Sea Stories

by William H. Mcraven

  My arrival back in Afghanistan drew no attention from either my forward-based staff or the senior leaders in country. Owing to my constant movements back and forth, my return seemed routine.

  I immediately convened the small group of officers who were witting to the plan. Earlier I had directed my deputy commander, Brigadier General Tony Thomas, to travel with the assault force and ensure everything was ready to go by the time I arrived in theater. Thomas, a former Ranger and Army special operations assaulter, had extensive combat experience and was one of the finest officers with whom I had ever served. He confirmed that the force was ready. Additionally, I had given the task of building the Quick Reaction Force (QRF) to Colonel Erik Kurilla, the Ranger Regimental Commander. Kurilla, one of the most aggressive combat leaders in special operations, was already in Afghanistan; and with all the ongoing daily missions, he devised a cover story to assemble the QRF without anyone taking notice.

  The following morning, as per my usual Friday battle rhythm, I flew to Kabul to talk with General Petraeus. This was the third time in the past six years that I had worked for Petraeus—first, when he was the commander of the Multi-National Force in Iraq; second, when he was the commander of U.S. Central Command; and now as he headed the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) in Afghanistan. Petraeus had always been incredibly supportive of special operations, and I liked him a lot. Unfortunately, there were many in Washington who didn’t feel the same, and consequently Petraeus had been left out of the planning for the raid. From the beginning of Neptune’s Spear, I had asked to ensure both General Petraeus and General Jim Mattis, the new CENTCOM commander, were kept in the loop. But, because of concerns over expanding the inner circle, they did not participate in the operational discussions. Finally, right before I departed Washington, I was told that General Cartwright would call Petraeus and Mattis and fill them in on the operation. Consequently, when I showed up in Petraeus’s headquarters that morning I assumed he was fully briefed on the mission.

  “Sir, I understand you’ve been briefed on the operation,” I said as I sat down at the small conference table in Petraeus’s office.

  Petraeus cocked his head slightly, with a look of mild disdain. “Hoss called me and said something about a cross-border operation.”

  Something about a cross-border operation? I am so screwed, I thought.

  I looked at Petraeus. He had no idea about Operation Neptune’s Spear. Cartwright hadn’t given him any details at all.

  “Well,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “It’s a little more than that.”

  “What is it?”

  I grabbed my set of five slides, got up from the table, and moved to Petraeus’s desk. “We’re going after bin Laden.”

  “What?” Petraeus said, almost laughing.

  “We’re going after bin Laden,” I repeated. Laying the slides in front of Petraeus, I walked him through the plan.

  “Holy shit!” he said, looking at the distance to the target.

  I laid the second slide down.

  “Holy shit!” he said again, looking at the compound in Abbottabad.

  I finished with a couple more slides.

  “Are they really going to let you do this?”

  “I’m still waiting on the final approval from the President, but we are ready to go.”

  Petraeus shook his head and smiled. “Well, all I can say is good luck, Bill. You’re certainly going to need it.”

  Although I thought we had a good plan, I nodded in agreement because you can never have too much luck.

  Late for a meeting, Petraeus stood up, shook my hand, and laughed again. It was a reassuring laugh. A friendly laugh. Not what I had expected, and somehow it made me feel better about the mission.

  I left ISAF headquarters, hopped on a helo, and returned to Bagram. I called Mattis and found out he knew little about the mission as well. Like Petraeus, he wished me well and offered any help he could provide. That afternoon a congressional delegation was visiting our special operations headquarters in Bagram. Among those in the know, we had debated whether to cancel the visit, but I wanted to keep everything on the schedule until the very last minute. Consequently, I greeted the congressmen and their staffs, gave them a brief of our daily operations in Afghanistan, and provided them a tour of our facility. They departed by early evening without any inkling that a major operation was in the works. Soon after the congressional delegation left, I received a call from Panetta. He informed me that the President had made the decision. Operation Neptune’s Spear was a go.

  The following day, Saturday, I received a call from our operations center in Jalalabad (JBAD). The weather along our planned infiltration route had some low-lying fog. It was passable and likely wouldn’t present a major problem for the helos, but the weather on Sunday looked even better, so I made the decision to delay the mission one day. I passed on my decision to the CIA, who informed the Director and the President that I had rolled the launch twenty-four hours.

  Later that evening I received a call from the White House operator that the President wanted to talk with me around 1700 East Coast time. Right before the top of the hour I called the number I was given and was connected with the President’s secretary. She politely put me on hold until the President came on the line.

  “Bill, how are you doing?”

  “Fine, Mr. President.”

  “How are things going out there?”

  “We’re all set, Mr. President, but the weather in Pakistan was a bit foggy so I decided to wait until tomorrow. We’ll be good to go on Sunday.”

  “Well, don’t push it unless you’re ready.”

  “No sir. I won’t rush to failure.”

  “Well, Bill, I just wanted to call and wish you and your men good luck.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “I want you to tell them that I am proud of them. Make sure you tell them that, Bill.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “What do you think? Is he there, Bill?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I do know that if he is there—we will get him. And if he’s not, we’ll come home.”

