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

by Dalton Fury

  Before Ali could figure out what to do with Flagg, the guy was caught brazenly trying to use the telephone inside the general’s quarters. One of Skoot’s tactical signal interceptors struck up a conversation with him and noticed that Flagg, among his other languages, spoke fairly good Arabic. This was a big enough spike to arrest him. He was interrogated, roughed up a bit, and shipped off to Kabul to be locked away in some dark, damp, and overcrowded cellblock.

  But Flagg wasn’t the only questionable person around. Another gentleman was constantly following and pestering Adam Khan with personal questions about where the American commandos lived in the United States, wanting to know their names, and trying to gain his trust. He had a British accent and curiously remained apart from the rank-and-file muhj as much as possible. His English was much more advanced, but the most telling discovery about the small, skinny, and dark-skinned Muslim was the way he clearly understood the sophisticated manner in which the boys used infrared lasers to guide the bombs.

  To do that required some advanced training, and Adam Khan soon pegged this one as an agent of the Pakistani Intelligence Service, the ISI, who had infiltrated inside Ali’s forces. He wasn’t allowed anywhere near us. Afghanistan was strange.

  The British intelligence officer and Haji Zaman attended the fireside chat on the night of December 15, for another important cultural turning point would arrive with the dawn. The following day, December 16, marked the end of Ramadan, and not only could the muhj start eating and drinking during the daytime, but traditionally it was supposed to be a time of rest and forgiveness of enemies.

  The bulk of the meeting centered on convincing the warlords to forego that centuries-old custom and continue the attack in the mountains. Al Qaeda was on the ropes, and it was absolutely necessary to keep up the pressure. We were not in a forgiving mood.

  Zaman, apparently having recovered from the false-surrender debacle, agreed, and bragged about getting an early start, saying he would have several hundred fighters ready to go at first light.

  I laid my map before Zaman and asked him to point out the spot he planned to attack. That, of course, was an exercise in futility because Zaman’s ability to read a map was limited. In retrospect, there really were not too many good reasons why men like Ali and Zaman needed to read a map, for this was their backyard.

  As soon as Zaman left, Ali began openly to question the commitment of his nemesis. Waving his hand wildly, the general said Zaman would never be able to motivate his men to attack, at least without letting them have a regular morning meal, their first breakfast after the month of fasting. Also, Zaman would not strike until he had spent some time at Press Pool Ridge, pandering sufficiently to the media and the cameras.

  Ironically, it was the presence of the press that helped ensure the customs normally attached to the end of Ramadan would be ignored this year. Both warlords understood that public perception was the key to their futures.

  Nestled in a rocky outcrop with not much vegetation, Kilo Team was enjoying an unmolested view of some of al Qaeda’s best positions. Not long after midnight, the crew aboard an AC-130 gunship radioed that they had spotted a dozen or so people running around on a nearby hilltop. The pilot wanted to know if these “hot spots” were friendly. Since Kilo was the forwardmost OP in the center of the battlefield, no friendlies were out there. Pope cleared the gunship “hot,” and after a few minutes of hammering, the pilot relayed to the boys on the ground: “All targets neutralized.”

  As the Americans and Brits passed some quiet, congratulatory high fives around their OP, the distinct and comforting drone of the gunship could still be heard overhead. Then the silence gave way to a strange and ominous whistling sound that grew louder and louder, closer and closer until it stopped with a loud Ding! within their position. An expended piece of 40mm brass casing had spilled out of the gunship at 15,000 feet and landed in the middle of their tight perimeter, narrowly missing all six of them. They looked at each other in the darkness for a few moments, pondering what that big chunk of brass would have felt like if had crashed onto one of their heads.

