By that evening, General Colin Powell, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, issued an order to the 5th Fleet commander directing PHIBRONFIVE to proceed at once to the northern Arabian Gulf and be prepared to interdict any other Iraqi vessels that might attempt to run the blockade.
We left MODLOC in the Indian Ocean and with a routine speed of approach (SOA) steamed toward the northern Arabian Gulf. Two days into our voyage, another message came over the Teletype. Intelligence revealed that Saddam Hussein had personally relayed a message to the master of an Iraqi supertanker, the Amuriyah, that under no circumstance was the Amuriyah to stop for the U.S. blockade. The tanker was portside in the city of Aden, Yemen, just a few days’ steaming from the Persian Gulf. In order for the Amphibious Ready Group to intercept the tanker before she got to the Strait of Hormuz, we would have to proceed at full steam, which we did.
The following day we received additional intelligence that caused quite a stir aboard the Okinawa. Reportedly, the Amuriyah was transporting “something” of great value to Saddam. The mysterious “something” had the analysts spooked. There was speculation ranging from chemical weapons to a small nuclear device. While it seemed implausible, it nonetheless heightened the anxiety of everyone in the Amphibious Ready Group.
Sitting at the fold-up desk in my stateroom, I heard a light knock at the door.
“Enter!”
Nothing.
“Enter!” I yelled again.
The door to my cabin slowly opened and a young petty officer peeked into the room. “Commander McRaven?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“Yes sir. The commodore would like to see you in his stateroom.”
“Now?”
“Yes sir. Now.”
Dressed in my working khaki uniform, I grabbed my notebook and headed out the door to the commodore’s office. Coumatos had been my boss now for well over a year and I had become an integral part of his staff. As the senior SEAL aboard the Okinawa, I was dual-hatted as both a staff officer with the squadron staff and as the Naval Special Warfare Task Unit commander. As a staff member, I had spent most of the past eight months living aboard the Okinawa. While most SEALs hated spending time on ships, I really enjoyed it.
Life aboard a Navy ship hadn’t changed much in fifty years. The technology had changed, but as with the ships of World War II, you still lived in very close quarters, ate together, worked together, and fought together. There were all the human dynamics of people crammed into a steel hull, but that’s where Navy discipline and a minimalistic lifestyle were crucial to having a well-oiled crew. The sailors slept in racks stacked three or four high. The only space for personal items was underneath your mattress or in a small locker. The officers’ “staterooms” were generally four men to a room, and the more senior officers were two to a room. Racks were made every morning. The sinks were always wiped down after use. Showers were three minutes—no more. You showed up for your watch fifteen minutes prior to turnover. If you showed up fourteen minutes prior, you were late. The brass throughout the ship was polished to prevent corrosion. The passageways were swabbed. Old paint was chipped away and new coats of paint applied every week. Nothing was left unattended. Everything about your day was planned down to the minute. Even your free time was on the calendar. The rigor was tiring at times, but also reassuring and predictable, and in a strange way, comforting.
“Come in,” Coumatos yelled from the other side of the door.
Relative to the rest of the officers, the commodore lived well—a large one-room stateroom with his own shower and head. There was a small conference table in a sitting area that served double duty as a dining table. I remember envying the commodore until years later I found myself in command. The old adage “It’s lonely at the top” is an old adage for a reason.
To my surprise, the MEU commander, Colonel John Rhodes, was in the room as well. The two men were huddled around the conference table looking at an overhead photo of the Amuriyah.
The Amuriyah was nine hundred feet long with a seventy-two-foot freeboard (the distance from the water to the first deck). She was riding high in the water and likely had no oil on board. The deck of the tanker was a maze of large pipes running from the pilothouse to just short of the bow. There were only a few open spaces in the maze and they were all quite small.
Coumatos motioned me to the table. “Have you seen this?”
“Yes sir. I’ve been studying it all day,” I answered.
“What do you think?” Rhodes asked.
“Well, sir, it’s pretty straightforward.” I pulled out a pen and began to outline an initial plan. “We position two Hueys with snipers on the port and starboard sides of the Amuriyah. Once we get the all-clear from the snipers we bring in the assault force aboard the CH-46.” I circled a spot on the photo.
“The 46 hovers amidships, between the pilothouse and the bow. We do a fifty-foot fast rope onto the deck. Consolidate the men, then split into two teams. One assault element to the engine room to stop the vessel and one to the bridge to take control. Once we have control of the ship we bring the prize crew aboard and steam her wherever you want.”
Rhodes nodded. Coumatos asked, “What if they clutter the deck with debris?”
“There is a spot right off the bow that we could maneuver to, but we should have plenty of time to make that decision. We’ll know well before boarding her if the primary spot is fouled. If they try to stop us while we’re boarding, then the snipers can keep them away.”
“Who would you take as your assault element?” Rhodes asked.
Rhodes’s question was more than tactical. I was a SEAL, and he likely wondered whether I would take the SEALs over the Marine Force Recon. But the best unit for the mission was the Marines, who were exceptionally well trained in close-quarters battle—the kind of skills we would need for this operation.
