THE WHITE HOUSE
October 2001
The Pope?”
“Yes. The Pope.”
“You want me to draft a letter from the President to the Pope justifying the war in Afghanistan?”
“That’s right.”
“You do know that scholars, philosophers, and theologians have been trying to justify war for… oh… like since the beginning of mankind.”
“Well, you’ve got a week.”
“Oh, well a week… should be plenty of time.”
The voice on the other end of the phone didn’t seem to appreciate my sarcasm. “Can you get this done or not?”
“Yes sir, of course. I’ll have it to you in a week.”
He hung up abruptly.
I had arrived at the White House just five days earlier assigned to my new position as the Director of Strategy and Military Affairs in the Office of Combatting Terrorism. My boss, retired four-star General Wayne Downing, had persuaded Admiral Olson that my services would be better utilized in the White House, helping orchestrate the war on terrorism, than on the Navy staff in the Pentagon. Georgeann and I had moved across the country, and along with my ten-year-old daughter, Kelly, we were temporarily living at Fort Belvoir in northern Virginia.
The days had a sense of purpose. The United States had just suffered the worst attack on its soil since Pearl Harbor. The nation was mobilizing. Flags were everywhere. You could feel the patriotism. You could feel the fear. Young soldiers were preparing for war. The news was a constant drumbeat of urgency. A spirit of revenge filled the American heart, and it felt justified. Nothing seemed ordinary. We were living history.
Downing glared at his phone.
“I’m sorry I won’t be here, Congressman, but something’s come up. My Director of Military Affairs, Captain Bill McRaven, will be in the office. He’s a Navy SEAL. He can help you.”
Me! I pointed to myself.
Downing glared again, this time in my direction. “No sir. I don’t think I’ll be back.” Downing looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Yes sir. One o’clock. Bill will be ready.”
Downing put down the phone and shook his head. “Rohrabacher is coming by,” he said, referring to the California Congressman. “He wants us to help out some warlord named Dostum. I’ve got to head out. You handle it.”
“Where are you going, sir?”
“I’ve got a meeting with Condi.” He grinned, knowing I knew better.
“Rohrabacher is a very influential Congressman,” Downing said. “He’s got the phone numbers of every mujahedeen leader in Afghanistan and thinks he has the authority to direct the war from Congress. Just hear him out and don’t promise anything.”
He laughed. “Well, is this what you expected the White House to be like?”
“I don’t know what I expected, sir. But if I can’t be on the ground in Afghanistan, I guess being at the White House is the next best thing.”
Downing rose from his desk, smiled, slapped me on the back, and headed out the door.
I liked Downing a lot. General Wayne A. Downing, referred to as “the WAD” by junior officers, was a legend in special operations. A 1962 West Point graduate, he had served in the Vietnam War and Desert Storm. A recipient of two Silver Stars for valor and a Purple Heart, he was as tough a soldier as the Army had ever seen. Downing had commanded the famed Ranger Regiment, the Joint Special Operations Command, the U.S. Army’s Special Operations Command, and eventually, all U.S. special operations. Now he was the President’s point man on the war on terrorism. With dusty blond hair, short in stature, but strong around the edges, he was a physical fitness machine. Even in his sixties, he could outrun and out-PT most younger men. He had a dry sense of humor, and when in the Army he loved to test his junior officers’ mettle. Could they keep up with him on the long runs? Did they understand Clausewitz, Sun Tzu, and Liddell Hart? Were they afraid of a thirty-thousand-foot night parachute jump? Did they lead from the front in combat or training? He seemed to see everything and judge every man’s fitness to command.
Somewhere along the way, I had measured up.
It was a quarter past one and I was hoping the Congressman wouldn’t show. Sitting in Downing’s office, I looked out the window onto the South Lawn. Our spaces in the Old Executive Office Building were small, but it’s all about location, and we were a two-minute walk into the Oval Office. The third-floor offices had once been home to Marine Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North. North had infamously been involved in the Iran-Contra scandal, using his position at the White House to move arms to the Contras. Although it was fifteen years later, the specter of Ollie North hung over every thing we did. The White House was supposed to do policy, not operations. With New York City, Washington, and a field in Pennsylvania still smoldering, I sensed that was about to change.