  Otherwise, Kilo spent another productive night by bombing al Qaeda. Like India Team, which had humped a SOFLAM up to OP25-A five days earlier, Kilo also had brought one up with them. It was a priceless piece of kit in this environment, and Pope and Lowblow knew it. They also knew once they departed the schoolhouse and moved into the mountains, the chances of being resupplied were slim to none. So both Delta snipers carried a PRC-117D radio just in case one radio shit the bed on them. They also packed two M-72 LAW rockets, five broken-down MRE rations, four gallons of water, fourteen BA-5590 radio batteries each, and assorted other items, and their personal rifles. The combined weight, and the high altitude, the bout with altitude sickness, the freezing temperatures, and small amount of food resulted in Pope dropping from 185 pounds to 152 pounds during the course of the battle.

  Pope’s favorite tactic was one that the Admiral had taught him a few months earlier back at Bragg. He would run in a bomber to drop a large bomb on a cave entrance or bunker. If the strike was dead on, then nothing more was required. But if it was a narrow miss, it usually resulted in shell-shocked enemy fighters dashing off in all directions to find safety. When that happened, Pope would cycle away from the bomber and call in the gunships to rake over the survivors. The technique was deadly.

  Late that evening, I returned to General Ali’s quarters to alert him that a resupply helicopter would be landing very soon, just outside his window. He was already tucked beneath his brown wool blanket, but sat up when I entered. Something was bothering him, and he asked in a serious tone, “Commander Dalton, why is America in such a hurry to kill bin Laden now, after he has been your enemy for so long?”

  Before Ghulbihar finished translating, the general continued: “America believes they have the might to do all things, but some things are God’s will.”

  Now I thought that was a stupid question. Al Qaeda had regularly attacked American targets abroad, but on 9/11 they hit the United States itself, hard. Osama bin Laden was behind that attack. We were at war, and where, before 9/11, we had wanted him dead or alive, now we just wanted him dead.

  But rather than spell it out for Ali and get into a philosophical discussion, as I heard the thump-thump of the approaching MH-47 Chinook, I decided to let action speak for me. The general’s room had flimsy little swing-gate windows that directly faced the helicopter landing zone, and they were open.

  “General, you are about to experience American might firsthand,” I said with a bit of sarcasm.

  As the helicopter thundered over the building, the powerful downdraft from the rotors struck with a vengeance. Ali threw off his blanket, jumped out of bed, and, with arms outstretched in front of him, leaned against the windows like he was about to be frisked by the law to hold them shut. The powerful rotor wash and flying sand literally threatened to push the windows open as the general struggled against them. Although it was amusing to see the warlord floundering in his pajamas, I chose to allow the general to retain his dignity and walked out the door. Point proven.

  * Operation Acid Gambit was the opening mission of the invasion of Panama in 1989 by Delta to rescue American citizen Kurt Muse. Muse shares his story in his book Six Minutes to Freedom.

  16

  Victory Declared… Bin Laden Status Unknown

  If al Qaeda was still strong, they would not have left their dead brothers behind.

  —GEN. HAZRET ALI, DECEMBER 17, 2001

  General Ali mustered roughly fifty anxious and shivering fighters at the schoolhouse early on December 16. It was the end of Ramadan, so while they waited for their general, some ate flat bread, others drank bottled water, and some just squatted down and stared into space. Two of those three simple pleasures were not allowed during the last thirty days of daylight fasting.

  My attempts to pin down the general about his exact attack position or his intended march objective had been in vain, and except for the Muslims bei
ng able to eat and drink, this was shaping up to be no different than any other day.

  Before George and the general walked to the lime green SUV to head to the battle lines, I promised Ali that he would have as many bombs as he needed and that we wanted to keep the pressure on. But I also warned that the battlefield was tightening, and that we didn’t want to kill any of his men by accident. “Keep my guys updated up there with your intentions,” I said.

  The general shook my hand, placed his right hand over his heart, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Just keep bombing.” The man smelled victory.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I responded as he climbed into the passenger’s seat.

  The warlord Haji Zaman, recently teamed with the third British SBS team and a recently arrived air force combat controller, was now capable of directing ordnance to support his own attack.

