One Perfect Op

by Dennis Chalker

  There’s an old frogman rule for demolitions: When in doubt, overload your target. That rule was now brought into play. To make sure the door went in on the first blast, the breachers used more explosive than they normally would have. It would be better to put up with a larger explosion and get through the door on the first try than to have to reload after warning everyone inside exactly where you were.

  As the breachers and front squad made ready to go in the front, my team and I moved to the sliding glass door. When the front door went, we would rake the glass door with a shotgun, throw in a crash, and then enter and start our room-to-room search.

  As the squad leader, I wanted to make sure I had the most control of the room we were going into, so I was the third man in line rather than right up front. The sliding door opened into a bedroom with the far door open, and we could look down into a small part of the house. The center of the house was one of those living rooms with an open ceiling, and we could just see into it as the entry went forward.

  The countdown went out over our radios: Three . . . Two . . . One . . . Go, go, go! Our breacher fired on the sliding door as the front crew blew their breaching charge. That old frogman rule may have a drawback when applied to door breaching: the boom of the front breaching charge shook the whole building.

  Through the open door of the bedroom, I could see the heavy front door come blasting in, knocked clean off its hinges by the explosive. The door blew through the living room and out the back of the house, along with a large selection of the living room furnishings. It all ended up in and around a swimming pool at the rear of the building.

  “Holy shit!” I thought. But there was no time to reflect on flying doors. The training we had been doing for years makes many of the reactions to a breach automatic. I was through the door and covering my sector while the front door was still in the air and the echoes of our crashes were ringing through the building.

  We cleared the bedroom we had entered in seconds. Shattered glass had been driven across the room from the blasts of the shotgun clearing out the door. With the door smashed open, another member of the breacher unit threw in a crash before the glass had even stopped falling. With the noise and flash of the crash detonating, we piled in through the door and fanned out, covering all points of the room. No one was there.

  To the side of the bedroom was another door. My shooting partner went up to the door, and I stepped up behind him. He opened the door and threw the crash in and before I could stop him, he went in through the door before the crash had fired. Grabbing at him and shouting, “No!” I had to follow him into the room, which turned out to be an unoccupied bathroom. The crash went off right in front of us, the thundering noise and brilliant flash of light bouncing off the walls of the small room.

  Dazzled by the flash of light, all I could see were multicolored dots dancing in front of my eyes. My partner wasn’t in any better shape than I was. Neither of us were seriously hurt but we were out of the running for a moment.

  Ducking back into the bedroom, I told Tee, my leading petty officer, that I was blinded and to take over the mission. He could see that I was blinking to clear my eyes. He took the unit and went deeper into the house.

  Within a minute, at least the dancing lights were going away. Going out the bedroom door to catch up with the rest of the crew, we came out on a balcony overlooking the living room. Or what was left of the living room.

  We blasted through that house room by room and floor by floor. But the quarry we were chasing weren’t there, and our search for intelligence information came up with very little. We did find some nice cigars, though.

  The helos came in and picked us up in front of the house. Our friendly farmer with the AK-47 didn’t put in another appearance, and that armed guard was really having a lucky day as none of us saw him later.

  Downstaging from the op, I had the opportunity to take that misfired round from my pocket and get a good look at it. The very slight dimple on the silver primer in the base of the brass case told me the story. I had gotten a light primer hit when I pulled the trigger on that running guard. The firing pin hadn’t struck the round with enough force to fire it—I hate Murphy. It was something that happened, thankfully very rarely. It just hadn’t been that guard’s day to go.

  MISSION: Area Search

  LOCATION: [Classified]

  DATE: [Classified]

  During an overseas deployment of U.S. troops, a report came into our headquarters about an island that was being used as a relay station or possible listening post to gather and transmit information regarding U.S. troop movements. As the closest available Special Operations unit, we were given the task of going in and searching out the clandestine transmitting station. Since the target was a small island just off shore, it was in the environment we felt most at home in, the sea.

  To give us more maneuverability around the island, we were going to make a two-pronged insertion. One squad would go in on a Blackhawk helicopter and quickly take control of the land and beach. A second helicopter, a much larger CH-47 Chinook, would come in with a second squad and an inflated rubber boat.

  The CH-47 would do what we called a “soft duck” drop. A soft duck was where the helicopter came down to the surface of the water with its rear cargo ramp fully lowered. With the ramp awash, inflated Zodiac F-470 rubber boats would be pushed out of the cargo bay and into the water. Our fellow SEALs would use the rubber boats to circle the island, both covering the shore and giving us a quick way off the island without having to bring in a bird for an emergency extraction. Given the small size of the island and its unknown ground conditions, using the boats was the most prudent course of action.

  When the CH-47 had completed its soft duck insertion, it would move back to the mainland and land on the beach there. That kept the bird close by. If we found any communications gear or other valuable intelligence material, the CH-47 would be able to take us in once we were on shore and fly us back to base.

