Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man

by Dalton Fury

  After hours of “glassing” the area, looking through high-powered binoculars and spotting scopes, Jester and Dugan discovered three tunnel entrances in the side of a ridgeline, targets that had so far gone unnoticed. They worked up a modified nine-line solution with the combat controller. At this point, the Green Beret chain of command had caught up with the situation and finally radioed the official order to their men that Delta was to direct the fight. It caused another round of muttering, but the Green Berets realized that they worked for the people sending down the orders, so there wasn’t much they could do in the way of protesting. Anyway, they knew this was a specialty of Delta snipers, who had been calling in bombing runs for years.

  Jester wanted to pack up and move closer to the battlefield to gain a better position, but none of the Green Berets could or would budge an inch. Colonel Mulholland, the Task Force Dagger commander, had remained rooted in cement with his orders that his elite teams not get involved in any direct action situations.

  That left Jester and Dugan with no choice but to try and move forward without them. A local guide would be needed to get through the terraced farmland in the valley that separated their position from al Qaeda’s, and also to weave through the friendly muhj positions so they would not be met by a hail of 7.62mm bullets before any handshake of friendship. Unfortunately, the Green Berets owned the guide and refused to give him up. That lack of cooperation stopped the Delta snipers in their tracks.

  India Team, the second Delta group to enter the mountains, was led by Ski, our most senior reconnaissance troop team leader. I had watched him work in the Balkans and knew that this unassuming guy who loved being at the center of the action was once again in his element. Many of his exploits remain classified, and when he finally left the unit two years later, he held more decorations for valor than any other operator in the building. Rounding out India Team were Caveman, Sling Blade, Dallas, and their air combat controller Spike.

  They were to carry supplies up to Jester and Dugan at OP25-A, then continue farther south and set up a new observation post about a thousand meters deeper into the mountains. The truck ride to the donkey rendezvous took thirty minutes, and with a quick payoff of American cash, a young Afghan guide and his animals were hired. When the beasts were loaded, Ski slapped the lead donkey on its ass and the animal trudged off to the south, as if it had done the task a thousand times before.

  Ski and his team arrived at OP25-A before nightfall on December 10, ready to stop only long enough to drop off the supplies and get a quick brief, and then move on past them. Although Jester had already given the bad news about the lack of suitable OPs in the area back to the schoolhouse, India Team had not gotten the word. Ski decided to keep his operators at the OP overnight and return to the schoolhouse the next morning to get a new mission. That decision would have far-reaching consequences.

  I remember that day, December 10, like it was yesterday, for while things seemed stalled for our boys who were up at OP25-A, things started to hop around the schoolhouse.

  One of General Ali’s frontline commanders radioed back that he had information that the enemy positions in his area were vulnerable. The commander wanted to attack and asked that the general to come forward to take a look.

  The request came at exactly the right time, because Ali had lost some confidence in the bombing campaign, but remained under continued pressure by George to attack. The general had also spent some time during the day pandering to the press pool and likely decided that an attack would have the added benefit of being a good media show. It does not take much to brew up an Afghan attack, because like everything in the Afghan culture, there would be little precoordination or advance notification of anyone else. Just decide and then do it. Such impromptu attacks also had a habit of ending just as fast as they began.

  Adam Khan had been translating for George as he listened to Ali’s half of the conversation with the commander, and the Americans saw an opportunity to get us off the bench. They pressed the general to take us along. The general balked, still uncertain of just how we could help, and still squeamish about getting an American killed. George compromised and convinced Ali to at least take along someone who could support the attack by talking to the bombers. Without an American controlling the planes, the general’s men would be susceptible to the same bombs, particularly after nightfall.

  Ali consented and gave us no more than five minutes to get ready. Adam Khan dashed over to our room with the news, and we understood how incredibly important it was to support this rare advance by Ali. We couldn’t afford to miss a single opportunity to show the general and the muhj that we were indeed there to share the same dangers.

  Because we had been planning to insert several teams into the same part of the mountains later that evening, the group that jumped out at us was Jackal Team. If nothing else, at least a couple of them could steal a look at the cover and concealment available at the contemplated location.

  Without a moment of hesitation, team leader Hopper volunteered, and one of our air force combat controllers, a young kid code-named the Admiral, was told to go with him. Adam Khan would go along to translate. Together, they became the Jackal Team, because that was Hopper’s team. They had only five minutes to pack, and as they hurriedly prepared, we gave them simple orders: Go wherever the general goes, provide close air support, and kill as many al Qaeda as you can.

  We took a stab at the location to give them the six-digit grid of a spot located near the base of the mountain. That was a waste of time. The muhj were never able to provide even a guess as to the exact location of their men, or the enemy fighters either. We could have just as well fatfingered the map to give Hopper and the Admiral their intended location.

  Off they went. Hopper and the Admiral looked like any other muhj on their way to a gunfight. Dirty, unkempt, pakool hats tilted, scarves around their necks ready to hide their gringo facial structures, and wrapped in light brown blankets threaded with thin lines of bright green, red, and orange.

