BAGHDAD, IRAQ
2008
Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!” screamed the young Algerian man. The women in the crowded market grabbed their children and began to run. But it was too late. Looking down at his suicide vest, his face ashen and covered in sweat, the wide-eyed boy reached for the handle to ignite the blocks of explosives wrapped around his waist. According to later reports, there was no hesitation; his reward awaited him in heaven, and the sooner he martyred himself, the sooner he would be with Allah. And in his mind, the twenty-one men, women, and children who died that day would all be sacrifices for the cause of Islam. It was the eightieth suicide bombing that year. Over two hundred Iraqi civilians had perished so far, and one man, one man who remained untouchable, was responsible for all the carnage.
I was tired, bone tired. The kind of tired that was so exhausting you have trouble breathing. The kind of tired that makes you wonder whether you will ever be strong again. The kind of tired that makes you realize you’re not nineteen anymore.
It was early October 2008 and I had just returned from a combat mission in Baghdad with the Army Rangers. At fifty-three years old, lugging around an M-4 rifle, with body armor back and front, a Kevlar helmet, and three hundred rounds of ammo was just hard on the old body. But nothing gave me more satisfaction than spending time in the field with the soldiers.
However, I hadn’t planned to be fifty-three when that opportunity finally came around. Now, as Stan McChrystal used to say, I was just a “battlefield tourist,” a three-star admiral who occasionally rode along on combat missions. But in my own defense, riding along also gave me a much better understanding of what my troops had to deal with every night.
The mission ended around 0200. I had returned to my headquarters at Balad Air Base, dumped my gear, and fallen into my rack completely wasted. The temperature outside hovered around a hundred degrees, but the small one-room air conditioner pumped wonderfully cold air into my stark white aluminum sleeping unit. I bit an Ambien in half and quickly fell asleep.
“Sir, wake up.”
“What?”
“Sir, wake up! Colonel Erwin is on the phone. He needs to talk with you immediately.”
I sat up and looked at the clock. Three o’clock in the morning.
“I know, sir,” whispered my aide, Major Pat Lange, with only a bit of regret. “But he said it’s really important.”
Colonel Mark Erwin was the Army special operations task force commander. He was a magnificent officer, and we had worked together off and on for the past five years. Mark was tall and lean, with the build of an All-American soccer player—which he had been at Wake Forest. Years earlier, when Erwin was a squadron commander and I was a new one-star admiral, we had become friends. As a Navy guy in an Army world, I appreciated the friendship, and Mark taught me a lot about how his task force worked. He was a tough disciplinarian, and now as the Army task force commander, he expected a lot from his men. His task force had without a doubt some of the finest soldiers in the world.
I grabbed the phone, cleared my throat, and tried to shake off the effects of the Ambien.
“Mark. What’s up?” I said, trying to sound completely awake.
“Sir,” he answered, with a tinge of panic in his voice, “my guys crossed the Iraqi border and went into Syria.”
“I’m sorry,” I responded. “Say that again.”
I could hear the exasperation on the other end.
“Sir, the sergeant major and five other guys are in Syria.”
“When you say, ‘in Syria,’ what exactly do you mean?”
“Sir, they’re about fifteen kilometers inside Syria, heading toward Abu Ghadiya’s hideout.”
Abu Ghadiya. Damn…
Abu Ghadiya was the most wanted man outside Iraq. No one had facilitated more suicide bombers or been responsible for more American and Iraqi deaths than him. For years he had been operating from across the border in Syria, facilitating the flow of hundreds of terrorists into Iraq, young radicalized men from around the Middle East and North Africa.
Syria was technically our ally at the time. We had an embassy in Damascus and we routinely shared intelligence on Al Qaeda high-value targets. But for some reason, the Syrians seemed to turn a blind eye toward Ghadiya. It was reported that a Syrian intelligence officer had been running him for years, helping him hide from the Americans and other Syrian officials.
Ghadiya always operated within close proximity of the Iraqi border, but not so close that we could just stroll across and grab him. He frequently visited a town called Abu Kamal, but rarely stayed there longer than twenty-four hours.
