by Thom Shea
I could see the weapons barrel, so I concentrated on relaxing my eyes to let the image clear. Then I saw his back and head and right arm. I took a breath and closed my eyes. Then, all the training at sniper school and all those rounds over the years kicked in. I opened my eye to look at the wind. I could see it moving from left to right at about three miles per hour. The mirage was kicking. I closed my eyes and took another breath. With them still closed, I released the safety. As I opened them, I adjusted my aim to compensate for the wind and released my breath slowly.
Suddenly, I thought of my kids and my wife, and I think of that connection, far away … so far away, when I was not this man covered in dust, bullets flying everywhere, my men struggling with their own lives. I blinked, looking at the sniper looking at my window not knowing, and I said, “Do your best, fuck-head. Try to kill me, because here it comes, buddy.”
I remember the last things in me: my wife, so sexy; my sons, so strong; my daughter, so everything. I slide the last inch forward, where I would be exposed for a split second, then I squeezed.
Time froze. Dammit, if you’re death, come on. If you are all the things I have done badly come to claim me, then bring it. If you are the blackness of the Shea Clan, then so be it. I know my bullet is gonna kill you—why is it going so fucking slow? At least I died killing you, so your kind will never kill my family or my men.
Then I saw blood splash the rock behind his head, and all of a sudden my right eye is in pain, and I hear a smack on the ground. I rolled away from the window and grabbed my face. Oh, shit, I recall thinking. I recall just holding my eye, afraid to bring my hand down. I didn’t have any pain outside the initial shock I felt. Then I thought, Lying here not shooting, while my men are fighting for their lives, is sorta selfish. So I rolled over to my hands and knees and pulled my hand away. “Holy shit, no blood,” I laughed to myself.
I looked down on the ground where I had taken the shot and saw a round embedded in the ground where my head had been. He had me dead to rights but was too slow—what a chump.
I smiled, bent down, and twisted the bullet out of the ground, then dropped it in my pocket. I recall thinking it would make a great necklace for Stacy. The things you say to yourself in combat are funny. Funnier still is when you believe in yourself too much in combat.
Kids, the shift for me—what this whole book is trying to capture—was right then. That was my Adamantine moment. I was Unbreakable because of the connection with my men, my weapon, the air, the whole bloody fucking mess my Internal Dialogue had given me access to. My Internal Dialogue had given me access to things—all things—to living or dying, to my men, to me.
At that point, I moved to grab Texas, who I thought was dead. But we ran into each other at the door, and, God, I think we hugged each other.
“Dude, where is Nike,” I yelled.
“Chief, they are everywhere—from right outside the door to the bottom of the hill 600 yards away. We are fucked,” said Texas. He smiled, but I knew he wasn’t happy.
“Son, where is your gun?” I asked.
“Oh, they shot the shit out of it, so I left it there and jumped oft,” he replied.
“OK, where is Nike?” I asked again.
“He jumped off the other side. Hell, I don’t know where he is.”
I said, “OK, come with me. Here is an M4, but it has only one magazine, so make it count. You and I are going to run across that courtyard through the maze of bullets to see who is alive.”
“Oh, Chief? Your radio is off or something. They are trying to make comms with you,” Texas added.
Texas moved over and looked at my radio. “Oh,” he said, “what … did you turn the channel to the music channel or something?” I felt like an idiot, but his joke made me laugh.
On my count, one, two, three, we broke from the cover of the room and rounds were immediately hitting all around us. I was sure both of us were hit. I fell twice but couldn’t recall tripping. We dove into the room where the rest of the platoon was, and when I looked up, I was shocked.
All of their guns were pointed right at us. Then they all simultaneously said, “Shit, we are fucked. We can’t get out of this room. We are pinned down!”
