SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper (36 page)

It was signed for the president by John Dalton, the new secretary of the navy. Casanova and I walked into the secretary of defense’s office and shook his hand. Upon exiting, Casanova said, “That man’s got the softest hands I’ve ever felt.” Later, I also received a whack on the pee-pee for disobeying a direct order and helping the teenaged Somali boy who’d stepped on a land mine—my most successful op in Somalia.

*   *   *

Casanova and I sat chewing Copenhagen dip in Red Team’s ready room. It was a huge informal room, mostly neutral in color. Mission briefs, real-world intel, and other briefings were done in a special room. Pictures of Red Team exploits decorated one wall. An ornate totem pole and an authentic Indian headdress stood as Team symbols. In the largest part of the room were four big tables with eight to ten chairs that could sit a boat crew at each table. Carpeting covered the floor. The FNGs were responsible for cleanliness and keeping the two refrigerators stocked with various brands of beer. The Team chief and Team leader shared one office adjoining the Team room. Also adjoining the Team room was a computer room for general use. Just outside the Team room were the individual cages where we kept our gear.

Casanova and I sat at a table. Little Big Man arrived with an envelope from the Randall knife company. He had offered to send his knife, tell his story, and sponsor their company—
SEAL Team Six sniper saved by Randall knife.

“How much they going to pay you?” Casanova asked.

Little Big Man opened the letter and read, “Thank you for sharing your story with us. We’ll give you ten percent off if you want to buy another knife.”

“Dumb-asses,” Little Big Man said.

Casanova laughed loudly and boisterously. I laughed so hard, I almost swallowed my chewing tobacco.

*   *   *

I recovered rapidly and returned to the Team. My first contact with Lieutenant Commander Buttwipe was when he took over command of Red Team as senior officer, Red Team leader. Buttwipe lived for appearances more than getting the job done, which ruffled a lot of operators’ feathers. A number of people left Red Team to go to Blue and Gold Teams because of him. He had a fake chuckle, especially in the presence of senior officers. When he laughed with us, it felt like he was really thinking about something else. Because he was part Japanese, we made jokes behind his back about losing World War II. Short in stature, he cut his hair short, too, in a flattop style.

He must’ve loved the smell of my gluteus maximus, because he rode it constantly. Maybe Buttwipe felt self-conscious that he lacked talent. Although he ran and swam well, he brought up the rear during CQB shooting drills, and he lacked good timely tactical decisions. Maybe he resented never seeing combat, or not earning a Silver Star. Regardless of his reason, somehow Buttwipe found out that Delta wanted me. The Delta operators at the hospital in Germany encouraged me to join them. A Delta colonel told me at the Andrews Air Force Base hospital how I could laterally transfer out of the SEALs and into Delta. In retrospect, Delta probably would’ve understood and respected me more—I know of no stronger bond than the bond with people I’d been in combat with. My relationship with Casanova, Little Big Man, the Delta operators, the CCTs, and the PJs was stronger than my relationship with other Teammates.

“I’ll support you if you stay here,” Buttwipe said, “but if you try to leave, I’ll be your worst nightmare.”

Buttwipe’s actions gave me more motivation to transfer to Delta. Yet his words said he didn’t want me to leave. He made no sense. I remained because I trained to be a SEAL, was still a SEAL, and wanted to continue being a SEAL. It’s what I did best.

In the sum of things, Buttwipe didn’t support me. He even gave me a hard time about showing up at the Delta memorial unshaven in civilian clothes. I really couldn’t understand his argument—I’d almost died of staph infection while making the trip to the ceremony. Surviving day to day took nearly all the energy I had. Shaving was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I despised his incompetence as much as I despised the incompetence of Clinton. Buttwipe should’ve been a politician instead of an operator. Just remembering him now makes me want to kick him in the face.