After taking command of Task Force 714, I reviewed the existing plan to capture or kill Ghadiya and wasn’t satisfied that anyone would approve it. The plan called for a large helicopter assault force with fifty Army Rangers and twenty Army task force operators. Five helicopters carrying the assaulters would fly from Iraq across the border, avoiding Syrian air defenses, land en masse, surround the compound, capture or kill Ghadiya, and then return to Iraq. The plan also required an overhead combat air patrol and even on-call artillery. In my mind, it was way too conventional and much too large a footprint for anyone to support. Nevertheless, soon after taking command, I had timidly presented it to General Dave Petraeus, in hopes that we could garner some support for trying to get Ghadiya. Petraeus had appropriately scoffed at the plan and we went back to the drawing board.
After the Petraeus briefing, I called Mark Erwin into my office and challenged him to come up with a small package, something unconventional, something worthy of his task force. Within two weeks he came back with a plan. But there was one strange request… he wanted to procure high-end mountain bikes so his men could ride across the desert, allowing them to move much faster without being detected. I think he assumed I would laugh him out of the office, but I loved the idea—until now.
“Okay, Mark,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Let’s get them back to Iraq as quickly as possible.”
“Yes sir. I have already recalled them, but it’s going to take them a few hours to get back across the border.”
“Well, I’m meeting with Petraeus at 0700, will they be back by then?”
There was a slight pause. “Sir, if everything goes okay, we should have them back by around 0800.”
“All right, Mark. No worries. Do what you need to do to get them back safely and let me know immediately if anything goes south.”
“Roger, sir, understand.”
I could tell Mark wanted to say something else. “What is it, Mark?”
“Sir, I’m sorry,” he said painfully. “I have been pushing the guys hard, maybe way too hard. We have been working for weeks trying to find a way to breach the border undetected and get into Syria. Tonight the sergeant major found a way and decided to keep going.”
Contrary to what most people thought, the Iraqi border in this area was not just a line in the sand. It was layered with wire, patrolled by both sides, and likely covered by Syrian radar.
“Mark, don’t sweat it. Just get the boys back safely and we’ll figure out the next steps.”
“Roger, sir. Will do.”
After I hung up I just knew a serious ass chewing was in my future. Crossing the Syrian border required presidential approval, State Department approval, U.S. Embassy Syria approval, U.S. Embassy Iraq approval, CENTCOM approval, and General Petraeus’s approval—none of which we had. If for some reason the operators got into trouble, I would immediately call in air support and artillery to ensure their safe return—without anyone’s approval.
Later that morning I flew from Balad to the Al-Faw Palace in Baghdad to meet with Petraeus. The meeting was one of those moments when you realize what separates the great generals from merely the good ones.
Standing at a modified attention in front of his desk, I began to explain the situation. “Sir, I received a call from Mark Erwin a few hours ago.”
Before I could continue, Petraeus asked, “How is Mark doing? He’s a terrific officer.”
“Yes sir,” I acknowledged. “Absolutely superb.”
Petraeus glanced at his daily calendar to see what was next on his schedule.
“Well sir, we have a bit of a problem and I wanted to ensure you were aware of it.”
“What is it?”
“Sir, six of my operators crossed the border into Syria last night heading toward Abu Kamal to get Abu Ghadiya.”
Petraeus nodded as if to say, Go on.
“They were supposed to be doing a recon, but decided, on their own, to continue to Ghadiya’s hideout. As soon as Mark found out about it, he ordered them to return.”
“Are they back yet?” he asked.
I looked at my watch. “No sir, I expect them back by 0800.”
Petraeus got up from behind his desk. He stared out his window and asked, “How far into Syria did they get?”
“Sir, they were about fifteen kilometers in when we recalled them.”
He turned from the window, came and stood directly in front of me. He looked up at me, smiled, and said, “Well, you probably should have let them continue on.” It was not the response I was expecting, but in the years to come I would realize that the greatness of Dave Petraeus was his ability to shoulder the missteps and even the failures of his subordinates: to build loyalty through his personal sense of command responsibility. He knew that both Erwin and I were doing our best. We had made a mistake, one that he knew we would correct and learn from. But now was not the time for an ass chewing, but the time for understanding.
Petraeus continued, “I’ll give Ryan a call and let him know, but if the boys get back safely, I think we can leave this between you and me.”
Ryan was Ryan Crocker, the U.S. Ambassador to Iraq. Another great American with whom I would serve many times over the ensuing years.
