KBL (39 page)

Oh, yeah, and also do it with on-time delivery right down to the second, Mr. Murphy notwithstanding.

The most decisive element was weight. Where the weight was, and how it balanced out, was absolutely critical to the ability of the helicopter to perform at the outer limits of its capabilities. Edge-of-the-envelope flying was what Task Force 160 pilots did better than anyone else in the world. And if the situation called for it, they could fly their helos unbalanced. But they preferred to trim out as much as they could because it made doing the impossible just that much easier.

All three aircraft in the assault package were equipped with avionics suites and multimode radars that allowed them to evade detection. The Black Hawks—top-secret stealth model MH-60Js—were specially configured with radar-spoofing composite exteriors and silencing-configured main and tail rotors that cut operational noise by forty-six percent. If they made an into-the-wind approach, they couldn’t be heard until they were virtually on top of the target. The MH-47G wasn’t anywhere near as silent, but it too was equipped with a huge array of sophisticated electronic countermeasures that gave it the ability to operate in the most hostile of environments and survive.

0054 Hours

“Six minutes.” The pilot’s voice played inside Rangemaster’s head. He was senior SEAL on the Chalk One aircraft. As Chalk leader he was plugged into the aircraft’s system.

He swiveled, made a megaphone of his hands, and shouted loudly above the jet engine noise and wind. “Six minutes. Six minutes!”

The SEALs and Rangers turned their radios on, made sure the wires were plugged into their Peltor talk-through hearing protection, and pulled on their helmets.

“Three minutes.” In the cockpit, the pilot brought the airspeed down to ninety knots. His eye on the mission clock, the copilot activated the PAIT, a secure passive airborne interrogator transponder, which turned on the infrared firefly devices that indicated the landing zones.

“Two minutes.” The SEALs double-checked their weapons, ensured the magazines were seated, yanked the charging handle, which slammed a round into the chamber, performed press checks to ensure the rounds were seated properly, then made sure the safeties were engaged. They secured the weapons so they wouldn’t get in the way during the fast-rope, and checked their safety harnesses.

Some pulled on the Outdoor Research gloves that were thick enough for fast-roping if the drop was under forty-five feet, and thin enough to use as shooting gloves. Others felt, to hell with rope burn, and went with Oakleys, or the unit’s new favorites, classic mechanic’s gloves.

The aircrew, also wearing night vision, adjusted their safety harnesses, then took their positions by the open port and starboard hatches where the thirty-foot fast-ropes were coiled. Just as the helo approached and flared above the target, the crew would drop the thick lines, get out of the way so the SEALs could drop unimpeded, then pull the pins and drop the lines.

The Black Hawk was bobbing and weaving now, slaloming as it careened toward the target.

“One minute!” sounded in Rangemaster’s ears. Counting backward silently, he disengaged from the aircraft system, pulled on his own hearing protection and helmet, and dropped his NODs.

“Thirty seconds!” Rangemaster shouted into his boom mike. “Thirty!” he repeated. The Rangers unsnapped their safety lines and pulled themselves away from the doors as the helo rapidly decelerated from ninety knots. They, the K-9, and its handler would not fast-rope, but land inside the compound’s western courtyard. Two of the Rangers would blow through the walls; the others would clear the courtyard, provide security for the helo as long as it stayed on the ground, and back the SEALs if necessary. The K-9 would be deployed if anyone tried to run or if one of the target’s occupants decided to play hide-and-seek.

In the cockpit, the copilot yelled, “
Fifty knots!
” The pilot could see the box-and-one infrared flashers that would line him up with his target.

“Forty knots.” He maneuvered the helo.

“Thirty knots” came in above the three-flasher line.

“Twenty knots.” Dead on.

He pulled up, his eyes fixed on a point in the sky.

The ground drops away.

The helo’s nose flares up, forty-five degrees.

The aircraft stands on its tail. Motionless for an instant.

Ropes go out.

Helo’s nose drops almost horizontal.

Rangemaster yells, “
Go!
”

0:02. NODs down, Troy clears the dangling rope, Padre and Jacko behind him.

0:03. Troy rolls over the edge of the roof.

0:04. Drops onto the terrace nine feet below. Lands.

Weapon up. Safety off.

0:06. Scan and breathe.

Behind him, a shout: “Oh, shit!”

0:08. “Go!” Padre’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him on.

0:10. Kick the door. It collapses inward.

Into the darkened room. Scan. Sweep.

Nothing.

Empty?

Scan.

Something behind the bed. Top of human head.

AK muzzle visible. “Gun!”

Troy: three quick shots.

Closes on target.

Fires a double-tap.

0:13. Cajun and Heron leapfrog Troy and Padre. Cajun’s hand on hallway door.

Troy checks the bed. Hostile target is down. Dead. “Go.”

0:16. Door opens inward.

Cacophony of voices in Troy’s headset: “Gun” “One down.” “Clear” “Go left!” “Gun!”