  The insertion went forward without a hitch and the bird flew off to the beach. On board the Blackhawk, my squad moved up to the island without taking any fire or seeing any movement. The ground was covered in heavy grass, and with an unopposed landing zone, we decided to jump in from the hovering bird. When the Blackhawk’s landing wheels were just above the waving grass, the squad and I jumped off and the bird pulled away.

  Landing a helicopter on an unknown surface could be dangerous, so simply jumping off into the grass seemed the simplest way to get in fast and minimize the exposure of the bird. We were right about the unknown surface, and we were wrong about jumping off the bird.

  That was pretty tall grass. In Vietnam, they called the stuff elephant grass. Not because elephants liked eating that kind of grass but because elephants could hide in that kind of grass.

  Jumping from the bird, we fell into the grass and kept on falling until the grass was over our heads. The ground level wasn’t the five feet down we thought it was. That was just how far down the grass bent in the downwash of the helicopter blades. The ground was ten feet beyond that.

  So we fell fifteen feet and smacked into the ground. Untangling ourselves, we straightened up, took a heading, and moved out. On the island was a small, broken-down hooch that was the only standing structure in sight. Clearing out of the grass, we could see the hooch but still without seeing any other activity at all.

  With one man of a shooting pair moving forward while his partner covered him, we approached the hooch. It was a native building made of bamboo and straw matting. Without speaking a word, we moved into the building and searched it completely and quickly. We had trained and worked with each other so long, no words were needed, just the occasional hand or arm signal.

  It was obvious to us that the building had been used as living quarters by someone. Food scraps, utensils, and other scattered material told us that whoever had been there had left in a hurry. But that leaving was for another reason than our arrival. It was plain to see that the place had been abandoned day
s before. There was no sign of any signaling or intelligence-gathering equipment.

  Moving out, we searched the entire little island, which was only some fifty yards across but had some fairly high ground for such a small place. Down on the beach we found the mouth of a small cave, partially submerged in the water at the edge of the shore.

  One of the guys quickly stripped down and moved into the water to search the cave. Swimming into the mouth of the opening, he was never out of earshot of the rest of us. The opening turned out to be the mouth of a small washhole in the shore, cut by the action of the water and not deep at all.

  With our Teammate once more dressed and on shore with the squad, we could see that the search of the island was coming up dry. Calling in the other squad offshore in the F-470 boats, we climbed aboard and moved back to the mainland.

  The tide was starting to come in, so taking the boats back to the mainland went easily. But when we got to the bird, it wouldn’t crank over. For some reason the engines were dead, and we couldn’t take off. Now the incoming tide was a problem. The bird was specially equipped for our missions, with a large quantity of secure communications gear on board. There was no way we could leave it with all that gear on board.

  All of us who were able lent a hand to the crew of the stricken bird, while our radioman called for another helo to come out with an APU (auxiliary power unit) that would supply enough juice to get the bird’s engines started. But with the tide coming in, the helo was going to get washed pretty deeply, and that specialized equipment on board was expensive, so as the message was going out, so was the gear on board the bird. As the crew disconnected what they could, we humped it into our boats and up the beach. Putting the gear well above the high tide line, we could at least keep it from getting wet or otherwise damaged.

  Then one of the guys noticed a number of helos moving in and out of an area a short distance inland that we couldn’t see clearly. Since our aircraft were the only things flying through the area, we knew the birds had to be friendly. With no answers coming in over the radio, getting help from friendly forces seemed to be the next best choice.

  The helicopters were overflying an area only half a mile or so from where we were. There was a good road leading up to where they were that passed close to the shore. The whole area was like a ghost town. There was no civilian movement whatsoever. Aside from the helicopters in the distance, we were apparently alone.

  Darkness would be falling soon and we had to make some move to change our situation. My squad’s officer told me to take one of the men with me and head to where the other helos were. That looked to be the only way to get another helo or an APU to our downed CH-47 before full dark settled in on us.

  My partner and I moved out at a brisk pace, but we didn’t move so fast that we would make a target of ourselves. With our weapons at the ready, we moved to the road and continued up it.

  Everything we passed—every building, hut, and shed—was empty and abandoned. The earlier feeling of moving through a ghost town was even stronger. We were moving at a fair clip but maintaining a watch on our flanks. It was getting cold as the sun went down, but the chill wasn’t just from that. Vehicles were abandoned along the road. Houses stood open and mute. No one was around. All we saw that had been living was the occasional dead dog. It was like we were jogging along in one of those last-man-on-earth science fiction movies. Weird was the only way to describe it.

  When we reached a hilltop near the helos, we waved one down. The bird was a CH-46 and the crew recognized us as U.S. forces and came down to land nearby. Going up to the pilot, I told him about the situation down on the beach. The situation had to be getting worse there, because the water had been up to the CH-47 when we both left.

  The pilot agreed to get us an APU to start up our bird, so we headed back to the beach. The water was starting to come into the CH-47 now. Finally a helicopter came in with an APU and we were able to crank over and start the CH-47’s engines.

