BAGRAM, AFGHANISTAN
April 8, 2009
It was out of place in the world of tents, sprung shelters, and single-story berthing huts, but it was possibly the most important building in the war on terrorism. The Plywood Palace, built in 2004 by Navy Seabees, was a two-story wooden structure and the Afghanistan headquarters of my task force. The building had twenty or so rooms, nothing fancy, just plywood and framing, but over the years the Plywood Palace had been upgraded with state-of-the-art technology.
The main command center on the first floor, referred to as the Joint Operations Center, was a large open room with over 150 people working behind computers, controlling aircraft, calling in medevacs, monitoring and directing drones, coordinating with the regional commanders, and orchestrating the thousand little decisions that go into a successful mission.
The wall on the far end of the command center was thirty feet high and covered from top to bottom with flat-screen monitors. Every mission was observed. Every soldier was tracked. Every radio call was monitored. Every round fired was noticed. There was not a moment during any evening when real-life drama was not unfolding in front of your eyes.
In the center of the large room, the Ranger Regimental Commander, an Army colonel, sat in a swivel chair, headphones on, coffee in hand, calling out commands as he directed the task force’s tactical fight in Afghanistan. With him was a small army of majors, captains, and noncommissioned officers all helping to ensure success on the battlefield.
By 2009, we were conducting five to ten missions a night, from the Hindu Kush in northeast Afghanistan to Helmand Province in the south. As the task force commander, I reviewed and approved all the daily missions in Afghanistan, but my main job was to look at the fight from a global perspective. We had ongoing missions in Iraq, Yemen, Somalia, North Africa, and the Philippines. Already this year, we had taken the fight to Al Qaeda in Yemen and Somalia and chased terrorists across Mali and Nigeria.
On the second floor of the Plywood Palace was my office and a smaller command center referred to as the Situational Awareness Room (SAR). The name was misleading. We didn’t just keep aware of the global situation; from my plywood desk, with an array of video feeds, secure communications, and an unending supply of energy drinks and peanut M&M’s, I could command forces anywhere in the world—and did so routinely.
“Never too early for a Rip It, is it, sir?”
I popped the top on my highly caffeinated, chemically infused fizzy orange-flavored energy drink and nodded toward the SAR NCO, who was just starting the morning shift. “The breakfast of champions,” I said, downing my first gulp.
I wasn’t a morning guy. When I joined the SEAL Teams they told me that we would be working at night. I like the nights. The mornings—not so much. Although in truth, it wasn’t really morning anymore. The bright red LED clock showed 1000 hours, Zulu time, or Greenwich Mean Time. Everyone in the task force worked on a common time zone: Zulu time. That way, no matter where you were in the world, from Somalia to Washington, D.C., we all had the same reference point when it came to the clock.
The night before had been fairly routine. The Rangers and SEALs hit five different targets across Afghanistan, from a Taliban compound in Kandahar, to a suspected Al Qaeda hideout in Konar, to a predator strike in Wardak. In Iraq, our Army task force elements and our British colleagues were continuing their nightly raids on Al Qaeda forces from Baghdad to Basra. Several of the boys had been wounded, but nothing too serious.
I had departed the SAR around 2300. Some missions were still in progress, but as usual, unless something critical was going on—a hostage rescue, a mass casualty, a missile strike, or an assault on a politically sensitive target—I generally left the tactical fight to the colonels. I knew that the Ranger regimental commander, who was as good a warfighter as anyone in the task force, would make all the right decisions. The same was true for the Army task force commander running the fight in Iraq.
I was in my rack by midnight. By 0600, I was rolling out of bed and on my way to the gym. Even at that hour, the large sprung shelter, filled with weights and cardio equipment, was packed. After a quick shower and breakfast, I headed off to my office, checked my emails, and then shuffled over to the SAR.
On the video screens were the results of last night’s missions. I reviewed the casualty reports and got an update on the wounded. It looked to be just another day in the war zone.
“Good morning, sir,” came the familiar voice of my chief of staff.
“Morning, Randy,” I said, downing my last sip of Rip It. “How’d your Red Sox fare last night?”
“Good, sir. They beat the Rays 5 to 3. Their bats were strong and the bullpen looked sharp. But it’s a long season.”
As my chief of staff, Colonel Randy Copeland was in charge of running the camp in Afghanistan. He handled all the administrative and logistics issues that go with managing a large deployed force. Copeland was a former infantry officer, older than most of my colonels and a bit stocky. He had a dry sense of humor and he used it to great effect in keeping morale high during the tough times. He loved to harass everyone in the SAR, myself included.
Copeland pulled up a chair beside me, looked me in the eye, and didn’t say a word. He just stared for a few seconds.
“What…?” I asked.
Copeland dropped his head to his chest. “Sir, the gate guards are at it again.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“They stopped General Khan and his men at the gate. They won’t let them in.”
Ali Khan was a general in the Afghan Army and my liaison to the Afghan senior staff. Every day he traveled an hour from Kabul to be at our command center. He and his officers helped coordinate our combat missions with the Afghans in the various districts. They were indispensable in the fight. However, the American guards at the main gate to Bagram Air Base always stopped Khan and questioned him for hours.
“Get the base commander on the phone! I’m really getting tired of this shit,” I said.
