Worthy Fights: A Memoir of Leadership in War and Peace

by Leon Panetta

  Some of those same issues came up in my conversation with my Afghan counterpart, Abdul Rahim Wardak, a veteran of the mujahideen fight against the Soviets. Wardak was a fascinating combination of grizzled and polished: He spoke with a faint British accent and had gentle mannerisms, but he was tough and seasoned. He survived an assassination attempt in 2005 and pressed on. He encouraged the United States to remain in partnership with Afghanistan, for the sake of his country. He emphasized that the training needed to continue and that the United States needed to resist the temptation to leave.

  Those temptations were real, as were the hardships faced by our servicemen and -women. On that first trip, I visited Camp Dwyer in the Helmand River Valley to observe our troops training Afghan forces. The heat was blistering—we had a thermometer that topped out at 120 degrees, and the needle pegged that. Still, our troops stood at attention and greeted me graciously even as they melted in the heat.

  Finally, I met with Hamid Karzai himself, this time over dinner at the presidential palace. As was our custom, we spoke privately before sitting down for dinner, and he complained to me that he did not feel he was trusted by President Obama or other senior officials in Washington. He was particularly frustrated by the American embassy and Ambassador Karl Eikenberry, who he said ignored him. That relationship, according to Karzai, had simply collapsed. I’d heard some of that during my time at the CIA, so I wasn’t entirely taken by surprise. Responding, I suggested that Karzai could reach out directly to me. In the early days after 9/11, the CIA had helped Karzai regain control of Kabul, and legend held that a CIA officer had saved his life. That gave Karzai a comfort level with the CIA, and when I offered to serve as a channel for him going forward, he seemed eager to have someone he could turn to.

  When we moved to dinner, I nevertheless braced myself for him to tongue-lash me—he often held forth for public consumption—but he was gracious, though he would occasionally lead the conversation in strange directions. He reflected at considerable length on his knowledge of the American family, which he attributed to a visit he made to New Hampshire years earlier during which he briefly lived with a host family. Then, toward the end of the evening, he bluntly asked me, “What is the secret of the success of the American military?” I was at first taken aback, unsure how to answer. But then I suggested that perhaps it began with George Washington, who resigned his commission upon entering politics. That moment, I suggested, established the precedent of civilian control of the military, and it demonstrated that effective leaders need not control every aspect of their societies.

  I flew on to Iraq, where the focus was now on our drawdown there—how many troops should remain as we finished up our work. General Lloyd Austin, our commander in Iraq, argued for a residual force of more than ten thousand, and I generally agreed, feeling that we should not undermine the progress we’d made by simply walking away. Later, in a conversation with Maliki, I urged him to take the necessary legal steps to secure a Status of Forces Agreement that would make the maintenance of such a force possible. He was noncommittal, as he often was—hence my “Dammit, make a decision” comment.

  All in all, it was a productive trip, but also a reminder of the difficulties our military was shouldering. We were still engaged in two countries that were ambivalent about our presence—on one hand, eager to see our troops leave; on the other, fearful of what might come after. Ending wars can be very difficult.

  Nevertheless, I returned from Iraq and Afghanistan convinced that we had made strong progress in both places, and that we could leave those countries in better shape than we found them—if only we could consolidate our gains, strengthen the capabilities of their governments, and maintain a sizable force in both places to continue to train and advise the militaries. I knew that would be a tough sell in Iraq, which Obama had opposed from the start, but thought it might be easier in Afghanistan, where the president had shown a willingness to beef up before drawing down. I was half wrong. It was a tough sell for both places, and the trouble in Afghanistan began within weeks.

  On August 6, a Friday evening, I had just landed in Monterey for a weekend visit at home when John Kelly called. A Chinook helicopter had been shot down on approach to a landing zone where our forces were conducting a counterterrorism raid in Wardak Province in the eastern part of Afghanistan. The helicopter was struck by a rocket-propelled grenade, which had not been designed as an antiaircraft weapon. That was hardly consolation. Thirty American service members and eight Afghan soldiers were dead. It was the largest single loss of life of the entire Afghanistan war.

  Twenty-five of those who died were members of our special operations forces, including twenty-two Navy SEALs, many from the same unit that had taken down bin Laden.6 As I hung up the phone, I realized that families across the United States were about to receive word that they had dreaded more than anything. At that moment, they still believed everything was fine; within hours, they would know otherwise. John and Jeremy kept me apprised of events through the night as the recovery mission continued and eventually concluded.

  I flew to Tampa the following day to attend a change-of-command ceremony at our Special Operations Command, whose forces had borne the brunt of the casualties in that attack. Admiral Bill McRaven, who had led the bin Laden operation, assumed command that day, as he well deserved, but the solemnity of the moment overtook any enthusiasm Bill had for earning his fourth star.

