Sea Stories

by William H. Mcraven

  After I had spent an hour or so with several of our SOF soldiers, Sergeant Major Thompson pulled me aside.

  “Sir, there is one soldier here from the 25th Infantry Division that I would like you to meet. His vehicle was hit by an EFP in Iraq and he is now a quadruple amputee. His unit is still overseas, so he hasn’t gotten a lot of visitors yet.”

  “No problem, Sergeant Major. Just point me in the right direction.”

  The sergeant major subtly nodded to my left, and it didn’t take long to figure out who he was talking about.

  Leaning against the wall was a young man balancing on his “shorties,” new prosthetics attached to what was left of his legs. The shorties raised him just inches off the ground and were the first step in preparing him for the more challenging full artificial limbs. Not only was he missing two legs, but the blast from the explosively formed projectile had also severed both his arms, burned his neck, and left him with lacerations across his face.

  I had seen a lot of amputees, but when the human form is so changed by either nature or the violence of man, it still takes your breath away.

  The sergeant major saw the look in my eye.

  “I know, sir,” he said, acknowledging the sorrow we both felt.

  Turning from the sergeant major, I walked over to the young man and took a knee so that I could face him eye to eye.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, extending my hand to shake what remained of his right arm.

  He looked at me, trying to determine what manner of uniform I was wearing. “You’re a general?” he asked, looking at the four stars on my chest.

  “Well, an admiral, actually,” I said, smiling. “What’s your name?”

  “Brendan Marrocco,” he replied politely.

  “I understand you’re with the Tropic Lightning,” I said, referring to the infantry division’s nickname.

  “Yes sir!” He smiled, trying to stand a bit more erect. “Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 27th Regiment.”

  “Looks like you had a rough go of it in Iraq.”

  He looked to the ground where his legs would have been and then quickly surveyed the rest of the room packed with amputees. “Yeah, but not as bad as some of the guys.”

  It was hard to hide my expression. Not as bad as some of the guys, I thought. You’re missing all four limbs, have burns and cuts throughout your body, and someone else has it worse?

  Standing next to Marrocco was another young man.

  “Sir, this is my brother Mike.”

  I greeted Mike, but I could tell he was devastated by what had happened to his younger brother. The sadness on his face was heartbreaking. I turned back to Marrocco.

  “Are they taking good care of you here?” I asked.

  “Yes sir! The docs and the nurses have been terrific and I love being around the guys.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  He didn’t hesitate for a second. “Yes sir. I would like to get back to Hawaii and meet my company when they return from Iraq.”

  If you’re lucky in life, there is a moment, a moment you never forget, when you meet someone whose entire world has been turned upside down and they find a way to inspire you. They find a way to show you that you can rise above all of life’s difficulties. They find a way to make the human condition, regardless of its form, seem perfect. Kneeling face-to-face with young Brendan Marrocco, I had one of those moments. He must have seen something in my eyes—pity, sorrow, regret—because he cocked his head and smiled.

  “Sir,” he said, touching me with what remained of his right arm. “I’m twenty-four years old. I have my whole life in front of me. I’m going to be just fine!”

  I’m going to be just fine.

  I never forgot those words, and when life got a little difficult for me, I remembered that moment again and again. I repeated those words over and over. I am going to be just fine.

  If a nation is to survive and thrive it must pass on the ideals that made it great and imbue in its citizens an indomitable spirit, a will to continue on regardless of how difficult the path, how long the journey, or how uncertain the outcome. People must have a true belief that tomorrow will be a better day—if only they fight for it and never give up. I saw this indomitable spirit in my parents and those who lived through the Great Depression and World War II—and I saw it again in the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines whom I served with in Iraq and Afghanistan. And later when I was the chancellor of the University of Texas system, I saw it in equal amounts in the young students who sat in the schoolhouses across Texas. From the battlefields to the classrooms, I have seen the young men and women of this generation, the oft-maligned millennials. They are supposed to be pampered, entitled, and soft. I found them anything but. They are as courageous, heroic, and patriotic as their parents and grandparents before them. Those who fought and died or were wounded in Iraq and Afghanistan are the same young Americans who are building our bridges, finding the cures, and teaching our youth. They are the men and women who are volunteering to wear the uniform, fight the fires, and protect the people. They are not like my generation. They are better. They are more inclusive. They don’t see color, or ethnicity, or orientation. They value people for their friendship and their talents. They are more engaged. They will not stand by and watch bad things happen to good people. They are more questioning. They want to know why. Why are we going to war, why are we increasing our debt, why can’t we do something new and different? They are risk takers, entrepreneurs, givers of their time and energy. Above all, they are optimists—and as challenging as the times may seem right now, this generation believes that tomorrow will be a better day. I am convinced that history will someday record that these young Americans were the greatest generation of this century, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we will all be just fine.

  Brendan Marrocco got to Hawaii in time to greet the returning 25th Infantry Division. In 2012, he underwent a successful bilateral transplant that gave him two new arms. Today he travels the country telling his story and helping those… less fortunate than himself.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NEPTUNE’S SPEAR

  AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION IN THE UNITED STATES

  April 2011

  With an apostrophe.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. What?”

