SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper (3 page)

“One minute!” Everything on the ground looked familiar. I could’ve just trusted the pilots, but I’d done a lot of walking in the past, so I wanted to confirm the drop point.

“Thirty seconds!” The plane was a little off course. My left hand steadied me on the ramp as I used my right hand to signal. Looking into the plane, I flashed five fingers and jerked my thumb right, signaling the loadmaster in front of me. The loadmaster told the pilot to adjust the nose of the aircraft 5 degrees starboard. If I flashed two sets of five fingers, he would adjust 10 degrees. I never had to adjust more than 10 degrees. Some jumps I didn’t have to adjust at all. It was nice to have great pilots.

The light on the ramp changed from red to green. Now it was my decision whether to jump or not.
It’s going to take about five seconds to get everyone out of the plane
.

I signaled the guys. Little Big Man took the first step off the plane—12,000 feet above ground. We usually jumped in order of lightest to heaviest, so the heaviest jumper wouldn’t land away from everybody. Next jumped Sourpuss, then Casanova. I jumped last because as the jumpmaster I had to make sure everyone exited the plane, help cut away anyone who got hung up, etc. In the air, our rucksacks hung from a line attached to our chests. There was a time when I’d think,
I sure hope this crap works.
Probably for the first hundred jumps I pleaded,
God, please. Please let it open.
Now I had hundreds of free falls under my belt, and I packed my own chute. Some guys experienced malfunctions with their primary parachute and had to go to their secondary, but not me. My chute always opened. I never so much as sprained a toe—even after 752 jumps.

I positioned my body so I could fly closer to the landing zone. After free-falling for a little under a minute, I pulled at 3,000 feet. At 2,500 feet I was under canopy. I looked up to make sure the chute was OK and loosened the straps attached to my rucksack, so the straps weren’t cutting off my circulation. My feet helped support the weight of my rucksack. I flipped on my night optical device (NOD). An infrared chemlight glowed on the back of each of our helmets. These are known as glow sticks in the civilian world; just bend the plastic stick until the fragile glass container inside breaks, mixing two chemicals together that glow. Invisible to the naked eye, the infrared lights shone in our NODs. We stacked our canopies on top of each other. Behind and above Little Big Man descended Sourpuss. Behind and above Sourpuss came Casanova. I descended behind and above Casanova. Our parachutes looked like stairs as we flew into the target.

Nearing the ground, I flared my parachute, slowing my descent. I eased my rucksack down, so it wouldn’t trip me up on my landing. Little Big Man landed first. Without the rush of wind, his 10'–12' canopy immediately collapsed in the dirt. He quickly got out of his parachute and readied his weapon as Sourpuss came down next. Likewise Sourpuss released his chute and prepared his weapon. Casanova and I came down on top of Little Big Man’s and Sourpuss’s parachutes. The four of us had landed together in an area the size of a living room. Little Big Man and Sourpuss guarded the perimeter, each covering 180 degrees, while Casanova and I took off our chutes. After we concealed our chutes, I took the point, leading us out. JSOC’s lane graders were out looking to see if they could find us taking shortcuts. It was tempting to cheat—all four of us could put our chutes away at the same time without having two on security and maybe shave five minutes off our time—but it wasn’t worth the risk of getting caught by the lane graders. We knew we’d better be playing the game like it was hostile territory. The more you sweat in peacetime, the less you bleed in war.

The wind blew rain at us. Perfect weather to forgive tactical sins—a noise here, a sudden movement there. We patrolled a little over half a mile, then stopped at a rally point. Little Big Man and Sourpuss held security while Casanova and I reached in our rucksacks and pulled out our ghillie suits, camouflage clothing that looks like heavy foliage, made from loose burlap strips. Each of us hand-made our suits and owned two, one for green foliage and one for desert. This time we used the green type. I replaced my camouflage boonie hat with my ghillie suit boonie hat. For clothing, it’s important to blend into the environment. In urban environments, colors become darker close to the ground, so two-tone clothes work effectively: the darker jungle camouflage trousers and lighter desert camouflage top.

