Aboard the amphibious ship USS OGDEN, Indian Ocean
October 1990
Fire!”
Whoom! The five-inch round from the destroyer’s gun blasted out of the barrel, the concussion wave rolling across the short expanse of ocean and rocking those of us standing nearby on USS Ogden. A plume of water exploded twenty yards in front of the Iraqi tanker Amuriyah. But still she kept going.
“Fire!”
Another round rocketed from the barrel, the smoke drifting across the port side of the destroyer, the shell landing another twenty yards from the tanker. Over the bridge-to-bridge communications I could hear the master of the Amuriyah yelling obscenities at the commanding officer of the Australian destroyer Brewton. Even in Arabic, obscenities sound the same.
“Fire!”
The third round flew just over the bow of the Amuriyah. The master, just visible on the bridge of the ship, threw the helm hard to port and the nine-hundred-foot supertanker lumbered closer to the American task force.
“Stand by for .50 cal.”
“Fire, fire, fire!” The gunner on the destroyer’s .50-caliber machine gun opened up with a short burst, barely missing the small Iraqi flag that flew from the forwardmost stanchion.
“Stop! You are crazy! You cannot do this!” the master pleaded in broken English.
“Amuriyah, this is United States warship Ogden. I say again, under United Nations Resolution 665, you are directed to stop and be boarded.” The tone was firm and measured.
“Never, never, never! You are pirates. You cannot board my ship!”
On the horizon I could see a small shape approaching at high speed. It was an F-14 jet screaming across the water just fifty feet above the deck.
“Cease fire!” came the command from the destroyer.
The F-14 was kicking up water behind it and accelerating as it approached the tanker. The crew of the Amuriyah could see the aircraft now and they moved to the rails, ready to jump overboard if necessary.
Splitting the seam between the Amuriyah and USS Ogden, the jet blew past with such velocity that the thundering of the engines brought me to my knees. The crew of the Ogden, lining the rails, roared with approval. It was an impressive show of military power, but still the tanker remained defiant and plowed ahead unabated.
Once again, the loudspeaker belted out an order. “Commander McRaven, stand by to board the vessel!”
That was my cue. We’d spent the last eighteen months preparing for something like this. Now it was showtime.
Five months earlier, I had left my wife, Georgeann, and my two boys, Bill and John, on the pier in San Diego as USS Okinawa pulled away for a routine six-month deployment to the western Pacific. There are few things more gut-wrenching than watching your family slowly disappear into the distance as your ship sails out of port. While I loved being a SEAL, there was nothing in the world more important to me than my family. My boys were at that age where we were constant companions. I rarely missed a youth basketball or baseball game and we loved spending time on the water in San Diego. Additionally, before I departed we were thrilled to find out Georgeann was pregnant, but that made the farewell even harder. The only saving grace was we knew I would be home in time for the delivery.
After two months underway, we received word that Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait. President Bush ordered the commencement of Operation Desert Shield to allow for the buildup of U.S. forces in order to liberate Kuwait and defend Saudi Arabia. USS Okinawa, which was the lead ship for Amphibious Squadron Five (PHIBRONFIVE), was ordered to proceed to the Indian Ocean and await further directions. We departed Subic Bay, Philippines, and after a short stop in Hong Kong sailed through the Strait of Malacca, eventually arriving in MODLOC (a naval acronym meaning “modified location,” that is, steaming around in circles waiting for the next order) off the southern tip of India.
In addition to the Okinawa, there were four other ships in the squadron: USS Fort McHenry, USS Ogden, USS Cayuga, and USS Durham, which along with the 13th Marine Expeditionary Unit/Special Operations Capable (MEU/SOC) made up the ARG (Amphibious Ready Group)/MEU Team.
The squadron commodore was a charismatic Navy captain named Mike Coumatos. Coumatos flew Huey helicopters in Vietnam and had that swagger that comes from being a combat pilot. Short, with a large bushy mustache, he was wickedly smart, very professional, with a gambler’s streak of boldness. He and I hit it off from the very beginning. He trusted my judgment and I trusted his leadership implicitly.
The MEU/SOC commander, Colonel John Rhodes, was also a Vietnam-era helo pilot with two Silver Stars and four Distinguished Flying Crosses to show for his bravery. Rhodes was vintage Corps: physically fit, disciplined, with a drive for perfection that made his MEU one of the best I had ever seen. He was hard on his staff and his Marines, but they reflected his style in everything they did. It was a superb Navy–Marine Corps team.
