Warrior Soul: The Memoir of a Navy SEAL (31 page)

The problem was, from the buildings seaward, there was zero cover until the seawall, and then the cover was not perfect. The seawall offered protection only in its defile and the straight drop to the sea. Once into concealment like this, we’d be bottled up until our ride arrived.

Steve’s crew crossed the intersection first, jogging the twenty or so yards by shooting pairs. No sweat. They found hiding places on the other side and set up to cover Rudi, Bubba, and me. We tumbled over the sandbagged wall and sprinted across the intersection. Oddly, I noticed as we ran across the street that the streetlights were on. A red hand was blinking “don’t walk” as I chugged toward Steve and his guys.

When I was halfway across the intersection, an earsplitting noise poured out of the sky—the wail of incoming Katyushas. There was nothing to do but keep running. I didn’t have to tell Rudi or Bubba to hurry; they were hauling ass. My Swiss and Irish genes do not lend themselves to great bursts of sprinting speed. Truth be told, I don’t dance that well, either. Legs pumping, Rudi and Bubba accelerated across the pavement. Even carrying his M-60 and six hundred rounds, Rudi was faster than I was.

I had been the last guy out over the embassy wall, and it would take me ten seconds to cover the distance. Ten seconds, when Katyushas are falling, is an eternity. I had time to consider several factors. First, the incoming rockets were almost certainly being aimed at the embassy. Second, I was probably safer because I was presently running away from the target. Third and most distressing, the Lebanese gunners very seldom hit what they were aiming at. The safest place to be, statistically, was exactly where they were aiming. I was no longer exactly where they were aiming, but somewhere
around
where they were aiming, and that was dangerous.

As the first of the Katyushas detonated, I threw myself across the sidewalk and against the wall of a building. The rocket slammed into a rooftop fifty yards away. Broken glass and roof gravel rained down into the street. The concussion shook the dust from the pavement and echoed crazily in the crowded city block. The next round smashed into the median strip in front of the embassy. The third round made a majestic screech all the way to earth but failed to detonate. Off in the blocks behind us came a crashing noise, like the sound of a car accident, but no explosion. A dud.

Rudi ran out to where I’d curled up, but I was on my feet before he reached me.

“Jesus, you’re slow,” he said.

I jogged to where the boat crews had gathered, the commodious doorway of a large boarded-up shop. We were grouped together, under halfway- decent cover. Instinct dictates that when under artillery fire, one should get where one is going in a hurry, but I didn’t want to rush. I had no idea what group had fired on the embassy: It could have been any of half a dozen factions, and who was yanking the lanyard didn’t matter. What mattered was whether they would lob another salvo. Usually, when artillery is fired, someone close to the target—not the actual gunners—spots the rounds and supplies updated targeting information. The three rockets had missed the embassy. We were in pretty good cover, and I wanted to see if they would fire again. That would confirm two things: that the embassy was the target—a virtual no-shitter—and, more important, whether there was a spotter watching the corniche. The embassy wasn’t going anywhere, but we were, and we would have to pass that hundred yards of open space to get to our extraction point. If there was a forward observer, he’d certainly report us. I didn’t want to become the next target.

We waited. Nothing happened. We could see the white bow wave of the Seafox rounding Pigeon Rocks and emerging onto our side of the Beirut peninsula about a mile out to sea. We worked west, clinging to the buildings. A narrow series of alleyways joined the main drag, and we traversed these, covering and moving. Two street crossings remained between the extract point and us. We repeated the sprints, and when we came to the last intersection, I peeked around the wall. A long blast of heavy machine-gun fire ripped down the middle of the street.

One block down was a white Datsun pickup truck; mounted in the cargo bed was a Russian-made DShK, a .51-caliber antiaircraft gun. In Somalia these rigs would come to be called “technicals.” In Lebanon we used the term the locals had coined—machine guns in the back of pickups were called “water-skiers,” for the manner in which the gunners held on when the trucks roared around town.