  There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. Maybe I was reading too much into it, but I felt the President understood the risks my men were taking and truly appreciated their courage and their patriotism.

  “Well, again, good luck, Bill.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” I hesitated just a second, wondering whether I should tell the President of the United States that I understood the difficulty of his decision and that I appreciated his leadership.

  “And thank you for making this tough decision,” I said.

  “Thank you, Bill.”

  The phone went dead. Now all that was left to do was conduct the mission.

  The small twin-engine plane landed with a thud at the airfield in Jalalabad. We taxied to the end of the runway, I got out of the plane, and was met by a young petty officer. He drove us the half mile to the SEAL compound, where I quickly dropped my gear in my room and headed into the small Joint Operations Center, which we had commandeered to use as our command and control hub.

  Inside the small plywood building were an array of large flat-panel displays, computers, and telephones. The SEAL Team commanding officer, Pete Van Hooser, and his master chief met me at the door and briefed me on the preparations for the mission.

  “We have one final briefing in an hour,” Van Hooser said. “After that, the boys will get some rest until it’s time to suit up.”

  As the commanding officer of the SEAL Team conducting the mission, I had placed Van Hooser in charge of overseeing the tactical execution of the mission. He would be in direct contact with the SEAL ground commander and provide me all the updates as the mission unfolded. Along with Van Hooser was J.T. Thompson, who would oversee the helo portion of the mission and report to Van Hooser. Additionally, in the JOC were parts of my headquarters team and representatives from CIA and a small Air Force element to help with the ISR.
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  At my request, the SEALs built me a closet-sized room inside the JOC where I could have some privacy as I talked to Panetta and his team, but inside the closet I was still in position to look at the tactical action on the large screens and hear the radio communications.

  An hour later we convened in a large warehouse where the operators gave me their final mission brief. It was exceptionally detailed and covered everyone’s responsibilities. I reemphasized a couple of points to ensure everyone knew my orders.

  “I want to make sure we communicate. One of the reasons the 1980 operation to rescue Americans from Tehran failed was that the assault force was overly OPSEC conscious. I want you to communicate to me and with each other so everyone knows what’s going on. Do not be afraid to get on the radio and talk. The Pakistanis are not likely to intercept our comms, and if they do, they won’t be able to stop us from getting to the target.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Next, for you pilots, fly safely. Do not try to fly fifty feet off the deck or be so damn close to each other that you create a risky flight profile. Your job is to get the SEALs there safely. If you have problems with the helo, set down in a remote area and work through it. Slowly, methodically, safely.”

  I looked at Thompson and the warrant officers who were flying. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “For you SEALs. Do not shoot any Pakistanis unless you absolutely have to in order to save your life. Is that clear?”

  They nodded and seemed to understand and appreciate the political complexities of the mission. Being professional also meant knowing when not to shoot.

  “Finally, this mission is to capture or kill bin Laden. Capture him if you can, but if he presents a threat at all, any threat whatsoever—kill him.”

  We had gone over the rules of engagement before, but I wanted to ensure there was no misunderstanding. After twelve years on the run it was thought that bin Laden likely slept with a suicide vest either on his body or next to him. Every SEAL in the briefing had encountered Iraqi or Afghan fighters who inexplicably detonated themselves when the assault force arrived. Consequently, we had clear criteria for what posed a threat. Unless bin Laden was in his underwear with his hands in the air, then it was possible he was wearing an explosive vest and was therefore a threat to the force. In the middle of the night, in a confusing combat situation, with the adrenaline pumping and people moving around the target, the SEALs didn’t have time to stop and assess a threat to the force. As I had told the President and his national security team, if there were men, or women, on the target and they appeared to be a threat, then they would die—period.

  At the end of the briefing, I stood up from my folding chair and faced the gathering of SEALs and helo crews.

  “I think most of you know that I am a basketball fan.”

  Some in the crowd smiled, having played pickup ball with me on several occasions.

  “There is a great scene in the movie Hoosiers,” I said, waiting a second to let it sink in.

  “Hoosiers is the story of a small-town basketball team in Indiana that reaches the high school state championship in 1954. They travel to Indianapolis to play a team from the big city. Most of these small-town kids have never been to a city and the stadium in Indianapolis is huge.”

  I moved away from my chair and drew closer to the men.

  “At one point, the coach, played by Gene Hackman, realizes the boys on the team are intimidated by the size of the stadium and the fact that they will be playing on the big stage in front of thousands of people. Hackman grabs one of the players and hands him a tape measure. ‘Measure the height of the basket,’ he tells the player.

  “Reeling out the tape measure, the player announces, ‘Ten feet.’

  “Hackman grabs another player and tells him to pace off the length of the court. The player does so and tells Hackman that it’s ninety-four feet.”

  Some in the audience were starting to get my point.

  “Hackman tells his team that the court is exactly the size of the court at home. That the basket is exactly the height of the one at home.”