As the Naval Special Warfare Task Unit commander and the senior special operations officer, I was often tasked to command all the elements that were special operations or special operations–like. This included an experienced Marine Force Recon element, the Navy SEAL platoon, and occasionally the Marine boat raid company, the Radio Recon battalion, and a Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal platoon. We were all well acquainted with each other, having done a nine-month pre-deployment workup prior to leaving San Diego.
While on our way to MODLOC, the ARG/MEU suffered a terrible tragedy when two UH-1N Huey helicopters collided during night operations, killing all eight men aboard. It was a stark reminder that there is no such thing as normal operations when you are at sea. Under the strong leadership of Coumatos and Rhodes, we searched for forty-eight hours, then paid our respects to the fallen and proceeded with the mission. I had witnessed losses before, but it was never easy. Some of the Marines had families back home. Young children like mine. Each time I passed the Marines’ empty staterooms I was reminded of just how fragile life is and how fortunate I was to have known such fine men.
MODLOC off India was tiring. Not a cloud in the sky. No wind. No land as far as the eye could see, and the scorching sun made the steel decks so hot we only conducted flight operations during the early morning and evening hours. We had no television, mail took thirty days to reach us, and the only way to find out what was going on in the world was through our ship’s Teletype. Every day we anxiously waited for news of the impending war. Saddam Hussein had been warned: Get out of Kuwait or we will force you out. The United Nations issued Resolutions 661 and 665 authorizing a naval blockade to stop any ship providing economic support to the Iraqis.
In October, an Iraqi cargo vessel leaving the Arabian Gulf had been directed by the U.S. Navy to stop. Unfortunately, two Navy destroyers were unable to halt the Iraqi ship from departing the Gulf. The destroyers hailed the vessel, demanding that the master of the ship allow a boarding party to embark. After some verbal exchanges and inappropriate hand gestures, the master kept moving. The destroyers fired .50-caliber automatic weapons across the bow of the Iraqi vessel, but it kept steaming ahead. Finally, the warships attempted to cut off the vessel with several high-speed runs, narrowly avoiding a collision, but to no avail. The master of the Iraqi vessel was determined to continue on, and the only way to stop a ship at sea, short of sinking her, was to board her—underway. And the only underway boarding capability in the vicinity of the gulf was with Amphibious Squadron Five and the 13th MEU/SOC. But we were still seven days away. In a small early victory for Saddam Hussein, the Iraqi cargo vessel fled the Persian Gulf and the Navy broke contact and let the ship proceed on its way.
By that evening, General Colin Powell, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, issued an order to the 5th Fleet commander directing PHIBRONFIVE to proceed at once to the northern Arabian Gulf and be prepared to interdict any other Iraqi vessels that might attempt to run the blockade.
We left MODLOC in the Indian Ocean and with a routine speed of approach (SOA) steamed toward the northern Arabian Gulf. Two days into our voyage, another message came over the Teletype. Intelligence revealed that Saddam Hussein had personally relayed a message to the master of an Iraqi supertanker, the Amuriyah, that under no circumstance was the Amuriyah to stop for the U.S. blockade. The tanker was portside in the city of Aden, Yemen, just a few days’ steaming from the Persian Gulf. In order for the Amphibious Ready Group to intercept the tanker before she got to the Strait of Hormuz, we would have to proceed at full steam, which we did.
The following day we received additional intelligence that caused quite a stir aboard the Okinawa. Reportedly, the Amuriyah was transporting “something” of great value to Saddam. The mysterious “something” had the analysts spooked. There was speculation ranging from chemical weapons to a small nuclear device. While it seemed implausible, it nonetheless heightened the anxiety of everyone in the Amphibious Ready Group.
Sitting at the fold-up desk in my stateroom, I heard a light knock at the door.
“Enter!”
Nothing.
“Enter!” I yelled again.
The door to my cabin slowly opened and a young petty officer peeked into the room. “Commander McRaven?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“Yes sir. The commodore would like to see you in his stateroom.”
“Now?”
“Yes sir. Now.”
Dressed in my working khaki uniform, I grabbed my notebook and headed out the door to the commodore’s office. Coumatos had been my boss now for well over a year and I had become an integral part of his staff. As the senior SEAL aboard the Okinawa, I was dual-hatted as both a staff officer with the squadron staff and as the Naval Special Warfare Task Unit commander. As a staff member, I had spent most of the past eight months living aboard the Okinawa. While most SEALs hated spending time on ships, I really enjoyed it.