“Sir, I’ll take the Force Recon as the assault element and the SEALs will be on a second 46 as the Quick Reaction Force.”
The two senior officers looked at each and nodded their approval.
“Okay, Bill,” the commodore said. “Be ready to brief the CONOP to me and Colonel Rhodes in the next twenty-four hours. I want to know the assets you need for your rehearsal and any additional support required for the mission.”
“Sir, what about the R2P2?”
“We don’t have time for that. Just get me the brief soonest.”
I gave a hearty “Aye-aye, sir,” collected my notebook, and left the cabin. Somehow I knew I wasn’t going to be popular with the PHIBRON or MEU staff. The R2P2 was the rapid reaction planning process that the Marines and Navy staff had been learning and exercising for the past eighteen months—it was a process intended to develop courses of action for crisis events just like this one. The two staffs prided themselves on their ability to develop a mission statement, identify the specified and implied tasks, outline three courses of action (COAs) and the risks associated with each, and then in a very deliberate and elaborate briefing session advise the Navy and Marine leadership as to the best COA. The R2P2 was ingrained into the PHIBRON and MEU staffs from the beginning, and now we were tossing it out in favor of a more “streamlined” approach—to wit, McRaven, give us a plan. For years to come I would question the wisdom of Coumatos and Rhodes to forgo the R2P2, only to find that when I was in command, I did the same thing. Experience matters, and sometimes all the staff work in the world doesn’t get you better results than what the experienced officer knows intuitively.
The two staffs did complain about their lack of inclusion in the senior leader planning, but they quickly got over it and we proceeded on with the rehearsals. Within seventy-two hours we were ready.
The loudspeaker on the Ogden blared again, “Assault element to spot one!” I knew the Force Recon platoon was already positioned on the helo deck and probably had been for the past thirty minutes. Standing on the bridge, I was getting last-minute instructions from Captain Braden Phillips, the skipper of the Ogden. “Time to
go,” he said, smiling.
“Roger. See you in a bit,” I said, slinging my Heckler and Koch MP5 across my back. I walked off the bridge, down the ladder, along the starboard rail, past a number of anxious-looking sailors, and out onto the main flight deck. The Force Recon platoon had already boarded the helo. Gathered around the hangar was a crowd of ship’s crew, all smiling and yelling their encouragement. It was the first real “action” of Desert Storm and the historic nature of even this small clash was not lost on the sailors.
The thump, thump, thump of the blades began to drown out the crew’s cheers as I walked slowly to the ramp of the helo, working hard not to look excited. It was exciting, but inside I was calm. We had a good plan. We had rehearsed extensively. The Marines and SEALs were well trained. We had overwhelming firepower. And I had the confidence in my own abilities to know that under pressure I would make the best decisions possible. Still, on every mission, the unforeseen is always lurking in the shadows.
Looking out the small porthole in the Marine CH-46, I could see the Amuriyah, her large bow powering through the water, a massive wave rolling off her port and starboard sides. The master of the Iraqi tanker had turned all the ship’s water cannons inward, creating a latticework of high-powered hydraulic projections. The water from the cannons pooled on the tanker’s deck, creating pockets three and four feet deep. It would make movement around the vessel difficult for the operators.
Donning my headset, I heard the pilot request permission to launch.
“Launch the assault force,” I answered. The ship’s tower gave clearance and the helo lifted off, banking hard to starboard and gaining altitude quickly. Inside the aircraft sat twenty-one Marines from 1st Force Reconnaissance out of Camp Pendleton. The platoon was led by Captain Tony Stallings, a six-foot-four, 245-pound former defensive end from Arizona State. Stallings was an imposing figure and had that competitive attitude that made him a formidable Marine and a great platoon commander. His noncommissioned officers were all handpicked and extensively trained in ship takedowns. Each man carried a CAR-15, a .45-caliber pistol, a squad radio, flash-crash grenades, and extra ammo. We didn’t expect a firefight, but we were ready if there was one.
Once the helo was off the deck, I moved forward in the cabin to look out the side door. The two Hueys, which came off the Okinawa, were just arriving on station. I watched as one helo positioned itself on the starboard side of the Amuriyah and the other on the port side. Just as planned. I could hear the SEAL snipers in the Hueys talking on the squad radio. They were scanning the ship for any signs of threat.
“There’s a lot of movement on deck,” the port-side sniper reported.
“Any weapons?” asked the starboard sniper.
“Negative. But some of the crew have axes.”
“Roger. Copy.” There was a squelch on the radio. “Raven, Raven, this is Hotel Zero One, be advised approximately twenty personnel on the main deck. No weapons. Two crewmen carrying axes. How copy?”
I pushed the talk button and responded. “Roger, Hotel Zero One. Understand approximately twenty pax on deck. No weapons. Two men with axes.”
“Raven, this is Hotel Zero One. You are cleared to rope.”
“Roger. Raven out.”
I switched back to the interhelo comms and raised the pilot. “All right. We’re cleared to rope. Take us in.”
“Roger, sir,” came the reply.
