Sea Stories

by William H. Mcraven

  BAGRAM, AFGHANISTAN

  April 8, 2009

  It was out of place in the world of tents, sprung shelters, and single-story berthing huts, but it was possibly the most important building in the war on terrorism. The Plywood Palace, built in 2004 by Navy Seabees, was a two-story wooden structure and the Afghanistan headquarters of my task force. The building had twenty or so rooms, nothing fancy, just plywood and framing, but over the years the Plywood Palace had been upgraded with state-of-the-art technology.

  The main command center on the first floor, referred to as the Joint Operations Center, was a large open room with over 150 people working behind computers, controlling aircraft, calling in medevacs, monitoring and directing drones, coordinating with the regional commanders, and orchestrating the thousand little decisions that go into a successful mission.

  The wall on the far end of the command center was thirty feet high and covered from top to bottom with flat-screen monitors. Every mission was observed. Every soldier was tracked. Every radio call was monitored. Every round fired was noticed. There was not a moment during any evening when real-life drama was not unfolding in front of your eyes.

  In the center of the large room, the Ranger Regimental Commander, an Army colonel, sat in a swivel chair, headphones on, coffee in hand, calling out commands as he directed the task force’s tactical fight in Afghanistan. With him was a small army of majors, captains, and noncommissioned officers all helping to ensure success on the battlefield.

  By 2009, we were conducting five to ten missions a night, from the Hindu Kush in northeast Afghanistan to Helmand Province in the south. As the task force commander, I reviewed and approved all the daily missions in Afghanistan, but my main job was to look at the fight from a global perspective. We had ongoing missions in Iraq, Yemen, Somalia, North Africa, and the Philippines. Already this year, we had taken the fight to Al Qaeda in Yemen and Somalia and chased terrorists across Mali and Nigeria.

  On the second floor of the Plywood Palace was my office and a smaller command center referred to as the Situational Awareness Room (SAR). The name was misleading. We didn’t just keep aware of the global situation; from my plywood desk, with an array of video feeds, secure communications, and an unending supply of energy drinks and peanut M&M’s, I could command forces anywhere in the world—and did so routinely.

  “Never too early for a Rip It, is it, sir?”

  I popped the top on my highly caffeinated, chemically infused fizzy orange-flavored energy drink and nodded toward the SAR NCO, who was just starting the morning shift. “The breakfast of champions,” I said, downing my first gulp.

  I wasn’t a morning guy. When I joined the SEAL Teams they told me that we would be working at night. I like the nights. The mornings—not so much. Although in truth, it wasn’t really morning anymore. The bright red LED clock showed 1000 hours, Zulu time, or Greenwich Mean Time. Everyone in the task force worked on a common time zone: Zulu time. That way, no matter where you were in the world, from Somalia to Washington, D.C., we all had the same reference point when it came to the clock.

  The night before had been fairly routine. The Rangers and SEALs hit five different targets across Afghanistan, from a Taliban compound in Kandahar, to a suspected Al Qaeda hideout in Konar, to a predator strike in Wardak. In Iraq, our Army task force elements and our British colleagues were continuing their nightly raids on Al Qaeda forces from Baghdad to Basra. Several of the boys had been wounded, but nothing too serious.

  I had departed the SAR around 2300. Some missions were still in progress, but as usual, unless something critical was going on—a hostage rescue, a mass casualty, a missile strike, or an assault on a politically sensitive target—I generally left the tactical fight to the colonels. I knew that the Ranger regimental commander, who was as good a warfighter as anyone in the task force, would make all the right decisions. The same was true for the Army task force commander running the fight in Iraq.

  I was in my rack by midnight. By 0600, I was rolling out of bed and on my way to the gym. Even at that hour, the large sprung shelter, filled with weights and cardio equipment, was packed. After a quick shower and breakfast, I headed off to my office, checked my emails, and then shuffled over to the SAR.

  On the video screens were the results of last night’s missions. I reviewed the casualty reports and got an update on the wounded. It looked to be just another day in the war zone.

  “Good morning, sir,” came the familiar voice of my chief of staff.