Life aboard a Navy ship hadn’t changed much in fifty years. The technology had changed, but as with the ships of World War II, you still lived in very close quarters, ate together, worked together, and fought together. There were all the human dynamics of people crammed into a steel hull, but that’s where Navy discipline and a minimalistic lifestyle were crucial to having a well-oiled crew. The sailors slept in racks stacked three or four high. The only space for personal items was underneath your mattress or in a small locker. The officers’ “staterooms” were generally four men to a room, and the more senior officers were two to a room. Racks were made every morning. The sinks were always wiped down after use. Showers were three minutes—no more. You showed up for your watch fifteen minutes prior to turnover. If you showed up fourteen minutes prior, you were late. The brass throughout the ship was polished to prevent corrosion. The passageways were swabbed. Old paint was chipped away and new coats of paint applied every week. Nothing was left unattended. Everything about your day was planned down to the minute. Even your free time was on the calendar. The rigor was tiring at times, but also reassuring and predictable, and in a strange way, comforting.
“Come in,” Coumatos yelled from the other side of the door.
Relative to the rest of the officers, the commodore lived well—a large one-room stateroom with his own shower and head. There was a small conference table in a sitting area that served double duty as a dining table. I remember envying the commodore until years later I found myself in command. The old adage “It’s lonely at the top” is an old adage for a reason.
To my surprise, the MEU commander, Colonel John Rhodes, was in the room as well. The two men were huddled around the conference table looking at an overhead photo of the Amuriyah.
The Amuriyah was nine hundred feet long with a seventy-two-foot freeboard (the distance from the water to the first deck). She was riding high in the water and likely had no oil on board. The deck of the tanker was a maze of large pipes running from the pilothouse to just short of the bow. There were only a few open spaces in the maze and they were all quite small.
Coumatos motioned me to the table. “Have you seen this?”
“Yes sir. I’ve been studying it all day,” I answered.
“What do you think?” Rhodes asked.
“Well, sir, it’s pretty straightforward.” I pulled out a pen and began to outline an initial plan. “We position two Hueys with snipers on the port and starboard sides of the Amuriyah. Once we get the all-clear from the snipers we bring in the assault force aboard the CH-46.” I circled a spot on the photo.
“The 46 hovers amidships, between the pilothouse and the bow. We do a fifty-foot fast rope onto the deck. Consolidate the men, then split into two teams. One assault element to the engine room to stop the vessel and one to the bridge to take control. Once we have control of the ship we bring the prize crew aboard and steam her wherever you want.”
Rhodes nodded. Coumatos asked, “What if they clutter the deck with debris?”
“There is a spot right off the bow that we could maneuver to, but we should have plenty of time to make that decision. We’ll know well before boarding her if the primary spot is fouled. If they try to stop us while we’re boarding, then the snipers can keep them away.”
“Who would you take as your assault element?” Rhodes asked.
Rhodes’s question was more than tactical. I was a SEAL, and he likely wondered whether I would take the SEALs over the Marine Force Recon. But the best unit for the mission was the Marines, who were exceptionally well trained in close-quarters battle—the kind of skills we would need for this operation.
“Sir, I’ll take the Force Recon as the assault element and the SEALs will be on a second 46 as the Quick Reaction Force.”
The two senior officers looked at each and nodded their approval.
“Okay, Bill,” the commodore said. “Be ready to brief the CONOP to me and Colonel Rhodes in the next twenty-four hours. I want to know the assets you need for your rehearsal and any additional support required for the mission.”
“Sir, what about the R2P2?”
“We don’t have time for that. Just get me the brief soonest.”
I gave a hearty “Aye-aye, sir,” collected my notebook, and left the cabin. Somehow I knew I wasn’t going to be popular with the PHIBRON or MEU staff. The R2P2 was the rapid reaction planning process that the Marines and Navy staff had been learning and exercising for the past eighteen months—it was a process intended to develop courses of action for crisis events just like this one. The two staffs prided themselves on their ability to develop a mission statement, identify the specified and implied tasks, outline three courses of action (COAs) and the risks associated with each, and then in a very deliberate and elaborate briefing session advise the Navy and Marine leadership as to the best COA. The R2P2 was ingrained into the PHIBRON and MEU staffs from the beginning, and now we were tossing it out in favor of a more “streamlined” approach—to wit, McRaven, give us a plan. For years to come I would question the wisdom of Coumatos and Rhodes to forgo the R2P2, only to find that when I was in command, I did the same thing. Experience matters, and sometimes all the staff work in the world doesn’t get you better results than what the experienced officer knows intuitively.