  Adam Khan accompanied the Brits to link up with Zaman’s forward commander, and while moving into the foothills, he struck up a conversation with one of Zaman’s fighters. The man claimed that he personally saw Usama bin Laden mounted on a white horse and escorted by twenty or so black-hooded Egyptian bodyguards on foot. Rumor had it that unyielding loyalty was not enough to land a spot on bin Laden’s personal security detail. Just as important was that they had to share the same blood type as the terrorist leader.

  The fighter described the atmosphere when bin Laden moved from one hiding spot to the next. A few minutes before the Sheikh’s arrival, a messenger would arrive to warn the locals, and all adults were sent to their homes and told not to come out until directed to do so. The only noise heard in the streets was the sound of little children running through the narrow alleys and back streets. Once bin Laden was safe inside his transient hideout, usually only minutes after the messenger’s arrival, the village resumed its normal life, as if nothing had ever happened.

  Shortly after Adam Khan introduced the Brits to their new guide, they started to lumber up the hill and catch up with the commandos who were with General Ali’s fighters. Zaman chose a different ridgeline to move on, because following the Ali forces would have added little value. On the political scale, it would have been a major insult to Zaman.

  Just above bin Laden’s destroyed home, the team of Brits, Adam Khan, and the guide encountered small-arms fire from an adjacent ridgeline occupied by some of Ali’s fighters. As tracer rounds zipped overhead, the commandos made a mad dash uphill and dove into a huge bomb crater. Within a minute or so, they heard the distinct crash of rounds being fired from two T-55 tanks back near Press Pool Ridge and ducked as the shells passed overhead and exploded on the rocks farther up the ridgeline. They began to wonder what the worst of the two evils was: dying from AK-47 fire or being hit with one of those big shells from a friendly tank. The Brits figured neither choice was worth sticking around for, so everyone abandoned the crater and rushed forward to a more secure position.

  Once in their place, they got to work and ordered up a B-52 strike on a suspected enemy position. After the big bomber had delivered its thundering payload and left the area, one of the Brits opened his pack and proudly produced a mini-kitchen, as if magically pulling a white rabbit from a top hat.

  “It’s teatime!” he announced with a sigh of relief.

  A few minutes before 0900 hours, with a slight cool breeze at their backs and the sun rising to their front, both Zaman and Ali attacked, just as they had promised. It was pretty clear they intended to stay for a while, for this time, besides the standard-issue AK-47 rifles, three magazines, an RPG round or two, and a pocket of nuts, dates, or rice, the muhj fighters were carrying bedrolls! Were they actually going to stay in the mountains this time?

  Some pockets of the enemy had laid down their arms and surrendered, and others were confused, having received no recent guidance from their superiors. The stubborn enemy fighters who refused to surrender either took their quest for paradise more seriously than their buddies or opted to head for the friendlier turf across the border in Pakistan.

  At the schoolhouse, tactical radio intercepts overheard frantic calls begging for medicine, bandages, food, and water. Requests for guidance, or permission to retreat into the villages, or fade deeper into the mountains convinced us that the end of the battle was near. George of the CIA received a classified cable from Kabul reporting that the Pakistani military had apprehended several dozen Arab fighters just across the border.

  Around the same time, a directive came from the Americans at Bagram to ask General Ali if he would accept a larger foreign presence on the battlefield—not just a few more Special Ops types, but a massive and overt buildup of American military forces.

  I sprang the question on the general at the nightly chat, and his eyes showed no sign of surprise, because an operational shift on the overall battlefield was looming. He hesitated for a moment, then said he needed until the morning to decide. Ali likely would have to discuss the situation with his trusted local supporters and the Shura.

  At midday on the western flank, several of the muhj fighters who were with MSS Monkey took off for a hilltop to their front, possibly irritated that they were missing out on looting the caves. Once the muhj reached the crest, they radioed back to request some Americans to come forward and drop some more bombs.

  India Team arrived shortly thereafter and, sure enough, saw numerous personnel out to their front. As Spike worked up a fire mission, Kilo Team called in to stop it. In Kilo’s opinion, the designated groups were friendly muhj, and not al Qaeda. The muhj commander disagreed, but was not certain. Once again, without any way to confirm friend from foe and no interpreter, the Americans were hamstrung.