Casanova and I checked out each other’s war paint: hands, neck, ears, and face. When painting the skin, it’s important to appear the opposite of how a human being looks: Make the dark become light and the light become dark. That means making sure the parts of the face that form shadows (where the eyes sink in, etc.) become light green and the features that shine (forehead, cheeks, nose, brow, and chin) become dark green. If the sniper’s face is seen, it shouldn’t resemble a face. Disappear and remain invisible.

We separated into two teams and took two different routes to the target. Even if one team got compromised, the other pair could still complete the mission. Casanova and I stalked through the night to our objective. Each of us slowly lifted one foot and moved it forward, clearing obstacles with the toes straight to the front, feeling for twigs or anything we were about to step on. Taking short steps, I walked on the outside edges of my feet, slowly rolling between the balls of my feet and the heels, gradually shifting my weight forward.

At what we determined to be 900 yards to the target, we arrived at a partially open area. Casanova and I lay flat on the ground. Maintaining separation so we wouldn’t look like some moving blob, we low-crawled. We had to move slowly enough not to be seen but fast enough to arrive in time to take our shot. I was careful not to stick my rifle muzzle in the dirt, which would degrade its accuracy, and careful not to stick it in the air, which would expose our position. Remaining flat, I slowly pulled the ground with my arms and pushed with my feet, face so close to the ground that it pushed mud. Six inches at a time. I became one with Mother Earth and cleared my mind of other thoughts. During stalks, I often told myself,
I am one with the ground. I am a part of this dirt.

If I saw the target or a roving patrol, I wouldn’t look directly at or think about it. A buck deer will snort and stomp the ground because he can smell you but can’t locate you. He’s snorting and stomping the ground trying to get you to move so he can locate you. Humans don’t have a buck deer’s sense of smell, but they do have a sixth sense—they know when they’re being watched. Some are more attuned to it than others. When you think you’re being watched and you turn around to find that someone is looking at you, you’re using that sense. The sniper tries not to arouse this sense and avoids looking directly at the target. When it comes time to take the shot, of course, I look at the target in my crosshairs; even then, the concentration is on the crosshairs.

I paused for a moment. Then moved again.

Finally, at what we estimated to be 500 yards to the target, we arrived at our final firing position (FFP). Time: 0220. I pulled my green veil over my scope to break up the outline created by my head and night-vision scope. If you’ve never lain down in a puddle wearing a soggy ghillie suit with the rain pounding down and the wind howling, and all the while trying to stay on your scope and do your job, you’re missing out on one of the best parts of life.

Ahead of us was an old house. Somewhere inside was our target. Casanova and I discussed range, visibility, etc. We used color codes for each side: white, front; black, rear; green, the building’s own right; and red, the building’s left. The color coding for the sides originated with ships, which use green lights for the right (starboard) side and red for the left (port). The phonetic alphabet designated each floor: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta … Windows were numbered from left to right: one, two, three … If someone moved in the front left window on the second floor, I’d report the window: White, Bravo, One. Thus we cut down on needless chatter, making communication concise and streamlined. It was also universal among Team Six snipers, allowing us to quickly understand others we may not have worked with before.

We also kept a log, which included the enemy’s size, activity, location, unit, time, and equipment (summarized as SALUTE). Patrol information is important for an assault team. For example, the assault team might want to go in immediately after the enemy patrol reentered the house. If the patrol is only two people, the assault team might decide to abduct them during their patrol. Or three snipers might simultaneously shoot the two patrol members outside and the target inside. If this were a hostage situation, we would note where the hostages were, where the terrorists were, the leadership, eating times, sleeping times, etc. We were soaking wet, cold, and miserable, but we didn’t have to like it; we just had to do it.

I mil-dotted the window. Knowing that a typical window is one yard tall, I multiplied that by one thousand. Then I divided by the mil dots on my scope to figure out the range.

A lane grader appeared. “What’s the range to the target?”

“Six hundred yards,” was my updated response.