  Adam Khan drove and a couple of muhj fighters climbed into the truck, confidently sporting aged Kalashnikovs that they had adorned with feathers, colorful string, and shiny stickers of many colors. Each would make do with three thirty-round magazines of 7.62mm ammunition until more could be stripped from the vest of a dead Muslim brother.

  In sharp contrast, the two Special Ops boys brimmed over with the sort of arsenal expected from a superpower: two 5.56mm M-4 assault rifles with AN-PEQ2 laser designators and Bushnell reflex HOLOsights. One rifle was outfitted with an M-203 launcher under its barrel to fire 40mm high-explosive or smoke rounds. Their custom-made load-bearing vests had special pockets for hand grenades, first aid equipment, water, ammunition, flashlights, and handheld secure radios. They had an MK-7 laser range finder that could be seen by pilots miles above them and a powerful 117 satellite radio that would allow them to talk to those pilots, or anyone in the world for that matter. Another special toy was a Special Operations Force Laser Marker, or SOFLAM for short, a twelve-pound black box that was worth its weight in gold because it provided accurate ranges and designations for laser-guided munitions out to five thousand feet.

  It took about a half hour of driving to reach Mortar Hill, where they found the road was jammed by a faded green and rusted T-55 tank that was struggling to remove a stuck muhj antiaircraft artillery vehicle. Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan knew enemy OPs would spot the multivehicle convoy within minutes and call down the mortars.

  Adam Khan maneuvered the truck to a masked location, and they jumped out only moments before the fun began. The initial mortar rounds arrived like clockwork but were off the mark. The three Americans moved away from the vehicles because the mortars were clearly targeting the stalled convoy. Nearby, a group of muhj squatted together, immobile, as if waiting for someone to tell them to do something different. Seconds later, a round struck them center mass.

  Adam Khan was warned by another muhj that things would only get hotter further up the road as the
route went into the enemy’s mountain lair. The hair on Adam Khan’s back stood up and he lost that warm and fuzzy feeling so important in combat. Although it clearly was not his job, his concern was for the safety of Hopper and the Admiral, and he was well aware of General Ali’s concern about getting an American killed. Adam Khan wondered if it was worthwhile to proceed. Why press the issue in daylight when they were already compromised and under mortar attack? Tomorrow would be another day, and they could try again. The former marine was unafraid, but felt it was too dangerous to continue.

  He told Hopper to radio the schoolhouse that they were returning, and that they should not go any farther without an okay from the commandos’ commander, me. Hopper didn’t think the situation was all that dangerous, just a couple of mortar blasts, and anyway, he knew what our response would be. He already had his orders.

  With the rounds still landing intermittently and the three of them squeezed behind a jagged rock face bordering the road, Hopper now repeated those instructions: Go where the general goes. Hopper reasoned that it was no surprise that they would take some rounds once they were forced to stop at this particular place. After all, that was why it was called Mortar Hill. The debate ended when the cheers of the muhj signaled that the tank had gotten the stuck artillery vehicle out of the way and the road was again clear. The three Americans scrambled to their vehicle and continued the mission.

  The warning Adam Khan had been given about the increasing intensity of the enemy activity ahead had been correct. He pressed the gas pedal and sped through the curves, dodging the impact of several mortar rounds. The bed of the truck was peppered with shrapnel twanging into the thin metal as he roared deeper into the foothills until a group of muhj on the road forced them to stop.

  They had driven as far as they could go. The rest of the way would be on foot. Another muhj fighter emerged to warn the group that the mortars were much more accurate at this close range. As Hopper and the Admiral took up security positions and manipulated a GPS to pinpoint their location, Adam Khan rapped with the muhj for whatever information he could muster. The distinct rattle of machine-gun fire could be heard to their front.

  As anticipated, al Qaeda would not be causing all of the problems. Word that a few American commandos were coming forward with the permission of General Ali to support the late-afternoon attack never made it to the frontline folks who most needed to know about it. For the next half hour, several muhj acted like they were in charge and corralled our guys, shuttling them aimlessly from one group of fighters to the next.

  At one point, a muhj leader motioned toward the sky and made some flickering hand signals to mimic bombs dropping. They wanted the Americans to make it rain death. The Admiral was happy to grant their request, and radioed some aircraft to work up a fire mission.

  Then another set of muhj that they had been with earlier came and interrupted the Admiral’s call for fire to ask why the Americans had stopped moving with them and had taken up with this new group. It was a bizarre scene that was to be repeated several times. Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan were mixed up with a bunch of foot soldiers who had no clue why the Americans were there, who had sent them, or where they were supposed to be going.

  The one thing that kept Hopper and the Admiral happy was that, despite the headaches, at least they were heading in the right direction—south toward al Qaeda.

  After moving several hundred more meters, their latest muhj escort took a break along the military crest of a steep ridgeline. Hopper and Adam Khan moved to a nearby hilltop in hope of getting “eyes on” a suitable target so they could start the aerial fireworks. In the meantime, Adam Khan found a forward command post where small-arms fire, machine guns, and sporadic rocket rounds were clattering about. The three of them made themselves at home in the position, deeper into the Tora Bora mountain range than any other Americans probably had ever gone.