0:21. Heron cuts the pie. Sweeps the hallway. “Third floor clear.”

Move.

Scan and breathe.

Moving fast.

Stairs ahead.

0:25. Shit.

Rangemaster: “Gate.”

Heron: “Got it.”

Troy’s muzzle sweeps the far end of the hallway because he’s rear security. No threats. He calls it: “Hallway clear.”

Heron smacks small shaped charges on hinges. Pulls primer from the kit on his chest. Places shock tube initiator. Backs off unspooling wire.

6-Charlie backs up into the bedroom.

Heron plugs the igniter.

Padre: “Burning!”

Heron hits the igniter. Concussion and smoke. Screws with NODs. Shit.

1:21. Rangemaster kicks gate out of the way.

Padre into his mike: “Six-Charlie moving down to level two.”

From outside the target building: explosions as Alpha 1 blows the outside wall and moves to clear the smaller target building.

Rangemaster repeats the call. “Repeat: Six-Charlie down to level two.”

Rangemaster understands Murphy’s Law of Combat Number 8, which goes, F
RIENDLY
F
IRE
I
SN
’
T
.

1:59. Second floor has two doorways. 6-Charlie splits up. Cajun, Heron, and Rangemaster go left, Troy and Padre right. They’re one man light.

Troy: “Where’s Jacko?”

Rangemaster: “Jacko’s down.”

2:49. Troy checks the hinges. Can’t see them. Door opens inward.

2:52. He kicks it. Smashes the lock.

Cuts the pie. Makes entry. Hooks left back to wall. Sees . . .

Padre: “Target right.” Three quick shots.

Troy: “Friendly left.” The target is a life-size woman holding a baby.

The 6-Charlie SEALs hear call-sign Jackpot, Master Chief Danny Walker, the mission assault leader, in their ears. “One-Alpha—entry first floor. Burning!”

Followed by a massive explosion. They feel the concussion through the soles of their boots. Probably a Spider Charge.

Smoke and cordite smell floods the second story. Gotta love it.

Padre: “Cuff her.”

Troy: “Roger.”

4:05. Jackpot’s voice in 6-Charlie’s heads: “Tombstone EKIA. Repeat: Tombstone EKIA.”

That didn’t mean the SEALs stopped. Until every inch of the site had been cleared, until the K-9 had swept the house to make sure no one was hiding under floorboards or behind a false wall, until the JMAU had taken DNA samples, fingerprints, and digital photos of both corpses and survivors, and the slurpers had scooped up every bit of intelligence-related material they could lay their hands on, 6-Charlie’s antennas were up, and they were on guard.

29:42. The helos sweep back from the logger site, a safe, secure predetermined location within three minutes of the target. Tonight they had set down and idled for the duration of the assault. Other times, they might loiter airborne. It depended on the mission parameters.

30:45 The exhausted SEALs, Rangers, and enabler personnel clamber back aboard their various aircraft for the ninety-minute flight back to Campbell. It has been what is known as a full mission profile: run as if it was for real. There has even been one casualty that morning. Jack Young, the ebullient chief quartermaster, call-sign Jacko, broke his ankle when he rolled off the roof onto the terrace nine feet below and landed badly. It was a clean break and would heal in time. But he’d be out of action for the next two months.

Nor was the night’s work over. Back at Fort Campbell, the entire assault package—pilots, SEALs, Rangers, as well as command element, JMAU, and SSE crew—would go through a thorough debrief. The raid had been captured by a dozen night-vision-capable video cameras. Tactics would be evaluated and tweaked, rough edges smoothed. The hot wash, as the after-action critique was called, was never personal, but it could be brutal. The goal, after all, was perfection: total speed, surprise, and violence of action resulting in the capture/kill of an HVT, the exploitation of intelligence materials, and the identification of all those on-site.

But it was the killing part that lay at the core of everything the SEALs did. Because they knew, every one of them in their own heart, exactly what Charlie Becker knew in his: that there are some people on this earth who just deserve to die.

38

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
April 26, 2011, 1125 Hours Local Time

“What’s the latest from Abbottabad?” Vince Mercaldi peered across his desk at Stu Kapos and Dick Hallett.

“No change,” Hallett said. “The brothers Khan are in residence. The mystery guest, if there is one, is also on the premises. The families are maintaining radio silence, and the food is still Arab as opposed to Pakistani.”

The director looked at Stu Kapos. “So whatta we do?”

“First? First we break down Valhalla Base. Today and tomorrow. However POTUS decides, we gotta get out and get out clean before the Paks get wise.”

Vince nodded in agreement. “Do it.”

“Second, Wes Bolin wants a Paki-speaking native on site during the operation. In civilian clothes. To play the part of an ISI agent or a cop. Just in case any of the neighbors come around.”

“Good idea. I wish we’d thought of it.”

“Actually,” Hallett broke in, “we did. I discussed this with Larry Bailey, the SEAL Wes detailed to BLG, last week. Been looking for a candidate.”