by John Weisman
And if politics was one reason Wes Bolin had decided he’d keep his decision to himself, op-sec was the other. He would continue to deploy chaff, sending out taskers just as he’d been doing to all the Tier One units. But DEVGRU would work the real scenario: utilizing all the overhead, all the thermal, and all the eyes-on intelligence Vince Mercaldi’s people were collecting in Abbottabad. That intel would allow the SEALs to work the kinks out.
He would also insist they red-team the mission—table-top it against another group of SEALs who would play the bad guys, so that every vulnerability could be tested, every flaw probed, every contingency considered, all before the fact.
Oh yes, starting early was good tactics. The more preparation time a unit had, the more likely it would be to develop a successful op-plan. Starting now would give DEVGRU the time to do just that. Yes, the assault was the easiest part of the mission. But it had to be flawless because, especially in Abbottabad, there had to be an extended time for sensitive site exploitation. Most HVT missions ran on a thirty-minute template. This one would take one-third longer.
JSOC’s slurpers, as they were called, would want to go over the compound with the proverbial fine-tooth comb and gather up flash drives, hard drives, DVDs and CDs, laptops, papers, pocket litter, memorabilia, and photos. And meanwhile the JMAU—the Joint Medical Augmentation Unit—would be collecting DNA from corpses and everyone else in the compound. All of that would have to be table-topped, and then run real-time. Bolin’s mind was made up. It would be DEVGRU, and Bin Laden would be a corpse. Buried in a secret location. Or better, it came to him in a sudden, dazzling burst of inspiration, put somewhere no one would ever find him.
Let people scream and yell afterward. It wouldn’t matter then. Because UBL would be dead—and everything else would be moot.
Vice Admiral Wesley “Slam” Bolin, varsity defensive lineman, USNA class of ’76, even had an operational designator ready to go: Operation Neptune Spear.
And yes, he had to admit when he looked in the mirror, maybe there was just a little bit—a smidge, as his wife, Debra, would say—of a “Go Navy! Beat Army!” attitude to all of this.
But guess what? He was also making the right call. And he knew that right down to the marrow in his bones.
“Sir, how much intelligence will we have for our prep?” Even though the admiral hadn’t given him a clue about the specifics, Tom Maurer understood all too well that special operations was not a seat-of-the-pants art. Intelligence was the key to success. If you’re going to blow an outer door, you have to know how thick it is and what it’s made of (most inner doors can simply be kicked in). You have to know how many bad guys there are and have a pretty good idea of how they’d be armed. You have to know if there will be civilians, and how many. Are there dogs? Geese? Sentries wearing suicide vests?
And more than anything, you have to know what can go wrong—have to analyze your own vulnerabilities, so you can identify most of them them beforehand, and then, when the merde hits the fan, you can adapt, overcome, and prevail.
“I can give you this much now.” Bolin looked intently at the younger man and ticked off items on his fingers. “Suburban environment, multilevel structure, multiple occupants including women and children, one prime HVT, possibly two others. Security force, unknown.”
The admiral paused to consider his next words carefully. “In about five or six days I’ll be able to provide you with additional information. Very good intel, so you can create a mock-up in a secure location and work out the kinks. And in time—certainly within the next month, I would hope—extremely specific intel with regard to targets, timing, and other matters. My question to you is, who have you got available so you can begin the process ASAP?”
Maurer didn’t answer right away, because it was a tough call. Personnel-wise, his unit was stretched thin. Very thin.
The original SEAL Team Six in 1980 had seventy-two shooters broken into two teams, Blue and Gold. By the late 1980s, post-name change, the command was expanded into four: the original two; Green Team, which was DEVGRU’s training element; and Red Team, the third action team.
These days there were new unit designators. Instead of teams, DEVGRU was broken into six squadrons of fifty to seventy SEALs each: Blue, Gold, and Red were the action units; Gray handled technical and equipment test and evaluation; Green Squadron was the training unit; and the smallest, Black Squadron, was the covert group, which did much the same sort of totally under-the-radar work as Delta’s D Squadron.