“Sir, I’ve already sent the sergeant major down to get General Khan. We’ll have him here in a few minutes.”
“We can’t keep doing this every day, Randy. Get this damn thing solved.”
“Yes sir,” Copeland responded.
“I’m rounding up all the gate guards. I have the firing squad standing by and I intend to have them shot at dawn. I assume you’re okay with that?”
“Absolutely!” I said. “And just to make the point, don’t give them blindfolds!”
Copeland hopped up from the chair, gave me a crisp salute and a wry smile, and left the SAR. Somehow I knew he would get the problem solved and no executions would be required.
As Copeland departed, the SAR NCO leaned over from the back row to get my attention. “Sir, the Joint Staff just called. They are requesting a video teleconference in one hour.”
“What’s the subject?” I asked.
“Apparently an American ship has been boarded by pirates off the coast of Somalia. They don’t have a lot of details right now.”
“Roger. Let’s get the usual suspects assembled and see if Fort Bragg has any additional information.”
“Roger, sir. Will do.”
For years, Somalia had been a breeding ground for pirates. Thousands of ships passed through the Gulf of Aden every year, and a huge volume of merchant traffic came through the Red Sea. This year alone, Somali pirates had attacked more than two hundred ships, with 263 crewmen being taken hostage. Most of the ships and their crew were taken to an anchorage point off the Somali coast where they waited, sometimes for years, before the shipping company negotiated their release. I never understood why the shipping companies didn’t hire a bunch of “good ol’ boys” with deer rifles to stave off pirate attacks or just sail farther away from shore. When I asked the obvious question, I was told that ships weren’t allowed to enter port if they were carrying firearms and that it was more cost-effective to pay the ransom than to sail several hundred miles off the planned course. Still, none of it made sense to me.
Within the hour, my entire staff was gathered in the SAR for the VTC.
“Good afternoon, sir,” came the voice over the video screen.
“Scotty, how are you?”
“Just another day in paradise, sir.”
Colonel Scott Miller was the Deputy Director for Special Operations and the former commander of the Army task force element. Stan McChrystal had brought him to the Pentagon when McChrystal became the Joint Staff Director of Operations. Miller was exceptionally talented. A seasoned operator, he was on the ground as a young officer during the fight in Mogadishu in 1993, and since then he had been in constant combat in all the hot spots around the world. In 2004, I had pinned a Purple Heart on his chest after he sustained wounds during an ambush in Iraq. He was as good as they came.
“What do we have, Scotty?”
“Sir, here’s what we know.” Miller paused and looked down at his briefing notes. “Early this morning, a large U.S.-flagged cargo ship, the Maersk Alabama, was taken over by Somali pirates.”
On the video screen to the left of Miller’s picture, my SAR NCO brought up a recent photo of the Maersk Alabama.
“From what we understand, the crew attempted to resist, but the pirates were able to board anyway. We don’t have the exact details, but the captain, a guy named Richard Phillips, has been taken hostage.”
“Hostage aboard the ship?” I asked.
“No sir. The pirates left the Maersk Alabama in a lifeboat and took Phillips with them.”
“What kind of lifeboat?”
The SAR NCO spoke up. “Sir, I’ve got a picture right here.” Onscreen was a small twenty-eight-foot orange vessel with an enclosed top. It was the standard lifeboat found on most merchant ships.
“How many pirates do we think there are?”
“Sir, the crew reports there are four pirates and the captain in that lifeboat,” Miller responded.
“How far is the nearest U.S. naval vessel?”
“Sir, the Bainbridge, the Halyburton, and the Boxer are in the Gulf. The Chairman has directed them to start moving toward the coast of Somalia.”
“What’s their ETA?”
“It will take them about twenty-four hours to be on station.”
I turned to the SAR NCO. “Do we have Captain Moore on the line?”
The SAR NCO nodded.
“Scott, are you up?” I asked, speaking into virtual space.
“Sir, I’m here,” said Moore, his face appearing on the screen.
Captain Scott Moore was the commanding officer of our Navy SEAL task force. Known as “Go to War Moore,” he was professionally aggressive and loved to be in the fight. He was a world-class mountain climber, incredibly fit, and tactically very sound. He had recently turned over the Afghanistan task force commander position to a Ranger colonel after two years of a long, tough fight. Under his command, his SEALs and Rangers had taken hundreds of enemy off the battlefield, but had also lost ten of their own. It had been a vicious fight against a determined enemy, and he was now back home in his day job, commanding officer of a SEAL Group.
“Scott, who do we have nearby that can be on scene quickly?”
“Sir, we have Jonas Kelsall in Nairobi. He’s got a team of about seven SEALs that could link up with the Bainbridge within six hours.”
I knew Kelsall. He was a SEAL lieutenant commander, a fabulous young man who had done some enlisted time and then gone back to the University of Texas in order to get his bachelor’s degree and his Navy commission.
“Bill, this is Shortney.”
I heard the familiar voice of Vice Admiral Bill “Shortney” Gortney, the 5th Fleet commander, stationed in Bahrain.
“Shortney, didn’t know you were with us.”
“I’ve been listening in,” he said, his picture appearing from a conference room in Bahrain. “Just wanted you to know that anything I’ve got is yours for the asking.”