There was a pounding on the door. I opened it and in barged Congressman Dana Rohrabacher and his assistant Al Santoli.
“Where’s the general?” Rohrabacher demanded, moving quickly from room to room.
“Sir, General Downing’s out of the office. I’m Bill McRaven,” I said, extending my hand. “He asked me to help, if I could.”
“You’re the SEAL?”
“Yes sir.”
“Damn it! I really need to talk with Downing.”
No offense taken, I thought.
I moved into the small office and offered Rohrabacher the one extra chair. Nicely attired in a blue suit and maroon tie, Rohrabacher could have been mistaken for a retired general. He was clean-shaven, his hair was closely cropped, and he had a confidence and a swagger about him that came from years of being in a position of authority.
Santoli leaned against the wall and Rohrabacher began talking fast.
“Look, I got a call from General Dostum. He needs supplies fast—and airstrikes. Lots of airstrikes. His men are under attack, and unless we help them there is no way they are going to survive.”
Rohrabacher got up from his chair and started pacing. “You need to call George Tenet right now and get the Agency birds to start providing supplies. Or call the Pentagon. Call somebody and get those Afghans some help!”
A phone suddenly rang. I turned to pick it up and realized it wasn’t Downing’s phone.
“Sir, it’s Dostum,” Santoli said, pulling a satellite phone from his attaché.
Rohrabacher grabbed the large black Iridium phone. “Yes! Yes! I know! I know!” he yelled into the receiver. “I’m working it as fast as I can. Can you give me some coordinates for the drop?” He motioned for a piece of paper. “Okay. I’ve got it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have it confirmed.”
Santoli gave me a look that seemed to imply this was routine business for the California Congressman.
“Okay, SEAL. Here’s the coordinates for the drop. Call Tenet and let’s get this thing moving.”
I stared at the eight-digit grid numbers on the paper. Somehow I thought calling the Director of the CIA and asking him to resupply an Afghan warlord was just a bit above my pay grade.
“Sir, I know this is urgent.”
“Damn right it is. Our allies are going to die if they don’t get supplies soon.”
“Yes sir, but I don’t think Director Tenet will take my word for it. As soon as General Downing gets back I’ll run this by him and have him give you a call.”
“Give me a call! Give me a call! Son, I need this done now. Can you do it or not?”
I looked down at the numbers on the paper again. Was this the way we were going to run the war on terrorism? Congressmen calling directly to the front lines? Was I just too naïve about how things happened in Washington?
“No sir,” I said, somewhat reluctantly. “General Downing will have to take care of this.”
“I knew it!” he fumed. “This was a wasted trip. You tell Downing to call me the moment he gets back.”
Rohrabacher shook his head again for effect and he and Santoli left the office in a hurry.
Downing returned an hour later and I relayed the details of the visit, adding color commentary where I thought appropriate. He muttered under his breath, called Tenet, and a day later supplies were airdropped into the mountains of Afghanistan. Three days after that I finished my letter to the Pope, and in a meeting the following week, President Bush presented the letter to the papal nuncio for delivery to His Holiness.
This job was clearly not going to be what I expected.
The document on my desk was marked SECRET. It read like an action novel.
“Gunfire erupted in the early morning of May 27, 2001, at the Dos Palmas resort on the island of Palawan in the Philippine archipelago. Fanatics from the Al Qaeda affiliate Abu Sayyaf screaming Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar stormed through the peaceful hotel complex and within minutes captured twenty hostages, forcing them aboard a thirty-five-foot speedboat. Among the hostages were two American missionaries, Martin and Gracia Burnham. The Burnhams are members of the New Tribes Mission, an evangelical Christian organization that ministers to people around the world. Martin is a qualified pilot who ferries supplies to those in need around the Philippine islands and Gracia helps with everything from monitoring his flight routes to teaching English to the locals. They came to Dos Palmas to celebrate their wedding anniversary.”
