CONTENTS
EPIGRAPH
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
INTRODUCTION: SNAKE, AKA DENNIS CHALKER
BY RICHARD MARCINKO
1. ONE PERFECT OP
2. HOME AND HEARTH
3. FIRST STOP, THE ARMY
4. AND NOW THE NAVY
5. BUD/S AND THE BEGINNING OF A SEAL
6. SEAL TEAM ONE AND KILO PLATOON
7. ECHO PLATOON AND A TASTE OF HIGH SPEED
8. SEAL TEAM SIX, 465 DAYS A YEAR
9. NOW HERE’S TO THE LAND DOWN UNDER
10. GEAR, GUNS, AND A LOT OF TRAINING
11. A MOVE, SOME BOATS, AND SOME TIME IN THE WATER
12. A DRY SPELL
13. A NEW GROUP AND SOME OTHER CHANGES
14. FIRST COMBAT AND FIRST COSTS
15. ON OUR WAY: FLY THE UNFRIENDLY SKIES
16. VISITING WITH THE GOVERNOR: DON’T SPIT ON THE FLOOR
17. A LONG DAY AND A NIGHT
18. OUR TEAMMATES
19. RED CELL AND A NEW MISSION
20. A VISIT TO NORFOLK
21. THE SUBS OF NEW ENGLAND
22. BACK TO THE PHILIPPINES
23. THE LAND OF THE RISING SUN
24. SUNNY CALIFORNIA
25. AND IN THE OTHER DIRECTION
26. THOSE ARE BIG LIZARDS
27. BACK IN SUNNY CALIFORNIA
28. GHOSTS
29. ANOTHER MOVE, ANOTHER COMMANDER, AND THE END OF AN IDEA
30. RETURN, OPERATE, AND FINALLY LEAVE
31. TO GIVE SOMETHING BACK
32. MEET THE KIDS AND MEET THE MAN
33. THE LONG WALK AND THE LONGER PARTY
EPILOGUE
GLOSSARY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
EPIGRAPH
I would first like to dedicate this book to my parents, for getting me to where I am now; to Kitty, who gave me two wonderful girls; and especially to my daughters, Kacy and Tess, who had to grow up with a father who was gone for much of their young lives. They paid the largest price.
And I would like to say a special word about one of my partners and close friends during my career and after—Foster Green (Pooster the Rooster). His career path followed mine, and we worked side by side for years.
Foster passed away in the spring of 2000. He was highly respected by those in the SEAL community and professionals elsewhere. He will be missed by all—especially me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No person, ever, has been able to finish BUD/S alone. From the first days in the Teams, you learn to depend on your Teammates as much as they can depend on you. Life might be a little easier on all of us if we learned just how much we need other people to get the job done sometimes.
First of all, I would like to thank Master Chief Tommy Hatchet for giving me my first motivation for getting through BUD/S. And my thanks to all my Sea Daddies, especially Master Chief Gary “Chambo” Chamberlin, Master Chief T. K. “The Old Gummer” Davis, Master Chief Johnny Johnson—whom we all still miss today—and Master Chief Tim Prusak; and to my former COs: Commander Richard Marcinko, Captain Robert Gormly, Captain Richard Woolard, Captain Ronald Yeaw, Captain Parks, and Captain Joe Yarborough; and to my former Team leaders: Commander Duke Leonard, Lieutenant Commander John Koenig, Lieutenant Commander Steven Fitzgerald, and Lieutenant Commander Brian Losey; and to my other officers from Kilo Platoon, including Lieutenant Steinbaugh and Lieutenant (j.g.) Bunce; and to all the comrades I started out with, including Kurt Feichtinger, Foster Green, Mike Purdy, Francis Fay, Mitch Croft, Kevin Banker, Doc Luben, Clay Sherman; and to all my other partners throughout my career in the Teams whose names I will never forget but cannot list here. They know who they are.