  “Morning, Randy,” I said, downing my last sip of Rip It. “How’d your Red Sox fare last night?”

  “Good, sir. They beat the Rays 5 to 3. Their bats were strong and the bullpen looked sharp. But it’s a long season.”

  As my chief of staff, Colonel Randy Copeland was in charge of running the camp in Afghanistan. He handled all the administrative and logistics issues that go with managing a large deployed force. Copeland was a former infantry officer, older than most of my colonels and a bit stocky. He had a dry sense of humor and he used it to great effect in keeping morale high during the tough times. He loved to harass everyone in the SAR, myself included.

  Copeland pulled up a chair beside me, looked me in the eye, and didn’t say a word. He just stared for a few seconds.

  “What…?” I asked.

  Copeland dropped his head to his chest. “Sir, the gate guards are at it again.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “They stopped General Khan and his men at the gate. They won’t let them in.”

  Ali Khan was a general in the Afghan Army and my liaison to the Afghan senior staff. Every day he traveled an hour from Kabul to be at our command center. He and his officers helped coordinate our combat missions with the Afghans in the various districts. They were indispensable in the fight. However, the American guards at the main gate to Bagram Air Base always stopped Khan and questioned him for hours.

  “Get the base commander on the phone! I’m really getting tired of this shit,” I said.

  “Sir, I’ve already sent the sergeant major down to get General Khan. We’ll have him here in a few minutes.”

  “We can’t keep doing this every day, Randy. Get this damn thing solved.”

  “Yes sir,” Copeland responded.

  “I’m rounding up all the gate guards. I have the firing squad standing by and I intend to have them shot at dawn. I assume you’re okay with that?”

  “Absolutely!” I said. “And just to make the point, don’t give them blindfolds!”

  Copeland hopped up from the chair, gave me a crisp salute and a wry smile, and left the SAR. Somehow I knew he would get the problem solved and no executions would be required.

  As Copeland departed, the SAR NCO leaned over from the back row to get my attention. “Sir, the Joint Staff just called. They are requesting a video teleconference in one hour.”

  “What’s the subject?” I asked.

  “Apparently an American ship has been boarded by pirates off the coast of Somalia. They don’t have a lot of details right now.”

  “Roger. Let’s get the usual suspects assembled and see if Fort Bragg has any additional information.”

  “Roger, sir. Will do.”

  For years, Somalia had been a breeding ground for pirates. Thousands of ships passed through the Gulf of Aden every year, and a huge volume of merchant traffic came through the Red Sea. This year alone, Somali pirates had attacked more than two hundred ships, with 263 crewmen being taken hostage. Most of the ships and their crew were taken to an anchorage point off the Somali coast where they waited, sometimes for years, before the shipping company negotiated their release. I never understood why the shipping companies didn’t hire a bunch of “good ol’ boys” with deer rifles to stave off pirate attacks or just sail farther away from shore. When I asked the obvious question, I was told that ships weren’t allowed to enter port if they were carrying firearms and that it was more cost-effective to pay the ransom than to sail several hundred miles
off the planned course. Still, none of it made sense to me.

  Within the hour, my entire staff was gathered in the SAR for the VTC.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” came the voice over the video screen.

  “Scotty, how are you?”

  “Just another day in paradise, sir.”

  Colonel Scott Miller was the Deputy Director for Special Operations and the former commander of the Army task force element. Stan McChrystal had brought him to the Pentagon when McChrystal became the Joint Staff Director of Operations. Miller was exceptionally talented. A seasoned operator, he was on the ground as a young officer during the fight in Mogadishu in 1993, and since then he had been in constant combat in all the hot spots around the world. In 2004, I had pinned a Purple Heart on his chest after he sustained wounds during an ambush in Iraq. He was as good as they came.

  “What do we have, Scotty?”

  “Sir, here’s what we know.” Miller paused and looked down at his briefing notes. “Early this morning, a large U.S.-flagged cargo ship, the Maersk Alabama, was taken over by Somali pirates.”

  On the video screen to the left of Miller’s picture, my SAR NCO brought up a recent photo of the Maersk Alabama.