I read the document a second time: “May 27, 2001.” It was now November 27, 2001.
“WTF,” I said. “You mean these Americans have been hostages for six months and nobody’s doing anything?”
There was uneasiness among the members of the Interagency Hostage Coordination Group. The senior FBI representative spoke up.
“Well, we can’t get DoD’s support, and with everything going on in Afghanistan the Agency just doesn’t have the resources. The Bureau is also shorthanded, and the Philippine government just doesn’t have the capability to rescue them.”
“This is bullshit!” I said. “These are Americans. We can’t just let them rot in the jungle. What’s the process for getting someone to take action?”
I looked around the room at the other members. The Interagency Hostage Coordination Group was a committee of representatives from around D.C. It included all the three-letter agencies—CIA, FBI, DoD, NSA—as well as Treasury and State. Good people, but we were all mid-level managers with no real authority.
State spoke up. “We will have to develop a plan and then take that plan to the deputies, the principals, and then get POTUS approval.”
“Okay! So what’s the holdup?”
A lot of eyes danced around the room. As the new head of the Hostage Coordination Group, my responsibility was to track Americans in trouble around the world and coordinate the activities of the interagency to try and get our citizens home safely. The HCG had been around for some time, but the reality was, the government rarely did much to help. The United States had a “no ransom” policy, and consequently, negotiating the release of hostages invariably fell to the private company or the family of the victims. While the FBI and State provided advice and assistance, the U.S government was not allowed to intervene directly with the delivery of payment.
But this was different, I thought. Abu Sayyaf was a terrorist organization and their leader, Khadaffy Janjalani, was a certifiable extremist. Abu Sayyaf and Janjalani had proclaimed their allegiance to Osama bin Laden well before 9/11. Hiding in the jungles of the southern Philippines, they were notorious for kidnappings, beheadings, and political murders. The Philippine Army had been hunting them for years without much success. With just a little effort from the United States, I was convinced we could rescue the Burnhams and destroy Abu Sayyaf. Not everyone shared my optimism, but some did.
The CIA representative, an experienced field agent named Tom, smiled at my new-guy enthusiasm. “You know.” He paused. “Maybe I can get some aerial reconnaissance assets and see if we can spot them from above.”
“Great.” I nodded. “Anybody else?”
State took a deep breath and then chimed in. “Okay… let me reach out to the embassy in Manila and see what they can tell us. I know they have been tracking this from the beginning.”
The Bureau guy lifted his hand slightly off the table to get my attention. “Yeah. I’ll also reach out to the LEGAT in Manila and see what negotiations are taking place between the New Tribes Mission and the hostage takers.”
“Treasury will see what we can find out about Abu Sayyaf’s assets. Maybe we can leverage something there.”
I looked around the table and smiled. “Thanks, guys. We’ve got some work to do. I’ll pull together some ideas and send them around for comment. We can get together next week and plot a course forward.”
As the meeting broke up, CIA Tom approached me. “I like your style,” he said. “I’m all in.”
“Well, be careful what you agree to.” I smiled. “We SEALs aren’t exactly known for our shy, retiring ways. It’s gotten me into trouble before.”
“Good.” He laughed. “We’re going to get along just fine.”
Martin looked thin, Gracia pale and drawn. The three terrorists behind them, faces covered, brandishing AK-47s, had the classic menacing pose. The proof-of-life photo did nothing to ease my concerns about the Burnhams’ welfare.
The Burnhams and their fellow hostages had been constantly on the move from the time of their capture, each evening at a new jungle hideout. Each day hiking miles to avoid capture. From my time as a young SEAL in the Philippines, I knew what the jungle was like. Nothing about surviving in the jungle was easy.
The Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP), while enthusiastic, weren’t helping much either. They had aggressively and clumsily pursued the Janjalani group, engaging in a series of running firefights and dropping bombs on the small band of hostage takers. I didn’t know how long the Burnhams could survive either the jungle or the AFP assaults.
