by Dalton Fury
By then, some two months had passed since the Battle of Tora Bora in December 2001, and news stories had begun permeating the world’s press claiming that America had squandered the opportunity to kill Usama bin Laden inside Afghanistan. Stories describing a failure by American special operations forces to accomplish their mission surfaced in newspapers and magazines and on Internet Web pages. Soon followed the usual flurry of books, feeding news-hungry and curious readers and intended to make a buck. It was hard to sit there and read that stuff and listen to what was spilling out of the television sets.
The mission, of course, had been to kill bin Laden, the most wanted man in the world. It was a mission so important that it couldn’t be assigned to just any American military or intelligence force. No, only two months after the terrible attacks of 9/11, this truly was a mission of national, maybe even of international, significance. The best commandos America had to offer were needed.
The task ended up in the hands of about forty eager and very willing members of America’s supersecret counterterrorist unit, formally known as the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta. More informally, the elite and mysterious organization is more popularly referred to as Delta Force. Inside our building, we refer to the organization simply as “the Unit.”
The American generals not only wanted bin Laden killed, but they also wanted proof. A cloudy photograph would do, or a smudged fingerprint. A clump of hair or even a drop of blood. Or perhaps a severed finger wrapped in plastic. Basically, we were told to go into harm’s way and prove to the world that bin Laden had been neutralized, as in “terminated with extreme prejudice.” In plain English: stone-cold dead.
In fact, the only inflexibility of the decision makers surrounded the eventual disposition of the terrorist mastermind’s remains. On this they were absolutely firm. We were to leave the body with our newfound friends in Afghanistan—the mujahideen, or as we called them, the “muhj.”
The Delta warriors got some help with the job, helpers who were as good as you could get. A dozen commandos from the famed British SBS and another dozen or so U.S. Army Green Berets stepped up. And, as usual, the Central Intelligence Agency was there first. Six CIA intelligence operatives and technicians provided umbrella leadership, cold hard cash, and guns and bullets for the effort. The Agency would link their intelligence collecting, interrogation, and a multitude of other skills to this clandestine military force.
A few talented U.S. Air Force special tactics commandos and several top-secret tactical signal interceptors rounded out the eclectic group of brave souls who ventured into Afghanistan as that cold winter closed in, far from home, far from help. We all would join to lay a modern siege of epic proportions. Inside one big-ass mountain range called Tora Bora we went up against bin Laden and his seemingly impenetrable cave sanctuary burrowed deep inside the Spin Ghar Mountains.
Over the years, since the battle ended, scores of news stories have surfaced offering tidbits of information about what actually happened in Tora Bora. Roughly 75 percent are complete conjecture and speculation, bar stool rumors and I-know-a-guy-who-was-there war stories. But as time passes these skewed stories of events may become historically accepted as factual information; if no one sets the record straight, such yarns may someday grace the pages of student textbooks. Unchallenged, a lie often becomes history. Fantastic and exciting stuff, but utter hogwash. Trumpedup fantasy and fiction.
I’ve scrutinized hundreds of stories containing even the slightest hint about bin Laden’s status or the battle, and few reveal anything worthwhile. The media reports were sketchy because the media was not where the action was. But the public does not generally care if the story is accurate or not, since news has become entwined with entertainment.
The same public pushes the demand for information and seeks vicarious thrills, wanting to be thrown into a world of mystery, intrigue, action, and uncertainty. To experience a place where bravery and sacrifice carry the day, but also a sanitized place where nobody has to get hurt. No pain is felt. No blood is spilled.
The high peaks of Tora Bora provided a fantasy backdrop for dozens of reporters who camped in the foothills a few miles from the front lines, perched upon an odd place we called Press Pool Ridge. Because the timesensitive story submitted via satellite phone secured their next paycheck, scrutiny and accuracy were sometimes sacrificed in order to soothe an excitement-starved general public. After all, who was to say what exactly happened at Tora Bora, particularly if a television camera wasn’t present? Afghan warlords fed the press frequent briefings, and the very, very few people who might challenge whatever was reported would not talk to the media. Delta and the SBS avoided the press.
British newspaper writer Bruce Anderson penned my favorite story in a February 2002 edition of the London Spectator. His account provided significant impetus and motivation for my literary attempt to tell the true story. Although his article was full of international intrigue, shadow warrior mystery, and cries of rival elite counterterror units, it also fell far short of the truth on several counts.
Anderson claims an undisclosed member of the SAS, Britain’s famed Special Air Service commandos, shared the information that the American Delta Force wanted to kill bin Laden. That Delta fought in Tora Bora. And that two squadrons of 22 SAS commandos, roughly 130 men, fought alongside them. American author Robin Moore made the same claim in The Hunt for Bin Laden. See how an error grows?
Well, they got it half right! Yes, Delta was there, but those large SAS squadrons were not. It was a group of twelve brave members of the British Special Boat Service, or SBS, men equal to America’s most skilled Navy SEALs, who ventured into al Qaeda’s formidable stronghold alongside Delta.
Each of us, to a man, American and British alike, wanted to take the final shot, to drop the most wanted man alive with a single bullet. Or at least be witness to our mate’s skill of arms and accuracy.