“Bill, I want to get Ghadiya as bad as you guys do. Bring me a plan, a workable plan that we can take to the President. You will have my support.”
I thanked Petraeus and left the palace. By eight o’clock the operators were back in Iraq and we were already planning the next steps.
Even though moving the small force by mountain bikes was somewhat faster than walking, it was still not fast enough to get us across the desert, onto the target, and back into Iraq before the sun came up. No matter what infiltration approach we used, invariably we were going to have to have helicopters to bring us back from the mission. Consequently, we settled on a very straightforward plan. First, we knew that there was no way we could ever get Ghadiya in the small town of Abu Kamal. The town was just too congested and a firefight would likely kill innocent civilians. So the only window for action was when Ghadiya returned to his compound well outside the city limits. If and when that happened, a small force of operators would fly in two Black Hawk helicopters right to the target. They would be supported by two other MH-60 helicopter gunships that could provide fire support if needed. The most difficult part of the plan would be getting all the approvals quickly enough to be able to react when Ghadiya was on target. But in reality, we needed only one yes vote, and that was the President of the United States, George W. Bush.
Over the course of the next few months, the intelligence community doubled their efforts to locate and track Ghadiya. On several occasions he returned to Abu Kamal, but that remained a nonstarter and so we waited and hoped that the right moment would come.
While Ghadiya was important, he wasn’t the only bad guy we were chasing. At the time, the Army task force, the Rangers, and the SEALs were conducting around twenty-five missions a night in Iraq, all of them targeting some high-value individual.
On October 20, my deputy commanding general, Major General Joe Votel, came over to Iraq to relieve me for a few weeks. Joe was a superb officer. Tall, wiry, with close-cropped black hair, he was an Army Ranger through and through. Having commanded the Ranger Regiment as a colonel, he was tactically brilliant and incredibly hardworking. Votel also had extensive combat experience in Iraq and Afghanistan, and with a dry sense of humor he was the perfect fit to be my deputy. I trusted him implicitly.
Right before Votel’s arrival, intelligence indicated that Ghadiya might be moving to his compound in the next few days or weeks. These kinds of warnings had become routine, even though they rarely panned out. Nevertheless, with each potential opportunity, we moved the assault force to a small combat outpost near the border so they could be ready to launch on a moment’s notice.
I always felt completely comfortable leaving the forward command in Votel’s hands. He would make as good, if not better, decisions than I would.
It was a long flight back to the States from Baghdad, one I had made numerous times aboard the command’s military jet. While our transatlantic communications were sometimes spotty, it was clear from Votel’s reports to me that the intelligence on Ghadiya was building. The opportunity for a mission was growing by the hour.
I arrived at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, around 2000 hours on the evening of October 25. The driver picked me up at the airfield and handed me the latest update on Ghadiya. Human intelligence (HUMINT) indicated that Ghadiya would be moving to his compound the next day. Votel had already given a warning order to the operators and he had notified Petraeus, the Joint Chiefs, and CENTCOM that we were postured for the mission.
The transition from Iraq to Fort Bragg was always a little surreal. One night you’re in a combat zone with nonstop action and soldiers’ lives on the line, and by the next morning you’re surrounded by the tranquil pine trees, red clay, and bright blue skies of North Carolina. Coming home after time in combat or on a long deployment was something every soldier, sailor, airman, and Marine longed for. Home was meant to be a safe place, away from the stress, away from the loneliness, away from bad people trying to kill you. Georgeann always made coming home special. My first day back, she never burdened me with the challenges of family life. Somehow the kids were all doing great, the finances were strong, and all was well. In the days to come, we would get back to dealing with life, but not the first day home. However, when you are in command, home is never completely isolated from work. No sooner had I dropped my bags, kissed Georgeann, and wrestled with the dog than the secure phone in my upstairs office began to ring.
Dashing up the flight of stairs, I grabbed the phone. “McRaven!” I announced, a bit out of breath.
“Bill, Hoss Cartwright here.”
General James “Hoss” Cartwright was the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A Marine officer, he was the second most senior officer in the military and the primary military liaison to the White House.
“Are you tracking the Ghadiya movements?”
“Yes sir, of course.”
