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

  There were also several passports in his name, plus a whole screed of terrorist data, maps, plans, and notebooks. They searched every inch of the place, confiscating computerized maps, hard drives, and documents showing Al-Isawi’s movements across the desert and into various known al-Qaeda enclaves.

  The “evidence” showed incontrovertible proof that Al-Isawi had been in and out of Syria on a near-weekly basis. And that would be a relief for the SEAL intel Team, as they had always suspected the terrorist commander had been up to no good in Syria but had never quite been able to prove it. No one knew where Al-Isawi was half the time. He could, it seemed, vanish into thin air at any time in Iraq. Right now Matt and his boys knew where he’d been.

  “It was,” said Matt, “the perfect home profile for a terrorist mastermind who was on the run. Everything in that apartment was shady, not to mention this bearded killer who we’d taken alive, without any violence to anyone. Pretty good job, right?”

  By this time the SEALs had fixed the lights, and for the first time they could actually see Al-Isawi’s face. Again Matt pulled out the photographs, and the likeness was definite. They had the right man. No more doubt about that, especially with the missing pinkie.

  At this point several of the Iraqi SWATs had turned a whiter shade of pale as they finally realized who they had come for. It was a pretty darn good shock for them. This was a killer who would go after the families of Iraqi officials who crossed him. Matt’s Iraqis knew that face all too well.

  “Several of them really freaked out,” said Matt. “They suddenly wanted nothing to do with this operation. They were scared even to let this Al-Isawi character see their faces. Not once they realized who it was we’d grabbed.”

  The Iraqis were so nervous about their prisoner that Matt ordered someone to put a sack over the Iraqi captive’s head just so he could not see or identify anyone. It was this fear of recognition that was bothering the ISWAT guys and the police, several of whom expressed fear for their wives and children. Privately Matt thought Al-Isawi would never walk free again, but under the prevailing rules he now had to hand that prisoner over to the Iraqis.

  It was 0300 when Matt and his SWATs finally marched the hooded prisoner out of the apartment, ignoring the hysterical shouting of Al-Isawi’s wife, who was loudly demanding the $6,000 back, screaming that they needed that money.

  Al-Isawi seemed to accept his fate. He walked quietly, with his cuffed hands behind his back, guided by his Iraqi guards. But this was a highly dangerous part of the operation. Somehow they had to get back into the shadows, and Jon was aware of many figures in the dark windows of the apartments that surrounded the assault group on all sides. They were two hundred yards minimum inside that barbed-wire fence, and Lieutenant Jimmy reported back their exposed position to base command.

  There was now a sense of urgency. No one wanted to be out there in front of those plainly hostile buildings with daylight approaching. Lieutenant Jimmy ordered the guys to reform the patrol. The blocking positions collapsed back into the main group. They took the head count—no one was missing. And Jon and Eric led them all out of there, picking their way through the dark, aiming for the safe areas where they knew no danger lurked.

  The patrol was now on high alert, because whoever the hell lived in this godforsaken outpost obviously knew about their presence now. The SEALs constantly looked back, with their M-4 rifles raised, sweeping across the facades of the old buildings to send a clear message that one false move from anyone would cause them to open fire. The fact that someone may get shot in the back as they left, Jon recalled, “kinda concentrated the mind.”

  But no one dared to raise a trigger finger against the SEAL raiders. And they all kept going, with Carl speaking continually into his radio, summoning the helicopters in for the extract. And now, as they crept between the low stone buildings, they could hear the howl of the approaching rotors.

  The pilots, who’d been in a private SEAL stack high above the ops area, were coming in, and Carl was talking them down to land right in front of the sand dunes that guarded the western approach to the al-Qaeda stronghold.

  Echo Platoon kept moving forward, headed for the open ground beyond the road. Out in front Matt and Rob were coming through the dunes at a run, staying close to the Iraqis who were hauling Al-Isawi through the wire and over the uneven ground. Everyone else was following them.

