Hawran Wadi, about fifty miles further west than Al-Isawi’s apparent temporary lodgings.

  This place was not coming up on any of the regular Iraqi city maps. There was no record of any commerce or even local government. One military chart suggested Saddam Hussein may have built a few structures out there when he was on the run, but there were no photographs and no map references.

  Matt and his buddies could only think it was something like that al-Qaeda training camp that Saddam had constructed north of his hometown of Tikrit. A patrolling SEAL Team had discovered it five years ago, and some of the guys were sure it was a replica of the same camps they’d located in Afghanistan.

  Whichever way the situation was examined, Echo Platoon’s target area would be as close to Nowhere Central as it was humanly possible to get. This was part good and part bad. The pluses were that with a bit of luck, no one would be expecting them, not out there at the end of the world, where probably no Westerner had ever been.

  The less attractive aspect of the assault was that they may run into heavy defenses, set up years ago but still lethal—heavy machine guns, grenades, rockets, and possibly even missiles. Also, they had no way of finding out what kind of bodyguard force would surround this Al-Isawi villain. Finally, they were unlikely to find out who he was meeting with.

  The platoon humorist, unnamed here for security reasons, offered, unhelpfully, that ol’ Al-Isawi “might just have a hot date with some local belly dancer ... you know, Shakira of the Desert!”

  In truth, this somewhat relieved the tension, which was inevitably building as the Echo Platoon SEALs pondered the great unknowns of this forthcoming black operation to be conducted on the night of September 1-2.

  They worked all through the day and long into the night. The CO named the operation Objective Amber, and designated a twenty-five-man team, comprising only eight SEALs plus the compulsory Iraqis’ SWAT to take part. But the local terror of Al-Isawi was such that they did not dare tell the Iraqis who it actually was they were going after.

  Otherwise the Iraqis would most certainly have refused to go and probably would not have signed the warrant, not that it would have stopped Team 10 from going in. Not after this long a time.

  The senior commander put in a request for further satellite photographs of the area, but even with CIA backing, these requests were difficult because they required specific action at the National Reconnaissance Office in Chantilly Virginia, from where the United States’ space satellite programs are controlled.

  Surveillance of desert townships and installations are invariably problematic because everything is similar in color—that kind of scrubland brown, blending with a grayish brown, with hardly any perceptible difference among the sand, the sparse dusty vegetation, and solid concrete or packed mud. At least, not from twenty-two thousand miles straight up.

  And this remote and desolate place was likely to be even more difficult than normal to photograph clearly because it had obviously been purposefully built not so long ago specifically to avoid the piercing, prying eye of US surveillance as the satellites passed silently overhead.

  If the men of SEAL Team 10 somehow received some clear-cut aerial pictures of thi
s al-Qaeda stronghold, giving them at least a ground map shot from above ... well, they’d be darned lucky. And they all knew it.

  This would require a major change in direction for the Chantilly satellite lenses that flew over Iraq because they would, logically, be concentrated on the main insurgent cities, like Basrah, Baghdad, and Fallujah. To move them around at short notice to focus on a wide stretch of godforsaken desert—that was a very big request.

  Out there, over the dry wadis of outer Anbar Province, there was scarcely one single landmark except the endless road cutting across the sand on the ancient camel route to the northwestern hills of Jordon.

  Matt and his teammates figured out that, because of the noise, they dare not bring those Seahawks in any closer than three miles. That would mean a helicopter ride from Camp Schwedler of approximately forty-five minutes and then a three-mile walk over rough sandy terrain in the pitch dark while carrying a lot of equipment.

  “That’s one and a half hours,” said Matt.

  “And you can expect a firefight when you get there,” said the CO. “They’ve gotta have defenses ready, with a guy as important as Al-Isawi in residence.”

  No one argued with any of that. But the prospect of a firefight was bad. Because if they were pinned down by heavy machine gunfire, trying to assault what might be a low-built village, Al-Isawi would have time to make a break for it. Although unlikely, he might even have access to some old getaway vehicle, and if he did, the SEALs would not hesitate to take it out, with a LAW rocket (a light, anti-armor weapon). But that was just one more item to carry.

  The main formation of the in-going platoon was of paramount importance because it would almost certainly involve splitting the force and walking in with two columns behind the SEALs who were taking point, as they would be out in front, calling in.

  This was because, despite the slender nature of the intel they possessed, they were confident that the main frontal defense of the place faced southwest, the direction in which the SEALs would be approaching the site, and the perimeter was too wide to hit without slamming both ends, where there may be guard towers.

  Thus, they swiftly agreed that the right-hand assault force, led by Matt McCabe, would move forward from the helicopter in single file behind recce man Eric, who would be out front testing the ground all the way in.

  Immediately behind Matt would be the five ISWAT, pleasant enough combat troops but likely to panic under fire and possibly run for their lives, especially if they found out who the target was. Their actions would not fit precisely into standard SEAL conduct in the face of the enemy.

  The tail of Matt’s column would walk adjacent to three heavily armed SEALs close up, ready to run forward into assault formation at the first sign of trouble.

  Bravo, the left-hand column, would be led by the mighty Petty Officer Rob, with an identical lineup behind him. Jon Keefe would be the recce man on the other side, leading the way for column two and heavily armed, picking his way through the dark desert out in front. He would communicate constantly with Rob and the chief comms operator, Petty Officer Sam, who would be standing in for Matt, the Alpha Team leader.

  Between the two columns on the forward march to the al-Qaeda compound would be Carlton Milo Higbie IV (“Carl” to his buddies), marching along with Sam and the mission’s forward commanding officer, Lieutenant Jimmy.

  The SEALs would be ready to take on anything, no doubt about that. But it was the unknown factor that was so troublesome. They had no idea how big a defensive force they would meet, how well armed and prepared it would be, and how much of an early warning the terrorists would receive—if any.