“I understand you want to get POTUS approval if Ghadiya moves to this compound of his.” Before I could answer, he said, “I have asked for an NSC meeting tomorrow at 0700. Can you be ready?”
“Yes sir. We’ll get you the briefing package tonight.”
“Okay, see you at seven.”
Cartwright abruptly hung up the phone and I called Votel. He and Colonel Jim Jarrett, Mark Erwin’s second in command, were working on the briefing slides and would have them to me within a few hours. All indications were that Ghadiya would indeed be at the compound tomorrow.
The next morning I arrived at my headquarters on Fort Bragg at 0600. Ghadiya had entered his compound earlier that day and appeared to be staying awhile. Votel had passed me the briefing slides and all we needed now was POTUS approval.
My headquarters at Fort Bragg had the most technically sophisticated command center in the world. From there I could communicate with all my units around the globe, watch the real-time video from every unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV), and have full situational awareness of each ongoing mission. But this morning I just wanted to make sure I could connect with the White House Situation Room.
Grabbing a cup of coffee, I sat down in the commander’s chair and received the first update. The video teleconference (VTC) was already connected with Votel, Petraeus, CENTCOM, the U.S. Embassy in Iraq, the Joint Staff, and the White House. The briefing slides were on my desk. The plan remained basically unchanged. Four helicopters with a small assault force would cross the Iraqi border, flying just feet off the ground to avoid Syrian radar. Once in sight of the compound, the helicopter gunships would take up positions above the high walls and be prepared to provide fire support for the assaulters. The two remaining helos would land inside the compound. Once on the ground, the assaulters would exit the helos, engage the enemy, and capture or kill Ghadiya. Either way, Ghadiya would be returned to Iraq for questioning or burial.
Precisely at 0700, the White House Situation Room came on the screen. At the head of the table was the National Security Advisor, Steve Hadley. Hadley and I had worked together years earlier when I was a Navy captain on the NSC staff. He and I had always gotten along well, but I knew he thought I was a bit reckless and that I took too many risks: maybe a fair criticism.
Around the rest of the table sat the remaining members of the National Security Council: Bob Gates, the Secretary of Defense; Admiral Mike Mullen, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs; Hoss Cartwright; Condoleezza Rice, the Secretary of State; Mike Hayden, the Director of the CIA; and numerous backbenchers. Also on the screen, linking in from Wyoming, was Vice President Dick Cheney.
“Good morning, Bill,” Hadley began.
“Good morning, sir. Good to see you again.”
Turing to the assembled group, Hadley said, “I expect the President to arrive in a few minutes, but before he does, Bob, if you can give us a quick update.”
Gates made a few quick comments and turned the discussion back over to me. I briefed the NSC on the most recent intelligence and then turned it over to Votel and Jim Jarrett to give an operational update. About the time they completed their portion of the brief, the President walked into the room. Everyone stood and Hadley moved aside so the President could take his place at the head of the table.
The President seemed to be in an unusually good mood. He made some quick small talk with Gates and then got down to business.
“So, Bob. What do we have here?”
“Well, Mr. President, I have Bill McRaven on the line, he’s going to brief you on this mission to get Abu Ghadiya.”
“All right, Admiral, brief away,” he said in that familiar Texas drawl.
I looked down at the slides and began my prepared remarks. At one point in the brief the President stopped me and asked, “Why are we sending the SOF guys in? Can’t we just drop a GBU-31 on this guy?”
The question was telling in so many ways. Here was a President who had been intimately involved in fighting this war for the past seven years. He was so well versed on the missions and the nomenclature of the specific ordnance that he understood that using a precision-guided five-hundred-pound GBU-31 was in fact the right munition for the job. I was momentarily taken aback by the question.
“Well, sir, we did look at that option. Unfortunately, there is a small tentlike structure in the middle of the compound. We aren’t certain, but there is the possibility that a woman and a few kids could be inside the tent. We think the woman helps with the cooking and cleaning.”
“Okay,” he responded, but I could tell he wasn’t completely satisfied with my answer.
I continued, “Additionally, sir, while it’s unlikely we will be able to keep this raid a secret, we are hoping that a quick in-and-out might reduce the Syrian backlash.” The President immediately agreed.
I finished the brief and then asked Votel and Jarrett if there was anything additional to add from Iraq. They were good on their end.