The two staffs did complain about their lack of inclusion in the senior leader planning, but they quickly got over it and we proceeded on with the rehearsals. Within seventy-two hours we were ready.
The loudspeaker on the Ogden blared again, “Assault element to spot one!” I knew the Force Recon platoon was already positioned on the helo deck and probably had been for the past thirty minutes. Standing on the bridge, I was getting last-minute instructions from Captain Braden Phillips, the skipper of the Ogden. “Time to go,” he said, smiling.
“Roger. See you in a bit,” I said, slinging my Heckler and Koch MP5 across my back. I walked off the bridge, down the ladder, along the starboard rail, past a number of anxious-looking sailors, and out onto the main flight deck. The Force Recon platoon had already boarded the helo. Gathered around the hangar was a crowd of ship’s crew, all smiling and yelling their encouragement. It was the first real “action” of Desert Storm and the historic nature of even this small clash was not lost on the sailors.
The thump, thump, thump of the blades began to drown out the crew’s cheers as I walked slowly to the ramp of the helo, working hard not to look excited. It was exciting, but inside I was calm. We had a good plan. We had rehearsed extensively. The Marines and SEALs were well trained. We had overwhelming firepower. And I had the confidence in my own abilities to know that under pressure I would make the best decisions possible. Still, on every mission, the unforeseen is always lurking in the shadows.
Looking out the small porthole in the Marine CH-46, I could see the Amuriyah, her large bow powering through the water, a massive wave rolling off her port and starboard sides. The master of the Iraqi tanker had turned all the ship’s water cannons inward, creating a latticework of high-powered hydraulic projections. The water from the cannons pooled on the tanker’s deck, creating pockets three and four feet deep. It would make movement around the vessel difficult for the operators.
Donning my headset, I heard the pilot request permission to launch.
“Launch the assault force,” I answered. The ship’s tower gave clearance and the helo lifted off, banking hard to starboard and gaining altitude quickly. Inside the aircraft sat twenty-one Marines from 1st Force Reconnaissance out of Camp Pendleton. The platoon was led by Captain Tony Stallings, a six-foot-four, 245-pound former defensive end from Arizona State. Stallings was an imposing figure and had that competitive attitude that made him a formidable Marine and a great platoon commander. His noncommissioned officers were all handpicked and extensively trained in ship takedowns. Each man carried a CAR-15, a .45-caliber pistol, a squad radio, flash-crash grenades, and extra ammo. We didn’t expect a firefight, but we were ready if there was one.
Once the helo was off the deck, I moved forward in the cabin to look out the side door. The two Hueys, which came off the Okinawa, were just arriving on station. I watched as one helo positioned itself on the starboard side of the Amuriyah and the other on the port side. Just as planned. I could hear the SEAL snipers in the Hueys talking on the squad radio. They were scanning the ship for any signs of threat.
“There’s a lot of movement on deck,” the port-side sniper reported.
“Any weapons?” asked the starboard sniper.
“Negative. But some of the crew have axes.”
“Roger. Copy.” There was a squelch on the radio. “Raven, Raven, this is Hotel Zero One, be advised approximately twenty personnel on the main deck. No weapons. Two crewmen carrying axes. How copy?”
I pushed the talk button and responded. “Roger, Hotel Zero One. Understand approximately twenty pax on deck. No weapons. Two men with axes.”
“Raven, this is Hotel Zero One. You are cleared to rope.”
“Roger. Raven out.”
I switched back to the interhelo comms and raised the pilot. “All right. We’re cleared to rope. Take us in.”
“Roger, sir,” came the reply.
Stallings had been monitoring all the communications and gave his Marines their final instructions. The fast-rope master checked the safety line on the fast rope one final time. The fast rope was a green two-inch-thick heavily woven hawser. What made it special was how it was woven together. The unique weave allowed an operator to squeeze the rope to slow his descent. While you couldn’t completely stop, you could slide down a 120-foot rope with a hundred pounds of gear on your back and not hit the ground like a ton of rocks—most of the time. Unlike with a rappelling line, you didn’t have to clip in and therefore when inserting a force from a helo you could get more men on the ground much more quickly.
