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by William H. Mcraven


  “So, let’s think through this,” I said. “What will it take to convince them to give us Phillips back?”

  “Money,” the intel officer said without hesitation. “That’s their mission. If they return to Somalia without a hostage and without money, then they and their families will pay a steep price. Their life is on the line now. They can’t back down.”

  “Okay. Then we convince them that we are willing to negotiate.”

  “They know the U.S. government won’t negotiate,” Moore said.

  “Yeah, but they probably think Maersk will.”

  “Admiral,” the intel guy spoke up. “Muse seems reasonable enough. I think we can convince him to come aboard the Bainbridge and talk about a deal.”

  “Unfortunately, he may be the only reasonable pirate in the boat, and I hate to leave Phillips with the other three psychopaths,” I said.

  “Michelle, Scott. What do you think?”

  “It’s worth a try,” Howard offered.

  “I agree,” Moore said. “And if there is any way to get the lifeboat closer to the Bainbridge, we could have an opportunity for a shot.”

  “Okay, let’s lure them in with the chance of a payout and see if Muse is willing to talk.”

  “Roger, sir,” Moore responded. “We’ll get on the bridge-to-bridge and see if Muse is interested.”

  The large flat-screen TV in the SAR seemed to glow brightly as the sunlight reflected off the blue waters of the Indian Ocean. In the middle of the screen, a small black Zodiac carrying a few of the SEAL operators approached the lifeboat. Concealed underneath some blankets were an assortment of M-4s and MP5s, both for protection and just in case the right moment presented itself.

  Long into this standoff, I had given the SEALs the authority to take action if they felt a rescue was warranted. You have to trust the guys on the ground, or in this case, on the water. As a commander, you would like to be in ultimate control of all the decisions. But the reality is, you can’t be. In a hostage crisis situation, there are too many factors that unfold too quickly to have to ask, “Mother, may I?” You set the conditions as best you can. You give the authority to the ground force commander and you hope that the experience and the maturity of the operators will win the day. Most of the time, it does.

  Onscreen I could see the SEAL in the Zodiac talking to Muse. As the Zodiac bumped against the bow of the lifeboat, the SEALs began transferring food and water through the open hatch. The conversation lasted for several minutes. Muse, his head visible through the hatch, would talk with the SEAL and then turn to confer with his fellow pirates.

  “Sir, the Bainbridge reports that Muse is willing to come aboard and talk.”

  I nodded without answering. Leaning toward the video screen, I squinted and watched as the SEAL held out his hand and grabbed Muse as he leapt from the lifeboat onto the Zodiac. There was a final exchange between Muse and his men and then the Zodiac slowly pulled away, beginning its short transit back to the Bainbridge.

  Over the next hour, Muse sat on the helo deck of the Bainbridge, drank Coca-Colas, and, using a Somali interpreter, talked with the SEALs. Through some very carefully arranged conversations, the negotiator convinced him that it would be best to allow the Bainbridge to hook up a towline with the lifeboat. Exhausted from days at sea and realizing that his small boat and men were drifting away from the mainland, Muse inexplicably agreed. It was exactly the break we were looking for.

  On board the lifeboat, the situation was getting tenser. The remaining pirates could see Muse lounging on the helo deck, drinking Cokes, eating chow, and seeming to enjoy himself. A short time later the Bainbridge hooked up the towline and they were dragging the tiny boat up and down through the ship’s wake, making life more miserable for the pirates.

  Onscreen, Moore was relaying his plan. “Sir, as expected, the pirates are getting seasick on the long towline, so we have offered to pull them inside the wake to reduce the rolling motion.”

  “And they agreed?” I said, somewhat astounded.

  “Yes sir. They agreed,” Moore said, equally amazed.

  “Can we get them close enough for a good shot?”

  “Well, boss.” He paused as if to think through his answer. “I have three of my best snipers positioned on the fantail of the Bainbridge. If the shot is there, we’ll take it. But…”

  “But what?”

  “But it’s going to be tough. The sun is going down, the boat is moving both side to side and up and down, and the only shots will be through the portholes.”