Downing grabbed me by the arm as we rushed into the Oval Office. “Just be brief,” he whispered. “Give the high points of your plan and let’s try to get a decision out of him.”
I nodded without saying a word.
The President stood chatting with Dick Cheney as we entered. Also in the room was General Colin Powell, the Secretary of State, and Dr. Condoleezza Rice, the National Security Advisor. Downing walked me over to the President and made some quick introductions.
Bush sized me up, gave me a firm handshake, and in his Texas drawl said, “So, you’re a Navy SEAL?”
“Yes sir,” I responded, coming to a modified attention in my Brooks Brothers suit.
He looked me over again. “Can you run a six-minute mile?”
“Well, sir.” I paused, realizing the President knew nothing about my parachute accident. “I used to be able to.”
“Hell, Bill.” Powell laughed. “We all used to be able to.”
The President smiled broadly and everyone else in the room laughed along with Powell.
“Mr. President, Bill would like to give you a quick brief on our plan to rescue the Burnhams,” Rice said. “We just finished a Principals Committee meeting, and I have to tell you Don Rumsfeld was not at all supportive. He says DoD is just too busy with everything going on in Afghanistan. However, Colin, George Tenet, and Bob Mueller all think it has merit.”
Powell waded in. “Mr. President, I don’t think we can just stand by and do nothing when we have Americans being held hostage by an Al Qaeda affiliate.”
“I agree,” Cheney offered.
“Okay, so what do you have?” Bush asked.
Downing gave me the look to proceed.
“Sir, the Hostage Coordination Group has developed a three-pronged approach. First, we believe the Philippine Army needs a lot of help with tactics, logistics, and equipment, and we are proposing sending a hundred or so Green Berets to provide training and, if necessary, go along on the missions to help the Filipinos.”
“What else?”
“Sir, the Agency is willing to provide clandestine air assets to help locate the Burnhams and provide intelligence to the Filipinos.”
Bush paced in front of the fireplace as I laid out my recommendations.
“Finally, Director Mueller has agreed to provide an FBI negotiator to work with the New Tribes Mission and the embassy in an attempt to get Abu Sayyaf to release the hostages.”
“We’re not making deals with the terrorists, are we?” the President asked.
“No sir, absolutely not. But that’s not to say we’re going to be absolutely truthful with Abu Sayyaf either. Hopefully, we can lead them on and gather some intelligence that may help guide the Filipino rescue force.”
Rice spoke up. “Mr. President, President Arroyo is arriving for a short visit in a few weeks. We can use that opportunity to encourage her and the Philippine government to accept our help and get more aggressive against Abu Sayyaf.”
Bush looked around the room. Everyone seemed to be nodding in agreement.
“Okay. Let’s get this done.”
That was it, I thought. It took months to get agreement from the interagency, but only minutes for the President of the United States to make a decision. This was why I had come to the White House.
I thanked the President and walked out of the room by myself. Downing stayed behind to talk with Rice and the President. I knew there were still some concessions to be brokered between Defense, State, and the Bureau, but after three months of haggling with the interagency, we finally had a breakthrough. The Burnhams were on the White House radar.
I pushed the phone closer to my ear. Our office in the Old Executive Office Building was a Sensitive Compartmented Intelligence Facility (SCIF), which meant acoustics were terrible.
“The triple canopy jungle in Basilan is difficult to penetrate. We catch glimpses of them in the pictures, but there isn’t enough time to process the intelligence and get it to the Filipinos,” CIA Tom said.
“What about your sources?” I asked. “Are they telling us anything?”
“We think Martin has malaria. Some of the Filipino hostages who were released last month say he has lost a lot of weight and is very weak. Candidly, Bill, I don’t know how long either he or Gracia can survive in the jungle. They are moving every day. The AFP is chasing them. They eat maybe once a day.” He paused. “They’re missionaries, for God’s sake, not Navy SEALs.”
“They may not be SEALs, but what I do know is that their faith is strong.”
“I got it,” Tom said angrily. “Man shall not live by bread alone, but this is taking it to the extreme.”