Squadrons were broken down into three troops, which had alphabetical designators: Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. And the troops were further segmented into numerically labeled assault teams of four to six SEALs each.
Blue and Gold were overextended. Roughly half of Gold was parsed out in two—and four-man SEAL teams in Colombia and Peru, working counternarcotics and going after the FARC. The other half of Gold was in Afghanistan, chasing HVTs. Gray was not action-ready and would take time to bring up to speed. Other DEVGRU SEALs were training, some in shooting schools like Gunsite or Mid-South to hone their skills, others doing advanced language work in Monterey. Blue Squadron, like Gold, was forward-based, although entirely in Afghanistan, some of its people working TF 131 missions in Helmand Province, others in the northeast border regions, still others supporting missions in Kandahar Province, south of Kabul.
That left Red Squadron, which had been stood down following the Norgrove rescue attempt. Red was neither on alert nor deployed.
But Red?
Maurer knew how hard Dave Loeser had been working to rebuild the squadron’s esprit de corps and its performance. They had the balls. They had the capabilities. But the Norgrove episode had made them second-guess themselves. That couldn’t happen. Not ever. Killing a hostage was tough. But they had to get past it. Because there were times—as there had been in the past—when they would have to look a woman in the eyes and kill her. Not hesitate.
Because when it came right down to it, DEVGRU was all about killing, full stop, end of story. You had to be able to pull the trigger. That was what the unit was all about.
So Dave Loeser started slow. But in the past few weeks he’d been been pushing them balls to the wall. Challenging them. Demanding their best—and then some. Testing every bit of their capabilities, judgment, and skills. Setting them up to fail and watching to see how they dealt with it. Putting them through his own version of Hell Week.
They’d been at it without letup since the seventh of January.
Loeser had told him three days ago that Red was good to go. He had his killers back.
A less secure CO might have asked for specifics. But Maurer trusted his squadron commanders enough not to second-guess or micromanage them. If Dave Loeser said his people were ready, that was enough for him.
Maurer looked COM/JSOC straight in the eye. “Red Squadron’s available, Admiral.”
17
Kot Lakhpat Central Jail, Lahore, Pakistan
February 27, 2011, 1145 Hours Local Time
Lahore’s central jail sits in the southern part of this parallelogram-shaped city of six and a half million souls. It is surrounded on the north by plowed lentil fields and on the west by cabbage fields and an eighteen-acre, half-empty industrial zone. To its south is the Lahore Race Club. To the east, as far as the eye can see, lies a series of neighborhoods filled with tens of thousands of lower- and middle-class houses and apartment blocks.
The main jail is built in the shape of a wheel, with inmates housed in long, one-story spokes that radiate out from a large, oval inner courtyard. Ancillary buildings housing administrative and other functions dot the grounds on the perimeter of the wheel. A new section of the jail, two square, multistory, high-security buildings built especially for sectarian, domestic, and foreign terrorists and jihadists, sits on a walled, rectangular four-acre plot directly to the east of the old jail.
The old Central Jail is, like all the other jails in Punjab Province, extremely overcrowded. Originally built fo
r fewer than a thousand prisoners, Kot Lakhpat currently houses more than four thousand inmates, ranging from common criminals to mass murderers. It was where the Pakistanis chose to incarcerate Ty Weaver.
The consulate was closed on Sundays, and that was the day its RSO elected to visit so he could do it on his own time and under the radar. Ty Weaver was not the professional diplomats’ most beloved of individuals these days, and as far as the consul general and most of her staff were concerned, he could rot in hell—or jail. The RSO, on the other hand, had different views.
Twice the Paks sent ISI teams masquerading as policemen to interview him about Ty’s duties and his relationship with the consulate. Both times, Wade had corroborated the CIA man’s cover story, insisted that Ty had diplomatic immunity, and even showed them copies of the reports Ty had written as part of his cover for status.