A figure wearing a balaclava on his head and a big army trench coat appeared in the window—the target, which was a mannequin. Usually only one sniper in a pair takes the shot, and the other logs information, spots the target, and guards the perimeter. This time, all four of us would fire. General Garrison wanted to know if each, or any, of us could do what we claimed. I heard a shot from the other pair. Each would only get one try—cold bore. This first shot is the worst because the round has to travel through the cold bore of the rifle. After that round warms up the barrel, the next one fires more accurately—but General Garrison wouldn’t give us second shots. Neither would the enemy.

A lane grader checked the target but didn’t tell us the results. Then the second shot went off. Again, my team didn’t know the results.

It was our turn now. Casanova lay to my right close enough so I could hear him whisper, if needed. Close enough so we could look at a map together. His position also helped him spot the vapor trail of the bullet downrange, helping him see the bullet splash into the target so he could give me correction for a second shot—but today was all or nothing. It had only been about six hours ago when I was having hot pizza with my son in the warmth of the Ready Room. Now I was in the cold, damp woods in the middle of nowhere taking a cold-bore shot at my target. Most people have no idea of the degree of training and commitment required for sniper work.

The butt of the rifle rested tightly in my right shoulder pocket. My shooting hand held the small of the stock firmly but not stiffly, and my trigger finger calmly touched the trigger. My rear elbow gave me balance. Cheek firmly contacting my thumb on the small of the stock, I inhaled. After a partial exhale, I held my breath, a skill that frogmen excel at, keeping my lungs still so they wouldn’t throw the shot. I had to stop breathing long enough to align my crosshairs over the target, but not so long as to cause blurred vision and muscular tension. My finger squeezed the trigger—
bang.

I still didn’t know if I’d hit the target or not. It’s not like the movies, where the shot disintegrates the target. In reality the bullet goes through the body so fast that sometimes people don’t even realize they’ve been shot, as I would later witness in Somalia repeatedly with the .223 rounds.

After Casanova took his shot, we crawled out of the area using a different route from the one we’d taken to come in. Anyone who found our tracks and waited for us to return on the same path would be waiting a long time. We patrolled near the designated landing zone and waited there until dawn.

In the morning, we headed out for the helicopter pickup. A lane grader gave the code that the op was officially over: “Tuna, tuna, tuna.” We could relax: stand up straight, stretch, crack our knuckles, relieve ourselves, and joke around.

A Black Hawk helicopter picked us up in an open field and shuttled us to a nearby airfield, where we boarded a plane.

After returning to SEAL Team Six, the four of us wouldn’t get to go home yet. We had to debrief, then downstage our gear by cleaning it, inspecting it for damage, and repairing it if necessary. Then we had to upstage our gear, preparing for the next callout, whether practice or real world. After three hours, our gear would be ready for when the balloon went up again.

The four of us walked into the briefing room for the debrief at 1100 feeling like hammered turds. General Garrison, along with our SEAL Team Six skipper, our Red Team leader and Red Team chief, and eight or ten other key brass in their entourage, sat in front of us. William F. Garrison didn’t choose the military; the military chose him. Drafted during Vietnam, he served two tours as an officer, earning a Bronze Star for valor and a Purple Heart for combat wounds. He had operated in the Phoenix Program to dismantle the Vietcong’s leadership infrastructure. Later, he worked in the U.S. Army Intelligence Support Activity and Delta from 1985 to 1989. A tall, slender man with gray hair in a tight crew cut, he chewed half an unlit cigar hanging out the side of his mouth. He was the youngest general in the army—ever.

Our skipper didn’t always attend training op debriefings, but with Papa Garrison at the dinner table, the skipper wanted to make sure that his bastard navy children looked good—and, more importantly, got their slice of the pie.

Our Red Team chief was Denny Chalker, nicknamed Snake, a former Army 82nd Airborne paratrooper who became a SEAL in Team One’s counterterrorist unit, Echo Platoon, before becoming one of the original members of SEAL Team Six—a plankowner.