Laura and I divorced. The baby she was pregnant with wasn’t mine—wasn’t even the same race. It happened while I was gone. That’s all I’m going to say about that. I’d been unfaithful, too. Rachel and Blake went to live with their mom because I wouldn’t be able to take care of them when I had to be away for work. I hadn’t spent enough time with Rachel, and now I’d be spending even less time with her. Her mother let her do most of the things she wanted, but I didn’t. When Rachel became old enough to choose, she chose to live with her mom. Later, when Rachel was a senior in high school, her mother let her move in with her boyfriend—something I would never allow. My relationship with Rachel would deteriorate. Even though I was stricter with Blake than with Rachel, he chose to live with me when he turned thirteen. Although I should’ve known that family ties are stronger than job ties, I’d sacrificed my family for the Teams.

In spite of my sacrifices for the Teams, I could never return to being 100 percent of the sniper I used to be. My thinking became darker. One day, I held my SIG SAUER P-226 pistol in my hand.
How bad would it be if I took this P-226 and ended everything with one
9
mm bullet? There are worse things than death.
I convinced myself that everyone would be better off. They could collect on my life insurance.

Blake was visiting me. “Dad.”

That one word snapped me out of it. Ending my life would’ve been selfish.
If I don’t have anything else to live for, at least I have my children.
I never had those dark thoughts again.

Although it had looked initially like I’d lose my leg, I didn’t. I walked on crutches before I was supposed to, used a cane before I was supposed to, walked unassisted before I was supposed to, and started swimming before I was supposed to. Although people thought I would never walk without a limp, I did. Even though many thought I’d never run again, I did. After returning to the Team, I hit the gym every morning and did PT with them. I couldn’t always keep up, but I consistently worked hard at it.

15.

Ambassador Death Threats

Although still experiencing daily pain and sleepless nights from my injuries, I recovered to the point that I could receive an assignment to protect Ambassador to the Philippines John Negroponte, who had received some death threats. A Yale graduate, he dropped out of Harvard Law School to become a diplomat. Of Greek descent, he spoke English, French, Greek, Spanish, and Vietnamese.

With me from Team Six came Johnny. He had been stationed in the Philippines before, possibly on a deployment with SEAL Team One, and had a lot of friends—many of them female. He had volunteered for the assignment to have some fun.

Johnny always had a lighthearted attitude. We were living in a condo on the tenth floor of a building in Makati, an upscale neighborhood in Manila. One evening, an earthquake hit. It woke us up, along with our maid, Lucy. Johnny and I both came out of our rooms, he in his boxer shorts and I in my birthday suit. Outside the window, buildings swayed side to side. I could feel our building sway, too. “What do you want to do?” I asked.

Johnny had that big smile on his face. “Nothing we can do. Just sort it out when we hit the ground.”

We laughed it off and went back to bed.

Our job included training Philippine nationals, some from the Philippine National Police force, to protect the ambassador. We showed the Filipinos how to do diplomatic advances, run a three-vehicle motorcade, walk a detail diamond (one agent walking point, one on each side of the principal, and one bringing up the rear), and more. We took them out to shoot with their Uzis. Uzis are poor weapons for accuracy, and the Philippine nationals were poor marksmen with any weapon. The ambassador was fortunate they didn’t have to shoot anyone to protect his life. Our recommendation to the assistant regional security officer was to let Filipinos carry shotguns instead of Uzis, so they had a better chance of hitting something. The change wasn’t made.

Sitting down with the commandant and assistant regional security officer, and drawing on my experiences running a CIA safe house in Somalia, we came up with an improved defense and E&E plan for the embassy. Also, we took the Marine embassy guards out to the range for shooting practice. “Hey, we’re marines. We know how to shoot.” After spending a few days on the range with Johnny and me, the marines’ eyes opened up. “Good stuff!”

Ambassador Negroponte never seemed to stop, always meeting with people, and he played tennis well. He treated us like we were part of the family. I felt close to his children, whom we also protected. His British wife was polite and sweet. They invited Johnny and me to Thanksgiving dinner at the American Residence in Baguio, a mansion complete with chandeliers and oil paintings.