Finally, and something I hope to sufficiently explain, America’s generals were not alone in losing this one. The generals provided the game land, but it was Delta’s responsibility to develop a hunting strategy that would harvest the trophy buck. Since this particular trophy buck eventually eluded his hunters and got away, the questioning about why and how quickly surfaced among scholars, military strategists, politicians, and the public. The Monday-morning quarterbacks portrayed a military blunder and cried mission failure.
If Delta couldn’t deliver the goods or offer proof of having achieved the objective, then, yes, it was a failure. Even the most seasoned operator, our squadron sergeant major, said to me before we left the battlefield, in true realist fashion, “Sir, what was the mission? We failed!” A tough pill to swallow. An even tougher point to argue.
However, battles often veil the valuable lesson that failure at the strategic level by men and women in conference rooms can easily obscure an enormous tactical victory by the boys on the ground.
Pete Blaber, one of the brightest minds to ever serve in Delta, once said in reference to manhunting, while we were in another third world dump, that a hunter must venture into the woods time after time before he harvests the big one. Bin Laden got away, but not before we kicked his butt around the block.
The fact is that we went into a hellish land that was considered impregnable and controlled by al Qaeda fighters who had helped defeat the Soviet Union on that same turf. They had stalled the attempts of Afghan military forces to get rid of them. We killed them by the dozen. Many more surrendered. The vaunted complex of caves and bunkers was crushed and destroyed, one by one. And we heard the demoralized Usama bin Laden speak on the radio, pleading for women and children to fight for him. Then he abandoned them all and ran from the battle-field. Yes. He ran away.
We also eventually had to leave that game preserve without the main trophy, but we didn’t turn our back to the fight and we never flinched.
I was the senior ranking American military officer at the Battle of Tora Bora. As a Delta troop commander I was given the honor
of leading about ninety or so Western special operations commandos and support personnel and helped draw up, along with some of Delta’s most talented sergeants, the tactical concept of the operation to hunt down and kill bin Laden. This had nothing to do with me being the best man for the job. I wasn’t specially selected for the mission. Truth be told, I was simply in the right place at the right time.
Primarily, this book is to set the record straight, so to speak, as much for America as for our British friends. Much is written about the presumed failure of the general officers calling the shots at U.S. Central Command, or CENTCOM, back in Tampa, Florida. The critics argue that the generals engineered what amounted to a spectacular military blunder for three basic reasons: One, by not committing additional conventional troops to the battle; two, by opting to rely on Afghan proxies to do the dirty and dangerous groundwork while relying on American bombing from 30,000 feet; and, finally, by relying on the Pakistanis to seal off the border to prevent bin Laden’s escape. The generals, however, were not operating alone. Civilian political figures were also at the control panel.
I will leave the overall strategic debate to the critics and scholars, for I was not in those air-conditioned rooms with leather chairs when they came up with some of the strangest decisions I have ever encountered. And I could care less. When it comes to tactical issues on the ground, in the dirt and rocks and snow, face-to-face with the enemy, American general officers and political decision makers typically are not involved in the tactical planning. They provide the macro task, issue vague guidance, and articulate the big-picture intent. Ultimately, they approve or disapprove the final plan. Tora Bora would be no different.
At the end of the day, the men and women farther up the ladder normally take the word and recommendations of us—the guys on the ground. At some critical times, that did not happen with the complex fight in Tora Bora. Instead, at times, we were micromanaged by higher-ups unknown, even to the point of being ordered to send the exact grid coordinates of our teams back to various folks in Washington.
Many times we had to think and act instantly, with no guidance at all, but that is why Delta picks the kind of operators that it does. They have to be able to think as well as fight. The muhj allies turned their guns on our boys to stop an advance. Rival warlords weighed their military decisions according to personal agendas. When we arrived in Afghanistan in December 2001, the United States was pulling troops out of the area in a weird ploy to trick Usama bin Laden while stripping us of a quickreaction force. The muhj that were supposed to be doing the bulk of the fighting, and were sucking up the glory, routinely left the battlefield when it got dark, at times abandoning our small teams in the mountains. Some people within the U.S. command system were extremely reluctant to commit highly trained forces because they might get hurt. Some of the highest-ranking people in the Pentagon had no idea of what Delta was trained to do. The CIA bought loyalty out of duffel bags filled with American cash only to learn later that money does not buy everything in Afghanistan. Some of this might have been funny had it not been so serious.
When one of these problems would come up, and they frequently did, trying to figure out what to do was always a puzzle. Particularly for a tired operator standing in subfreezing temperatures on a snowy mountain without radio contact, talking to people who didn’t understand him while guns blazed away nearby. But for the Delta boys, it was just another day at the office.
My intent in this book is very narrow, to provide an accurate and firsthand account of this pivotal battle. The first one ever. It is likely to be read for enjoyment, pondered by historians, and studied by leaders who will be asked to fight tomorrow’s battles. Finally, it documents the valor, courage, skill, and professionalism of my Delta mates and the other commandos who fought there.