INTRODUCTION:
SNAKE,
AKA
DENNIS CHALKER
You’ve met Snake in the Rogue Warrior series of books and got a closer look at him in Real Team. Now you get the chance to meet him up close, down and dirty—see the world through his eyes, sense the drive and excitement that make him accomplish the mission at all costs, find out what makes him tick and why I was always comfortable when I turned him loose to do the dirty deed. When you get through with this read, it will be your turn to get off your ass and attack life.
As I’ve said before, Dennis (Snake) is one of those Adonis-looking guys—broad shoulders, good chest, small waist, and an ass so small he has to keep a hard-on just to hold his pants up. He runs like a gazelle, climbs like a spider (drunk or sober), and can drink like a fish. But he’s always focused and on target. He felt obligated to serve his country. That obligation became a career after he got through BUD/S (the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training course), and turned into a “magnificent obsession” when he got to SEAL Team SIX. Follow his growth from a totally dedicated operator and shooter to a slithering, sneaky, deadly warrior with no limits to keep him from accomplishing his goals. Watch his pride and sense of accomplishment bubble over to those around him and help them absorb his infectious spirit and energy. He never hesitated to advise me on operational options, training challenges, or tactical diversity. That’s why he will always be the Snake.
Snake says it the way he saw it—often a little different from the way I did—but we got the job done, and we had fun doing it too. Life in the Teams with Dennis “Snake” Chalker was like living and loving the life of the old-style Mafia. We all worked hard; we all played hard; and when the going got harder, we really started enjoying each other’s talents as we overcame the challenges thrown at us from both friends and foes. If we didn’t work within the rules, we were at least on the fringes. After all, we were told we would not fail. Winning does count. If it doesn’t, why the hell do we waste our time keeping score?
Turning Snake loose was like letting the genie out of the bottle; once out, you ain’t getting him back in. He just charged on to the next level of expertise and challenges. He never lacked self-generated motivation.
Snake felt that sense of fraternal obligation, that need to give back to the source that gave so much to each one of us. His biggest and final effort (on active duty) was as command master chief at BUD/S. As the senior enlisted man, he had the mission of instilling pride and dedication in the instructors, guiding the policies generated by the officers, and being the supreme example to all the “fledgling tadpoles” looking to make it to the Teams. It was my extreme honor and privilege to be the guest speaker at his retirement ceremony, where I was able to thank him for his dedication and welcome him to the “retired” world where we can share our experiences and spirit with all of you. Through Dennis “Snake” Chalker, Inc., his infectious spirit flows on. Start your induction into the world of the Snake with this read. Enjoy it, or I’ll send a bunch of new Snakes your way!
—RICHARD MARCINKO
CHAPTER 1
ONE PERFECT OP
Spring 1992
Speeding across a dark ocean, rain squalls coming and going and the wind in our faces, I had no way of knowing that I was now on my last combat operation, but if I had known, I couldn’t have chosen a better crew to be with than the Teammates I had trained alongside for years.
The mission was to rescue an American citizen—an eighteen-month old baby—and her family from an unfriendly shore. Two black rubber boats were speeding away from a darkened U.S. Navy warship, each boat full of SEALs (Sea, Air, Land) determined to see the operation through.
We had 55-horsepower outboard engines on our Zodiac F-470 boats. With the weight and space factor tight, we had to consider limiting our extras, so we had only two 35-horsepower outboards as spares. A full crew was on each of the boats, and we had to save room for the cargo we were on our way to pick up.
/> Each SEAL going in with the landing party was armed with a full loadout. I was geared up for a water op, just like everyone else. Wearing my “Farmer John’s” wet suit would give me some additional buoyancy. Around my neck I had an inflatable UDT (Underwater Demolitions Team) buoyance vest in case I needed a little extra flotation. And I wasn’t running too light in case it came to a fight. My M4 carbine was loaded with twenty-eight rounds in its magazine, each third round a tracer. The last five rounds in the magazine were all tracers, to warn me that it was time to reload. The nine other magazines I had in three pouches at my waist were all loaded the same way. That gave me 280 rounds of 5.56mm killers to depend on.