  “With an apostrophe,” I said. “It’s Neptune’s Spear. With an apostrophe.”

  The young lieutenant commander looked at me with some surprise. “Sir, the computer doesn’t generate names that have an apostrophe.”

  “Of course it doesn’t.”

  He smiled and nodded. “I like it.” Picking up the magic marker, he wrote on the whiteboard in large letters: OPERATION NEPTUNE’S SPEAR. BRIEFBACK TO THE CHAIRMAN.

  As silly as it was, I had actually put some thought into the name. I wanted a name that would symbolize the SEAL assault force’s maritime roots, that would represent justice in the form of the sea god’s three-pronged lance. A name that would resonate with the team of handpicked operators; a name that people might remember if the mission went well and would hopefully forget if it went south. In my office at Fort Bragg there was a small bronze statue, which I had purchased in a curio store in Venice years before. It was the Greek god Poseidon riding on a seahorse. Poseidon had a long-shafted trident spear in his grasp and the seahorse was rearing, his two legs kicking in the front and his tail flowing behind, ready to attack. I didn’t normally go in for this kind of symbolism. It seemed ridiculous. But the statue caught my eye and I had to admit—it was cool. So when the time came to attach a name to our planned operation, I thought back to the bronze figure. I knew I couldn’t call it “Poseidon’s Trident” because if the mission failed, every one of my generation would remember the disaster film The Poseidon Adventure, and that would be the mission’s legacy. So, Neptune’s Spear it was—with an apostrophe.

  Three months earlier, the Deputy Director of the CIA, Michael Morell had briefed me that the CIA had a lead on the location of Osama
(a.k.a. Usama) bin Laden (UBL). Through a series of courier follows, surveillance, and technical collection, the Agency identified a large walled-in compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan. The compound was just down the road from the Pakistani military academy and a mile or so from a major ammunition storage point. Photos revealed the presence of an individual they called “the pacer,” a tall man in flowing robes who walked around the interior of the compound, but never went outside the walls. The intelligence was interesting, but the truth was there had been dozens of bin Laden sightings since 2001 and none of them ever panned out. Still, I had to admit this lead seemed much more compelling.

  After the Agency briefing I reported back to Secretary Gates and Admiral Mike Mullen at the Pentagon. Situated on the outer ring of the Pentagon, the Secretary’s office was long and expansive, with a magnificent view overlooking the Potomac River and across to the center of Washington, D.C. On the walls were portraits of Lincoln, Washington, and several unknown soldiers, a constant reminder that the Secretary’s decisions affected the entire nation.

  “What do you think, Bill?” the Secretary asked.

  “Sir, it’s a compound. We do compound raids every night in Afghanistan. It’s not tactically difficult. Getting to the target undetected will be challenging, but once we’re there, it’s pretty straightforward.”

  “How many men will you need?” Mullen asked.

  “Sir, normally a compound raid includes about fifty to seventy guys. You isolate the compound, position small elements at critical blocking points, have an assault force that breaches the walls and gets the high-value target—then you have a medical team, forensics and exploitation team, biometrics, etcetera. But again, this will all depend on how we get to the target.”

  “What’s the minimum number of men you need?” the Secretary inquired.

  I thought for a moment. It was a very large compound. Well over thirty thousand square feet. “Probably twenty-five to thirty men. But that’s assuming a lot of risk.”

  “Okay, Bill,” Mullen said. “I don’t know that we need to do anything right now. The Agency has the lead, but sooner or later they may want your advice and some assistance in the planning.”

  “No worries, sir. We’ll be standing by to help with whatever they need.”

  “How long are you in town, Bill?” the Secretary asked.

  “Sir, I head back to Afghanistan tonight, but I can return whenever the Agency needs me.”

  “William,” Mullen began. “You can’t tell anyone else about this mission. If word were to leak out it would be disastrous.”

  “I understand, sir. But if the time comes that the Agency needs some detailed planning, then I will have to bring others into the inner circle.”

  The Secretary and Admiral Mullen thanked me, and that afternoon I boarded the command’s plane and returned to Afghanistan. One month later, while still in Afghanistan, I received a call from the Vice Chairman of the Joint Staff, General Cartwright, requesting that I return to D.C. for further meetings with the CIA. It was highly unusual for me to keep leaving the battlefield to return to the States, but things were beginning to heat up in Libya and most of my staff assumed I was heading back for classified discussions with the Joint Staff or the White House.

  As the commander, every move I made was recorded by the personnel in my operations center and logged into our daily digital notebook. There was no hiding my comings and goings, but the reason for my travel was never noted. My executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Art Sellers, was the only member of my staff who knew something unusual was in the works. Sellers was an Army Ranger who had been my XO for the past year. He traveled with me everywhere. His job was to ensure that all the decisions required by the command received my attention. He reviewed every piece of paper that came into my office. He coordinated every visit. He screened every call and managed every small crisis that is part of running a large command. He was one of the most valuable men in my command, and I trusted him with my life. But even as trusted as Sellers was, I had my orders.