  The Admiral asked for all aircraft call signs in the area to check in, since he would be orchestrating the fight that night, and everyone was ready to demonstrate the art of the possible to General Ali. But General Ali was not there.

  The Admiral is one smooth talker on the radio. Most important in this business was his willingness to risk everything for his fellow man, an unhealthy but common trait among air force combat controllers.

  Darkness was falling fast, and Hopper attempted to reach OP25-A on his handheld FM radio and pass along their current location, in case things took a major turn for the worse. No luck. The FM was not working in that jagged landscape.

  The boys of Jackal knew that India Team had arrived at OP25-A, but the reverse was not true. Things had developed so quickly back at the schoolhouse to move Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan out in just five minutes that word of their departure had not yet made it to OP25-A. So the boys in the observation post remained unaware that their teammates were under fire on the other side of the valley.

  But OP25-A had received an astonishing report from a muhj commander that the prime target of this entire mission, Usama bin Laden, had been seen on a hilltop and was surrounded. The commander was positive it was the al Qaeda leader and was adamant that “Bouyahs! Bouyahs!” should smash the hilltop now. “Bombs! Bombs!”

  Once again the map problem complicated matters. The Delta snipers and the Green Berets worked with the excited muhj to make sense of what he was trying to say. Where is bin Laden? Show us! They actually resorted to drawing in the dirt and holding up fingers to represent the various crests and peaks and finally agreed that the target was Hilltop 2685—the First Knuckle, better known as Hilltop Larry.

  The Delta snipers, Jester and Dugan, passed the data to a nearby warplane and set about developing another modified nine-line fire mission solution. Just as the combat controller at OP25-A began to call for the aircraft to make its run, they saw several bombs slam onto what they thought was their target, just below the peak of Hilltop 2685.

  The perplexed combat controller now asked if the pilot had dropped the bombs early. The pilot told him the attack had been guided by someone down there using a different call sign, and passed the frequency they were using. It had been the Admiral doing his thing.

  The men at OP25-A were stunned. They had been handling the majority of the calls all day long, and now someone else had taken over, someone they knew nothing about. The OP25-A combat controller switched to the new frequency and heard the Admiral passing a correction for the next bomb run. The boys in the observation post quickly figured out that somehow the rest of us back at the schoolhouse must have launched an attack and perhaps as many as a couple of dozen operators were down there with the Admiral. Chances were ripe for a friendly-fire, blue-on-blue incident if too many people started talking to the pilots, so the crew in OP25-A quickly relinquished control of the air space. They would watch the fight unfold from a distance, silently hoping that the Admiral also had the reported location of bin Laden.

  Frustrated, the Green Beret A Team’s attached air controller at OP25-A flung his hand microphone to the ground, let out a few choice cuss words, and stalked away.

  I can’t say I blame him. Keeping them informed was my job, and I had failed to promptly update everyone because I had lost sight of the big picture at a critical time. I was focusing more on the location of bin Laden being reported by the muhj than on the boys currently at the tip of the spear; and I was not aware that the two groups could not communicate with each other. Nevertheless, it was a colossal screwup with the potential of catastrophic results. That’s what I got for assuming something.

  Our boys in OP25-A wasted no time pouting that someone else was now on the playground, for they knew that was exactly what was supposed to be happening. The communications snafu was solved, the emergency was over, and so they dreamed up another mission on their own.

  For the past two days they had a front-row view of the sporadic attacks and retreats of General Ali’s troops and had watched the muhj reeling under heavy mortar fire time and time again. The boys decided to confine thei
r search to anything that would help them destroy the al Qaeda mortar position that had been such a thorn in everyone’s sides.

  They finally established a sketchy FM radio contact with Hopper, the Admiral, and Adam Khan that would allow OP25-A to serve as a hasty radio relay back to us at the schoolhouse. As the temperature on the mountain dropped, everyone listened to the Admiral steadily bringing in the bombers while the distinct sound of gunfire muffled some of his calls. Just listening raised goose bumps on Jester’s arms.

  The Jackal bunch had taken cover behind a stone building about the size of a Volkswagen, and most of the muhj also were snuggling up behind it as an al Qaeda PKM heavy machine gun laid fire around the area, severing tree branches above the heads of Hopper and Adam Khan.

  Even more deafening was the outgoing racket of the AK-47s. Two or three of the muhj would jam fresh thirty-round magazines into their rifles, lean around the corner, and open up, holding down the triggers for four to five seconds. While they ducked back to reload, another couple of muhj would do the same thing. One fighter with a shouldered RPG stepped away from the group only slightly and frantically jerked the weapon’s grip trigger without pausing to aim.

  The stone structure offered only an illusion of safety. Hopper tried to get the muhj to spread out and press the attack and use the nearby tree line to maneuver to better locations, which at least would make the enemy have to worry about more than one or two targets. Although the muhj were more vulnerable when they clustered in large groups, they were also much more comfortable doing so. At present, although they were pinned down, the muhj seemed willing to leave well enough alone and would be ready to call it a day after a few more impressive bursts of unaimed automatic rifle fire. Besides, it had worked this way all week, so why change anything just because a few Americans had shown up?