  On Tuesday, I made my second trip to Dover Air Force Base. Twenty months earlier, it had been bitterly cold when the bodies of our CIA officers killed in the Khost bombing came home. As cold as that day was, this August day was oppressively hot, and aides circulated among the grieving with bottled water and Gatorade. Soon after I arrived, the president landed, and I met him as he strode down onto the tarmac. We first made our way into a lounge area where the families of the deceased were gathered, some three hundred people from every corner and walk of life in the United States. There were mothers in walkers, babies in strollers, wives and girlfriends with heads in hands, fathers with hollow eyes, sons fighting back tears. They were strewn across couches, pacing aimlessly, sitting on tables or lying on the floor.

  Quietly and with great dignity, the president circulated through the grieving Americans. They stood as he approached, and he made time for every family, hugging, patting people on the shoulder, speaking softly to each parent, each child, and letting them tell him about their loved ones. President Obama’s critics sometimes suggest that he does not connect with people, that he is aloof or standoffish. I wish all Americans could have seen him that day. He was sincere, strong, and genuine. The grieving families turned to him, and he reassured them that their loved ones had died for a purpose, in defense of their country and their families. Nothing could restore the lives of those servicemen, but President Obama that day helped heal the wounds of their absence.

  At the ceremony inside a giant hangar, the president, the service secretaries, and I stood at attention for nearly two hours while the flag-draped transfer cases were taken from aircraft into waiting hearses. The families waited quietly in the wilting heat, the silence interrupted only by soft sobbing. Those parents and children, brothers, sisters, and loved ones were strong and determined even in the face of such loss. Every member of Congress who ever complained that he couldn’t take a stand on an important issue because he feared the political consequences at home should meet these families. One conversation with a grieving family beside a flag-draped casket would put that fear in perspective.

  • • •

  Each week on Thursday afternoon, about a dozen senior military officers would file into my conference room at the Pentagon. The chairman and I took our places on one side of the table, facing our briefers from the Joint Staff. The briefers then would open each session by sliding a notebook across the table. It was classified “Top Secret” and was full of “deployment orders” awaiting my signature. Every time a unit—no matter how small—was sent anywhere in
the world, it required an order, and all major orders (and many minor ones) required the approval of the department’s top official, in this case me. Some of the deployment orders were straightforward; most required some discussion about the rationale and risk. We would talk for a few minutes and I’d ask questions, especially if there were disagreements about the need for a transfer or movement. And then I would decide with a signature on each order.

  From July 2011 to February 2013, I reviewed and approved the orders that deployed our forces in such a way as to provide, to the best of my ability, the most effective protection for our country. Every one of those orders was based on a judgment of how best to defend our country, and many of them put men and women at risk. After I returned from Dover, I never looked at a deployment order book the same way again.

  FIFTEEN

  “A New Defense Strategy for the Twenty-first Century”

  The men and women of the Pentagon began their working day on the morning of September 11, 2001, like many other Americans. They parked their cars or emerged from the subway, passed through security, and made their way to their offices. By 9 a.m., thousands were at work, attending meetings or pouring a cup of coffee or moving through the layered corridors of the storied building. They were doing their best, as they do every day, to defend the United States, to protect a people and a way of life. Unbeknownst to them, American Airlines Flight 77, bound from Dulles Airport to Los Angeles, had changed course in the air over Kentucky and was hurtling back toward Washington, inexplicably refusing to acknowledge attempts to reach it over the radio. The plane carried more than ten thousand gallons of fuel and, more precious, fifty-eight passengers and six crew members.

  At 9:37 a.m., it struck the west side of the Pentagon, smashing through the outer ring, known as the E Ring, and into the D and C Rings. Confused employees at first did not know what had happened, but the deafening noise, erupting flame, and powerful smell of jet fuel soon erased all doubt. One hundred and twenty-five Pentagon employees died that morning, along with every person on board Flight 77. For the Pentagon, 9/11 was personal.

  Every anniversary of the event brought a new wave of reflection, and the tenth such commemoration fell soon after I became secretary of defense. President George W. Bush and Laura Bush joined me in laying a wreath at the spot where the plane crashed. Afterward, the Bushes and I retired to my office for coffee. President Bush spotted a photograph of me with his mother and father and thanked me for displaying it. We’d had our differences, and I’d worked for the man who beat his father in 1992, but there was never rancor between me and the Bush family, and on that day we wondered at the extraordinary events of the past decade. He was affable as always, and unusually reflective. Bush had devoted his life and presidency to defending the country after 9/11, and I appreciated his support for the work of the CIA and the Pentagon.

  Later, I spoke to Pentagon employees, along with members of the families of the victims and firefighters who pulled wounded workers from the burning building. A light rain was falling, adding to the somber mood as those assembled reflected on that day ten years earlier, a day that, as I said during the ceremony, transformed “this building . . . into a battlefield.” I asked those present to join me in a pledge to “keep in our hearts the sacrifices of those who gave their lives for this country on 9/11 and during a decade of war.” I’m confident that the men and women who stood before me in the rain that morning did just that.

  That evening, as I was preparing to leave my office to attend a memorial service at the Kennedy Center, my assistant rushed in to tell me that Ehud Barak was on the phone from Israel, and it was urgent. I knew Ehud well enough to know that he did not sound the alarm lightly.