The President looked around the long table and said, “Okay, let’s vote.” He stuck out his right hand with his thumb protruding upward and said, “Here’s my vote. Bob, how about you?” Secretary Gates smiled and gave a thumbs-up. As the President went from person to person they all extended their arms and gave a hearty thumbs-up. Last, he turned to Vice President Cheney at his remote location in Wyoming. “Dick, what’s your vote?” My video at Fort Bragg had multiple pictures onscreen. In the upper corner I could see Cheney. His face filled the screen. He raised his hands in front of the camera and extended double thumbs-up.
“Okay,” said the President with some sense of delight. He looked directly into the camera and announced, “Admiral, go get him!”
I gave an informal salute, signed off with, “Yes sir. Will do,” and the video from the White House went blank.
Minutes later I gave the official order to Votel that he was cleared to proceed when he felt the operational conditions were right. The mission was now in his hands.
“Assault force is airborne. Time 1630 local.”
“Roger,” Votel answered, his voice carrying the calmness of a man who had done these missions thousands of times before.
In a cloud of dust the helos lifted off from an airfield in western Iraq and within minutes were in a tight formation, screaming across the desert just fifty feet off the ground.
Two minutes later came the next call. “Crossing the border.”
A drone flying high overhead captured the scene as the four helos crested the large berm separating Iraq from Syria. It was broad daylight and there was no hiding from view. If the Syrian air defense detected the helos, either visually or on radar, they would immediately open fire with surface-to-air missiles or antiaircraft guns. The Syrians were our allies, but not our friends.
“One minute to touchdown.”
From above, the two Black Hawk gunships took the lead and immediately began to separate, one taking the north side of Ghadiya’s compound, the other the south. They would provide gunfire support for the assaulters.
The view from the drone shifted away from the approaching helos and onto the compound. In the large courtyard seven men, hearing the noise of the inbound helos, began to run excitedly, looking for cover, grabbing their guns, ready to fight.
“Onscreen!”
“Roger,” Votel responded, watching as the helos came into view.
Barely missing the outside wall, the lead helo flared, its nose arching upward, tail rotor down as it stopped in midair and landed hard on the ground inside the courtyard.
“Shots fired. Shots fired,” came the familiar refrain.
The operators poured out of the first helo and immediately were engaged by Ghadiya and his men. The next helo was seconds behind, executing the same aerial maneuver, landing just feet from the first aircraft. Outside the wall the last two helos set down, the soldiers rushing off the aircraft and taking up security positions to ensure that none of Ghadiya’s men escaped the assault.
“Shots fired. Shots fired.”
The operators inside the courtyard spread out, sweeping forward toward Ghadiya, the rounds flying both ways. There was no way out. One by one Ghadiya’s men fell, and within minutes the fight was over. Cowering unharmed in the small tent in the middle of the compound were several young children and a woman.
The drone overhead watched as the operators went from dead man to dead man, looking for their target. Minutes later came the call. “Jackpot. I say again, jackpot.”
“Roger,” Votel answered, a smile coming across his face. This mission had been a long time in coming.
On target the chaos was subsiding. The gunfire had stopped, but the clock was ticking. By now the Syrians were aware the Americans had crossed the border. It was time to go.
Picking up the body of Abu Ghadiya, the assaulters exited the compound, boarded the helos, and within three minutes were back in Iraq. The total time of the mission was seventeen minutes.
I made my reports to the White House and Petraeus, and then I went back to focusing on the rest of the war.
Later that evening, in accordance with Islamic tradition, Ghadiya’s body was cleaned, wrapped in white linen, prayed over by an imam, and buried facing Mecca. The grave, somewhere in the Iraqi desert, was left unmarked so his followers could not turn his burial site into a shrine.
Through the courage of the Army task force operators and the decisiveness of the President of the United States, one of the greatest threats to U.S. and Iraqi lives had been eliminated. As we approached the 2008 presidential elections, I wondered how the new man in the Oval Office would respond to such a challenge. Would he have the same level of commitment against our enemies? Would he take the same level of tactical and strategic risks? Would he put his reputation and that of the nation in the hands of his special operations forces? Would he allow us to continue our global manhunt?
As fortune would have it, it wouldn’t take long for me to find out.