No Hero: The Evolution of a Navy SEAL (15 page)

Wham.

I was on my ass looking up at the stars. I could feel the cold snow soaking my pants. A few guys snickered as I scrambled to my feet. Karma is a bitch.

We made it to the ORP—the observation ready point—three hundred meters from the target, where we stopped to make any last-minute adjustments to the plan and get prepared to assault the target. I slid my hands reluctantly out of my thick winter gloves and into my thin shooting gloves. I could feel the cold metal of my weapon through the material. I blew on my fingertips and flexed them back and forth, hoping to get the blood moving so my trigger finger would work.

I gathered with the troop commander, troop chief, Steve, and the other team leaders to make sure there were no last-minute changes. Behind me, my teammates, the Rangers, and the Afghan commandos all took a knee and waited. Two soldiers from the closest base—battle space owners—were with us to handle the village elders after we left. They had gotten on the helicopters at the last moment dressed in their standard-issue cold-weather gear. I could see them nearby shivering and looking around, waiting to move again. If I was cold, these poor fuckers had to be nearly frozen.

There was a sense of urgency to get moving again as soon as possible. As we confirmed our last-minute assault plans, word came down that the building where the fighters were hiding was indeed a mosque. That automatically changed everything. I could hear the troop commander over his radio trying to work out if we would be allowed to enter and clear the mosque or if only the Afghan commandos could go
inside. We knew the bad guys were there, and we knew the bad guys purposely stayed in mosques because they knew Americans weren’t allowed inside.

After walking for more than three hours, I was sweaty, and the sweat was starting to cool. I’d ditched my warmest gear to prepare for the assault. I didn’t want to fish it all out again for fear we’d get the green light to go and I’d have to put it all away a second time.

As the wait dragged on, people started coming up to where the troop commander, troop chief, and team leaders were meeting. At first, it was the Afghans. We often used a SEAL officer to supervise the Afghan commandos. The officer showed up at the ORP with the Afghan commander. He looked exasperated.

“I couldn’t get him to stop; they want to know what’s going on,” the officer said.

“Settle down and relax. We’ll tell you when we’re ready to go. Now, get back to your positions and we’ll let you know,” the troop commander said.

Then the Ranger captain came up and kneeled next to me.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he asked. “What are we doing?”

“They’re in a mosque,” the troop commander said. “Just hang tight. We’re figuring it out and will let you know when we’re ready to go.”

The Ranger platoon leader went back without a word. I was getting pissed. I knew everyone was freezing. I was too, but now, only three hundred meters from the target, was not the time to start questioning things. Our troop commander
and chief were both working the radios trying to get approvals so we could continue the mission.

The voice of the drone pilot over my radio finally shook me from my thoughts of a warm tropical beach somewhere.

“We’ve got movers,” the pilot said. “They just left the mosque headed north out of the village.”

“Roger,” the troop commander said. “Can you identify weapons?”

Since the enemy patrol was leaving the village, maybe now we could get an air strike. We’d patrolled through the freezing-cold weather for most of the night, but there was still no need to get into a gunfight if there was an easier way.

“Negative,” the drone pilot came back. “We can’t identify any weapons.”

I looked at Steve and almost laughed.

“Could there be anybody else except bad guys out here at three in the morning in patrol formation?”

Steve looked angry.

“They just left a mosque,” Steve said. “They’ve correlated the group to the Taliban commander. Three guards have been out all night. What the fuck is wrong?”

As bad as we all wanted to go get these guys, we all knew the inherent danger of getting into a shootout. We were putting ourselves at significant risk because we weren’t being allowed to drop bombs.

We weren’t even sure why they decided to move. Had some early-warning network alerted them? Sure we had landed miles away from the target to avoid the enemy hearing
the noise from the helicopter, but who is to say there weren’t more Taliban farther down the valley who’d heard us land and called their buddies up the valley? The only benefit was we didn’t have to worry about getting approvals to enter the mosque anymore.