There was a rap on my cubicle window. It was Nick Rasmussen, my closest friend in the White House and the smartest guy on our staff.
“Bill, the SITROOM called. They need you immediately.”
“Is this about the Burnhams?”
“Don’t know. But they seemed pretty anxious.”
I finished the conversation with Tom and headed over to the White House Situation Room.
The Situation Room, or SITROOM as it was commonly referred to, was underwhelming. You entered the space through a door across from the White House Dining Room. Once inside, there was a bank of telephones answered by six or seven young officers from the military, State Department, or CIA. An Air Force colonel and a senior civil servant supervised the SITROOM, ensuring all telephone and facsimile message traffic coming in were properly handled. All crisis management for the U.S. government began in the SITROOM. Off to one side was a small conference room. The only thing that distinguished it from a thousand other small conference rooms around Washington, D.C., was the chair at the head of the table. Embossed on the back side of the leather were the words President of the United States.
I waved my badge and entered the room.
“Hey sir. Glad you’re here. We’ve got a problem!” The Army major, dressed in his class “A” uniform with full ribbons, held out a piece of paper. “I just got a call from the FAA ops center and then they faxed this over.”
I looked over the WASHFAX as the major continued.
“They are reporting that some nutcase aboard an American Airlines flight from Paris to Miami just tried to blow up the plane by setting off a bomb in his shoe.”
“In his shoe?”
“Yes sir. The guy’s name is Richard Reid. We are running the traps on him right now. I guess he had a fuse sticking out from some sort of plastic explosive in his shoe and when he tried to light it the passengers jumped him.”
“Yeah, I don’t know that you could put enough plastic explosive in your shoe to make much of a bomb. Besides, it’s really difficult to ignite C-4 or PETN with a match,” I said.
“Sir, the FAA sent over this schematic of what they think the bomb looks like.”
I glanced over the crude drawing. Based on my experience, it certainly didn’t look like a workable bomb, but I thought I would call just to confirm my suspicions. I picked up the phone and contacted the operations center at the FAA.
“Ed Kittel,” came the voice on the other end.
“I’ll be damned. Ed Kittel!” I said, drawing out the last name.
Kittel and I had worked together in the Pentagon almost fifteen years earlier. Ed was a former Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal officer and really knew demolitions.
“Ed, it’s Bill McRaven over at the White House. We’ll have to catch up later, but for now I need to know whether you think this shoe bomb is a real threat?”
“It is,” he said without hesitation.
“Really?”
“Really!”
Ed walked me through his assessment, and while I had some reservations about his conclusions, he was the expert.
“If Al Qaeda can put explosives in a shoe, what else could they make a bomb out of?” I said, thinking out loud.
“Well, provided they’re not using a time fuse, they would have to have an electrical impulse to initiate a blasting cap of some sort,” Ed offered.
My heart began to race a bit. “What if they got a hold of a thin roll of plastic explosives and slipped it inside a laptop and then used the power from the battery. Could they initiate the explosive train?” I asked.
I could hear the wheels grinding in Ed’s encyclopedic brain.
“Holy shit!” he said. “Yeah. It’s possible. But I would have to run some tests to determine if it’s really feasible.”
“Yeah, not sure we have time for tests right now,” I responded. “Downing is with the President on Air Force One. I need to call him ASAP and give him an update. Work the problem for me, Ed, and then get back to me.”
I thanked Ed, hung up, and immediately had the SITROOM patch me through to General Downing on Air Force One.
“Yes sir, the FAA thinks the threat is legit,” I said, yelling through the static of the ground-to-air communications.
I could hear Downing dropping F-bombs on the other end. What if this attempt to bring down an airliner was a coordinated attack by Al Qaeda? What if there were more Richard Reids in the air right now? What if more Richard Reids were, at this very moment, preparing to board planes somewhere around the world?
And then I said it—words that I would regret for the rest of my traveling days.
“Sir.” I paused. “I think we need to have everyone boarding a plane bound for the U.S. take their shoes off and have them inspected. Also, we need security to check every laptop. The battery on a laptop could be used to initiate a bomb.”