And when the ISI officers told him his story was at variance with the consul general’s interview, Wade became indignant. “He worked for me, not the CG. She doesn’t have a clue about what he did.”
Of course he covered for Ty: Ty had been Delta. Tier One. He’d put his life on the line for the country. You don’t give up people like that.
At the outer perimeter, Wade waited in line until he was allowed through the main gate. He displayed his diplomatic credentials at the guard post, told them why he’d come, and was asked to wait. After half an hour he was escorted across the five-hundred-foot, poplar-tree-lined driveway to one of the squat, shoebox-shaped administration buildings that flanked the jail’s main gate.
Inside he was marched through a series of metal detectors, handed a visitor’s badge on a chain, then led to a snot-green office with peeling paint and steel furniture bolted to the floor.
Wade followed the guard into the office and perched on the edge of the cool table. The room smelled of industrial-strength disinfectant. The guard said, “Please wait here,” and left, closing the door behind him. When he did, Wade realized that only the corridor side of the office door had a knob on it.
Sixteen minutes later Ty was brought into the office in handcuffs, escorted by a Mutt & Jeff pair of guards in soiled uniforms and Pancho Villa mustaches. He was unshackled, and the guards withdrew.
Wade eyeballed the CIA man. He was still wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he’d been arrested. “You’ve lost weight,” Wade said.
“Prison food.” Ty laughed. “Actually, they feed you pretty good here. Lots of lentil and chicken stew.”
“How’re the accommodations?”
“They’ve got me in isolation. I’ve got a small barracks all to myself. Six cells. I could have my pick.”
“You’ve got two more rooms than I’m allowed on my State Department housing allowance. Maybe I should consider a move.”
“Only if you like all your locks on the outside of the doors.”
“Maybe not.” Wade scratched his beard. “Anything I can do for you?”
“Call Patty,” Ty said. He recited the number and Wade wrote it down. “Tell her you saw me. Tell her how I look, and that I’m in good shape.”
“Will do.”
“And let her know I’ll be home soon.”
“Sure.”
“Hell, I would have been home by now, except for that idiot senator.”
That was true. Just prior to Senator Kelly’s visit, the Pakistanis and the U.S. were close to a backdoor agreement engineered by Prime Minister Yousuf Raza Gilani. The Americans would pay half a million dollars in diyya—blood money—to the families of the men Ty had killed. He would be allowed to leave, and the U.S. would quietly spirit him out of the country.
After Senator Kelly’s press conferences, however, a Pakistani court decided that Ty would be held at least until March 14. And the diyya price had gone up. Now the families wanted just over $2 million.
Wade examined Ty’s face. It was haggard, strained, tense. He had a two-, maybe three-day beard. “You look like shit, you know.”
Ty gave the RSO a grim smile. “Do I look like that on TV?” The Pakistani news shows regularly aired segments of Ty’s videotaped interrogation, which the Paks leaked to their state-run media.
“Naw, on TV you look like that guy on CSI.”
“If only.” Ty ran his hand through close-cropped hair. “I hate not working out. I’m going to flab.”
“Don’t they have a weight pile here?”
“This ain’t San Quentin, dude. No TV, no library, no weight pile.”
“The good news is no Mexican Mafia or Aryan Brotherhood, either.”
“Yeah, but we’ve got AQN and Taliban.”
“In segregation, right?”
“You better believe it.”
The room fell silent for half a minute. Ty took the time to appreciate the RSO’s visit. He looked at Wade. “Thanks for coming, dude.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
Ty gave the RSO a thumbs-up. “You bet.”
The two men fell silent again. Neither was given to small talk.
Finally Wade said, “I pouched most of your professional stuff for you. It should end up at your home base.”
“Thanks.” Ty had stored a cache of CIA gear—false license plates, IDs, and other equipment—in the RSO’s safe.
“No prob,” Wade shrugged. “Anything else you need?”