  By the time they cleared the sand hills, the three Seahawks were prepped and ready to come in. And when they did so, it was impossible to hear anything above the din of the turbos. But SEALs do not need to talk. Everyone knew what to do, and everyone knew where his designated spot was on board the aircraft. They literally piled into the helicopters, with the Iraqis holding Al-Isawi face down on the floor.

  Matt was the last man to board, and he took up his position and strapped himself in to the open doorway of the lead helicopter, with his legs dangling outside, rifle poised, night-vision goggles on. They were ready to take off exactly sixty seconds from the moment Matt and Rob had come running in from the dunes.

  The three Seahawks clattered into the night sky, reigniting the unimaginable dust storm below. The noise was shattering: “Probably coulda heard it in Baghdad,” Matt later said.

  On the return journey there was little need for extreme low-level flying. The al-Qaeda enclave had shown no signs of resistance. There was certainly no radar sweeping the approaches, and there had been no rocket attacks or even heavy machine gunfire.

  And so they climbed higher and were swiftly beyond the range of anything that might be aimed at them. Each pilot made an easterly course toward Fallujah, heading back to the LZ beyond Camp Schwedler. This was a simple mission accomplished. And no one expected special praise.

  Behind Matt was the inert, handcuffed figure of the Butcher of Fallujah, a cruel and ruthless jihadist who hated the West but whose reign of terror was over. The SEALs were bringing him in, under guard, stripped now of his weapons and his menace.

  Matt could have shot him. Al-Isawi’s right hand had been mere inches from his gun, and for most people this would have been a life-threatening situation. But skilled US intel agents wanted to talk to this character in order to interrogate him for information that would significantly decrease the future effectiveness of the al-Qaeda threat.

  And Matt—along with the Virginia freestyler, the Georgian rocket scientist, the Penn State lineman, and the rest—had carried everything out strictly by the book, as was only to be expected. There had been intimidation but not one moment of violence. SEAL commanders demand everlasting discipline.

  The pilots kept the east-west desert road to Jordan well to their port side all the way across the Iraqi wilderness. And it was still dark when they came in low over Lake Habbinaya and flew on down into their landing zone, right outside the gates of Camp Schwedler. The Team 10 truck drivers were there to meet them, and the SEALs unloaded their heavy baggage, including Al-Asawi.

  Lieutenant Jimmy, the officer in overall command, supervised the transfer of everyone back to base, where the prisoner was taken under Iraqi escort to the temporary holding jail cell, which was, in truth, a huge metal box, so big it was really a small room. And right in there they took the Butcher of Fallujah, still cuffed and hooded, and sat him down in a chair.

  He would have a four-hour wait on the Camp Schwedler compound, because the Iraqi police, who were supposed to take the captive right away, had contacted the base and said they could not get there until 0800.

  At this point Ahmad Hashim Abd Al-Isawi came under the control and custody of a young Navy master-at-arms 3rd class (MA3) of two years experience, Brian Westinson, whose job was now to stay right there and guard that cell no matter what. He was effectively in charge of one of the most high-value individuals ever captured by the US Special Forces, a killer whose reputation rivaled that of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and Sheik Abdul Rahman.

  Meanwhile the SEALs went off to shower and change before reporting to the debriefing room for the standard dis
cussion, presided over by Lieutenant Jimmy with Sam Gonzales, the senior petty officer in backup position. Every SEAL who had taken part in the mission was in there, and they went carefully over the lessons learned. It took only thirty minutes, because Objective Amber had been very nearly flawless, especially as no one on either side had been hurt, but the objective had been achieved.

  In the terms of the United States Navy SEALs, it was picture perfect. Echo Platoon was proud of their conduct that night, and this applied especially to the two forward point men, Jon and Eric, who had plotted the way into a secret al-Qaeda stronghold, and to the assault Team leaders, Rob and Matt—particularly Matt, who’d led the charge and carried out the actual capture of the Butcher.

  No one said anything, but these guys were going to get decorated for this one.

  Lieutenant Jimmy formally thanked them curtly. And the night workers of Echo Platoon dispersed to find some breakfast. Jon and Matt commandeered one of the four-wheelers, which they all used to get around the base, and headed for the galley. On the way, however, they passed Sam, who wanted a ride.