  Worse yet, the Team 10 TOC may not be able to find out, which would mean, inevitably, that Echo Platoon may have to get down and fight it out in the pitch-black desert at least an hour before the Quick Reaction Force (QRF) could even possibly arrive.

  If they had to, they could summon their own three Seahawks, capable of carrying Hellfire-guided missiles and heavy machine guns. However, that would provide ample time and diversion for Al-Isawi to make his escape. The last thing Matt and his men wanted was an uproar, which would negate the purpose of the entire mission.

  But as the dying days of August passed, one issue stayed solid: Camp Schwedler’s “Deep Throat” remained certain of Al-Isawi’s whereabouts. On the morning of September 2 Al-Isawi would be right where the informer had stated on August 24—hiding out in that mysterious al-Qaeda “barracks” deep in the Al Anbar Desert.

  Team 10’s preparations never missed a beat. As leader, Matt did a lot of the legwork, coordinating the finest details, assisting with the communications, and working with Eric on the best route in after they disembarked the Seahawks.

  On Tuesday afternoon, September 1, the three SH-60 Seahawks arrived on the landing zone (LZ) at Camp Baharia. They were flown from TQ Air Base and would each carry eight men minimum into the operations zone. The pilots were immediately presented with a thorough briefing inside the ready room at Schwedler.

  The helicopters were each armed with an M-240 machine gun and a GAU-17 Alpha, which fires six thousand rounds per minute. All mounted helicopter machine guns were equipped with infrared lasers for night operations. During flight and on landing the helicopter’s door gunners would be on red alert.

  The Seahawks, though capable of cruising at twelve thousand feet, would fly extremely low on this mission, cruising into the zone at approximately 160mph across the desert. Al-Qaeda defenses would not detect the SEALs flying in low. All SEAL operators would be equipped with night-vision goggles during the flight, as would the pilots and copilots.

  Throughout the day the air crew was acquainted with every detail of the mission. As departure time approached, the pilots, copilots, and load masters knew everything there was to know, right down to which way the nose of the helicopter would point when they touched down in the desert. In addition they were given their own battle plan, being told precisely how to attack if Carl called them in for an emergency.

  They were also fully briefed with exact details of the escape plan—the three-mile journey across the sand toward the al-Qaeda compound, landing, keeping the engines running, keeping everything prepared for the fastest possible getaway, plus the evacuation of any wounded. And, of course, transporting the HVI who would, by then, hopefully be securely handcuffed and still breathing.

  The checklist of equipment was impressive. The heavy-duty gear of the breacher was paramount—the sledgehammer, the bolt cutters, the crowbar, the explosive charges. In this case, the SEALs who would lead the two assault columns, Matt on the right and Rob to his left, would both assume the duties of breacher, leading the guys in just as soon as they reached the entry points. These two, who would walk in with the high explosive, designed and constructed all the charges personally.

  The heavy machine guns and their ammunition belts had to be loaded aboard. All the M-4 rifles were silenced, and sniper rifles were also taken, just in case Al-Isawi made a break for it and had to be stopped. They took hand grenades, “flash-bang” grenades, which made an unimaginable noise, as they had been specifically designed to frighten people so much that the sound would stun them temporarily. The special disposable zip cuffs the Teams used on all al-Qaeda prisoners were included with each man’s gear.

  Every SEAL took his combat knife and Sig Sauer pistol as Petty Officer Sam supervised the communications equipment, personally packing the heavy comms radio he would carry into the zone. He conducted his tests in company with Matt and Rob, the men who would walk at the head of each column and to whom Sam’s calm voice might represent the difference between life and death if the men from Echo Platoon came under heavy fire.

  For this mission they would take an experienced naval medical practitioner because they would all be operating so far from home base and emergency procedures in the middle of the desert may be required for anyone who was badly hurt. This was in addition to the regular morphine, bandages, and wound dressings that accompany every SEAL operation.


  The full medical supply would be carried in the lead helicopter. Their SEAL medical expert, Eric, would go into the zone with the assault Team, accompanied by hospital corpsman 1st Class Paddy, a non-SEAL but a hugely respected and experienced paramedic.

  Paddy was also required to stay close to the assault teams and could not be left behind in the comparative safety of the waiting helicopters. That al-Qaeda redoubt may very well become a lethal battle zone, and the presence of both medics, with full equipment, in the heart of any firefight may be critical. Not to put too fine a point on it—life and death.

  Rob, leading column two on the walk in, was responsible for the limited data they had for identifying the HVI. He had a small file of photographs and a minibiography containing a description that everyone needed to study: remarkably tall for an Iraqi, six feet two inches, of slim build.

  The pictures were not great, but they were adequate. Al-Isawi would be recognizable mostly by the twisted scowl on his face, which was probably how he looked when he hanged the burned bodies of the Americans from the old bridge at Fallujah five years previously.

  But the key to positive identification (POSIDENT) was that stubby little finger on his left hand. “The guy with the stunted pinkie,” as Matt somewhat graphically observed. “That’s our target. Because that can’t change.”

  At 2330 hours on Tuesday night, September 1, Echo Platoon was driven out to the three Seahawks that stood silently on the LZ beyond Camp Schwedler. It took less than ten minutes for the twenty-five men to embark. And before the turbo engines rendered the entire place too deafening for conversation, the CO issued one last, somewhat dire warning: “Gents,” he said, “stay sharp, and expect a firefight.”

  At which point the pilots started those big turbo engines, virtually at the midnight hour, and they climbed away from the base to their cruising height. But as soon as they left the lights and the traffic behind and reached the desert, they slipped down to the lowest altitude at which Matt or Jon had ever flown—about seventy-five feet above the ground.