Gortney had become a good friend and a very reliable ally in the war on terrorism. He had no ego when it came to getting the job done.
“Thanks, Shortney. Not sure what we need just yet, but never worry, I won’t hesitate to ask.”
I returned to talking with Scotty Miller. “Scotty, just so I understand the chain of command here. Am I in charge of this mission?”
“Yes sir,” Miller responded, knowing that putting me in charge would give me access to all the military resources I needed.
“Sir, the Chairman would like a Concept of Operations within the hour, but he and the Secretary have authorized me to move whatever forces you think appropriate at this time to set the conditions for the rescue.”
“Roger, Scotty. Let me work with my staff and Scott Moore and we’ll be back with you in the hour. In the meantime, let’s just keep the video teleconference up and running.”
“Sounds good, sir. I’ll pass on everything to General McChrystal. My guess is that the Chairman will also sit in on the next briefing.”
“No problem. See you again in an hour.”
There were a dozen or so stations on the current videoconference, from the Joint Staff, to the State Department, to CIA, FBI, NGA, DIA, Fort Bragg, and a number of military combatant commanders—too many folks to have a candid conversation.
I turned to the SAR NCO. “Set up a point-to-point from my office to Captain Moore.”
“Yes sir.”
I moved to my office next door and took a few of my key staff with me. The office was large, plywood of course, and had room for ten personnel to gather around a video screen for conferences. I often had teleconferences with the White House and Joint Staff from my office to avoid the appearance that my entire staff was listening in.
As Moore appeared on the screen, he began talking immediately. “Sir, we contacted Jonas. He and his guys have all their kit, to include their freefall chutes, and can be ready to launch within the hour.”
I always marveled at our organization. Lieutenant Commander Kelsall and his team were in Nairobi as part of our special operations liaison element. They were in Kenya to coordinate our operations against the Somali terrorist organization Al Shabaab. But no matter where SEALs went, they always took their parachutes for contingencies just like this. Rarely were those parachutes needed, but now the policy was about to pay off.
“All right, Scott, let’s work with our liaison at 5th Fleet and coordinate a rendezvous between Team Nairobi and the Bainbridge as soon as the ship arrives on station.”
“Admiral, I would also like to launch the entire hostage rescue package from Norfolk. We can be on station in twenty-two hours.”
“How many folks are we talking about?”
“Well, sir,” Moore said sheepishly, “about sixty operators and four High Speed Assault Craft.”
“Sixty? What in the world are you going to do with sixty operators? It’s five guys in a lifeboat.”
“Well, sir, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, that’s probably not good,” I deadpanned.
“Sir, my concern is if the pirates take Phillips across the beach we will lose him for months, and possibly forever.”
“Continue.”
“Well, sir, with the additional SEALs and support from the Cobras on the MEU, we can ensure that there are no pirates left ashore to receive him.” Moore pulled up a picture of the Somali coastline and flashed it up on our shared screen. “Almost all the pirates are operating out of Eyl. There are about six or seven different camps spread up and down the coast. Our sources tell us that these guys all report to a head pirate named Alam. We are working with the FBI and the Agency to track down the headman’s exact location, but we think he lives inland and is reachable.”
I knew Moore was right, but I also thought that the Joint Staff and the White House would never approve that large a force to rescue one man from a lifeboat.
“Okay, Scott. Go ahead and get the large package ready to move. We have another video teleconference with the Chairman in about an hour. We can broach it with him at that time.”
Moore smiled, knowing I liked the concept and would push it hard with the Joint Staff.
“In the meantime, let’s get a Concept of Operations knocked out. I want it simple as usual: one slide on the situation showing the location of the lifeboat and the position of the Halyburton and Bainbridge; one slide on the intelligence regarding the pirates and their chain of command; one slide on the size of the rescue force and your planned movement from CONUS.”
My operations officer chimed in from behind me. “Sir, we probably need to let the Chairman know that Team Nairobi is linking up with the Bainbridge.”
“Roger. Scott, did you catch that?”
“Yes sir. Include the Team Nairobi piece.”
“And then let’s get the JAGs to do the usual rules of engagement slide.” I looked around the room at my staff. “Anything else?”
No one spoke up.
“Okay, one hour. See you then, Scott.”
The screen went blank.
Every screen in the SAR was glowing with activity. Kelsall and Team Nairobi were being tracked on the far left display. A map showed the GPS progress of their small plane as it moved from Nairobi to the coast of Somalia. They were two hours from rendezvous with the Bainbridge. The next display showed a live feed with the location of all U.S. naval vessels in the area. Marked with tiny icons and a callout box, it presented the ship’s name, current latitude and longitude, and estimated speed. The Bainbridge and Halyburton were steaming at twenty knots toward the lifeboat. On the center screen was a conference room in the Pentagon. I could see Scotty Miller and other members of the Joint Staff preparing for the arrival of the Chairman. To the right of the center screen was the first slide of the Concept of Operations brief, and to the far right was an air traffic control picture of all the drones operating in the Horn of Africa. While we had ongoing missions in Yemen, we didn’t have any Predator or Reaper drones available in the immediate vicinity. All the live video would have to come directly from the Bainbridge’s ScanEagle drone.