  “Yeah, but other than that, it should be easy, right?”

  Moore smiled. “Yes sir, other than that—it should be easy.”

  “All right, Scott. It’s all yours.”

  I signed off. There wasn’t anything I could do at this point but trust Scott Moore and the SEALs on the Bainbridge.

  My executive officer and right-hand man, Lieutenant Colonel Pat Ellis, sidled up beside me. “Sir, it could be a long night. Why don’t you head to the gym and get in a short PT. That will help recharge you. I’ll come grab you if anything happens.”

  “Not a bad idea, Pat. But the first whiff of action, come running.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  I closed my computer, walked down the flight of stairs, out past the soldier on duty, and back to my B-Hut. The B-Hut was my refuge. Four plywood walls in a room not much bigger than a walk-in closet, but it was home. It was quiet. It was clean. Inside the walls no one was yelling about shots fired or enemy killed or civilians dead or soldiers dying. Inside the walls no one was looking for guidance, expecting a decision, asking for direction. Inside the walls of the B-Hut it was a different world. But I could never stay long. Because outside the B-Hut was where I belonged.

  I changed into my PT gear and walked out into the cool evening air. When you weren’t getting rocketed by some hacked-off Taliban, the nights in Afghanistan were beautiful. Stars filled the sky, the mountain peaks were visible in the moonlight, and there was a calmness that made you forget there was a war going on all around you.

  The giant sprung shelter that housed the gym was filled twenty-four hours a day. It always smelled of rubber mats, sweat, and just a tinge of loneliness. No sooner had I walked through the door of the gym than Ellis came charging in.

  “Admiral! Admiral! You need to come. Now!”

  I sprinted out the door, across the wooden sidewalk that connected the B-Huts, and back up the stairs of the Plywood Palace. As I rushed back into the SAR, the NCO was calling out the action.

  “Sir, shots fired from inside the lifeboat!”

  Taking my seat, I stared at the screen. I knew the snipers were looking for an opening. Just one chance. One opportunity. One small window to rescue Phillips.

  In the prone position, lying on a rubber mat, they were peering through their scopes, trying to get a good bead on the pirates, each sniper calling out when he had a clean shot. As the lifeboat moved up and down, the shot picture changed moment to moment. For this to work, all three pirates had to be visible simultaneously. All three snipers had to pull the trigger at the same time. One miss and Phillips would likely die. The crosshairs on the scope of sniper number one lined up on the forehead of the largest pirate. Beside him, sniper number two slowed his breathing, squinted into the scope, and prepared to squeeze the trigger. Sniper number three rolled slightly to his right, leaned into the buttstock, and settled in on his target.

  “Sniper One. Target One. Green.”

  “Sniper Two. Target Two. Green.”

  “Sniper Three. Target Three… Fuck! Red.”

  The tiny orange boat bobbing up and down in the wake of the Bainbridge came in and out of focus, the profile of Target Three barely visible through the scratched glass of the lifeboat’s starboard-side porthole.

  “Sniper Three. Target Three… Come on, baby… Come on… Shit! Red.”

  “Sniper One. Target One. Green.”

  “Sniper Two. Target Two. Green.”

  “Sniper T
hree. Target Three… Breathe deep, good sight picture… Green!”

  “Execute! Execute! Execute!”

  “Shots fired! Shots fired! Shots fired!”

  Inside my command center, no one spoke. Minutes passed.

  “Admiral,” came the voice of Scott Moore. “Phillips is alive!”

  Folks in the SAR let out a cheer, but quickly quieted down as the information continued to come in.

  “What about the pirates?” I asked.

  “Sir, they’re all dead,” Moore answered.

  Not bad shooting, I thought.

  “We’ll do a quick assessment of Captain Phillips and then move him to the Boxer for further evaluation.”

  “Great job, Scott. Please pass on my thanks to the boys.”

  Moore was trying to maintain a cool composure onscreen, but it was hard for him to hide his grin.