  Now heads were nodding.

  “Gentlemen, each of you has done hundreds of missions just like this one. This mission is no different. The court is exactly like the one you’ve played on for the past ten years. There is no need to do anything differently. Just play your game like you always have and we will be successful.”

  I thanked them and started to leave. Those sitting stood up, and a few shook my hand as I departed. I would see the SEALs and helo crews off before they launched. I walked out of the warehouse and into the warm night air. It was five hours until showtime.

  “It’s about time, sir,” Faris advised me.

  I looked at my watch. The SEALs would be gathering around the fire pit for one final talk from their squadron commander. Then they would load the helos and await my orders to launch.

  Faris and I walked out of the JOC and without speaking strolled over to the fire pit. Chris Faris had been my right-hand man for the past three years. There was no finer enlisted man in the military. He was raised in the Rangers and then spent eighteen years as an Army special operations assaulter, rising to the position of Command Sergeant Major. Faris had been in combat since he was twenty—Mogadishu during Black Hawk Down; South America chasing Pablo Escobar; Bosnia and Kosovo; and of course, Iraq and Afghanistan. He was the perfect balance of professional NCO and personal friend. He never stepped over the line with respect to our friendship, and he was fiercely protective of my position as the commander. However, he told me all the ugly truths that a good commander needs to know. He often challenged my decisions, forcing me to defend my position and thereby ensuring a better outcome. But when I made a decision, he accepted it as his own and supported me completely. I rarely made an important decision without Chris Faris. He also knew when not to talk, and as we walked to meet the SEALs, this was one of those times.

  The SEALs were clustered around the fire pit. Music was blaring, some hard rock song, and most of the operators were adjusting their kit one final time. There was an air of tension, but that was not uncommon before any tough mission. I sensed no fear, just anticipation and a desire to get the operation underway.

  “Kill the music,” one SEAL yelled as I approached. They closed in around me and I turned to Faris so he could say a few words. Even though he was an Army NCO, he had the respect of everyone in the SEAL community. Faris reminded them of the British SAS motto, “Who Dares Wins.” Tonight we were daring greatly, and he told them he was confident they would come home victorious.

  Faris turned to me. I hadn’t put a lot of thought into what I might say. But it occurred to me, just moments before, as I was walking from the JOC, that everyone gathered around the fire pit was thinking the same thing.

  “Gentlemen, first let me say that I talked to the President yesterday evening and he told me to pass on his thanks and appreciation for what you are about to do.”

  Most of the men were deep in thought, their heads cast downward, but I could tell that they were beginning to understand the magnitude of what they were about to undertake.

  I moved a little closer to the fire and scanned the group of men standing before me. They were rough-looking. Serious. Professional. Focused. They had their game face on, but I knew that beneath the body armor they were like any other men. They had families. Wives and kids. Friends back in Virginia Beach. They were good men. Men you would want as your friends, your neighbors. Men you could count on when things got bad—real bad. Men who loved each other as only those who have experienced combat together can. They didn’t know what the night would bring, but they knew they were lucky to be chosen for this mission. And that was my message. It was simple.

  “Gentlemen, since 9/11 each one of you has dreamed of being the man going on the mission to get bin Laden. Well, this is the mission and you are the men. Let’s go get bin Laden.”

  There were no smiles, no cheering, and no
contrived jubilation. It was time to get to work.

  “Launch the assault force. I say again, launch the assault force.”

  “Roger, sir,” Van Hooser replied. “Launch the assault force.”

  I could hear Van Hooser relay the order to the SEAL squadron commander aboard the helo.

  In my small closet, Art Sellers had set up a video teleconference with CIA headquarters, the U.S. Embassy in Pakistan, Brigadier General Brad Webb, my command’s liaison in the White House, and General Tony Thomas and Colonel Erik Kurilla back at Bagram. Additionally, on Sellers’s laptop was MIRChat, a means of chatting with everyone on the JOC floor and those around the world who were allowed to monitor the mission. Outside my closet sat my good friend, the CIA Chief of Station in Afghanistan. He and I had been together in Afghanistan many times over the past ten years. There was no better ally in the interagency.

  At exactly 2300, I peered out from my closet and looked at the big screen as the two Black Hawks lifted off, followed soon thereafter by two MH-47s. Minutes later they were crossing the border into Pakistan. For the next ninety minutes I tracked the execution checklist as the helos went from point to point, making their way undetected through the mountains and valleys of Pakistan.

  Throughout the mission we monitored the Pakistani radars to determine if anyone had picked up on our presence. At one point about halfway through the flight the SEAL squadron commander called the JOC and calmly radioed that a large spotlight was emanating from a nearby city, sweeping the mountainside, apparently looking for something.

  Intelligence hadn’t detected any Pakistani reaction, and I relayed back through Van Hooser for the assault force to press on. It appeared to be nothing of concern. Forty minutes later we were closing in on the target.

  “Sir, General Petraeus is on the MIRChat,” Sellers said.

  “What?”