This water-skier didn’t have us ranged yet. He fired another burst straight down the middle of the street. I ducked back behind cover, and in a matter of seconds he’d shifted fire and started pummeling the corner of the building. As I pressed against the wall, bullets knocked off big chunks of concrete and tracers skipped across the pavement and wobbled out over the corniche. Cement dust powdered my hair and worked down the collar of my cammie blouse. My head rang with the concussion of the bullets.

Remarkably, I wasn’t scared. I think I might have even laughed. Our cover was solid, and though the firepower was an impressive display, we weren’t going to be done in by this guy. Cutting the corner, we had a clear field of fire through the broken windows; I popped up behind one of the smashed frames, pointed the M-203, and pulled the trigger. The grenade launcher went off with a loud
pop.
As I ducked down, I heard a sharp ripping sound, a noise like tearing paper, then a cacophony of pings. It was the fléchettes tearing into the truck.

The machine gun stopped, and I heard the pickup crunch into reverse. I peered out again, this time around the corner; the water-skier was sinking back into the truck bed with a stupefied look on his face. His fist still clutched the handhold on the DShK, and the gun was now pointed up into the air, its muzzle lifting skyward as the gunner’s legs buckled under him. There were a dozen spots of blood expanding across his shirt and pant legs. I watched him fold like a cut puppet as the pickup backed around the corner and out of sight.

I reloaded, and we set up on the window, waiting for the DShK to pull back into range. It was a trap they easily ignored. They’d figured out that we could cut the corner, and they were in no hurry to close up with us. A few AK-47 rounds were sprayed from their end of the block, most of them missing our building. We’d gotten the truck off our back, at least for now. But we had to cross the street to get to extract.

The appearance of the water-skier also answered the question of the spotter. We’d obviously been seen, and someone had directed the truck to jam us at the corner. I presumed that someone was still watching. As long as he hung back up the block, the DShK was not an immediate problem. What I had to worry about was additional bad guys closing in and cutting us off from both the embassy and the extract point. I called the Seafox on the PRC-77.

“Seafox, Bad Karma; be advised we are in contact at this time. We have a water-skier one block in. We are still go for primary extract.”

“Seafox copies.”

We still had our ride. The choices for us were to beat feet back to the embassy or to dart across the street and make the extract. It was two hundred yards back to the embassy, and several large boulevards entered the corniche through the intersections we’d have to recross. Besides opening us from cover, these streets were the threat axis, the direction from which we could expect the water-skier’s friends to converge. I didn’t want to run into them.

I made a tactical call. I had the Seafox in sight, we were across the street from the extract point, and my major goal was to call it a day. I told the lads, “Let’s get across the street and get out of here.” I got no arguments.

This would turn out to be the most dangerous part of our little junket. The buildings overlooking the corniche made our movement the tactical equivalent of showing our asses. The spotter was still out there, reporting our progress. It was logical to expect that he was on a rooftop. As soon as we moved, he’d report us and probably take a few shots. The sooner we got out of there, the better.

I ordered Steve across to the landing. Rudi and I set up a covering position, and Steve led the remainder of the two boat crews across the coast road, to the stairs, and down the breakwater. It was quiet as they sprinted to the seawall. Steve and Doug set cover for us and signaled Rudi and me to cross. As we fell back, I could hear Arabic shouts coming from down the block. The water-skier had been joined by some buddies. Rudi and I sprinted to the seawall. I still wasn’t sweating it. We would be out of here well before anyone could envelop us.

I thought.

As we crossed the street, several shots rang out above us. A handful of rounds spanged off the asphalt as we ran to the breakwater. They were wide, fifteen or twenty feet away from us, and I remember thinking, either these guys really suck, or they’re a couple hundred yards away. Steve and Doug were covering us but had no idea where to concentrate fire. The sounds of gunfire echoed around the buildings, making it impossible to pinpoint the shooters.

We all piled down the stairs to the landing. I was beginning to think we would come out all right. We’d made it to the landing, and I had the Seafox in sight. I got on the radio and told them we were still in contact and ready for immediate extraction. No one answered. I called again. Nothing.

At the top of the stairs, another bullet bashed off the sandstone. There was more yelling in the street. The water-skier’s dance partners were getting closer. A mile or more offshore, the Seafox was just sitting there. What the hell was going on? I was getting pissed. For the first time on this tour, I felt a lump in my stomach, and my mouth was dry.