Looking out the hell hole in the middle of the helo, I could see the bow of the Amuriyah underneath us as the CH-46 slowed to hover speed. Ripping off the headset, I put on my Pro-Tec helmet, checked my weapons and gear, adjusted my fast-rope gloves, and prepared to exit the helo.
Inside the aircraft the Marines were stacking one behind the other. I was ninth in line. As the helo slowed to a hover the sound of the blades deepened. Out the hell hole I could see the pilot slide right, positioning the CH-46 over a small open space on the tanker. On deck the Iraqis scattered as the downblast from the aircraft created a windstorm, spraying water and oil residue in all directions. The rope master now had control of the helo’s positioning.
“Come left five feet,” he yelled into his headset. The pilot complied.
“Stand by!”
The rope master pushed the green-coiled rope out the hell hole and watched as it hit the deck, ensuring it was clear of obstacles.
“Go, go, go!” he yelled at the Marines stacked by the opening.
One by one the first four Marines grabbed the rope and slid out of the helo. Within fifteen seconds they were on the deck and had formed a security perimeter. Stallings and the small command element followed. I was right behind them. Grabbing the rope with two hands, I swung my body 180 degrees to the open side of the hole and began the fifty-foot slide down the rope.
Immediately the hot blast from the rotor blades belted the top of my head. The wind off the Gulf was equally oppressive, blowing me sideways, away from the frame of the helo. Gripping the rope with all my strength, I looped my legs around the thick green line and held on tightly. Below me on the rope were two Marines still making their descent. As the first Marine hit the deck his feet slid out from under him and the second Marine piled on top of his buddy. Immediately they rolled away from the rope, sprang to their feet, and cleared the deck as I came quickly in behind.
My gloved hands, burning from the rapid descent, loosened too soon and I hit the Amuriyah with a resounding thud. Steel is an unforgiving metal, and as I impacted the ship I could feel a sharp pain shooting up from my heels all the way to my jaw. But adrenaline, and pride, kept me from crumpling in a heap in front of the Marines. Within another thirty seconds the entire Force Recon platoon was on the deck and in position.
The configuration of the Amuriyah was typical of a supertanker. While the outer rail of the ship was clear, the inner area was a maze of large pipes, valves, small pumping stations, and circuit boxes. Good for cover if someone started shooting, but difficult to maneuver around. We were somewhat boxed in, but the ship’s crewmen had moved back toward the large superstructure that contained the pilothouse.
Stallings got a quick muster of his men and as planned they broke into two elements and began to move. Off to our right and left the Hueys were hovering twenty feet above the deck and just off the ship’s railing. I could hear the snipers on the squad radios.
“Port side clear.”
“Starboard side clear.”
The first sergeant, an experienced noncommissioned officer, took the second element and headed down the port side to an open hatch leading to the engine room. Positioned in the middle of the first element, I swung my weapon into a low port, not threatening, but ready. In front of me, the Recon element began to move, their strides deliberate, slow, but methodical. The point man, in a slight crouch, his weapon swinging from side to side, led the element out of the box and over to the starboard rail. Behind him, the number two man in the stack looked high, watching for possible threats from the outer ladders where most of the crewmen had begun to assemble. The other men in the patrol all had their fields of fire, and with precision honed over years of training, the Marines moved like the professionals they were.
The pilothouse was a five-story structure three-quarters of the way back on the vessel. On the outside of the building were ladders leading to each successive level. As the point man reached the first ladder, several unarmed crewmen blocked his advance.
“Allahu akbar!” screamed a crewman.
Thrusting his weapon a few inches forward, the point man motioned to the crewmen to move.
“Allahu akbar!”
“Fuck you!” came the Marine’s response. “I said move!”
Three more crewmen began taunting the Marines, but the two on the ladder stepped aside and we pressed forward up to the next level. Within a minute we were on level five. Stallings quickly stacked the men on the open door and entered as per the standard operating procedures. The point man went first, breaking to the right and sweeping down the front of the pilothouse. The second man through the door broke left and swept through to the rear of the room, and the third and fourth men entered and took up positions at the nearest corners.
“Clear!” came the call from the point man.
I could hear the screaming of the master before I walked through the door.