On the center screen, I could see Miller and the other officers come to attention. The Chairman had entered the room. Tall, distinguished, with jet black hair, he was dressed in his khaki uniform, the four stars of a full admiral adorning each collar. Mullen always reminded me of the great fleet admirals of World War II. I could envision him on the deck of a battleship heading to Midway.
“Good afternoon, William.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Who else is on the VTC?”
I went quickly through the roll call, but made a point of singling out General Petraeus, the CENTCOM commander. While I was technically in charge now, as soon as this mission was over, I would go back to working for him, so I was careful to ensure that he was involved every step of the way.
After a few niceties, I jumped right into the brief. “Sir, we have Team Nairobi headed to an at-sea rendezvous with the Bainbridge. They should be aboard the ship within two hours. Intel tells us that the pirates are trying to make their way back to their base camp. However, the lifeboat only makes two to three knots, so we won’t have a problem intercepting them well before they hit landfall.”
I could see Miller showing the Chairman a PowerPoint slide of the current position of the lifeboat and the estimated intercept point by the Bainbridge.
“Sir, we also know that the pirates are in communication with a man named Mohammad, who is located in Somaliland. They are asking for a high-speed boat so they can transfer Captain Phillips out of the lifeboat and get to shore before the U.S. Navy arrives.”
“What do you need from me, Bill?”
“Well, sir, I have been talking with Scott Moore, and we would like to bring the entire hostage rescue package from the States.”
Miller leaned in and whispered something to the Chairman.
“So, that’s sixty operators and four boats?”
“Yes sir. And with that large a package we would need to bring the Boxer along with the Bainbridge and Halyburton. The Boxer could berth the sixty operators and put the High Speed Assault Crafts on the flight deck.”
“What do you plan to do with all these SEALs?” the Chairman asked, his eyes narrowing just a bit.
“Sir, there are over two hundred hostages being held on the Somali coast. Most of them near the anchorage point at Eyl.”
Miller was pointing to something on one of the screens in the Pentagon briefing room, and I assumed it was the location of Eyl.
“Additionally, there are half a dozen other pirate enclaves up and down the coast of Somalia.”
The Chairman continued to look at the screen in the Pentagon.
“Sir, I think it’s time we solved this problem once and for all. If we continue to let these pirates dictate the flow of merchant traffic around the Horn it will distract from our efforts in Iraq and Afghanistan and put hundreds more Americans at risk of capture.”
I could see the Chairman mulling over the idea, but he knew it was a stretch for the new President to authorize so aggressive an operation. No matter how well it went, the potential for American servicemen to get killed or wounded was very high. Still… the idea had merit and I think the Chairman knew it.
“Okay, Bill. Let’s prepare the briefing for the White House and see what they say.”
“Roger, sir,” I replied, and moments later we signed off from the VTC.
April 9, 2009
“Jumpers away!” came the call from the SAR NCO.
Five thousand feet above the deep blue Indian Ocean, Jonas Kelsall and his men exited the small aircraft. Tumbling slightly forward as they dove off the ramp of the plane, they immediately pulled their ripcords, deploying their main parachutes. Gathering in the air under their square canopies, the SEALs floated down in formation, landing close together in the choppy sea. Bobbing erratically in the water, a small boat from USS Bainbridge was standing by to retrieve them. Within the hour, Kelsall and the commanding officer of the Bainbridge, Commander Frank Castellano, had developed a plan to gather intelligence in the event a rescue was necessary. Castellano was an exceptional Surface Warfare Officer and would be involved in every aspect of the rescue.
“Sir, the Bainbridge has communication with the pirates.”
I nodded and watched intently on the screen as the small Zodiac carrying Kelsall and a few other SEALs approached the lifeboat.
“The leader has okayed the transfer of food and water.”
We were receiving a video feed from the Bainbridge’s ScanEagle drone. Even across the thousands of miles from Somalia to the SAR in Afghanistan, the picture was remarkably clear.
Aboard the Bainbridge, a Somali interpreter was talking with the head pirate, Abduwali Muse. Muse’s voice was strained and it was clear that the oppressive heat inside the small lifeboat was beginning to take its toll on both Phillips and the pirates. The interpreter had convinced Muse that they should accept the U.S. Navy’s offer of food and water to keep their hostage alive. Muse had readily accepted.
“Slowly, slowly,” I muttered to myself as the Zodiac edged closer to the lifeboat. The hatch on the lifeboat opened and one of the pirates leaned outward, the barrel of his AK-47 pointed toward the American sailors. Inching forward, the bow of the Zodiac bumped the stern of the lifeboat and I could see the SEALs and the pirates talking. Soon the food and water were transferred and the Zodiac pulled away. Within minutes we were getting reports from Kelsall.
“Sir, the SEALs report that Phillips is fine. But the pirates seem intent on reaching the coast of Somalia.”
My intelligence officer chimed in. “Admiral, we’re getting intercepts that the pirates are calling for reinforcements from Eyl. They know they can’t reach the shore in the lifeboat. Apparently another high-speed skiff is moving in their direction.”
Part of me was hoping that the reinforcements would show up. The .50-caliber gunner on the deck of the Bainbridge would love the opportunity to show off his skill set. It would not go well for the pirates.