Woven throughout these pages is an inside look at the extraordinary nature of the Delta Force operator. However, it’s not my intention to tell the complete story of Delta. Necessarily, that remains classified. This is simply the way I saw things.
The story is true. The people are real. It is important to understand that no part of this work is written from journalistic accounts or magazine stories about Tora Bora. My personal notes, religiously penciled in a small notebook during the battle, were the primary source. My personal recollection of events that I failed to capture in writing at the time helped fill in some details. Dozens of discussions with teammates over a beer in the squadron bar when the fighting was done added crucial operator insights to the story line. The recollections and strong memories of many former teammates complete the work.
Some of these brave men may question this writing as a breach of my personal integrity. Going into the book, I expected to be vilified and scratched from the invite list for events involving former Unit members. That happened. I have been tagged persona non grata—“PNGed” we call it—by Delta’s higher headquarters, the Joint Special Operations Command. After all, standards are standards!
Some, equally professional and committed, may applaud this effort. Many have already. Regardless of the ethical line they choose, all of these men pride themselves on remaining anonymous, unsung, and quiet professionals. They are deserving of an enormous debt of gratitude and respect from their fellow American and British countrymen.
Ironically, gratitude is something they really do not value. They have no use for it. Not that they are antisocial or rude introverts, they just consider themselves to be professionals, and they shun fanfare and glory as a practice. They walk away from the photographer’s camera or a journalist’s pen. They most certainly deserve more pay for the security they provide our great nation. But the only thing they really crave, more than anything, is to not be left behind on the next mission.
Most remain on active duty as I write this and still serve in the ranks of Delta or other special operations units. Many of the men found inside this story were in the northern city of Mosul, Iraq, in July 2003 to help in the killing of Saddam Hussein’s two horrible and murderous sons.* Many are fighting in Iraq as this story goes to press. Most have been wounded in action at least once, many twice, and it is not uncommon for them to return to the fight missing fingers, toes, or feet. Some still carry bullets and shrapnel deep inside their bodies. And will for life.
Moreover, I can’t think of a single former mate who has not been decorated for valor—most of them multiple times. Because many are still operational it’s necessary to preserve their anonymity. Pseudonyms or nicknames take care of this, mine included. For other personalities, folks like publicly recognized senior military leaders, true names are used in the interest of continuity with previous writings and when it’s obvious no foul is committed. The Delta operators and others who were there know who is who.
Unfortunately, the names of most of the SBS commandos, the CIA operatives, and the Special Forces A Team members have escaped my memory, and the ones I do recall also must be protected. It was an honor to have served among them.
This ad hoc group of commandos was not perfect, but in the interest of accuracy, flaws and missteps are shared herein as well.
I have wrestled with the idea of sharing this account for years. I eventually justified my willingness to write publicly because this is post-9/11. The world has changed significantly. We ignore the lessons learned at Tora Bora at our own peril.
Moreover, because this was Usama bin Laden, the most wanted man in the world and public enemy number one in all but the most fundamentally Islamic and extremist places, I believe the world is interested.
* Authors Michael Gordon and Bernard Trainor recount these events in the book Cobra II on pages 561 and 562. Newsweek first recounted the event just a few weeks after the raid in “See How They Ran,” Newsweek, Aug 4, 2003, pp. 22–29.
KILL BIN LADEN
ACTUAL MAP CARRIED BY THE AUTHOR
Positions are approximate
ACTUAL MAP CARRIED BY THE AUTHOR
Positions are approximate
1
Unfinishe
d Business
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
—T.S. ELIOT
By December 2001, only three months after America was attacked on September 11, Delta Force was already on the ground in enemy territory, an elite group of American commandos cutting their teeth in this new war on terror by rampaging from cave to cave in Afghanistan’s snow-covered Tora Bora Mountains, hot on the heels of Usama bin Laden and laying waste to scores of Taliban and al Qaeda fighters.
The vicious fighting did not last long, however, and by December 17, our frustrating allies, the Afghan mujahideen, felt they had done and seen enough to publicly declare victory. The muhj looted some conquered caves, pillaged the dead terrorists, and came down from the rugged mountains for a triumphant return to the ancient city of Jalalabad, where they licked their wounds and took stock of their hard-earned treasure.
Of course, the main objective of the attack had been to kill or capture bin Laden, and despite the optimistic claims of the muhj, we were not sure that had been accomplished. His body had not been recovered from the rubble in the mountains after the fighting. Could he have been buried alive in one of several hundred caves? Did his most loyal fighters secretly remove his remains from the area?
If bin Laden survived, nobody was saying so. Maybe a helicopter belonging to the unreliable Pakistani Inter-Service Intelligence, a longtime Taliban supporter, had scooped him up and ferried him across the border. Perhaps he put on a woman’s burkha and slid into the back of a taxicab for a drive southwest to his old stomping grounds in Khost? Or did he ride bareback on a white stallion through the high mountain passes and trot safely into Pakistan? Did he just sling his AK-47 comfortably over his shoulder and simply walk out under his own power, helped by nothing more advanced than a wooden cane? And if bin Laden did happen to survive, was he wounded? If so, how bad? Was there a doctor who tended his battle wounds? A lot of questions and no answers. No one knew.