Downing didn’t hesitate. “Yes! Yes!” he shouted, clearly having the same difficulty with the air-to-ground communications. “I’ll talk to the President and get him to order it right away.”
(In my defense, I only thought the order would be in place for a few weeks. Sorry… )
Downing hung up, and within minutes the FAA had been ordered to upgrade their security protocols. An hour later, Richard Reid was apprehended upon landing at Boston’s Logan Airport, and within days the world of airline travel was never the same again.
I went back to trying to rescue the Burnhams.
By early in the new year, the plan we had briefed the President on was beginning to take shape. U.S. special operations forces had deployed to the Philippines and established a base of operations on the southern island of Zamboanga. The media coverage about the plight of the Burnhams was gaining traction and people were paying attention. The effort to eliminate Abu Sayyaf and Janjalani was now being called “the second front.” The State Department, FBI, and the intelligence community were in full swing trying to locate and recover the Burnhams.
But, tragically, with every war effort, there are always consequences. In February, an Army Chinook helicopter returning from a resupply run to U.S. Special Forces on Basilan crashed off the coast near Zamboanga, killing the eight crew members and two Air Force pararescuemen.
Throughout history, there have always been warriors who understood the risks of serving. They understood that there was a chance their lives could be lost in the pursuit of a greater goal. They understood that they could perish while trying to protect others. To some outside the military, this belief may seem like naïve patriotism, misguided loyalty, or foolish enthusiasm—reasons given to young men and women by those in power to cover for adventurism or empire building. But I have learned many times over that those who serve do so with their eyes wide open. Young and old soldiers alike are not fooled by the political rhetoric. On the contrary, they question the cause every day, but they overcome their doubts and concerns because they are inspired by their fellow soldiers who serve nobly and not for some political agenda. Those who serve are serving for their hometown, their high school football team, their girlfriends and their boyfriends. They are serving and sacrificing because they believe in the America they grew up in. They know that America and the people who live in its big cities and small towns are worth the sacrifice, sometimes the ultimate sacrifice. I can guarantee you that the men aboard that helicopter never once doubted why they were serving.
By late February, intelligence indicated that Martin was thinner than ever. Handcuffed throughout the day, he was suffering from diarrhea, dehydration, and bouts of malaria. He was physically struggling to keep up with the young fighters fleeing the Philippine Army. Gracia, battling severe diarrhea as well, also had to deal with the constant indignity of no privacy for her illness. Bombs from the Philippine Air Force routinely and indiscriminately rained down on the small band of Abu Sayyaf, forcing them and their hostages to stay incessantly on the run. It had been nine months since the Burnhams were captured. Nine long, excruciating months.
In March, an anonymous donor paid $300,000 hoping to gain the release of the Burnhams. While the payment didn’t achieve its goal, some intelligence was derived from tracking the dispersal of the cash. Still, even with the added information, the group of hostage takers proved very elusive in the jungles of Basilan.
Later that month, the Director of the FBI, Bob Mueller, flew to the Philippines to ensure that the Bureau was doing everything possible to gain the Burnhams’ release. Back at Langley, the CIA continued to coordinate the intelligence activities in the Philippines, keeping the White House and the Hostage Coordination Group advised. From my cubicle on the third floor of the Old Executive Office Building, I continued to push for more U.S. involvement and less reliance on the Philippine forces.
“Look, Bill,” CIA Tom said. “The Filipinos are doing their best, but they aren’t the SEALs and they are never going to let U.S. Special Forces take the lead. This is their country and they see it as their problem. All we can do at this time is give them some training, provide them the best intelligence possible, and then point them in the general direction of the Burnhams. We can hope they get lucky.”
I knew he was right, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating. As Tom spoke, I couldn’t help but think of an old military adage: “Hope is not a strategy.” But I knew I didn’t need to lecture Tom. He and the CIA were doing everything they could to help.