“Leave my bridge! You have no right to be here. You are American pirates!”
Inside the pilothouse were another six Iraqis. They stood unarmed, but defiant. One man was behind the helm. One man was on the engine order telegraph. One man with binoculars was near the front of the cabin. The navigation officer was at the far end of the room by an old chart table. The first mate was by the master, and the master—all five feet five inches and three hundred pounds of him—stood in the center of the room, flapping his hands and shouting at the top of his lungs.
“You cannot do this! You are pirates!”
I walked to the center of the pilothouse and confronted the master. “Sir, I am a United States naval officer. In accordance with United Nations Resolution 661 you are directed to stop this vessel and be searched.” I motioned to the Marine translator, who repeated the words in Arabic.
“I speak English,” the master said, spittle flying off his lips.
“You have one minute to stop this vessel or I will stop it for you,” I remarked quietly.
“You cannot stop my ship that quickly. It will destroy the engines.”
“I can. And I will.”
The red phone on the ship’s console rang with a piercing clang. Picking the phone up, the master’s eyes widened, and he looked at me and yelled, “You have killed one of my men!” The other Iraqis in the pilothouse began screaming at the Marines.
“If you don’t cooperate,” I cautioned, “more men will die. You now have thirty seconds to stop your ship.” Turning to Stallings, I whispered, “Find out what the hell happened.”
Stallings nodded and walked to the bridge wing to make comms with the second element.
Belowdecks the second element had moved from the outer hull of the ship into the vessel’s interior. Making their way down five levels, they entered the engine room, which was hot and steamy, the floor slippery with condensation. The element walked along the steel gratings to the engine control room. Hiding behind the giant machinery, a dozen Iraqis watched as the Marines approached the ship’s control center.
Walking point, First Sergeant Jones scanned the engine room. The crewmen, peeking around the corners of the immense boilers, seemed to be waiting for something. As Jones stepped forward to enter the control room, an axe-wielding Iraqi leapt from behind a three-foot steam pipe. Jones spun around, leveled his weapon to fire, and then, in an incredible moment of restraint, swung the butt of his CAR-15, catching the crewman on the jaw and sending him sprawling unconscious to the metal floor. Immediately the other Marines fanned out and took up security positions. In the air-conditioned control room an Iraqi who witnessed the action thought his fellow crewman was dead and called the bridge.
Stallings motioned me to the bridge wing. “Sir, no one’s dead, but one of their crewmen is going to have a bad headache.”
I returned to the master, who was visibly shaken from the news. I decided to let him think the worst. Dictating the tempo of this confrontation was important. Right now I had the upper hand, and it was important to maintain it.
“My men are in the engine room ready to shut down your vessel. So either you can bring it to a stop now or I will. Your choice.”
The master grunted, looked around the pilothouse at his senior officers, and then gave the helmsman the order to bring the vessel to all stop.
“It will take some time for the ship to be dead in the water.”
“It will take exactly thirteen minutes,” I noted. “If the vessel isn’t DIW in thirteen minutes, then I will force it into reverse to stop the forward motion.”
I had his attention now.
“Master, I will need your ship’s manifest and passenger information. I assume you have it locked in your stateroom cabin. Please go with my Marine and bring it to me.”
The master looked at Captain Stallings, whose six-foot-four-inch frame would be intimidating under any circumstances, but when you cover it with camouflage and give it a weapon it takes on a whole different level of fear. Stallings grabbed the master by the elbow and directed him to the passageway leading to the cabin. I motioned to another Marine to buddy up and follow Stallings and the master.
After a few minutes the ship began to slow markedly. I’m not sure it was really thirteen minutes, but in short order the vessel was dead in the water. From inside the bridge, I could see that we were surrounded by warships: the Brewton, the Ogden, and in the distance the Okinawa.
My radio squelched and I could hear Stallings on the other end.
“Sir, we’re having some difficulty down here. The master is playing games. Says he can’t open the safe. Forgot the combination.” Before I could answer I heard a voice over the radio yell, “Look out!” The radio went silent.
“Stallings? Stallings? Can you hear me?” Nothing. The Marines on the bridge monitoring the radio heard the commotion as well. Pointing at the two Marines outside on the bridge wing, I said, “Go down to the master’s cabin and find out what’s going on.”
“Raven. This is Wildcat.”
“Roger, Tony. What’s going on down there?”