  We lifted the bird off and left the APU sitting there on the ground for the moment. It was a lot more important to gather up all the gear we had pulled out of the bird. Once we had all the gear gathered up, we piled it, our boats, and our squads into the bird that had brought in the APU. Lifting off, we met up with our original transportation back at the airport. Now we had to truck everything back into the first bird and let the technicians get on with the job of hooking it all back up and testing it.

  For a mission that turned out to be a dry hole, we had come very close to losing a very expensive chunk of gear. It had been an experience.

  At the end of the 1980s, President Bush finally called an end to the terrorism conducted against the United States and her citizens by a drug-running dictator, Manual Noriega of Panama. In December 1989, I was part of a combined Special Operations unit that joined with the rest of our military in the operation Just Cause.

  We eliminated Noriega as a threat to our own country and to Panama. Democratic elections were held, giving the people a real chance of controlling their own destiny after we pulled out. When Desert Shield and then Desert Storm took place in 1990 and 1991, my brothers in the Teams conducted their operations well. They even impressed General Norman Schwartzkopf, who had earlier said he did not see a use for Special Operations Forces in any of the services.

  My family life had changed as well. We now had two daughters in the Chalker household. Tess Maria Chalker came to us on February 18, 1991. Kitty had an easier childbirth this time, at least in one sense. She didn’t need major surgery to deliver Tess. I was able to attend the delivery and of course with Kitty awake and feeling every part of the delivery, she voiced her opinions about me personally and all men in general as she brought our daughter into the world. After having been with me and my Teammates for a number of years, she had an excellent command of the saltier ways of voicing her displeasure.

  It was kind of funny, but within a few years of being born, Tess was involved in my career in a very direct and unusual way. Things had changed in the world to make everyone’s lives a little different. After the breakup of the Soviet Union, our great enemy for so long, the world had become anything but a more stable place. Terrorists still had plenty of countries willing to sponsor them as a means of covert warfare. A lot of the old players in the terrorist game had disappeared, but there were still enough to go around, and new groups were cropping up like fungus. Smaller countries had plenty of up-and-coming dictators to keep the local pots boiling. The United States had interests abroad in all the corners of the globe. And the SEALs, along with the rest of the Special Operations Forces, never knew which arena we would be ordered to next.

  We always seemed to have our nose in something as the world’s last superpower. Having to act as the world’s policeman is a two-edged sword, kind of a damned-if-we-do-and-damned-if-we-don’t situation. If we here in the United States don’t act on a situation where civilians or a general population is suffering, we’re looked on as heartless and cruel. But when we do go in and wave that big stick, trying to keep the worst of the violence away from those who can’t defend themselves, we’re called the aggressors. It’s a classic catch twenty-two.

  At least with the SEALs and the rest of the SOCOM (Special Operations Command) forces, the politicians have a sharp scalpel to attack the problem with rather than a sledgehammer. The problem with smacking the wrong target with a sledgehammer is that the hammer can sink in and get stuck. Then you have a hell of a time pulling it back out.

  With all the possible actions and different places where we might have to operate, the Teams have always had to keep on top of things and be ready for anything. Once we were on standby and had to prep for two different crises. One of the hot areas was in Africa and the other practically in another hemisphere. To cover both these spots, we had to split our assault group into two operational teams.

  Part of my job was helping to decide which platoon would cover which area. The African spot was running hotter than the other and looked to be the best fo
r action coming up soon. Neither platoon could decide where they wanted to go. Opportunities for active operations were few, and all the guys wanted their chance for a hot op. Finally we decided to let chance take a hand.

  We put the names of the squads in a hat and let the most junior guy in the unit draw a slip out. The name drawn got the first pick. The other boat crew won. They chose Africa, so we took the other by default. Just like much of the rest of the world, we would watch CNN and see that the African situation looked like it was heating up fast. There was no animosity over which unit took what mission; we were all part of the same Team. It was just that some players might manage to get on the field first for this one.

  While we were both on standby, a couple of workups on possible missions came up for Africa. Within a two-week period, the other crew had been recalled to base twice. Coming in, they would get their brief and prep for an op.

  The mission always comes first, and we helped load out our Teammates for their op. And as things have gone before, the ops were downstaged and canceled. The rule held true: Don’t get your hopes up for an op until you’re doing your insert.

  One night while I was at home, my beeper went off. A recall had gone out, and I headed in to the Team area. Our site had heated up suddenly and now we had an op. The task was to go into a hot area and recover an American citizen who was in danger. The “citizen” was an eighteen-month-old baby.

  While prepping for this operation, some mild animosity built up in the Team. The right-time-right-place rule had come into effect. When I helped the other unit prep for their possible operations, I felt a strong desire to go with them. Strong desire? Hell, I would have given my left testicle to be going with them.

  The others had worked up their ops for Africa and were disappointed when they were canceled. But that was the area they had chosen. Now it was our turn to get ready. There was some grumbling from the ranks, from the guys who weren’t going to go. But that sort of thing should be expected from a bunch of highly trained hard chargers who wanted the chance to prove themselves and just saw one chance slip away.