Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man (10 page)

That night, we individually faced what we hoped was the last land navigation event. The lucky ones would cover roughly forty miles of mountain trails, pock-marked asphalt roads, and densely vegetated terrain that covered the hundreds of meters of elevation change. The unlucky would cover more distance as they self-corrected their march after a sleepdeprived wrong turn or two. The really unfortunate would either move too slow or fail to recover from their error in time to finish within the unpublished time frame. I fell into the middle category, the unlucky.

For the past three and a half weeks, our individual assigned code consisted of a color and a number that was changed daily. This night, however, the smooth-talking Delta assault cadre member named Hoov barked at us from the back of the camouflaged truck. “There are only two colors left—Blood and Guts!” he said. I became Blood 36.

I was the fourth of six candidates in our truck, and was called out just past 2200 hours, taken to a small shelter tarp tied to the trees, and given a short, scripted set of instructions. As the officer spoke, my mind seemed incapable of registering what he was saying. I was too pumped up, or too exhausted, and ready for the entire nightmare to be over. When he finished his short brief, he turned me around and pointed me in the initial direction.

It was pitch-dark, no moon yet, and the ground was soaked. Had I not been steered in the right direction, I might easily have walked off the edge of the earth. Armed with a rubber M-16 rifle, eight different map sheets, and a compass, and toting a sixty-pound rucksack, I was away on the first of what would soon seem like a lifetime’s worth of steps.

Trying to jog the trails at night was stupid. After three weeks of assessment, this was not the time to twist an ankle or blow a knee, both easy to do in the blackness on an unknown trail. I maintained my own desired pace for an hour, maintaining a good pace count so as not to miss a turn in the trail. One wrong turn could spell the end.

Incessant pain in my upper back helped keep my mind off the weight of the rucksack digging into my shoulders during the hour that passed before I came into contact with any other humans. Four or five candidates were whispering to each other as they huddled around the white light of a candidate’s flashlight that illuminated a rain-soaked map case. The trail had gone cold because heavy rains had flooded the low areas and deep pools of rainwater hid what I thought was the desired footpath.

The discussion centered on whether to go through the water in hopes of picking up the trail when the terrain rose, or steer around it by taking some other trail that was not seen on the map. I had stopped for a breather close by and tried to listen in to the verbal logic train. Just then, a Ranger candidate stepped from the darkness, breathing heavily. He was soaked up to his chest, and his rucksack still dripped water. His compass dangled from around his neck as he held his map and flashlight in one hand and weapon in the other.

He silently signaled to the huddled group that trying to ford the flooded trail was not an option. The Ranger then approached me and said, “No way, man. It’s too deep.” I recognized him them. Nitro was a seasoned Ranger squad leader from Savannah, Georgia, home of the 1st Ranger Battalion.

We were under strict orders not to talk to anyone during the exercise, but taking risks is what this business is all about anyway. Delta was not looking for choirboys. “How far did you get?” I asked.

“About twenty meters or so. It’s hard to tell.”

I looked at my map again, my hand wiping rainwater off the plastic case, but preventing me from seeing the important fine brown contour lines telling elevation and the blue dotted lines that showed an intermittent stream.

“I’m going for it,” I said quietly. “Can’t afford to go around. It will take twice as long to get back on the right trail.”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t think you can make it.” Nitro’s opinion was not to be underestimated, but time was our enemy.

I glanced over at the group. Some were still debating the issue while others had already taken off to find an alternate route. Their flashlight beams could be seen faintly in the distance.
We’re wasting time here
, I thought.

“You can always go around if you want, or you can come with me,” I offered, “We’ll strike some high ground not too far past where you turned around.”

Nitro looked at me for a second, shifted his heavy rucksack around on his back and shoulders. “Alright, I’m with ya,” he said. Years later in Aghanistan, I saw Nitro’s courage firsthand in the face of enormous odds and ambiguous surroundings.

By now I was completely soaked, except for one area, and a few steps later, the icy water finally reached my groin, too, giving me a frigid reality check. I don’t exactly remember when Nitro and I eventually split up, but once we lost each other, another twenty-nine hours passed before I saw him again.

The rain worsened over the next few hours and my body temperature was dropping fast. I had only eaten a single bite of a chocolate Powerbar. I felt nauseous and lost my appetite, a sure sign that I needed to keep refueling my body, both with water and food. I ignored it. My rucksack was soaking up rain like a giant sponge, adding at least another five pounds to my load and making each step much more labored. To refill my Camelbak water container, I would have to take off the rucksack, but I was too cold and miserable to do so.

I was simply too focused on succeeding, too focused on moving forward one step at a time, and too stupid to stop for a few moments to refuel my body.

When the morning sun finally began to break over the horizon, about six hours into the march, I decided to get rid of the batteries in my flashlight to shed a few ounces of unneeded weight. The two D batteries were part of the load slowing me down, so I threw them into a fast-running creek, hoping I would finish the march before darkness fell again. It made some sort of fuzzy sense at the time.

I was continuing down the waterlogged trail that paralleled the creek when my mind told me I might have made a big mistake. Somewhere along the way I had allowed rain to seep into my clear plastic map case,
probably when I had stopped to don my camouflage wet-weather jacket to prevent losing any more warmth in my body. I had waited until after I was thoroughly drenched from the rain to do it.

The map case is used to shield your map from inclement weather, and works well until you have to switch out map sheets as the trail leads you off of one sheet and picks up on a different map. My maps got soaked while I was swapping them, and from then on, with each slight tug inside the map case, the papers disintegrated. Figuring I was about thirty miles into the movement, with an assumed ten miles still to go, I knew I had big problems.