  Picking up Sam proved a serious roadblock in their early morning objective of scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, muffins, and orange juice. Jon in particular, who had an appetite like a mountain lion, was slightly vexed, but Sam was the senior enlisted man on the base, respected at all times.

  Sam, who had played a critical role in Objective Amber, wanted to pay a short visit to this young master-at-arms and his prisoner, just to check that all was well. So all three of them went, with Jon, starving hungry, steering the four-wheeler painfully past the galley and on to the big metal holding cell.

  When they drove into the area, they noticed that Jason and Carl had both been down to take a look at their prize prisoner, but the first thing they really observed was that Brian Westinson was not at his post. They each took a glance at the prisoner around the dividing wall. He was still hooded and cuffed and in his chair. But there was no Westinson. There was no one watching the most dangerous man in the Middle East.

  And the three SEALs later said that this breach in discipline frankly shocked them. The responsibility of a naval master-at-arms implies an onerous responsibility. He is, in effect, some kind of super-military policeman.

  At least he’s supposed to be. The man (or woman) with that MA rank must be a security specialist, expert in force protection, particularly antiterrorism. He is required to exercise physical security and law enforcement “on land and at sea.” He’s only a naval rating, but his area of duty includes discipline. He belongs to a military police force.

  The MA insignia is one single star, like a Wild West sheriff. Westinson, on this hot night, was Camp Shwelder’s Wyatt Earp. And he was not at his post.

  But after just a few moments he was back, talking outside to Paddy, the SEALs’ chief medic on the mission. Here in the timeline there is some confusion, with various slightly conflicting accounts of precisely what took place.

  But the man under most criticism for his role in these events was undoubtedly MA3 Brian Westinson. Indeed, both Matt and Jon remember quite clearly that Senior Petty Officer Sam Gonzales said to the MA, very sharply, “What are you doing? Not at your post?”

  In the interest of absolute fairness, this narrative will quote from Westinson’s own sworn statement made four weeks later and, apparently, regarded as truthful.

  By any standards, for the leading law enforcement officer involved, Brian Westinson was not precisely on his game. When the experienced medic Paddy was conducting his medical screening of the prisoner, it turned out that Westinson did not have the necessary forms to be completed.

  So Westinson left the area and “walked to my room to look to see if I had the paperwork.” Result: he did not, he could not find it. So he walked back, and then Paddy left to gather up the correct forms at his clinic.

  Westinson’s statement continued: “This was one of two periods where I left the screening facility. When I returned [Carl and Jason] were inside the screening facility. They left shortly after I returned. I left one more time to put my rifle in my room, and to talk to the Intelligence officer about the processing of the detainee.

  “When I returned, I saw [Paddy] standing outside, working on his medical paperwork. I looked in and saw [Sam Gonzales, Matt, and Jon] standing near the detainee. I walked in and stood next to them.”

  In the statement Westinson identifies each man with his rank and proper surname, which this narrative avoids. Also he does not make clear the time and distance between the screening facility and his room. However, no one disputed that Westinson was not at his post when the three SEALs, Sam, Matt, and Jon, turned up on the four-wheeler.

  “Look,” said Matt, recalling the events of that day, “I didn’t write the Geneva Convention, or even the US Military Rules of Engagement. But there are a couple of things I know for sure. ... There is a desk in the room outside the detainee holding cell, behind a wall. The duty master-at-arms is supposed to be sitting right there at that desk, with his rifle, guarding the prisoner. An HVI is not supposed to be left alone at any time, for obvious reasons.

  “I cannot understand what Westinson is blathering about. Can’t find the papers he must have ready for the medic after the screening? ... Then he swears in a statement he went home for a second time to put his rifle back in his room! I mean, what is it with Brian? The rifle is supposed to be with him, at that desk at all times. Me and the guys just risked our friggin’ lives to capture this mass murderer, and he’s wandering around the base in some kind of a daze.

  “By the way, Brian’s room is situated at the way far end from the holding cell, in the back line, against the high outer wall, which I guess took him about seven minutes round trip, each time he left, depending on how much time he spent looking, first for his papers and then for the rifle. What kind of a guard is that?”