  The weather took a turn for the worse and blanketed the entire area with heavier snow and a strong wind that blew some of the flurries sideways while shrinking visibility to less than two hundred meters. Later that evening, Bryan radioed the schoolhouse: The muhj were coming off the mountain and heading away from the fight. Bedrolls or not, they were coming back.

  We asked, “Why?”

  “One-One, this is Three-Two. The commander up here is telling us that the fight is over. He says the enemy has bolted and that they are the winners,” Bryan reported. His voice was shaky because of the hard, cold, and freezing wind, but was drenched in pessimism.

  “I haven’t heard that yet,” I answered. “Thanks for the update. We’ll keep up the bombing anyway until someone tells us different.”

  Numerous reports of surrendering al Qaeda forces were heard throughout December 16.

  The groups numbered from twenty to twenty-five former fighters, some more, some less. Our higher headquarters now scrambled to figure out how to handle about three hundred or so prisoners. There was no largescale holding area and the best option seemed to be moving them to Kabul by trucks.

  The reports of surrender and victory had not made it to all of the enemy forces in Kilo Team’s area, and Kilo itself had not received any orders to stand down. So Pope, Lowblow, and the four Brit commandos perched on the southwest side of the third highest point in the mountains continued to wreak havoc on obvious and suspected al Qaeda positions.

  Throughout the battle, the hefty collection of warplanes enjoyed complete air superiority and had little to worry about, short of running into one another. On this night, Pope pushed an AC-130 ten miles to the east and into a holding pattern while he finished working with some bombers. In about five minutes, his radio crackled to life with the voice of the female pilot of the gunship, who was eager to get back into the hunt. It was strange to hear a female voice under those circumstances, and more than somewhat out of place.

  Pope instructed her to stand by for clearance. After five more minutes, she keyed her radio mike again, clearly agitated at being told to stand by. Pope was finally able to clear her in, and the AC-130 immediately wheeled in for the attack, guns blazing. A determined American woman pilot was taking her turn killing the macho Muslim terrorists.

  Jester and Dugan, the heroes of OP25-A, spent only a day and a half
resting and refitting before getting back into the game. Joined by another four-man team of British SBS commandos, they were tasked with reinforcing the Jackal Team and helping continue the bombing.

  When they reached the base of the mountain, young Afghans stood around hoping to get jobs as guides, lined up like taxicabs at a big city airport. A couple of guides were hired and led them up the trails, and after an hour of climbing, they stopped for a rest.

  As they caught their breath, heavy firing by AK-47s snapped a fusillade of 7.62mm rounds overhead. The snipers and Brit commandos squirmed behind the largest rocks they could find as the gunfire stuttered on and on. But it was no attack, just a large group of muhj celebrating the end of Ramadan by wildly firing their weapons, raising the guns in the air and squeezing off 7.62mm rounds on full auto.

  One of the new guides, bless his heart, yelled at the top of his lungs for them to stop. When that had no effect, he actually started throwing rocks at them, as if he could hit them from several hundred meters away. Dugan and Jester were thankful the young man did not have a weapon of his own, or they might have been in the middle of a gunfight between the rejoicing muhj and one truly unhappy guide.

  Pushing uphill as fast as they could to get out of range of the happy muhj, the commandos reached Hopper and the Admiral about noon, up on the ridgeline near an old fort. A short while later, a B-52 laid a strike on a cave about eight hundred meters away, and the cave erupted with multiple secondary explosions that sent rock and debris flying everywhere. A fifty-five-gallon drum came hurtling out of the carnage like a comet and passed fifty meters over their heads. “Holy shit,” yelled one of the boys. “They’re throwing oil barrels at us!”

  That night, just after dark, scores of muhj fighters streamed back down the ridgelines once again, no doubt hurrying to find warmth and continue celebrating the end of Ramadan. They smiled, waved, and made no secret that they felt that they had won the battle and it was time to go home.