  We landed in D.C. late Monday evening.

  “So, sir. What time is your appointment at… the Pentagon?” Art said, drawing out the final word.

  “We need to be at ‘the Pentagon’ at 1300. Call this point of contact and he will ensure we are cleared in.” I handed Sellers the number of my CIA contact. “Look, Art, I can’t tell you anything right now and I need you not to ask any questions.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Also, I need you to cover for me with the headquarters staff. Sooner or later they will smell something and start to ask questions. Keep to the story until I tell you otherwise.”

  Sellers was unfazed. “Roger, sir. Understand.”

  I knew that he did. Art was the consummate professional, and over the next several months he would be key to the success of the mission—even if he didn’t know it at the time.

  The next day I headed over to the Agency to meet with my point of contact and review the intelligence on the target. Morell and his team had given me a great overview, but now I needed to look at the Abbottabad compound in detail. The planning team from the Agency was segregated from the headquarters building in an innocuous-looking one-story facility that no one visited. It was perfect.

  Sellers drove me through the main gate of the CIA and dropped me off in the parking lot. My command had dozens of folks working at the CIA, and sooner or later I knew one of them would spot me slinking into the facility. By then I hoped to have a better cover story.

  My Agency contact met me outside the facility, cleared me into the building, past the lone guard, and walked me back into a large room filled with boxes of paper, cartridges, and ink. The building was a holding area for all the CIA’s administrative material. “We’re going to get this all cleaned out,” he said, waving at the clutter that filled the room.

  We made our way to a large table upon which sat a small model of the Abbottabad compound. I was introduced to a number of the CIA analysts who had been developing the intelligence and the Special Activities Division (SAD) officer who was planning the CIA’s raid option. For the next hour the analysts used the scale model to outline all that they knew about the compound, “the pacer,” the Pakistani military, and the civilians in the area. It was an impressive display of the Agency’s intelligence collection and analysis capability. The depth and detail of the intelligence was unlike anything I had ever seen before—on any subject. However, even among the analysts there was no consensus on whether “the pacer” was bin Laden. Some placed the confidence level at 95 percent, others as low as 40 percent.

  Next, the SAD officer briefed me on his plan to get bin Laden. SAD was the Agency’s paramilitary unit. They were mostly former special operators or Marines who helped train, equip, and run covert forces around the world. They were very good at what they did, but they were a small outfit with no real raid capability. The officer briefing me was a former captain in the Army with some reconnaissance background. He was professional, detailed in his briefing, and interested in my critique of his plan. I offered some small suggestions, but stayed away from any sweeping recommendations.

  There was always some professional tension between the Agency and my command. In the world of counterterrorism we had similar equities. Throughout the hunt for high-value targets in Iraq and Afghanistan our HUMINTers, those uniformed case officers who gathered intelligence to support military operations, were often in competition with the Agency case officers. The CIA case officers felt it was their job to gather the intelligence. Legally both agencies were correct. Under Title 10 of the U.S. Code, the Department of Defense has traditional military authorities that allow qualified individuals to collect intelligence that will ultimately be used for military operations. Under Title 50, the Agency has intelligence authorities to do similar missions under covert action. While this distinction is much clearer outside a theater of war, during wartime, such as in Iraq or Afghanistan, the authorities tended to overlap and occasionally caused some brui
sed feelings. Having said that, overall the military and CIA relationship was very strong. Still, at this early juncture in the mission, I didn’t want to be perceived as the “Pro from Dover” coming to preach rightness to the Agency. So I remained quietly appreciative of the briefings and only asked questions to clarify some small points. After the briefings, the team of analysts departed and I sat around the model looking at the compound and thinking through how I would approach the problem.

  Two hours north of Pakistan’s capital, Abbottabad was a city of approximately three hundred thousand people. It was, by Pakistani standards, fairly affluent. The city was home to the Pakistan Army’s military academy, a large ammunition depot, a barracks, which housed a Pakistan Army infantry battalion, and several police stations.

  The compound itself was situated down a small dirt road about half a mile from a main highway that cut through Abbottabad. While there were houses around the compound to the north and to the west, there was open space to the south and for several hundred yards to the east. Off to the east was a densely populated middle-class neighborhood. Fortunately, a small canal separated the neighborhood from direct access to the compound. Any young person could easily traverse the canal, but it was a minor obstacle that I knew would dissuade some older Pakistanis from coming to the compound if things got interesting.

  The compound itself was irregularly shaped, with a long straight wall on the north side, two walls on the east and west running perpendicular to the north wall, and then, extending from the east and west walls, two long walls that met at a point to the south. On the north wall was a double metal door that opened up to the driveway. Also on the north were two private doors that presumably led into the home. The home itself was three stories high and the windows looked out toward the south. The compound was divided into two areas—a living area with the main house, a smaller guesthouse, and another even smaller building on one side of the driveway, and an open courtyard where some goats and chickens were kept. Each separate area was self-contained within the walls of the compound. You could not easily move from the courtyard to the living area without going through several metal gates, all of which were locked.