My blood was pumping now, so I didn’t feel the cold. One hundred percent of my attention and focus was on making sure my team was moving, alert, and in the best tactical position. Walking into a gunfight can warm the blood. The long, cold walk to the target was now over, and it was time to focus on the hunt.

We made the call to go. We quietly maneuvered into the village, careful to make little noise. There was no need to wake up the whole village at the last second. The gate to the mosque was unlocked. The Afghans went in first and started to clear. The Americans—Rangers and SEALs—stayed outside and waited.

The search took a few minutes, and the Afghans didn’t find anything. We didn’t really expect anybody to be left inside, but we weren’t about to pass it by without checking.

Overhead, the drone was keeping track of the fighters as they picked their way up a nearby hill. Again, our request to hit them with a missile or bomb was denied. No visible weapons. We had no choice but to pursue them and deal with the situation accordingly.

After close to four hours of walking, we were not only cold but also tired. I could tell it was taking a toll on the Afghan commando unit that was with us. They weren’t being
proactive and we had to order them to pull security. They weren’t focused on the mission. They wanted to go home.

Our snipers found the enemy’s trail and we slowly started the chase. After about a half hour of moving, the drone pilots once again reported in that the Taliban patrol had come to a building and stopped. Hopefully bedding down for the night.

At least one guard was positioned on a little saddle overlooking the valley.

The only approach to the new target was between the saddle and a small knoll. As we moved into position and began slowly making our way toward the target, the Taliban guard spotted us. I was near the front and watched the guard stand up and stare at us for a long second. I could see an AK-47 slung across his chest. He then turned and tore ass toward the house where his buddies were sleeping.

The radio traffic cracked in my ear.

“We have multiple movers,” the drone pilot said. “I say again, we have multiple movers.”

We were in the low point of the saddle. We needed to get to the high ground as quickly as possible. Sprinting up the snow-covered hill, I led my team to the end of a line of compounds opposite where the fighters were running. I was no longer cold. There was no doubt we were about to get into a fight.

The snipers, at the front of the formation, were already set up. As I got up to the knoll, I could hear their rifles firing. I saw two fighters in a dead sprint attempting to run down an adjacent knoll. Our snipers dropped them like rag dolls from
more than one hundred and fifty yards away. The rest of the fighters stopped running and dove for cover.

I moved my team farther up the knoll looking for a way to flank the enemy. Our snipers were in place and had the enemy pinned down and unable to escape. The Rangers had now made their way to the top of the knoll and were stacked up on the back side of the hill behind the line of compounds.

I grabbed the Ranger captain.

“Hey,” I said. “Your guys want to have some fun?”

I took the captain up to the crest of the hill and told him to set up his machine guns and lay down a base of fire on the enemy position. The Rangers carried the heavier belt-fed machine guns and ammo, and I knew they would love to lighten their loads and get in some action.

The Rangers set up with their machine guns and grenade launchers. I shouldered my rifle and aimed my infrared targeting laser at the enemy location, marking them for the Ranger platoon.

“We’re going to flank right and I’ll hit you up on the radio when it’s time to lift your fire,” I said. “Until then, fuck ’em up.”

Before I even got off the knoll, I could hear the rattle of the machine guns and thump of grenades. Nobody likes carrying the big guns until you need them. It was an awesome sound as the Rangers laid down covering fire that would hopefully keep the enemy busy as my team flanked their position.

“We have squirters moving on your left,” the drone pilot said over the radio.

The snipers stayed in position and focused on the enemy to our front, while Steve’s team maneuvered to intercept the movers to our left. My team, with the combat dog, or “hair missile,” and the troop chief, continued to move around from the right to eliminate the small pocket of enemy still remaining in the house. We had a perfect “L”-shape ambush on the enemy position.

With the deep snow and uphill terrain, it took us a few minutes to move into position. We crept down toward the building. Our hope was that their attention was focused on the fire coming from the Rangers and our snipers and they wouldn’t notice us approaching from their left flank. Up ahead, I could see the Rangers’ tracer rounds racing across the small valley and smashing into some small shrubs and trees. Without night vision, it looked like lasers in a science fiction movie.

