Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man (7 page)

It took Shrek ten minutes to locate our guide, who wore a faded olive drab army jacket and a black facemask to protect his identity should a local happen to be awake and see us through a window or doorway. He had to live here, and protecting his identity was crucial. We followed him over rickety single-log bridges, in between tight adobe homes where both shoulders rubbed against the walls, up precarious ledges, and over large rock formations.
He knew exactly where he was going. No doubt that this was his hometown.

The route was physically exhausting. We had started this journey at the Bagram Air Base, which was 5,000 feet above sea level. By the time we reached the target house we would have gained another 1,500 feet in elevation, and the steep climb was made more difficult because we were all carrying loads—weapons, ammo, water, radios, explosives—weighing anywhere from sixty to one hundred pounds. As the troop commander, I typically carried the lightest load, but even my chest was screaming for oxygen as we moved up the near-vertical slope, softly picking up each foot and delicately placing it in front of the other. The boys seemed to be handling the ascent with ease. I’m a mere mortal, but they were animals.

About two hundred meters from the target, Shrek and the guide moved to the far side to provide security. At fifty meters, we paused to catch our breath, give Shrek time to get into position, and radio our location back to the base.

A distinct humming sound rode the night air, the familiar buzz of an AC-130 gunship that was burning holes in the sky directly above us. Gunships make us happy, but this time the presence of the aircraft caused a worry because it could be easily heard by anyone on the ground. By circling around the target area too soon, the aircraft risked compromising us and also alerting Gul Ahmed, and either development might prompt him to squirt. He was not stupid. This time, the services of the gunship could wait.

Our U.S. Air Force combat controller, Jeff, raised the AC-130 and directed it to clear the airspace and to go loiter a few miles away. As the plane faded from earshot, we once again settled back to dead silence.

Still, there was another bird stacked up there. A Predator drone circled 9,000 feet over our heads, out of hearing range, but with its infrared camera locked on the target buildings. The images flashed back to the JOC and gave the Delta commander and the entire task force staff seats almost as good as ours. On a large screen, they could easily make out twenty dark figures around the four structures.

Shrek made a final radio call. “Be advised, the guide thinks Mr. Ahmed will attempt to jump out a window and run for another home.” The guide’s timely reminder was no big deal, since that is always an obvious possibility. We stood and departed our last covered and concealed position, and moved up the hill to introduce ourselves to Gul Ahmed.

The home was typical of a middle-income Afghan farmer, and through our NVGs we saw chickens scooting calmly around the dirt yard, several goats that were frozen in confusion about the intruders, and a big donkey that stood dead still, as if it were trying to hide its presence.

We had chosen for this mission to employ mechanical breaching to gain entry; we would simply open an unlocked door or use a sledgehammer or ax, but refrain from using explosives. No need setting off a loud boom that would announce our presence to everyone in the area. The doors were expected to be of the standard, flimsy type and were likely only secured with a light chain. They were there mostly to keep prying neighbors out and animals in, and we breached them by a quick manipulation of the loose chain or a simple mule kick.

Charlie Team silently entered the front door of the main residence without anyone the wiser, but just inside the door stood a large water buffalo that knew these specters did not belong there. The big animal spooked and made a beeline for the front door, with the big horns nearly impaling a Delta operator.

After clearing that immediate room, the team flowed through the open doorway to the left. Inside was a large bed fashioned from tree trunks and rope, and the unmistakable outlines of two humans beneath a blanket. One of the boys kicked the bed and both figures quickly bolted upright, a confused man and a naked woman staring into the darkness. The man was our target, Gul Ahmed, and the boys easily subdued him, but his partner began screaming uncontrollably, and her keening wails started a chain reaction of shouting throughout the entire two-story log structure and then spilled to the other structures.

Within two minutes of the breaches, the sweet sound of victory squawked through my earpiece. “One-One, this is Charlie-One, PC [Precious Cargo] secure,” reported Grumpy, the Charlie Team leader.

I called back, “This is One-One, I understand PC secure, over.”

“Roger, we got him, building three, bottom floor secure. I need some assistance on the second floor.”

Grumpy was mature, quiet, and unassuming, a no-bullshit kind of guy who had been in Delta for seven years and had a general disdain for the chain of command. He told it like it was and didn’t pull any punches, not even for me. Normally unflappable, his calm request for “assistance” was his way of telling me to send another team to help him—
now!

In fact, at the time, he was locked in a hand-to-hand struggle with a pissed-off, twenty-something Afghan male. Grumpy was not in much danger, but his opponent believed that he was fighting for his life. Grumpy somehow had held the guy at bay with one hand, protecting both his M-4 assault rifle and his M-1911 .45-caliber pistol from his opponent’s frantic grasping, and found a moment to squeeze the push-to-talk button on his radio. Nobody would have blamed Grumpy if he simply ended the fight with a single ball round to the man’s forehead. The rules of engagement clearly authorized lethal force in this situation, but the seasoned Delta sergeant knew this guy would be of no intelligence value dead. Besides, the loud report of a gunshot would attract unwanted visitors from around the neighborhood. So the wrestling match continued.