  “What’s going on, Ehud?” I asked.

  “There is a problem in Cairo,” he said, his voice discernibly anxious. “A mob of Egyptians has surrounded our embassy, they’ve attacked it, broken through the walls, and are making their way up into the building. We got most of our people out of there, but there are still six Israelis locked behind the last door. We have to get them out.”

  It took me a moment to process what he was telling me. I had forgotten that Israel maintained a small, heavily secured embassy in Cairo; it was one of the more tangible symbols of the Israel-Egypt peace accord that the United States had helped broker under President Carter. Ehud’s plea reminded me of that, but I still wasn’t sure what I could offer. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “I need you to call Tantawi and tell him to get his security forces to the scene and to let our people go,” he answered sharply. Field Marshal Mohammed Hussein Tantawi was a career officer in the Egyptian army, the head of the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF), which took over rule after the fall of Mubarak. He was the ruler of Egypt in every sense—at least until an election could be held—but because he was the military chief, he was considered my counterpart. I might not be able to turn away a mob in Cairo, but Tantawi could.

  The stakes were even higher than the fate of the Israeli embassy employees. Tripoli had fallen the previous month. Tensions were rising in Syria. The king of Jordan, my friend Abdullah, was on shaky political ground. Our partners in the Gulf—Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Bahrain, and others—were nervous about our plans to cut defense spending and impatient for us to confront Iran more forcefully, an anxiety felt in the Gulf even as acutely as in Israel. Amid those strains, a blowup between Israel and Egypt could have frightening ramifications for the entire Middle East.

  We needed to act quickly. One important feature of the secretary’s Pentagon apparatus is a large windowless room down the hall from my office. Dubbed “Cables,” it is a personal watch center that allows the American secretary of defense to monitor global events and reach leaders almost anywhere. On most nights, the calls it placed were routine; now it snapped into action to try to save lives. Cables, with our Middle East team packed inside, went to work to size up the situation in Cairo and to get Tantawi on the line, but the first response from his staff in Cairo was that he was “not available.” No further information was provided. For the next hour, we kept dialing. Each time: “Not available.”

  Increasingly anxious—and more than a little angry—I wondered aloud why he would refuse to come to the phone.

  “He’s not going to talk to you until he has the situation under control,” John Kelly suggested. “He is trying to get his arms around this. Let’s keep calling, so he knows how urgent this is.”

  Bailey Hand, my policy aide, poked her head in the door of my office to inform me that the White House was now on the phone. Israeli prime minister Netanyahu had called President Obama with a similar request for help. Obama too had reached out to Tantawi, only to be put off. The president’s staff made clear that the United States expected a call back immediately. We kept dialing to emphasize the point.

  I was running late for the ceremony at the Kennedy Center, and I couldn’t keep the crowd of a thousand family members waiting any longer. I jumped in my SUV and told John Kelly and Jeremy to get me on the phone as soon as he called back. At the center, I settled into my seat while my military assistant, Commander Larry Getz, took a place backstage with the mobile team from Cables.

  Finally, the call came, and Larry pulled me out of my seat in the front row. Backstage, I grabbed the phone and wasted no time with pleasantries.

  “Field Marshal, there is a crisis in the streets of your city,” I said. “The Israeli embassy in Cairo is being attacked. There are six innocent people in there. I need your personal assurance that you will do everything you can to get them out alive.” I had never spoken to the man, and here I was barking orders at him on behalf of America—not usually the way I like to do business, but I had no choice.

  He was as calm as I was brusque. “Secretary Panetta,” he began, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “It is a great honor to speak to you. I look forward to welcoming you to Egypt. Our great country and your great c
ountry enjoy a very special relationship.” My frustration mounted as he continued to pile on puffery and avoid the reason for our conversation. I needed assurances that the situation was under control, not an invitation to visit Cairo. Finally, he came to the point, telling me that his security forces were on the scene and that the Israelis would be rescued.

  Later that evening, Egyptian security forces battered their way into the building, broke up the attack, arrested the attackers, and ferried the Israelis to safety. Once the crisis was resolved, I took up Tantawi on the invitation he offered that night, visiting him in Egypt. We worked closely together thereafter.

  • • •

  In some respects, the military is a great American equalizer. It takes men and women from all parts of the country, from all ethnic and religious backgrounds and economic strata, and joins them in common purpose. In 2011, however, that fundamental egalitarianism had an exception: Under the tenuous doctrine of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” gays and lesbians were allowed to serve in the armed forces, but only if they were willing to conceal their orientation.

  That was a residue of the Clinton years, and a particularly unstable one. In those first, disorganized months of Clinton’s tenure, one entirely self-inflicted controversy grew out of the new president’s well-intentioned attempt to create a rational and fair approach to the treatment of gays in the armed forces. As a candidate, Clinton had promised to end the military’s ban on gays within its ranks, a position I supported as a matter of simple fairness. But his timing and handling of the issue once he won the election left a lot to be desired.