“OK, shut the fuck up,” I said tersely. “We are going to kill as many as we can. Here are my two grenades and my 40 mm bandolier. You two get everyone’s grenades and put them in a bag, then meet us at the mortar tube.” I pointed to others in succession, saying, “You two get all the 40 mm you can find and all the tubes and meet up at the mortar. Go now. Who has a machine gun? OK, you get in a position to look at the front gate. Every minute, shoot through the gate until you are out of rounds, dead, or I tell you to stop. No one gets in that front gate, you got it? Go now.”
Nike and EOD burst into the room. I grabbed them, saying the three of us were going to the mortar and shooting every fucking round we had. “Let’s get some.”
We moved together, tucked up next to the wall, and found the mortar tube and rounds. As Nike and EOD prepped the tube, the rest of the men consolidated and threw grenades over the wall, shooting 40 mm over the wall toward where Nike and Texas said the enemy were. I called up to the C2 element that we had a full head count and were pinned down, so we were engaging with mortars. Clear altitude and direction. I am not waiting. I heard, “Roger, out.”
For the next eternity, we threw grenades, launched 40 and 60 mms, and shot the piss out of the front gate. As I unraveled the last tape on the mortar shell and pulled the pin, I heard C2 say, “Bird checking on, hold the mortars. But I gave the last one to Nike and said to send it.
Finally I called C2, saying, “Winchester on 60 and 40 mike, mike; Winchester on grenades and 7.62 link. Need resupply if anyone can support.”
Then I turned my channel to the air net and heard the call sign of a B-1 bomber. Snowman said, “Gents, B-1 checking on, get out the cameras.”
I looked around the courtyard into the tired, swollen eyes of the most courageous men on earth. Saw the smiles creep in, saw the future lives and families they would have, and sat down with my back against the wall, saying to myself, Stacy, I am coming home!
The B-1 bomber was the most beautiful plane I have ever seen. Any soldier or sailor who has ever been in a pickle like that would tell you the same thing. We watched him drop his entire payload on every enemy who had worked his way to the hilltops. Two thousand-pound bombs dropping 500 yards away are called danger close, and, wow, the shock wave is spectacular. After a bit he called himself Winchester and headed out. By then darkness was setting in, and the mother of all combat planes was eagerly checking on … C-130. Love it: don’t leave home without that plane, let me tell you.
During the next hour, the men rebuilt the various fighting positions, and ate and drank, saying, “Wow, that was close!” often to each other. The snipers built the position one sandbag higher, even though the roof was begging to fall with the new weight.
I called over to Nike, but he stopped me mid-sentence, “Fuck off, Chief. I would rather fall through the ceiling than take a round.” I smiled … “So would I.”
We leaders met in the compound adjacent to mine and had an interesting discussion. Each of us had our points to make. Our original mission was to stay for two days and clear the other side of the valley. Under that plan, my exhausted men would now leave our compound and patrol over to a series of twelve buildings, rummaging and/or fighting our way through whatever mess we found. Then, we would come back after the night of fun and have no sleep to face a day in an inferior position.
My vote was countered with, “What are you, a pussy? Are you afraid?”
“Well, if you fuckers want to fight from a position where we just got our ass handed to us, then you are fools. We have nothing to gain here. Get those helos in to pick us up, or I can bet you one of your men will surely die,” I replied.
“Well, the bosses sitting there back at camp said, ‘Good job; kill more enemy,’ and they ain’t sending a helo until tomorrow night. We ar
e stuck. Best get your platoon together and get the clearance done.”
I felt a surging anger like I have never known. Yet, I knew this wasn’t anyone’s fault. I knew, even then, war is fought by brave men, for reasons that truly didn’t matter to anyone, especially back home. We sick men, who eagerly go to hell to piss on the devil, only need permission.
Walking back to the compound, I merely said to myself, “Fuck it, let’s go pick another fight. The men will be bored if we just sit here and try to make sense of hell.”
I gathered the men of Bravo and put out the word and timeline. While they organized themselves and looked at maps, I sat down and finally had some food and Gatorade. Nothing like hot orange, piss-tasting Gatorade to bring out the flavors of hell.