Two of Grumpy’s teammates charged up the outside wood and mud stairs toward their next breach point, moving fast toward their designated portion of the target area. They jumped over the two brawlers without breaking stride, confident that Grumpy, an expert in jujitsu, could handle one unruly Afghan who weighed maybe 150 pounds.

They kicked a dilapidated door to the right off its hinges. Grumpy was proud that his boys were acting like trained professionals. Sure, they cared about their team leader; they simply had assessed the situation and moved on to the next door, just what he had taught them to do.

All of the structures were clear and secure within five minutes without a shot being fired.

The incessant wailing and screaming of the twenty-five to thirty women and children in the small group of buildings woke up the neighbors. We didn’t expect so many women and kids. They outnumbered us. We collapsed our northern security team to help in calming and controlling
them. From the south came the distinct rattle of an AK-47, but no shots landed near us.

From the north, two adult males slowly approached, apparently more out of curiosity about the screaming family members than with any idea that American commandos had caused the ruckus. One had a weapon slung over his shoulder, and with no northern security to intercept them, I leveled my M-4 at him and placed my infrared laser on his forehead. An instant decision was necessary:
Armed? Yes. Displaying hostile intent? No. They live
. I eased a bright green laser line a few inches above his head and squeezed off two suppressed rounds to get their attention. They had come far enough. Message received, the two men turned about and beat feet back the way they came.

In addition to Mr. Ahmed, four of his sons and brothers were found and secured. We had zero time for sorting out who was who, so they also would be taken with us and turned over to the Joint Interrogation Facility in Bagram. Even if some were completely innocent, they still had value, for their stories could be used to determine whether Ahmed was telling the truth or not during his own interrogation sessions. They could also be played one against the other or to corroborate each other’s stories.

Gadget relayed to the Delta commander. “Wrangler Zero-One, this is Rascal-One. One-One sends PC secure. No casualties. Request exfil in ten minutes. Leaving with PC plus four crows. Over.”

The JOC exploded in applause and high fives and smiles flowed around the tent. They all had worked many long hours to make this happen. But we were far from being mission complete—essentially with all friendly personnel safely back at our sleeping tents and the precious cargo turned over to competent authority.

As the troop sergeant major, Stormin’, prepped to get everyone out of Dodge, I moved down the ridge to our primary helicopter pickup zone with Jeff, the combat controller. The spot had been chosen from studying recent imagery and we knew it would be tight. Jeff stepped off the dimensions of the area until he reached the end of the terrace, where he was
looking down a ten-foot drop to the next terrace. He shook his head, unhappy with what he saw. It was going to be extremely difficult to get the black MH-47 Chinook helicopter into such a tight spot, and he walked over and asked my opinion.

“Hey, brother, this is your ball game,” I replied. “Is it going to work or not? If you don’t think it is, we’ll move to the alternate. Trust your instincts.”

“Roger that,” Jeff coolly responded. “I’ll bring her in here.”

As we waited for the distinct thumping sound of double rotor blades, Stormin’ moved the teams down the hill, closer to the pickup zone, along with the five captives, who were barefooted and hooded, with their arms flex-tied behind their backs. A few were noncompliant, requiring the boys to use a few come-along techniques. A little well-placed pain goes a long way.

When they were seated on the ground, Crapshoot, our Alpha Team leader, approached Ahmed, grabbed a handful of the black cloth hood and raised it high enough to clear the eyes. Crapshoot leaned to within inches of the Afghan’s face and peered directly into his eyes.

“
You are Usama bin Laden
!” Crapshoot barked in the face of the middle-aged Afghan.

Ahmed’s eyes went wide with astonishment and he protested, “
No! No! No! Me Gul Ahmed!
”

“Thank you. Just checking,” Crapshoot dropped the hood over the man’s face and grinned. Instant positive identification.

The big Chinook helicopter approached low toward the landing area with its big twin blades whoop-whooping in the night. The bird made a test pass to size up the tight space that we had designated for a landing. Jeff talked to the pilots, advising them to orient the ship’s nose to the valley floor and, from a hover, slowly descend roughly 150 feet to make a lip landing above the damp terrace. The maneuver required that the aircraft lower until the tail ramp kissed the ground and we would rush aboard as fast as possible.

Under the circumstances, it was a risky and difficult maneuver for any helicopter pilot and crew, and we wouldn’t have even considered asking anyone but our brothers from the 160th to attempt it.
*
The rotors would be spinning precariously close to one of Ahmed’s stone farm houses, and any blade strike would likely prevent our exfil and force the bird to limp back to Jalalabad. If it didn’t fall out of the sky first. In addition, two high wires drooped dangerously close, and the crew chief and door gunner had to ensure they could be cleared during the descent.