We pushed the “hair missile” out in front of us as we made our way down the small hill and closed in. It felt like we were about to walk directly into the Rangers’ tracers when my troop chief got on the radio and had them cease-fire.

Above me, I heard the familiar hum of the AC-130’s engines. We were “troops in contact,” which is a fancy way of saying “under fire.” All the aircraft that had previously said they couldn’t drop bombs were now trying to get in on the action.

It’s funny how that works.

Steve and his team were using the AC-130 to take out the squirters. I could hear Steve calling for fire. About a minute later, the roar of the plane’s guns echoed down the valley.

The quiet valley was no longer calm. It had become almost deafening with the sound of automatic weapons fire and close air support. Our position was now quiet. No one spoke. We all were focused ahead. I saw the dog zigzag its way forward, sniffing at the snow, looking for a scent. To my right, I could hear my troop chief on the radio coordinating with our troop commander.

So far, we hadn’t found any fighters. The snow was deep and it was hard to walk. I had my night vision goggles down and strained to see any movement. My eye never lingered for more than a second on anything. I scanned ahead of me before shifting my gaze closer to make sure I didn’t miss anything at my feet. This was the first time I actually felt comfortable on this mission.

Then, from my right I heard a burst of suppressed fire.

POP, POP, POP.

I spun around and caught the troop chief’s last few shots as he backpedaled away. In the snow at his feet, I could see what looked like a dead fighter. The troop chief was startled.

“Motherfucker,” the troop chief mumbled under his breath.

The troop chief wasn’t usually in the front with the assault teams. Since we had so many moving pieces, he was moving along with us. His job was more coordinating and talking on the radio, so when the fighter stirred directly in front of him, he was caught off guard.

From what I could tell, it looked like the fighter might have been wounded in the initial fight and simply hidden in his position and waited to ambush anybody that approached.
He was lying so still the troop chief didn’t see him and almost stepped on him.

We continued clearing down the knoll, step-by-step, through the knee-deep snow. As we closed on a small group of buildings, I saw the body of another fighter. I slowly walked over, my rifle aimed at his back. Another SEAL teammate rolled him over, while I covered him. The fighter was dead, machine gun rounds having torn open his chest.

In a small cluster of bushes, we found another body. He was crumpled facedown in the snow, his AK-47 nearby. We found three more bodies nearby for a total of five fighters at our location. The initial barrage from our snipers and the covering fire from the Rangers had done the job.

Once Steve and his team were done calling in close air support from the AC-130, the silence was eerie. I could hear Steve on the radio. His team had killed two fighters. All around us, the Rangers set up security while we combed the bodies for intelligence. We searched through the fighters’ pockets, looking for anything that could lead us to another target.

All of the fighters were loaded down with chest racks full of magazines, grenades, and even medical kits. These weren’t your standard farmer-by-day, Taliban-fighter-by-night types. They had good equipment and looked like they had maintained it well. They were pipe-hitting, trained, and well- equipped fighters.

Once we were sure the target area was secure, we walked the two conventional Army battle space owners around and showed them each dead fighter and their weapons. This was
one of the formalities required under the current rules of engagement. While they took pictures and notes, we gathered up the fighters’ weapons and gear and destroyed them with explosives.

The patrol back to the landing zone went by faster. Everyone in the Taliban-controlled valley was up now, and we didn’t want to stay around any longer than we had to. It was only a matter of time before more fighters came out to avenge their dead friends.

It was still very cold out and we were all sweaty from the firefight. My shirt was soaked and my pants clung to my skin. The difference was for the patrol out of the valley, my mind was on the fact that we’d successfully eliminated the entire Taliban element. They would never harm any American service members again.

I slid my winter gloves on and pulled my beanie down over my ears before replacing my helmet on my head. When the troop chief gave the order to move, we moved out without a word. I kept putting one foot in front of the other, thinking about the warm shower back at the base. I hoped the showers still had hot water.