  There is no dispute that Sam, Jon, and Matt’s visit to the holding cell was very brief. Matt says between twenty and thirty seconds, no more. When Westinson re-entered the area Sam checked that he was okay, because this senior noncommissioned SEAL officer understood that the nineteen-year-old Brian had never been in sole charge of a prisoner before this—any prisoner, that is, never mind one of this obvious importance. Brian’s boss had recently departed.

  “Jon and I were there because of Sam’s rigid sense of duty, with a bit of curiosity thrown in,” said Matt. “We would not have bothered if Sam had not been hitching a ride. And right after that brief stop the three of us left together and drove back to the galley for breakfast. I mean, we’d been up all night. It was just getting light.”

  It’s a SEAL tradition that unless some form of war breaks out, men who have returned from a night mission are given the chance to have a long sleep, perhaps from 0600 to 1600. Kidnapping armed terrorist commanders is tiring work.

  And by 0600 on this Wednesday morning, the men of Echo Platoon had crashed thankfully into their bunks before the sun rose above the Iraqi desert. No one had any difficulties sleeping the deep, untroubled slumber of the brave and the just.

  Two hours later, however, an unscripted part of the program came blundering into their lives.

  Every SEAL who’d taken part in Objective Amber was awakened shortly after 0800 and ordered to report immediately to Danny’s recreation room for a full muster, over which Lieutenant Jimmy would preside.

  Matt knew immediately this was important. No one awakens an entire platoon of Navy SEALs who’d been up all night unless there had been some kind of a drama.

  The SEAL assault leader from Perrysburg knew it could be bad. What he did not know was that the roof was about to fall in on his entire world.

  5

  A PRESUMPTION OF GUILT

  Matt had run a textbook-perfect attack, brought the prisoner in alive and unharmed for interrogation, and was now about to be pilloried by the US Navy for cruelty! “Holy shit,” said Matt.

  The seven principal US Navy SEALs who had stormed the desert hideaway of
Ahmad Hashim Abd Al-Isawi came striding through the Camp Schwedler compound on the double that morning. They walked alone, each man confident that his own conduct throughout Objective Amber had been exemplary. Not one of the seven had the slightest idea what was going on.

  One by one they reached Danny’s recreation room and sat down opposite a surprisingly grim-looking Lieutenant Jimmy. Danny’s, normally a place to hang out and relax, watch television, or play video games, was no place for games right now. Lieutenant Jimmy’s angry face said it all. He had always been a balanced, calm man, and right now, according to Matt McCabe, “I’d never seen him that furious. Jimmy was seriously ticked off.”

  While the Echo assault force had been dead to the world, there had been an unfolding set of truly grotesque circumstances. Shortly before 0800 the Iraqi police had come for Al-Isawi to transport him to their detention center in the nearby city of Al-Karmah, eleven miles northeast of Fallujah.

  When Lieutenant Jimmy went to remove the prisoner from the holding cell there was blood on his robe and his lower lip. It instantly became clear to the SEAL lieutenant that the al-Qaeda man was claiming prisoner abuse, that someone had knocked him about.

  His bloody appearance should not have been a shock, as the tactic of self-inflicted injuries appears to be a standard ploy in the infamous al-Qaeda instruction book, the Manchester Manual, discovered in the year 2000 and so named because it was found in an al-Qaeda “safe house” in England’s great northwestern city and Muslim stronghold.

  Not only did bin Laden’s senior operators write it; it also still stands as the definitive handbook on how a jihadist is expected to wage his holy war, including religious justifications and many quotations from the Koran.

  The eighteen-chapter manual had instructed almost every captive in Guantanamo Bay, giving instructions on how to overthrow all “godless regimes” and replace them with the regimes guided by the teachings of Islam. It teaches terrorists about spying and gathering intel; kidnapping enemy personnel, documents, secrets, and arms; assassinating enemy personnel; freeing “brothers” who have been captured by the enemy; and blasting and destroying places of amusement, immorality, and sin—plus embassies and bridges.