  “From what we understand, the crew attempted to resist, but the pirates were able to board anyway. We don’t have the exact details, but the captain, a guy named Richard Phillips, has been taken hostage.”

  “Hostage aboard the ship?” I asked.

  “No sir. The pirates left the Maersk Alabama in a lifeboat and took Phillips with them.”

  “What kind of lifeboat?”

  The SAR NCO spoke up. “Sir, I’ve got a picture right here.” Onscreen was a small twenty-eight-foot orange vessel with an enclosed top. It was the standard lifeboat found on most merchant ships.

  “How many pirates do we think there are?”

  “Sir, the crew reports there are four pirates and the captain in that lifeboat,” Miller responded.

  “How far is the nearest U.S. naval vessel?”

  “Sir, the Bainbridge, the Halyburton, and the Boxer are in the Gulf. The Chairman has directed them to start moving toward the coast of Somalia.”

  “What’s their ETA?”

  “It will take them about twenty-four hours to be on station.”

  I turned to the SAR NCO. “Do we have Captain Moore on the line?”

  The SAR NCO nodded.

  “Scott, are you up?” I asked, speaking into virtual space.

  “Sir, I’m here,” said Moore, his face appearing on the screen.

  Captain Scott Moore was the commanding officer of our Navy SEAL task force. Known as “Go to War Moore,” he was professionally aggressive and loved to be in the fight. He was a world-class mountain climber, incredibly fit, and tactically very sound. He had recently turned over the Afghanistan task force commander position to a Ranger colonel after two years of a long, tough fight. Under his command, his SEALs and Rangers had taken hundreds of enemy off the battlefield, but had also lost ten of their own. It had been a vicious fight against a determined enemy, and he was now back home in his day job, commanding officer of a SEAL Group.

  “Scott, who do we have nearby that can be on scene quickly?”

  “Sir, we have Jonas Kelsall in Nairobi. He’s got a team of about seven SEALs that could link up with the Bainbridge within six hours.”

  I knew Kelsall. He was a SEAL lieutenant commander, a fabulous young man who had done some enlisted time and then gone back to the University of Texas in order to get his bachelor’s degree and his Navy commission.

  “Bill, this is Shortney.”

  I heard the familiar voice of Vice Admiral Bill “Shortney” Gortney, the 5th Fleet commander, stationed in Bahrain.

  “Shortney, didn’t know you were with us.”

  “I’ve been listening in,” he said, his picture appearing from a conference room in Bahrain. “Just wanted you to know that anything I’ve got is yours for the asking.”

  Gortney had become a good friend and a very reliable ally in the war on terrorism. He had no ego when it came to getting the job done.

  “Thanks, Shortney. Not sure what we need just yet, but never worry, I won’t hesitate to ask.”

  I returned to talking with Scotty Miller. “Scotty, just so I understand the chain of command here. Am I in charge of this mission?”

  “Yes sir,” Miller responded, knowing that putting me in charge would give me access to all the military resources I needed.

  “Sir, the Chairman would like a Concept of Operations within the hour, but he and the Secretary have authorized me to move whatever forces you think appropriate at this time to set the conditions for the rescue.”

  “Roger, Scotty. Let me work with my staff and Scott Moore and we’ll be back with you in the hour. In the meantime, let’s just keep the video teleconference up and running.”

  “Sounds good, sir. I’ll pass on everything to General McChrystal. My guess is that the Chairman will also sit in on the next briefing.”

  “No problem. See you again in an hour.”

  There were a dozen or so stations on the current videoconference, from the Joint Staff, to the State Department, to CIA, FBI, NGA, DIA, Fort Bragg, and a number of military combatant commanders—too many folks to have a candid conversation.

  I turned to the SAR NCO. “Set up a point-to-point from my office to Captain Moore.”

  “Yes sir.”

  I moved to my office next door and took a few of my key staff with me. The office was large, plywood of course, and had room for ten personnel to gather around a video screen for conferences. I often had teleconferences with the White House and Joint Staff from my office to avoid the appearance that my entire staff was listening in.