Ty fingered his very ripe plaid shirt. “A fresh set of clothes would be nice.”
“I’ll bring a package in a couple of days.” Ty’s belongings had been moved out of the apartment he’d shared with Loner, Kent, and Gary within hours of the shootings. The three AWG Soldiers were long gone, but Ty’s two suitcases sat in the RSO’s office. “Anything you specially—”
The RSO stopped speaking at the sound of the door being unlatched.
The guards were back. Mutt was holding the shackles. Jeff had a big ring of keys.
“Yeah—skivvies. Mine’ll walk out of here on their own.” Ty extended his hand. “Thanks, dude.”
Wade took it. “Keep the faith, bro.”
“Nothing else to do.” Ty gave the RSO an upturned thumb before Mutt slipped the handcuffs on his wrists. “Remember—call Patty.”
18
Abbottabad, Pakistan
March 2, 2011, 1620 Hours Local Time
Charlie Becker sat outside the Iqbal Market collecting alms, and his thoughts. Tareq Khan was back. Charlie had eyeballed the Bin Laden courier, quite by chance, four days earlier. He was skirting the perimeter of Ground Zero, the Khan compound, when the gates opened and the red Suzuki drove out.
But it wasn’t Arshad who was driving. It was another Pashtun, slightly younger, whom Charlie had never seen before, with a woman and two kids in the back, and a young male child riding shotgun.
Had to be Tareq. The Suzuki was the Khans’ car. No one else drove it.
Then Charlie had seen him again. Yesterday. At the zam-zam stand across from the Kabul Café. No wife, just Tareq and the kids. He bought them all milkshakes: mango, papaya, orange, and melon. They had stood next to the stand and drunk them. And Charlie heard the kids ask Daddy how his trip was and how sad they were when he was gone, but what wonderful presents he’d brought them.
And then Daddy told them he wouldn’t have to go away again, not for a long time. He kissed them all, telling them he’d be at home, except for one or two very short visits to friends near Peshawar, but it would only be for a day or two.
Bingo, thought Charlie. Gotcha.
Exuberantly, he’d bursted it all to Valhalla Base: the short trips, the kids’ presents, the zam-zams.
And from there his transmission disappeared into the great void.
And left Charlie hope, hope, hoping, it would do some good.
Because if Charlie had thought about it, which he had—oh, had he ever—he was beginning to wonder whether anything he was doing out here was making a difference.
The reason for this unusual (for him) introspection was that, although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, including and m
ost important to himself, he’d been somewhat depressed of late.
It wasn’t anything to do with Saif’s death. That sonofabitch deserved everything Charlie had given him. If anything, killing Saif had served to remind Charlie of his raison d’être: putting those who threatened the nation in the ground. But even so, for the past week or so, Charlie had been feeling . . . empty. Like he’d been caught up in an existential vortex and couldn’t spin out of it. Part of it, of course, was the culture of which he was a part, had been a part for more than three decades, first as a Ranger, then at CIA. Rangers, like other Tier One units, operate in secret.
Tier One Warriors don’t talk about what they do, or where they do it, except to other Rangers. Same for SEALs and Delta shooters. Charlie understood secret. But this was different. Undercover was a whole nother universe. Like working in a vacuum. And, as Charlie had lately discovered, depression was a palpable reality; a bona fide part of his life. It was agnawing.
Even Waseem noticed it. “You seem very quiet these days, even sad, Brother Shahid,” the tearoom owner had said only last week. “Is something wrong, God forbid it?”
And Charlie had thought, as he sat there sipping his tea, Well, yes, Waseem, I’m quietly debating the state of my world, because I’m hoping that what I’m doing here will help to put one of your greatest heroes in the ground. Bury him with a stake right through his fricking heart. But y’know, I don’t actually know if I’m doing anybody any good out here because I’m working in a vacuum and I feel totally isolated. On the other hand, the tea sure is wonderful.