March became April, April became May, and May became June. On June 7, I managed to escape the White House for twenty-four hours and was giving a lecture at West Point. That evening after my talk, I returned to the Thayer Hotel on the campus. It was a beautiful night, and from my window I could see the moon cresting over the Hudson River.
On Basilan Island in the southern Philippines it was beginning to rain. Peering through the thick jungle canopy, the Filipino sergeant could barely discern the outline of the small band of armed men and their hostages. The Filipino Special Forces had been tracking the insurgent group all night, just waiting for an opportunity to attack. Camped on a steep hillside, the Janjalani group settled in for the night, hoping the rain had covered their tracks.
As the commandos fanned out from the edge of the jungle, the captain in charge maneuvered his men into firing position.
On the hillside, Martin and Gracia Burnham were just unrolling their hammocks.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Martin smiled.
Suddenly the tree line erupted with the sound of automatic weapons. “Fire! Fire! Fire!” screamed the Filipino captain.
Falling from her hammock, Gracia tumbled down the hillside, struck in the leg by a large-caliber round. As she rolled to a stop, the body of Martin Burnham lay next to her, dead from the first volley. All around her, soldiers and captors were shooting wildly, men screaming in pain from their wounds. Screaming in fear for their lives.
Bullets continued to fly both ways, killing another hostage and wounding several Filipino soldiers. Within minutes the Filipino soldiers had swept through the campsite and chased the remaining Abu Sayyaf into the jungle.
In the Thayer Hotel my phone rang. It was the SITROOM. The voice of the young officer on the other end was tense. He was talking fast, breathing quickly. Reports of the “rescue” were coming in. Martin was dead, but Gracia had survived. I was immediately connected to Downing and Condi Rice. We were briefed that the Filipinos were moving Gracia to Zamboanga for medical attention and then back to Manila. The U.S. ambassador, Frank Ricciardone, would meet Gracia planeside and then make the calls to Martin’s parents, informing them of their son’s death. In the chaos of their fight, the Filipinos had left Martin’s body in the jungle, but they pledged to retrieve it at first light—which they later did.
Over the course of the next few days, Gracia was reunited by phone with her children, and while in the Manila hospital she received a visit from President Arroyo. On June 17, after a long flight from the Philippines, she arrived back in Kansas City.
Within a few weeks, I returned to the daily grind. Downing had put me in charge of drafting the National Strategy for Combating Terrorism. It was to be the first comprehensive, interagency, presidentially directed strategy for taking the fight to terrorists worldwide. I went about the work with a sense of purpose, hoping to make a difference in the war on terrorism, a difference that seemed to have eluded me up to this point.
As I sat in my cubicle pounding away on the computer, the phone rang.
“McRaven,” I answered promptly.
“Is this Bill McRaven?” came the man’s voice on the other end.
“Yes sir,” I said, recognizing the distinct drawl of the wealthy donor who had sought the Burnhams’ release.
“I have someone here who would like to talk to you.”
The phone went quiet for a moment and then a soft, almost angelic voice spoke up. “Captain McRaven. This is Gracia Burnham.”
I took a deep breath. It was a voice I thought I would never hear. “Yes ma’am.”
“Mr. McRaven, I just wanted to thank you for all that you did for Martin and me.”
My eyes began to well up. “I am so very sorry that we weren’t able to save Martin,” I said, stumbling a bit with my words.
“It’s all right,” she said sweetly. “I know you tried your best. God has a plan for all of us, and I pray that something good will come from Martin’s death.”
We talked for bit longer and then hung up.
A year later I would leave the White House. Over the course of the next decade, as I took command of the nation’s hostage rescue and counterterrorist forces, I did everything I could to ensure that something good came from Martin’s death. I promised myself that as long as I had the authority to act, we would try to rescue every hostage, and as long as I had the forces to strike, no terrorist would go unpunished.
In her book In the Presence of My Enemies, Gracia would write that the only way to overcome the hatred in the world is to have “genuine love in our hearts.”
But I must confess, as I hunted bad men around the world, I did not always have love in my heart. To each man God has given special talents. Mine seemed better suited to exacting justice than to offering mercy. I hope Martin would understand.