  As Moore appeared on the screen, he began talking immediately. “Sir, we contacted Jonas. He and his guys have all their kit, to include their freefall chutes, and can be ready to launch within the hour.”

  I always marveled at our organization. Lieutenant Commander Kelsall and his team were in Nairobi as part of our special operations liaison element. They were in Kenya to coordinate our operations against the Somali terrorist organization Al Shabaab. But no matter where SEALs went, they always took their parachutes for contingencies just like this. Rarely were those parachutes needed, but now the policy was about to pay off.

  “All right, Scott, let’s work with our liaison at 5th Fleet and coordinate a rendezvous between Team Nairobi and the Bainbridge as soon as the ship arrives on station.”

  “Admiral, I would also like to launch the entire hostage rescue package from Norfolk. We can be on station in twenty-two hours.”

  “How many folks are we talking about?”

  “Well, sir,” Moore said sheepishly, “about sixty operators and four High Speed Assault Craft.”

  “Sixty? What in the world are you going to do with sixty operators? It’s five guys in a lifeboat.”

  “Well, sir, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh, that’s probably not good,” I deadpanned.

  “Sir, my concern is if the pirates take Phillips across the beach we will lose him for months, and possibly forever.”

  “Continue.”

  “Well, sir, with the additional SEALs and support from the Cobras on the MEU, we can ensure that there are no pirates left ashore to receive him.” Moore pulled up a picture of the Somali coastline and flashed it up on our shared screen. “Almost all the pirates are operating out of Eyl. There are about six or seven different camps spread up and down the coast. Our sources tell us that these guys all report to a head pirate named Alam. We are working with the FBI and the Agency to track down the headman’s exact location, but we think he lives inland and is reachable.”

  I knew Moore was right, but I also thought that the Joint Staff and the White House would never approve that large a force to rescue one man from a lifeboat.

  “Okay, Scott. Go ahead and get the large package ready to move. We have another video teleconference with the Chairm
an in about an hour. We can broach it with him at that time.”

  Moore smiled, knowing I liked the concept and would push it hard with the Joint Staff.

  “In the meantime, let’s get a Concept of Operations knocked out. I want it simple as usual: one slide on the situation showing the location of the lifeboat and the position of the Halyburton and Bainbridge; one slide on the intelligence regarding the pirates and their chain of command; one slide on the size of the rescue force and your planned movement from CONUS.”

  My operations officer chimed in from behind me. “Sir, we probably need to let the Chairman know that Team Nairobi is linking up with the Bainbridge.”

  “Roger. Scott, did you catch that?”

  “Yes sir. Include the Team Nairobi piece.”

  “And then let’s get the JAGs to do the usual rules of engagement slide.” I looked around the room at my staff. “Anything else?”

  No one spoke up.

  “Okay, one hour. See you then, Scott.”

  The screen went blank.

  Every screen in the SAR was glowing with activity. Kelsall and Team Nairobi were being tracked on the far left display. A map showed the GPS progress of their small plane as it moved from Nairobi to the coast of Somalia. They were two hours from rendezvous with the Bainbridge. The next display showed a live feed with the location of all U.S. naval vessels in the area. Marked with tiny icons and a callout box, it presented the ship’s name, current latitude and longitude, and estimated speed. The Bainbridge and Halyburton were steaming at twenty knots toward the lifeboat. On the center screen was a conference room in the Pentagon. I could see Scotty Miller and other members of the Joint Staff preparing for the arrival of the Chairman. To the right of the center screen was the first slide of the Concept of Operations brief, and to the far right was an air traffic control picture of all the drones operating in the Horn of Africa. While we had ongoing missions in Yemen, we didn’t have any Predator or Reaper drones available in the immediate vicinity. All the live video would have to come directly from the Bainbridge’s ScanEagle drone.

  On the center screen, I could see Miller and the other officers come to attention. The Chairman had entered the room. Tall, distinguished, with jet black hair, he was dressed in his khaki uniform, the four stars of a full admiral adorning each collar. Mullen always reminded me of the great fleet admirals of World War II. I could envision him on the deck of a battleship heading to Midway.