When we departed the compound, we walked among the dead foreign fighters right outside the front gate. Then we passed the blown apart remains of the other thirty-two foreign fighters we had ripped apart with grenades, 40 mm, and 60 mm mortars. Damn, they had made a great attempt at getting in. “Sorry, gents,” I said to myself. “The victory only goes to the ones who win. That is the way of war.”
The rest of the night’s clearance was basically clearing a ghost town. We only found two old men, who were too tired and old to run away. However, we found out the head enemy lived in the middle of the wooded area about 200 yards from our location … in a fortress, the translator said.
I always wanted to see a fortress. I told my LT, “Let’s let him lead us there.”
With that, we set out on what truly looked like a wild goose chase. We circled back the way we came, through a maze of walls and irrigation ditches, then finally found a thirty-foot high building with no apparent entrance. After walking around the building what seemed like four times, we finally did find a way in. A new truck was inside this nice place. We all laughed at the truck because, at least at night, no apparent road was leading to the building. So we did what any SEAL would do. We popped the tires, cut the fuel lines, and cut the electrical systems.
The next day was slower, with the snipers only killing seven enemy fighters who had tried to climb up the hills near where I had killed the enemy sniper.
Finally, the flight out was truly the biggest sigh of relief I had ever had. Once we were miles away from the fighting area, I closed my eyes and thought of my family again. Stacy, I knew I was no longer afraid of dying. I don’t know when or where I will die, but the fear of dying left me for good over the last two days.
When we arrived back in our platoon compound, the operation’s center support crew had food and drink set out for us and were all wide-eyed with praise. They had watched most of the fighting on video feed and counted the enemy dead. And while I don’t wish that vision on my children, it made me want to tell them something very important: Kids, I can only hope that if you ever see a Navy SEAL or a Special Ops soldier that you acknowledge him in some way. Because you know what he is … and what he does for you.
ADAMANTINE LESSON NINE
Never give up
As you digest Section Nine, when you pick your path in life, you will have times when you mentally, physically, and emotionally hit exhaustion. There is no way around hitting it, and there is no way out of this rite of passage. I can safely say you will clearly hit it when you are committed to whatever you are doing. You might be the best at your profession, or just progressing your way up. Yet, you will hit this wall.
I can tell you that my experience has shown me 1,000 ways to not pass through to the other side of exhaustion in the pursuit of greatness. You will undoubtedly be able to find your own poor examples of how to fail. The solution, like all the ones I have shown you, doesn’t lie without. The solution lies within you. Don’t run and don’t hide from the pain, the fear, or the exhaustion.
Recognize you have created this path for yourself, and you need to be there. Those around you, too, need to be there as well. If you run and hide, they will, too. Or they will be forced to go without you. The loss of you may be enough to kill the whole effort. You count. As Stacy put it, “Do not fear dying. It only makes you weak.”
We have an underlying Internal Dialogue, a way of being during hard times that brings about perseverance and lack of fear unlike all others I have ever known. I call this a language of “Committed Unattachment.” In this language and way of being, you are fully committed to your goal and unattached to your emotions, pains, the whims of others, or even the occasional failure. Distractions don’t throw you off, rather, don’t throw off your Internal Dialogue. Mastering Internal Dialogue is your Unbreakable Life.
SECTION TEN
CLARITY
“Given enough time, any man may master the physical. With enough knowledge, any man may become wise. It is the true warrior who can master both … and surpass the result.”
—Tien T’ai
“Your work is to discover your work and then with all your heart to give yourself to it.”
—Buddha
Life seemed lighter for the next two days. We all got into our routines, whatever they were for each man, and continued to eat, rest, work out, and test our weapons. This totally insane ease of living we had acquired over the past three months can only be appreciated by those warriors who have faced this sort of hell. As I sit here and write to my kids my reasons for living, I reflect on stories I have read about adventurers like Lewis and Clark, or Shackleton, or, even, Columbus. They, too, must have faced horrible environmental conditions, faced the exhausting ups-and-downs of close encounters with death, and, finally, faced the morning when they woke up with no end in sight.