One day, Johnny and I did an advance for the ambassador’s visit to a chiropractor. I wore my Oakley sunglasses. We walked up to the front desk and introduced ourselves. The receptionist invited us in. As we searched rooms for bad guys, we interrupted the chiropractor during her lunch. We apologized and continued on.

Later, we received a call from the ambassador, asking us to see him. We left our condo in Makati and met with him. He politely told us, “Next time you go to the chiropractor’s office, don’t go all roughshod. That chiropractor also happens to be a friend.” This was before 9/11, so security was less of a priority, but we had done our advance the way we were trained. He explained, “I have a shoulder injury from tennis, and if she doesn’t realign my spine, I’m in pain.”

I was skeptical about chiropractors and didn’t think they would be effective in easing the constant pain I had in my leg and neck, but I filed our conversation in the back of my mind anyway.

*   *   *

At the embassy, Johnny and I met a middle-aged American doctor who feared for his life. “I’m doing charity work as a doctor. Just trying to help people. And the mob is trying to rob and kill me.”

“How do you know?”

“They’re following me. People call my hotel, checking if I’m there. They’re at the hotel waiting for me.”

Johnny and I told the assistant regional security officer (ARSO), working for the State Department. “We think the mob is really going to kill this guy.”

*   *   *

Johnny and I wore civilian clothes. Not wanting to stick out like Secret Service agents or diplomatic security, we didn’t carry radios. I liked to wear khaki Royal Robbins pants because they’re easy to run in, have a lot of pockets, and look nice. Over a navy blue T-shirt, I wore a photographer’s vest with a pair of binoculars and a blowout kit in the pockets. In a pancake holster on my hip was my SIG SAUER, which held one fifteen-round magazine. In the mag holder on my belt, I carried two more magazines. Over the vest I wore an unbuttoned button-down shirt, concealing my pistol and spare magazines.

Leaving the doctor at the embassy, the two of us ran a mini countersurveillance of the doctor’s hotel. It wasn’t a high-class place like the Intercontinental, but it wasn’t a dive, either. Three blocks away from his hotel, Johnny and I stood on one of the top floors of a building. I called the hotel’s front desk and introduced myself as working for diplomatic security. Explaining the situation, I asked the desk clerk to open the curtains in the doctor’s room. Also, I told him what I looked like and what time I’d arrive.

When the curtains opened, we could see inside with the binoculars we’d brought from the Team—pocket-sized waterproof Bausch & Lombs (now licensed with Bushnell) with antiglare coating, enhanced light transmission, and high color contrast. No one seemed to be waiting in the room. I felt relieved that we wouldn’t have to do a forced entry and get into a gun battle. The desk clerk verified that no one was inside. So far, so good. Then again, he could be setting us up.

We moved in a wide square around the hotel area, looking for anyone running surveillance. Then we moved in closer toward the hotel, making concentric squares.

A junky old vehicle sat in front of the hotel with two guys in it. My spider senses tingled.
These are the two guys I need to look out for.
They weren’t dressed like businessmen and didn’t seem to be there to pick anyone up. No one else in the area seemed to be a threat.

Johnny parked our Jeep Cherokee near the corner of the building where he could see the doctor’s room above and the thugs in front of him. I transferred my SIG SAUER from my holster to my vest pocket, keeping my hand on it with my finger near the trigger. Then I stepped out of our vehicle and walked to the hotel.

Inside the lobby, my eyes scanned for anyone or anything out of place. At that point in my career, I could take a glance at people, note their posture and body language, and know if they were a threat. Part of my awareness seemed to be a heightened sixth sense—like when you think somebody is watching you and you turn around to find out somebody really is watching you.

The desk clerk, probably a relative of the hotel owner, escorted me to the stairway. An elevator can be a death trap. It can be stopped between floors. There could be somebody on top of the elevator—it doesn’t just happen in movies. Or a big surprise could be waiting when the elevator opens. If this was a setup, the desk clerk would become more nervous as we neared the doctor’s room. He would know he stood a good chance of getting killed during an ambush. If the ambush didn’t kill him, I would.