If I had to dump the M4 and switch to my secondary weapon, I would be well served by my SIG P226 loaded with a full fifteen-round magazine of hot copper-jacketed serrated 9mm hollowpoints. The other four P226 magazines I carried in two separate pouches gave me seventy-five rounds for my pistol alone. Finally, I had my Glock knife at my right hip with a Mark 13 day /night signal flare taped to its scabbard. Hanging around my neck on a line was a set of Cyclops night vision goggles, a binocular NVG with a single tube that would magnify the available starlight 50,000 times. The goggles would make all of the dark surrounding area visible in a green-tinted light.
But it was across my chest that I carried my most important piece of equipment: the black-painted, fully padded baby carrier that I had carried my own baby daughter in. Tied to the carrier, sterilized and sealed in a plastic bag, was a baby’s pacifier, an incongruous item among all my lethal hardware.
The boat’s crew were all SEALs who had trained for hours to navigate their craft across a dark sea just like the one we were traveling on now. Vectoring in on calculated points, the coxswains for the craft were steering us over ten miles of open water to our target, a small chunk of beach in a big ocean. On that beach would be the target family and some friendlies. Those friendlies would be the only allies that family would have immediately at hand. Other than that, the area was full of armed people who did not want to see that family escape.
We had a very tight timeline. If we were late or missed the target, at best the operation would be scrubbed, at worst the people we were going in to get would be caught and imprisoned. About three hours had been planned for transit to the beach and locating our target. A three-hour tour, only there wasn’t any Gilligan on this boat ride, and Mary Ann and Ginger weren’t waiting for us at the other end.
That was a lot to think about, but dwelling on the could-bes would take my mind away from the task at hand. Even while bouncing across the waves, licking the salt spray from my lips, I had to concentrate on what was ahead.
It was a warm moonless night and the sky was overcast. The clouds would help to conceal us. When a small storm came up, the little bit of rain that came down would also help reduce the chance of any idle late-night strollers on our target beach. If we were really lucky, the rain might also hold down any local patrols. Continuing on, we rode the high tide along our plotted course line.
The smells in the air were mostly of the ocean, and just starting to come up was the smell of civilization. Our target was only some five miles away from a built-up area, not much more than hooches and huts along with a lot of vegetation. We knew we were headed in the right direction when the sky shine of a small town was visible in our NVGs, along with the outline of hills in the distance.
We hit our first vector point on schedule and turned to aim for the next one: a buoy inside a harbor that was anything but friendly. From that buoy, we would make a straight shot to the target beach. So with everything riding on our tight schedule, it was time for Mr. Murphy to show up and humble us a bit with one of his laws: If anything can go wrong, it will, and at the worst possible time.
Our boat’s outboard decided it had been working hard enough. The slight phosphorescent bow wave the boat had been pushing up sagged and faded as our engine sputtered and died. Our coxswain and the rest of the boat crew immediately set to work to repair the engine and get it restarted. They operated as the well-trained and coordinated team they were, in spite of the complete darkness.
Fast whispered conversation between the assault group leader, myself, and the boat crew centered around either taking the time to get the faster 55-horsepower engine going or deep-sixing the damned thing and putting the slower 35-horsepower motor in its place. Of course, that would leave us short a spare engine for the outbound leg of our mission. Although I pushed for dumping the stopped engine, the boat crew continued their laboring in the dark, and with a muffled roar the outboard finally started up.
We were back on our way, but we had fallen critically behind schedule. As we sped toward the last vector point, the horizon was just becoming visible. Looking through the NVGs, I saw a flash of a light beaming up into the sky and pointed it out to the assault group leader. As the officer in charge, he decided to order a change of course, and the boat heeled over as we turned toward the signal. We would save time by going directly toward the signal rather than completing the last leg in from the vector point. We were back on schedule; we still had a chance of pulling this op off.
Now only the coxswains wore their NVGs. To get our eyes used to the darkness, all of us going in to the beach took our goggles off. Despite the darkness, we could soon make out the beach and the tree line beyond.