Throughout the day, the Bainbridge was in constant contact with the pirate leader, Abduwali Muse. While our interpreter and Muse appeared to be developing a rapport, Muse still threatened to kill Phillips if we attempted a rescue. As the heat of the day wore on, I knew tensions inside the small lifeboat were getting high. With temperatures soaring to over a hundred degrees, the pirates would occasionally jump in the water to cool off. But there was no sign of Captain Phillips.
I straightened up in my chair as Admiral Mullen came on the VTC. “William, the President has authorized the deployment of the SEALs,” he said. “But he also wants a deliberate action plan for how you intend to rescue Phillips.”
I looked up on my video screen at the tiny twenty-eight-foot lifeboat gently rolling across the ocean waves. It barely had enough room for the five men inside. This wasn’t a cruise liner where the SEALs could fast-rope from a helicopter or assault from the sea.
“Sir,” I said, with an unintended tone of frustration, “it’s a lifeboat.”
“I understand, Bill, but the White House wants a deliberate action plan and William—” He paused. “You will give them a deliberate action plan.”
As always, Mullen had a sly smile that meant he understood my predicament.
“Yes sir,” I said, somewhat reluctantly. “We will get you a deliberate action plan.”
“By tomorrow.”
“Yes sir, by tomorrow.”
Mullen left and we talked through the next steps with Scott Miller and the Joint Staff. Scott Moore and his SEALs would be arriving the following morning, April 10. The sixty SEALs and their four High Speed Assault Craft would parachute from four C-17 cargo planes, land in the water near USS Boxer, and be brought aboard the ship.
Vice Admiral Bill Gortney had CHOPed (change of operational control) the small fleet of ships to my control. Surrounding the lifeboat were the large-deck amphibious ship USS Boxer, the guided missile destroyer USS Bainbridge, and fast frigate USS Halyburton. Together they formed Combined Task Force 151 (CTF 151), commanded by Rear Admiral Michelle Howard. Admiral Howard was an exceptionally capable commander, and her leadership throughout the hostage rescue would prove essential to our success.
As the day ended off the coast of Somalia, we just watched and waited, hoping for an opportunity to end the standoff.
I grabbed another Rip It from the small refrigerator in the SAR and took a quick sip. It had been almost forty-eight hours since the beginning of the hostage crisis and I hadn’t stepped away from my desk except to use the head. It was almost 0330 in Afghanistan, making it two o’clock in the morning off the coast of Somalia. At that time of the night, the infrared picture of the small lifeboat slowly motoring across the vast ocean was lulling everyone to sleep.
“Admiral, Admiral. Something’s happening!”
On the screen, there was a figure in the water, the heat signature strong against the cooler temperature of the ocean. Was it just another pirate cooling himself down from the nighttime heat?
“What’s the Bainbridge saying?” I asked.
“Sir, they are seeing the same thing we are, but they can’t tell who is in the water.”
“The boat’s turning.”
It was clear now that something was happening. The pirates were moving around the edge of the small lifeboat, waving their hands frantically.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!” came the call from the SAR NCO.
On the infrared picture, the water around the lifeboat churned green as the propeller spun hard, the small boat turning abruptly.
“Admiral, the Bainbridge reports that Captain Phillips is in the water.”
“Roger,” I acknowledged, watching as the figure in the ocean struggled to get some distance from the bow of the little boat. Rarely have I felt so helpless. The Bainbridge was too far away to be of assistance and no SEAL Quick Reaction Force was going to save Phillips at that moment.
Within minutes the escape had been thwarted. Phillips was dragged back into the lifeboat and any chance of freedom that night was over. I knew that his captors would not go easy on him.
On the Bainbridge, the Somali interpreter made immediate contact with Muse. If Captain Phillips was harmed, he told Muse, the pirates would pay a very high price. Muse seemed to understand. This was a business deal for the pirates. They didn’t want Phillips to die any more than they wanted to die themselves, but a miscalculation on either side’s part could result in tragedy. We continued to play it safe, waiting for an opportunity, an opening, however slim it might be.
“That’s your deliberate plan?” Mullen asked.
“Yes sir, that’s it,” I responded.
During the night I had called Vice Admiral Mike Miller at the U.S. Naval Academy and asked him to provide me their best naval architect, someone who could tell me whether ramming the lifeboat with the bow of our heavily reinforced High Speed Assault Craft (HSAC) would crack the hull and cause the lifeboat to sink. Miller woke up one of his faculty members, whom we spirited away to an undisclosed location so he could do his calculations. By early morning, I had my answer. Ramming the HSAC into the lifeboat would not cause it to sink.
“So, let me make sure I understand this, William. Your deliberate action plan calls for you to ram the lifeboat with the HSAC, sending everyone inside tumbling around, and then the SEALs jump in and shoot the pirates and rescue Phillips. Do I have that right?”
Somehow when Mullen said it, it didn’t sound so clever.
“Sir, it’s a lifeboat,” I said respectfully. “There really isn’t going to be an opportunity for a deliberate action.”
“So how will this unfold?”