  Thirty minutes later, the screens in the SAR were filled with faces from around the interagency. Scott Moore and Michelle Howard provided a quick debrief. Vice Admiral Bill Gortney would be the public face of the rescue, and together we crafted some talking points and a press release from 5th Fleet. General Petraeus and his staff would make all the appropriate notifications and start working the transfer of Muse to U.S. law enforcement.

  But there was one final videoconference with the Joint Staff.

  Admiral Mullen, dressed in his blue uniform, strolled into the room, took his seat, and pushed the button to talk.

  “Well, William, nice job.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “But you know, it was Scott and his guys. They were magnificent as usual.”

  “I know. Your guys never cease to amaze me. I think the President is going to call Scott and congratulate him.”

  “Thanks, sir. I know Scott would appreciate it.”

  “You look tired, Bill.”

  I smiled and nodded. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  “Get some rest, William. You never know what tomorrow will bring.”

  “No sir,” I said, smiling at the thought. “You never know.”

  I thanked the Chairman and signed off the VTC.

  Randy Copeland pulled up a chair beside me. “Sir, you haven’t been tracking the days, but it’s Easter today.”

  I looked at the calendar.

  “So it is… so it is.”

  “It’s what I like best about this job,” Copeland said. “Every day you get to do some good. Someone is alive today because the guys did their job. Someone will have a lot more Easters because rough men stood ready to do violence on their behalf.”

  I appreciated the Orwellian reference. Copeland was right. It’s who we were: rough men. Rough men who had to do violence to make the world right. On this Easter Sunday, I wished it weren’t so, but even two thousand years after the death of Christ, the nature of mankind had not changed. And rough men were still needed to protect the innocent.

  Captain Richard Phillips returned to his family in Norfolk and later was the subject of a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks. Abduwali Muse was sentenced to life in prison by the Eastern District of Virginia. A year later, Captain Scott Moore would make one-star admiral and go back into combat. Colonel Scotty Miller would become a four-star general and in 2018 take command of all U.S. forces in Afghanistan. Commander Frank Castellano made captain and continues to serve. Michelle Howard would go on to be the first female four-star admiral in the history of the U.S. Navy. Tragically, Lieutenant Commander Jonas Kelsall was killed in Afghanistan on August 6, 2011, when Taliban fighters shot down the helicopter he was riding in. A room in the Naval ROTC building at the University of Texas bears his name.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MANHUNTING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  September 2009

  It never ceased to amaze me how a single person operating out of abject squalor in a fourth-world country could wreak so much havoc on his fellow man, but I saw it time and time again.

  Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan was number three on the FBI’s most wanted list. In 1998, he was involved in the planning and execution of the U.S. embassy bombings in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, and Nairobi, Kenya, that left over 250 people dead. Later, in 2002, Nabhan was responsible for orchestrating suicide attacks on the Paradise Hotel in Mombasa that killed three Israeli tourists and ten Kenyan workers, injuring eighty more. During that same operation, two of his men attempted, unsuccessfully, to shoot down an Israeli charter plane.

  U.S. and allied intelligence had been hunting Nabhan since 1998, but his tradecraft was exceptional. Nabhan never used any technical device, a phone or computer. He rarely stayed in one place for more than twenty-four hours, and he always used couriers or cutouts to ensure some separation between himself and a potential threat. It was also helpful to Nabhan that after 9/11, our intelligence focus shifted from tracking a terrorist like him to more notable threats like bin Laden, Ayman al-Zawahiri, and Zarqawi.

  However, by 2009 the threat of Al Qaeda had metastasized. Terrorist organizations like Al Shabaab in Somalia had aligned themselves with bin Laden and were attempting more global operations to expand their brand. Saleh Nabhan once again became relevant.

  The Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, seemed somewhat unsure of my answer. “So, how many operations like this have you conducted?” she asked.

  I thought for a moment, paused, and looked at the still frame of the video frozen on the screen in the White House Situation Room.

  “Thousands,” I responded matter-of-factly.

  “Thousands?”

  “Yes ma’am, thousands.”