We now faced that exact state of being … “Shit, we are only half way.” I have read very little about Columbus or Lewis and Clark, but Shackleton’s voyage sits next to me on my combat desk. As I was thumbing through, somewhere around the middle, he noted the condition of “No end in sight,” and clearly addressed it in a way that reshaped the ultimate outcome of the entire expedition. He simply found a way to focus both his men and himself on each other—away from the conditions, away from thinking about what had happened and what could possibly happen. I am inspired by that thought.
The rest of the book tells some truly incredible tales that aren’t physically achievable, then or today. Yet, mentally, the depth of courage, character, and perseverance needed to just get through the day is unfathomable. Hell, I like it more because my men and I are accomplishing and performing inside that same margin—that space where there is no end in sight, the future is unclear.
In an effort to be in this very moment, paying no attention to what has happened or what may happen in the future, I simply got up, walked outside with my rifle, and headed to the range. Along the way I gathered up my platoon and had them load bullets, and as a fun treat, we packed the cooler full of Dr. Pepper and Gatorade. Making the best of this situation truly meant luxury, and Dr. Pepper is like champagne.
Yet, as we wrapped up living in the moment and all sat drinking our “champagne,” our boss’s truck came tearing down the range road. I looked at Nike and said, “Now, this cannot be good!”
“Ridge Boss, we have a rescue mission. One of the SFA teams is pinned down and have several dudes wounded and several dead,” LT told me, with a sort of out-of-place smile.
I got moving. “Nike, pack up and head back. LT and I are going to ride back in his truck and begin planning this mission. I want to see the entire platoon in thirty minutes in the planning tent.” Nike received my communication with a shrug and a smile.
While LT and I rode, we discussed what had been previously relayed to him regarding the SF Team and the time line we had to effect a rescue mission. What was clear, even in the brief tactical discussion, was the terrible, mountainous terrain and short amount of time we had to coordinate.
“Boss, all we need is clearance to go, and the amount of time we will be on location.”
“Our men truly need nothing else but to know those two things … where and how long,” I said as a matter of principle.
Once back at camp the immediate intelligence brief described the location and the truth about the Team’s disposition. The mission was designated highest priority, and all other missions were put on hold until the SF Team was rescued. High-level priority makes planning as easy as falling off a rolling log into water. We had our air assets. We had our weapons and gear ready. We had three hours to plan our insertion point and extraction point. I chose to set our time in the target area at forty-eight hours. No one likes to be in the field longer than that.
With the intel package in my hand, I walked over to the planning tent and, within fifteen minutes, had described where we were to insert, how long we were to stay, and where the SF Team was relative to our mountaintop position. I left the men to plan the various elements and special gear and guns we would require to support the team. As I withdrew from the tent, I looked up at the starry night and said, “Shackleton, you are one smart dude. Focus only on the men and the connection to each other.”
“Nike, stand here with me for a second,” I suggested to him as the rest of the guys walked away. “This is frowned upon during all these silly military leadership courses we all have to attend, but I want to tell you something.” I paused for a moment, knowing my pause would make him look up at me. “I have now seen you survive the worst conditions without receiving even a scratch. The platoon sees it as well. You will not die in combat, that is clear. We will be inserting on the ridgeline above the SF Team. I want to you get your sniper thing on again. I doubt we will even take a single round into our position, but I personally intend to use my sniper weapon to hold the enemy at bay. Make sure all the men get that this is going to be a sniper’s wet dream.”
“Ridge Boss, I appreciate the praise. I would say the same for you. I have no idea how those ten rounds went through your clothing and didn’t hit your skin,” Nike said as he reached back to his green notebook. “Let’s make a wager, then: all this sexy talk and praise is for women. Spartans don’t talk this way. The longest kill shot wins the platoon money pool,” he said confidently.