“Sir, sooner or later the lifeboat will run out of gas, probably by tomorrow. Once that happens, we own the tempo of the operation. The pirates will need food and water. That will give us an opportunity to engage with them and possibly convince them to give us Phillips back. If that doesn’t work, once the SEALs arrive on scene, we will have snipers available to take out the pirates if the situation presents itself. But however this unfolds, sir, we will be patient and we won’t rush to failure.”
Mullen nodded. He knew we would do the right thing and not jeopardize Phillips’s life.
“Sir, I have been talking with Scott Moore. He says this is the most difficult tactical problem he’s seen in his career. It would actually be easier to take down the Maersk Alabama than the single lifeboat. The lifeboat has only one main entry point, and trying to gain the element of surprise is very difficult.”
Mullen nodded. “Bill, I will be briefing the Secretary and the White House later today. Just keep Colonel Miller posted.”
As Mullen rose and left the room, I knew that sooner than later, this crisis would be coming to an end. The pirates were running out of options, and that would give us the opportunity we needed.
Throughout Friday, April 10, we kept up pressure on the pirates. Playing a little good cop, bad cop, we used the helos from the Bainbridge and Halyburton to buzz the lifeboat, while at the same time offering food and water as we gathered more intelligence on the situation. I wanted to push the pirates to an uncomfortable place, but not push too hard.
At 1800 Friday evening we confirmed again that Phillips was okay, albeit dog tired from the heat and constant harassment. The sun was setting over Somalia and the moon was already up.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
I looked at the lifeboat, but nothing seemed to be happening. No one was in the water, and there was not a lot of commotion. Within minutes, the Bainbridge reported that Phillips was okay. Apparently one of the pirates had accidentally discharged his weapon. The night ended and the lifeboat continued to motor slowly toward the shore.
Saturday, April 11
“Jumpers away. Jumpers away.”
It was a beautiful sight to see. Catapulting off the back of the ramp of the C-17 was a forty-foot High Speed Assault Craft, and behind it dozens of light blue canopies, all following the craft into the water below. The two giant cargo planes that had delivered the SEALs from the States now banked slowly to the left, dipped their wings as a sign of respect, and headed back to Dover. Within an hour, Captain Scott Moore and his sixty-man team were aboard USS Boxer, with the four HSACs tied up alongside.
“Admiral, good to see you,” came the voice of Admiral Michelle Howard over the VTC.
“Great to see you as well, Michelle,” I said. “Thanks for taking care of Scott and the boys.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “I have my entire flag staff here and we are ready to assist in any way possible.”
In the room aboard the Boxer were about forty personnel: the key members of Task Force 151 from Admiral Howard’s command, Scott Moore, and most of his senior officers and enlisted.
The VTC was being broadcast from the command center deep inside the hull of the ship. The steel frame of the vessel interfered with the communications, causing the picture to freeze periodically throughout the conversation.
Moore began. “Sir, I am moving a fifteen-man SEAL troop to the Bainbridge. We’ll set up on the flight deck and be prepared to take a shot if we get one.”
Moore and I both knew that even the best snipers would find it challenging to hit a moving target bobbing in the ocean, but we had to prepare for every contingency.
“I’m also going to stage the HSACs on the back side of the Boxer where they won’t be seen by the pirates. That way if we have to execute a deliberate plan, they’ll be ready as well.”
Howard chimed in. “Admiral, we would like to continue the helo overflights and the occasional fire hose treatment if you’re okay with that.”
The buzzing helos and spraying the lifeboat had been used to good effect so far. The helos and the hoses were irritating to the pirates, but not too threatening, and the hoses had the positive effect of keeping the lifeboat a bit cooler.
“Sounds good, Michelle. Just let me know if the pirates start getting riled up. I don’t want to push them too far.”
“Roger, sir. Understand,” she replied.
Onscreen I could see that Moore was chatting with his staff, asking them if there was anything else they needed to relay to me. Negative nods all around.
“Well, boss. I think that’s all we have for right now. Anything else you want us to do?”
While I didn’t think it was really necessary, I reinforced the obvious. “Scott, as always, let’s just move slowly and deliberately. We don’t want anything to compromise the hostage. Keep up the pressure, own the tempo, and look for opportunities. I know the boys will do the right thing when the time comes.”
“Yes sir. I understand.”
I knew he did.
We signed off on the VTC and I went back to the SAR. A new crew of enlisted personnel had come on duty to man the computers and video screens, but all of my key personnel were still in their same seats.
“Hey,” I said with a tone of authority, “you guys need to get some rest. This could be a long haul and I want to make sure everyone stays sharp.”
No one moved. In fact, no one looked up from their computers.
“Is anyone listening?” I asked.
“Yes sir. Heard every word,” Copeland said, still typing away on his keyboard.
Still, no one moved.
“Screw you guys,” I said. “I hope you all die of Red Bull poisoning.”
Copeland snickered and slid me a new can of orange Rip It.
“Just so we don’t die alone,” he said, smiling.
Sunday, April 12
“Sir, they are out of gas, low on food and water, and starting to get very agitated. I don’t know how far we can push them,” Moore said.
“Any sense they are willing to bargain yet?” I asked.
“I think the head guy might be willing to talk at this point, but his fellow pirates are getting pretty hostile. They had all hoped for reinforcements from Eyl, but my guess is they know those aren’t coming. They’re trapped and are looking for a way out, but trapped men have a way of acting irrationally, and we will have to be careful moving forward.”