“Nothing, sir. Everything’s fine now. The master has decided to open the safe. We should be up in a few minutes.”
The two Marines on the bridge wing looked at me and I nodded for them to stay put. A few minutes later the door to the pilothouse opened and in walked Stallings. Behind him came a flex-cuffed and bruised master. There was a large welt over his left eye, and his lip was swollen and bleeding slightly.
I looked at Stallings. He shrugged his shoulders and with a look of complete astonishment said softly, “Sir, the son of a bitch jumped me. I tried to push him off, but he came at me again. He’s built like Jabba the Hutt. Finally I just popped him a couple of times and he stopped fighting.”
Glancing over at the master, I could see him smiling beneath his bulging lip. His fellow Iraqis were happy. Their captain had resisted the Americans and he had the scars to show for it. I began to hear reports over the net of similar confrontations around the ship. The last thing I wanted was to kill or injure a merchant seaman, but without reinforcements, we were not going to be able to control the ship and contain the large number of crewmen.
I approached the master. “Sir, please request your crew to cooperate. If they fail to do so, they may be injured or killed.”
Standing by the ship’s public address system, the first mate grabbed the microphone and yelled in Arabic, “Resist, resist! Do not let them take the ship!”
The Marine point man ripped the mic away from the first mate.
“Asshole!” the mate yelled.
On deck now I could see the crewmen grabbing crowbars, brooms, anything that made a weapon. I was losing control and needed to regain the upper hand. Walking out on the bridge wing, I squeezed the push-to-talk button and called the SEAL reserve force.
“X-ray Two Zero, this is Raven Zero One.”
“Roger, Raven Zero One. Two Zero.”
“Two Zero. Insert the Quick Reaction Force and link up with assault element.”
“Roger, Zero One. On final now.”
Within two minutes the fourteen-man SEAL element, under the command of Lieutenant Dave Kauffman, was on the ship and corralling the belligerent crewmen. It took another hour or so and several fisticuffs before we finally policed up all the Iraqi sailors and detained them in the crew’s lounge. After ninety minutes on the Amuriyah, the ship was secure without any major injuries to either the Americans or the Iraqis. A Law Enforcement Detachment (LEDET) consisting of a Coast Guard officer and several other naval officers from the U.S. task force boarded the ship and began a thorough search of the cargo. Six hours later, I extracted the Marines and the SEALs and we returned to the Ogden. A few hours after that the Amuriyah was cleared to proceed to Iraq. Nothing unusual was ever found, but considering the size of the massive tanker, it’s conceivable that “something” was carefully hidden in the ship’s hold.
The Amuriyah returned to Iraq. On January 17, the United States and its allies began Operation Desert Storm. During the opening days of the war, intelligence revealed that Saddam was preparing to create an ecological disaster by filling Iraqi ships with oil and then sinking them in the Arabian Gulf. One of those ships was the Amuriyah. On January 23, an A-6 from the carrier USS Midway dropped two five-hundred-pound bombs into the hull of the Amuriyah, sinking her off the coast of Bubiyan Island, well before she could take on any oil.
During Desert Storm, PHIBRONFIVE and the 13th MEU would go on to liberate a number of small Gulf islands seized by the Iraqis, participate in the amphibious deception operation, and secure the Kuwaiti island of Failaka, detaining over twelve hundred Iraqi soldiers. It had taken me fifteen years since SEAL training, but I had finally gotten to serve my country in a meaningful way.
As terrible as it sounds, every SEAL longs for a worthy fight, a battle of convictions, and an honorable war. War challenges your manhood. It reaffirms your courage. It sets you apart from the timid souls and the bench sitters. It builds unbreakable bonds among your fellow warriors. It gives your life meaning. Over time, I would get more than my fair share of war. Men would be lost. Innocents would be killed. Families would be forever changed. But somehow, inexplicably, war would never lose its allure. To the warrior, peace has no memories, no milestones, no adventures, no heroic deaths, no gut-wrenching sorrow, no jubilation, no remorse, no repentance, and no salvation. Peace was meant for some people, but probably not for me.
Ten months after I left San Diego I returned home and was met by Georgeann, Bill, John, and my new daughter, Kelly Marie. A few weeks later I visited my father in San Antonio. He hugged me tightly, told me how proud he was of me and that he hoped I would never have to go to war again. But twelve years later I would return to Iraq to help finish the job of defeating Saddam Hussein.