I crossed a footbridge that spanned a swift-running river to get to my next rendezvous point and saw another candidate, a blond and muscular Green Beret, standing beside a cadre vehicle. His map also had deteriorated from the rainwater, and he was piecing it back together like a child’s jigsaw puzzle. Luckily, the two portions of the map I needed to reach the next rendezvous point were still intact. I showed the cadre member sitting in the driver’s seat where I currently was on the map and the point to which I was going next. Those were the only two required pieces of information a candidate had to present before he could continue the exercise. Fortunately, we were not required to point out the exact route we planned to take, because that portion of my map had turned to mush. I also had a good hint because other candidates who had done a better job keeping their maps dry were moving in what I figured had to be the correct direction.

I set off again, physically and psychologically spent, moving one step at a time on some untapped fuel reserve that few men ever push themselves hard enough to experience. It’s so much easier just to quit.

Only a hundred meters along, I found myself staring at a massive hill. Without the details of the map to help me make a decision as to which way to go, or if an easier way existed, perhaps a small trail to get me to the top quickly, I just stepped off. Straight ahead.

Thick, intertwined, nearly impassable underbrush of wait-a-minute vines and trees slowed me to a snail’s pace. I worried, sniveled, and felt sorry for myself.
I’m losing too much time. I will never make it in time. No, don’t quit, keep moving, the terrain can only get better. Maybe it’s less dense near the top
. Fortunately, it was.

I broke free of the thick vegetation about ten yards from the crest of
the mountain and a trail appeared, giving me a shot of adrenaline that I desperately needed.
Maybe I can still make this. How long have I been walking? Twelve, thirteen hours?
My pace quickened and my legs thanked me for finally stumbling onto flat land, and I was wondering if I had passed the rendezvous point or not. In fact, I was not even sure which direction to head on the trail but I soon found the answer.

To my amazement, someone was actually walking the same trail, but approaching me. He was in civilian clothes, and his blue rain jacket contrasted heavily with the dark browns and greens of the thick trees and bushes. Odd.
Who in his right mind would be out here for a stroll in this weather?
The answer hit me like a breath of fresh air: Only a Delta selection cadre member would be out here! That’s it! If I was correct then he must have just come from a rendezvous point somewhere up ahead. Then I hoped he was not moving toward a point that I might have missed.

As we neared each other, I tried to stand a little straighter and hide my physical and mental anguish. The hood was pulled over his head, but I recognized him. It was not just any cadre member; it was the longtime unit command sergeant major. As we passed each other I said, “Hello, sergeant major.” He responded only with a half grin, half smile, which was all I needed to pick up my pace.

The euphoria soon passed. It had been hours since I had seen another candidate and I was pretty much resigned to the belief that I wouldn’t make it. I was certain this would prove to be my last day, but there was no option other than to press on.

It began to rain harder and I was sure I was nearing hypothermia, and darkness was on me, a man who had disabled his own flashlight! I started looking for a dry place to stop for the night. I wanted to end it, but except for the sergeant major, way back, there was no one around to whom I could say, “I quit!” Any cadre member would have done, but I couldn’t find anybody at all.

I saw a small derelict cabin off the beaten trail, and I thought of building a fire to warm my tired bones and muscles and get some sleep before resuming my march in the morning. I was disappointed for failing. Lost in thought, the cabin was well behind me before I could decide whether to stop.
Turn back? No, keep going. You can always find another spot to quit
.

I reached another rendezvous point and my mind was arguing with itself—the devil telling me to jack it in and the angel whispering words of encouragement and strength. I pressed on.

Another hour and another rendezvous point. I had completely lost the ability to determine time or distance, even while wearing a perfectly good wristwatch and with a compass around my neck. My mind was numb to even kindergarten math.

As I went through the standard procedure of preparing to show the cadre member in the truck where I was and where I thought I was going next, the selection course commander, wearing bright and colorful civilian clothing, suddenly appeared from behind the truck.
This is it. I’ll bet he enjoys seeing us at our most vulnerable and weakest state
.

My camouflage Gore-Tex rain jacket was zipped all the way to the bottom of my chin, and a soaked black wool cap hung barely above my eyes, giving me the look of a tired and wet gangster. I was a pathetic sight for sure, and didn’t feel I deserved to call myself a soldier. My muscles, cramped as tight as a bear trap, screamed for mercy. Physically and mentally, I was finished.

The commander extended his right hand and said, very formally, “Captain Fury, congratulations on successfully completing the stress phase of selection and assessment. Your evaluation for potential service as an officer in Delta begins now. Good luck!”

I had made it.

The evaluation for potential service with Delta continued another four days before I finally found myself standing before the commanders’ board, wearing the best set of four torn and tattered camouflage uniforms I had and a pair of brush-shined and -scarred jungle boots.

I reported to the Delta commander, Col. Eldon Bargewell, a special ops legend. As an enlisted man during the Vietnam War, Bargewell served as a team leader in the Special Operations Group. Years later, having become an officer, he commanded Delta operators in Panama and was part of a handful
of operators who rescued American citizen Kurt Muse from the Modelo prison. He led his squadron in Desert Storm, served as a key figure in the Balkans, and was a general officer in Iraq.

At his right was the unit command sergeant major, the same man I had passed on the mountain trail a few days earlier, and about fifteen other Delta senior officers and sergeants also were in the room. The “docs,” the unit psychologists, were in the back of the room, dissecting every candidate’s mannerisms and responses. They already had taken their pound of flesh when I spilled my guts to them and allowed the shrinks full access to my closet of skeletons.