  I thought again to make sure I wasn’t overstating my case. We had been at war for eight years. We were conducting an average of ten missions a day in Iraq and a bit fewer in Afghanistan. At least half of those missions involved helicopter insertions or the use of helicopters for direct assault. Multiply that times 365 days; multiply that times six to eight years. Yep, “thousands” is probably on the short side.

  “Ma’am, we do helicopter assaults every single day, multiple times a day. In fact, this kind of direct assault is easier than most.”

  Minutes earlier the screen in the Situation Room had been filled with two “Little Bird” helicopters swooping in on a fast-moving Iraqi vehicle. The Little Birds, or MH-6s, were the smallest, most agile, and arguably the most lethal helicopters in the special operations inventory. A Plexiglas bubble surrounded the cockpit and inside the cabin there was only enough room for a pilot, copilot, and two passengers. The Little Birds were equipped with skids instead of wheels, and on this mission a pair of SOF operators were sitting on each skid, leaning forward, taking aim at the engine block of the fleeing Toyota Hilux truck.

  Moving at over sixty miles an hour, the Hilux rumbled down a dirt road outside Ramadi. A cloud of dust rose fifteen feet in the air as the wheels spun with each evasive turn. Inside, you could see the driver, his face dripping with sweat as he tried to outmaneuver the pursuing helicopters. From the backseat, two men leaned out the window and fired erratically at the helicopters as the Little Birds closed in for the interdiction. Like a well-synchronized aerial ballet, the pilots swung their helicopters into position, each bird on one side of the vehicle, matching the Toyota’s speed. From the skids, the snipers took two shots apiece into the engine block of the truck. Within seconds the vehicle rolled to a stop. The helos landed just in front of the truck and the operators unhooked from the skids, jumped from the cabin, and surrounded the two vehicles. The helpless Iraqis tossed their guns from the vehicle and surrendered immediately.

  Lasting no more than three minutes, the video had clearly grabbed the attention of President Obama and his national security team. For those in Washington the war was generally viewed from twenty thousand feet. Predator video. Grainy images. Precision bombs exploding on compounds with faceless insurgents killed by technology. For those not used to war, this was a different look—a high-risk chase scene, with real people and real guns. But it also showcased the incredible professionalis
m and courage of our pilots and special operators.

  Everyone in the Situation Room turned to the President. Placing his folded hands on his chin, he looked down at the long table and said thoughtfully, “So Bill, as I understand it, your intent is to move two Navy destroyers off the coast of Somalia.” I nodded as he continued. “You’re going to use the destroyers as a launch platform for four Little Birds and some SEALs.”

  “Yes sir.”

  I could see the President visualizing the mission in his head.

  I grabbed the remote and brought up the map of the Somali coast on the screen. “We know from human intelligence that Nabhan travels periodically from Barawe to Marka. While Nabhan doesn’t use any technical device, his courier, who we have identified, always carries a phone with him. Our HUMINT source says that Nabhan and the courier will be traveling in a blue four-door sedan on Tuesday of next week.”

  “Why helicopters?” asked Bob Gates, the Secretary of Defense. “Why not just bring in some fighters and drop a bomb on them?”

  It was a question I had anticipated, but I knew the answer would not satisfy those sitting around the table.

  “Sir, we don’t know exactly when Nabhan will be leaving Barawe. The HUMINT source has given us a compound to watch, but the time window for Nabhan’s departure could be anytime throughout Tuesday.”

  I went back to the map of Somalia. “In order for us to have a fixed-wing strike package overhead, we would have to move the aircraft carrier from the Arabian Sea down off the coast of Somalia. Then we would need two F/A-18 strike aircraft constantly in the air until we identified the blue sedan.”

  I returned to the map. “It will take two days for the carrier to transit from the Arabian Sea to Somalia—a day to execute the mission and two days for the boat to return. During that time, there will be no Navy aircraft support for either Iraq or Afghanistan. That would put a lot of soldiers in theater at risk.”

  “Why not just bring a bomber from our base in Al Udeid?” asked one of the back-row participants.

 

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