We were cornered, and it was my fault. I’d put the squad into a bullshit spot. Another long burst of fire spattered the breakwater above us. Rock chips and grit skittered down onto the landing.

“Shit, Mr. Pfarrer. Let’s shoot back at these assholes!” Bubba said.

“Stay put,” I said.

In order to shoot back, we’d have to break the cover of the seawall, a move that would be instantly fatal. The volume of fire directed at us was growing. We were under good cover but we were virtually defenseless. The squad was clustered together on the landing, grouped up perfectly and waiting for some enterprising militiaman to stroll across the street and drop a hand grenade into our laps. I’d put the Team in a box.

My heart was pounding, and I was as scared as I have ever been. Not afraid of contact, but of having made a lethal tactical error. I’d fucked up, and it was the lads who would have to pay for it.

None of this would be a factor, I thought, if we could get the Seafox in here. I could see it maybe two thousand yards off. Still sitting dead in the water. Jesus, what was wrong?

Doug was our smallest guy. He was positioned halfway up the stone steps, covered from the street but able, I hoped, to drop any bad guy smart enough to try to frag us all together on the boat landing.

I keyed the handset again. I was yelling now. “GODDAMMIT, SEAFOX, WE NEED IMMEDIATE EXTRACT!”

This time there was a reply, but it wasn’t the Seafox’s coxswain, Kelly, who answered the radio call. Dave Church’s voice came over the earphone: “Roger, Bad Karma, Seafox is inbound. Hang tight.”

Dave had been at the BLT getting his M-16 repaired when we were called up to make the embassy run. I’d left a note for him at the bunker, expecting him to wait for us. Dave was a regular go-getter and had obviously called the Seafox back to the beach to pick him up. Now he was on the boat, and I was going to kick his ass when they finally got here.

More bullets hit the sandstone above us, snapping chunks of red rock and flinging them into the water around the landing. The Seafox was coming at us, zigzagging toward shore but keeping course on. I could see that her forward M-60s were manned, not that they were going to do a lot of good. The street level was twenty feet above us, and the bad guy’s vantage several stories higher than that. The M-60s could not elevate enough to shoot over our heads.

The Seafox roared up to the landing and backed her engines. Her nose kissed the seawall as the wake caught up and surged under. We all scrambled across her bow over the conn and into the back compartment. Doug and I were the last to jump from the landing.

The Seafox backed up, twisted to starboard, and roared directly out to sea. It would have been better to go east or west, staying under the protection of the breakwater, but there was no time to correct the coxswain, and as soon as we were away from the wall, bullets splattered the water around us, long thin splashes to our right and left. The water-skier and his buddies, all taking their best shots.

Again the Seafox’s design faults were on display. We were in a hot extract, and none of the boat’s guns could fire astern. Although she was armed with two .50-cals in her aft compartment, they were mounted port and starboard. Neither could be trained to cover our retreat.

On the corniche, our pursuers broke cover, trotting across the median and onto the seawall. Standing in the tailgate, Rudi aimed the M-60 at them and cranked off a few tightly grouped bursts. I fired as well. The men, about twenty, scattered and flattened. We could only hope to keep their heads down until we were out of range. We didn’t do too great a job of suppressing their fire. A dozen more bullets zipped into our wake as we made the run offshore.

If the Seafox was a piece of shit, at least it was a fast piece of shit. In a few moments we were two miles off. I made my weapon safe and scrambled from the back compartment onto the middle deck. I was in full Irish when I got to Dave.

“What the hell took you so goddamn long?” I shouted. “We were fucking pinned in there!”

I was locked on Dave, but I noticed the two Seafox crewmen manning the M-60s. One of them dropped his helmet to the deck. The other one sat on the roof of the conn, looking like he was about to cry. Then I noticed that Dave had his pistol drawn. His expression was grim.

In the conn Kelly killed the engines and threw down his headset. He came boiling on deck. Veins were standing out on his neck. He looked as pissed as I was.

“That motherfucker assaulted me! I want him arrested!” he bellowed.