“Scott’s right,” Howard chimed in. “Last night they threatened to kill Phillips and then they began firing at the Bainbridge. They were just in a pissed-off mood. We settled them down, but it was tense for a while.”
“So, let’s think through this,” I said. “What will it take to convince them to give us Phillips back?”
“Money,” the intel officer said without hesitation. “That’s their mission. If they return to Somalia without a hostage and without money, then they and their families will pay a steep price. Their life is on the line now. They can’t back down.”
“Okay. Then we convince them that we are willing to negotiate.”
“They know the U.S. government won’t negotiate,” Moore said.
“Yeah, but they probably think Maersk will.”
“Admiral,” the intel guy spoke up. “Muse seems reasonable enough. I think we can convince him to come aboard the Bainbridge and talk about a deal.”
“Unfortunately, he may be the only reasonable pirate in the boat, and I hate to leave Phillips with the other three psychopaths,” I said.
“Michelle, Scott. What do you think?”
“It’s worth a try,” Howard offered.
“I agree,” Moore said. “And if there is any way to get the lifeboat closer to the Bainbridge, we could have an opportunity for a shot.”
“Okay, let’s lure them in with the chance of a payout and see if Muse is willing to talk.”
“Roger, sir,” Moore responded. “We’ll get on the bridge-to-bridge and see if Muse is interested.”
The large flat-screen TV in the SAR seemed to glow brightly as the sunlight reflected off the blue waters of the Indian Ocean. In the middle of the screen, a small black Zodiac carrying a few of the SEAL operators approached the lifeboat. Concealed underneath some blankets were an assortment of M-4s and MP5s, both for protection and just in case the right moment presented itself.
Long into this standoff, I had given the SEALs the authority to take action if they felt a rescue was warranted. You have to trust the guys on the ground, or in this case, on the water. As a commander, you would like to be in ultimate control of all the decisions. But the reality is, you can’t be. In a hostage crisis situation, there are too many factors that unfold too quickly to have to ask, “Mother, may I?” You set the conditions as best you can. You give the authority to the ground force commander and you hope that the experience and the maturity of the operators will win the day. Most of the time, it does.
Onscreen I could see the SEAL in the Zodiac talking to Muse. As the Zodiac bumped against the bow of the lifeboat, the SEALs began transferring food and water through the open hatch. The conversation lasted for several minutes. Muse, his head visible through the hatch, would talk with the SEAL and then turn to confer with his fellow pirates.
“Sir, the Bainbridge reports that Muse is willing to come aboard and talk.”
I nodded without answering. Leaning toward the video screen, I squinted and watched as the SEAL held out his hand and grabbed Muse as he leapt from the lifeboat onto the Zodiac. There was a final exchange between Muse and his men and then the Zodiac slowly pulled away, beginning its short transit back to the Bainbridge.
Over the next hour, Muse sat on the helo deck of the Bainbridge, drank Coca-Colas, and, using a Somali interpreter, talked with the SEALs. Through some very carefully arranged conversations, the negotiator convinced him that it would be best to allow the Bainbridge to hook up a towline with the lifeboat. Exhausted from days at sea and realizing that his small boat and men were drifting away from the mainland, Muse inexplicably agreed. It was exactly the break we were looking for.
On board the lifeboat, the situation was getting tenser. The remaining pirates could see Muse lounging on the helo deck, drinking Cokes, eating chow, and seeming to enjoy himself. A short time later the Bainbridge hooked up the towline and they were dragging the tiny boat up and down through the ship’s wake, making life more miserable for the pirates.
Onscreen, Moore was relaying his plan. “Sir, as expected, the pirates are getting seasick on the long towline, so we have offered to pull them inside the wake to reduce the rolling motion.”
“And they agreed?” I said, somewhat astounded.
“Yes sir. They agreed,” Moore said, equally amazed.
“Can we get them close enough for a good shot?”
“Well, boss.” He paused as if to think through his answer. “I have three of my best snipers positioned on the fantail of the Bainbridge. If the shot is there, we’ll take it. But…”
“But what?”
“But it’s going to be tough. The sun is going down, the boat is moving both side to side and up and down, and the only shots will be through the portholes.”
“Yeah, but other than that, it should be easy, right?”
Moore smiled. “Yes sir, other than that—it should be easy.”
“All right, Scott. It’s all yours.”
I signed off. There wasn’t anything I could do at this point but trust Scott Moore and the SEALs on the Bainbridge.
My executive officer and right-hand man, Lieutenant Colonel Pat Ellis, sidled up beside me. “Sir, it could be a long night. Why don’t you head to the gym and get in a short PT. That will help recharge you. I’ll come grab you if anything happens.”
“Not a bad idea, Pat. But the first whiff of action, come running.”
“Will do, sir.”
I closed my computer, walked down the flight of stairs, out past the soldier on duty, and back to my B-Hut. The B-Hut was my refuge. Four plywood walls in a room not much bigger than a walk-in closet, but it was home. It was quiet. It was clean. Inside the walls no one was yelling about shots fired or enemy killed or civilians dead or soldiers dying. Inside the walls no one was looking for guidance, expecting a decision, asking for direction. Inside the walls of the B-Hut it was a different world. But I could never stay long. Because outside the B-Hut was where I belonged.