Just as we’d planned, we came up to the target beach. The wind was blowing out to sea, so that was in our favor. A slight sound from us would hardly make it to shore. Depending on the situation we found on our arrival, we were prepared to take the boats all the way in to shore. If things were questionable, the landing party would swim in. Radio communications showed up on schedule, and the identifications and authentications were correct. Cutting the outboards to minimize noise, we picked up paddles and brought the boats silently in to shore.
The two security crew boats went out to either flank while the two pickup boats went right up the center. The rubber bows of the boats crunched softly into the sand as we made landfall. There were only some fifteen feet of sand beach before the vegetation began. Our targets were waiting for us somewhere in the vegetation.
Once we were on shore, we pushed the boats back out to sea, and the coxswains took them out about a hundred yards to wait for us. We were in an unfriendly area. If the shit hit the fan, we would grab our people and hit the water, heading back to where the boats were waiting. In that situation, we would be putting out all the firepower we had, and the 470s had some hardware aboard to help us all they could.
Our security detail bristled with weapons, covering the beach area on all sides. With our flanks securely covered, our assault group leader went up to where the light had come from and met the small group of people who were waiting for us. As I came up to the gathering, I could see the mother and baby. I reached out, and the mother put her baby, a not so little girl, into my arms. And then Mr. Murphy showed up again.
This was an eighteen-month-old baby? Damn, this was a big kid. With my weapon slung, I tried to slip the kid’s legs through the holes in the bottom of the baby carrier, but they were too fat. There was no way they were going through the holes. Handing the kid back to the mother, I pulled my knife and cut the leg holes larger. The baby carrier was pretty much a total loss as far as taking it back to my wife, Kitty, and using it for our baby, Tess. A little more damage wasn’t going to make my explaining it to Kitty any easier once I got home.
Finally I had the kid in the baby carrier, wrapped in the little blanket the mother had given me, and was ready to go. But things still weren’t going to run smoothly. Now that the baby was away from her mother and in the hands of a big stranger wearing a rubber suit and with a blacked-out face, she felt it was time to let her feelings be known.
As the baby started to cry, one of the locals began to come a little unglued. The tension for those people had to be severe, and they had been operating under the strain for a lot longer than the few hours we had been on the mission. But with some slight sounds
in the distance indicating activity up the beach, now was not the time to lose control.
As the guy started to tell me to shut the baby up, I reached out in the darkness and grabbed him by the throat. “Shut up!” I growled quietly.
Maybe I was feeling the tension a bit myself. Or I was just very concerned with the precious cargo I had taken on board. But my officer was right there, prying at my fingers as they locked around the man’s throat. “Denny,” he whispered, “leave him alone. Let go now, we have to move. Go, go, go!”
We had only been on shore for about fifteen minutes, but the plan called for us to keep our time on land to an absolute minimum. There were patrols around, and we didn’t want to meet any of them.
Immediately I released my grip on the man, and air wheezed into his lungs. Funny, I didn’t think I had been holding him that tight. But now wasn’t the time for thinking about anything but getting off that beach. I started backing toward the water as our security detail closed in, their weapons still at the ready.
As soon as I slipped into that warm salt water, the kid stopped crying. The blanket was quickly soaked, but the water was so warm the baby didn’t care. This was a SEAL’s element. In a combat zone, once in the water we feel safer than in any other place. Each of us was on his own to get to the boats. Our security element remained behind on the beach briefly to ensure our safety. The only thing between us and our way out was a short stretch of water.
As I kicked and stroked out to sea on my back, the baby just lay there on my chest, her head level with my neck. The mother was in good hands with one of my Teammates looking after her. Each of the people we had been sent to get was accounted for and the situation was under control. But things could still go to hell in a heartbeat.
With a slow kick and a long, deep stroke, I glided through the water. To try and keep the baby from crying again, I took the pacifier I had brought along out of its sealed bag and put it in her mouth. She took the pacifier, leaned her head back to look at me in that wide-eyed baby way, and . . .
One Perfect Op Page 1