Stallings had been monitoring all the communications and gave his Marines their final instructions. The fast-rope master checked the safety line on the fast rope one final time. The fast rope was a green two-inch-thick heavily woven hawser. What made it special was how it was woven together. The unique weave allowed an operator to squeeze the rope to slow his descent. While you couldn’t completely stop, you could slide down a 120-foot rope with a hundred pounds of gear on your back and not hit the ground like a ton of rocks—most of the time. Unlike with a rappelling line, you didn’t have to clip in and therefore when inserting a force from a helo you could get more men on the ground much more quickly.
Looking out the hell hole in the middle of the helo, I could see the bow of the Amuriyah underneath us as the CH-46 slowed to hover speed. Ripping off the headset, I put on my Pro-Tec helmet, checked my weapons and gear, adjusted my fast-rope gloves, and prepared to exit the helo.
Inside the aircraft the Marines were stacking one behind the other. I was ninth in line. As the helo slowed to a hover the sound of the blades deepened. Out the hell hole I could see the pilot slide right, positioning the CH-46 over a small open space on the tanker. On deck the Iraqis scattered as the downblast from the aircraft created a windstorm, spraying water and oil residue in all directions. The rope master now had control of the helo’s positioning.
“Come left five feet,” he yelled into his headset. The pilot complied.
“Stand by!”
The rope master pushed the green-coiled rope out the hell hole and watched as it hit the deck, ensuring it was clear of obstacles.
“Go, go, go!” he yelled at the Marines stacked by the opening.
One by one the first four Marines grabbed the rope and slid out of the helo. Within fifteen seconds they were on the deck and had formed a security perimeter. Stallings and the small command element followed. I was right behind them. Grabbing the rope with two hands, I swung my body 180 degrees to the open side of the hole and began the fifty-foot slide down the rope.
Immediately the hot blast from the rotor blades belted the top of my head. The wind off the Gulf was equally oppressive, blowing me sideways, away from the frame of the helo. Gripping the rope with all my strength, I looped my legs around the thick green line and held on tightly. Below me on the rope were two Marines still making their descent. As the first Marine hit the deck his feet slid out from under him and the second Marine piled on top of his buddy. Immediately they rolled away from the rope, sprang to their feet, and cleared the deck as I came quickly in behind.
My gloved hands, burning from the rapid descent, loosened too soon and I hit the Amuriyah with a resounding thud. Steel is an unforgiving metal, and as I impacted the ship I could feel a sharp pain shooting up from my heels all the way to my jaw. But adrenaline, and pride, kept me from crumpling in a heap in front of the Marines. Within another thirty seconds the entire Force Recon platoon was on the deck and in position.
The configuration of the Amuriyah was typical of a supertanker. While the outer rail of the ship was clear, the inner area was a maze of large pipes, valves, small pumping stations, and circuit boxes. Good for cover if someone started shooting, but difficult to maneuver around. We were somewhat boxed in, but the ship’s crewmen had moved back toward the large superstructure that contained the pilothouse.
Stallings got a quick muster of his men and as planned they broke into two elements and began to move. Off to our right and left the Hueys were hovering twenty feet above the deck and just off the ship’s railing. I could hear the snipers on the squad radios.
“Port side clear.”
“Starboard side clear.”
The first sergeant, an experienced noncommissioned officer, took the second element and headed down the port side to an open hatch leading to the engine room. Positioned in the middle of the first element, I swung my weapon into a low port, not threatening, but ready. In front of me, the Recon element began to move, their strides deliberate, slow, but methodical. The point man, in a slight crouch, his weapon swinging from side to side, led the element out of the box and over to the starboard rail. Behind him, the number two man in the stack looked high, watching for possible threats from the outer ladders where most of the crewmen had begun to assemble. The other men in the patrol all had their fields of fire, and with precision honed over years of training, the Marines moved like the professionals they were.
The pilothouse was a five-story structure three-quarters of the way back on the vessel. On the outside of the building were ladders leading to each successive level. As the point man reached the first l
adder, several unarmed crewmen blocked his advance.
“Allahu akbar!” screamed a crewman.
Thrusting his weapon a few inches forward, the point man motioned to the crewmen to move.
“Allahu akbar!”
“Fuck you!” came the Marine’s response. “I said move!”
Three more crewmen began taunting the Marines, but the two on the ladder stepped aside and we pressed forward up to the next level. Within a minute we were on level five. Stallings quickly stacked the men on the open door and entered as per the standard operating procedures. The point man went first, breaking to the right and sweeping down the front of the pilothouse. The second man through the door broke left and swept through to the rear of the room, and the third and fourth men entered and took up positions at the nearest corners.
“Clear!” came the call from the point man.
I could hear the screaming of the master before I walked through the door.
“Leave my bridge! You have no right to be here. You are American pirates!”
Inside the pilothouse were another six Iraqis. They stood unarmed, but defiant. One man was behind the helm. One man was on the engine order telegraph. One man with binoculars was near the front of the cabin. The navigation officer was at the far end of the room by an old chart table. The first mate was by the master, and the master—all five feet five inches and three hundred pounds of him—stood in the center of the room, flapping his hands and shouting at the top of his lungs.
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