I changed into my PT gear and walked out into the cool evening air. When you weren’t getting rocketed by some hacked-off Taliban, the nights in Afghanistan were beautiful. Stars filled the sky, the mountain peaks were visible in the moonlight, and there was a calmness that made you forget there was a war going on all around you.
The giant sprung shelter that housed the gym was filled twenty-four hours a day. It always smelled of rubber mats, sweat, and just a tinge of loneliness. No sooner had I walked through the door of the gym than Ellis came charging in.
“Admiral! Admiral! You need to come. Now!”
I sprinted out the door, across the wooden sidewalk that connected the B-Huts, and back up the stairs of the Plywood Palace. As I rushed back into the SAR, the NCO was calling out the action.
“Sir, shots fired from inside the lifeboat!”
Taking my seat, I stared at the screen. I knew the snipers were looking for an opening. Just one chance. One opportunity. One small window to rescue Phillips.
In the prone position, lying on a rubber mat, they were peering through their scopes, trying to get a good bead on the pirates, each sniper calling out when he had a clean shot. As the lifeboat moved up and down, the shot picture changed moment to moment. For this to work, all three pirates had to be visible simultaneously. All three snipers had to pull the trigger at the same time. One miss and Phillips would likely die. The crosshairs on the scope of sniper number one lined up on the forehead of the largest pirate. Beside him, sniper number two slowed his breathing, squinted into the scope, and prepared to squeeze the trigger. Sniper number three rolled slightly to his right, leaned into the buttstock, and settled in on his target.
“Sniper One. Target One. Green.”
“Sniper Two. Target Two. Green.”
“Sniper Three. Target Three… Fuck! Red.”
The tiny orange boat bobbing up and down in the wake of the Bainbridge came in and out of focus, the profile of Target Three barely visible through the scratched glass of the lifeboat’s starboard-side porthole.
“Sniper Three. Target Three… Come on, baby… Come on… Shit! Red.”
“Sniper One. Target One. Green.”
“Sniper Two. Target Two. Green.”
“Sniper Three. Target Three… Breathe deep, good sight picture… Green!”
“Execute! Execute! Execute!”
“Shots fired! Shots fired! Shots fired!”
Inside my command center, no one spoke. Minutes passed.
“Admiral,” came the voice of Scott Moore. “Phillips is alive!”
Folks in the SAR let out a cheer, but quickly quieted down as the information continued to come in.
“What about the pirates?” I asked.
“Sir, they’re all dead,” Moore answered.
Not bad shooting, I thought.
“We’ll do a quick assessment of Captain Phillips and then move him to the Boxer for further evaluation.”
“Great job, Scott. Please pass on my thanks to the boys.”
Moore was trying to maintain a cool composure onscreen, but it was hard for him to hide his grin.
Thirty minutes later, the screens in the SAR were filled with faces from around the interagency. Scott Moore and Michelle Howard provided a quick debrief. Vice Admiral Bill Gortney would be the public face of the rescue, and together we crafted some talking points and a press release from 5th Fleet. General Petraeus and his staff would make all the appropriate notifications and start working the transfer of Muse to U.S. law enforcement.
But there was one final videoconference with the Joint Staff.
Admiral Mullen, dressed in his blue uniform, strolled into the room, took his seat, and pushed the button to talk.
“Well, William, nice job.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “But you know, it was Scott and his guys. They were magnificent as usual.”
“I know. Your guys never cease to amaze me. I think the President is going to call Scott and congratulate him.”
“Thanks, sir. I know Scott would appreciate it.”
“You look tired, Bill.”
I smiled and nodded. “It’s been a long couple of days.”
“Get some rest, William. You never know what tomorrow will bring.”
“No sir,” I said, smiling at the thought. “You never know.”
I thanked the Chairman and signed off the VTC.
Randy Copeland pulled up a chair beside me. “Sir, you haven’t been tracking the days, but it’s Easter today.”
I looked at the calendar.
“So it is… so it is.”
“It’s what I like best about this job,” Copeland said. “Every day you get to do some good. Someone is alive today because the guys did their job. Someone will have a lot more Easters because rough men stood ready to do violence on their behalf.”
I appreciated the Orwellian reference. Copeland was right. It’s who we were: rough men. Rough men who had to do violence to make the world right. On this Easter Sunday, I wished it weren’t so, but even two thousand years after the death of Christ, the nature of mankind had not changed. And rough men were still needed to protect the innocent.
Captain Richard Phillips returned to his family in Norfolk and later was the subject of a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks. Abduwali Muse was sentenced to life in prison by the Eastern District of Virginia. A year later, Captain Scott Moore would make one-star admiral and go back into combat. Colonel Scotty Miller would become a four-star general and in 2018 take command of all U.S. forces in Afghanistan. Commander Frank Castellano made captain and continues to serve. Michelle Howard would go on to be the first female four-star admiral in the history of the U.S. Navy. Tragically, Lieutenant Commander Jonas Kelsall was killed in Afghanistan on August 6, 2011, when Taliban fighters shot down the helicopter he was riding in. A room in the Naval ROTC building at the University of Texas bears his name.