WASHINGTON, D.C.
September 2009
It never ceased to amaze me how a single person operating out of abject squalor in a fourth-world country could wreak so much havoc on his fellow man, but I saw it time and time again.
Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan was number three on the FBI’s most wanted list. In 1998, he was involved in the planning and execution of the U.S. embassy bombings in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, and Nairobi, Kenya, that left over 250 people dead. Later, in 2002, Nabhan was responsible for orchestrating suicide attacks on the Paradise Hotel in Mombasa that killed three Israeli tourists and ten Kenyan workers, injuring eighty more. During that same operation, two of his men attempted, unsuccessfully, to shoot down an Israeli charter plane.
U.S. and allied intelligence had been hunting Nabhan since 1998, but his tradecraft was exceptional. Nabhan never used any technical device, a phone or computer. He rarely stayed in one place for more than twenty-four hours, and he always used couriers or cutouts to ensure some separation between himself and a potential threat. It was also helpful to Nabhan that after 9/11, our intelligence focus shifted from tracking a terrorist like him to more notable threats like bin Laden, Ayman al-Zawahiri, and Zarqawi.
However, by 2009 the threat of Al Qaeda had metastasized. Terrorist organizations like Al Shabaab in Somalia had aligned themselves with bin Laden and were attempting more global operations to expand their brand. Saleh Nabhan once again became relevant.
The Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, seemed somewhat unsure of my answer. “So, how many operations like this have you conducted?” she asked.
I thought for a moment, paused, and looked at the still frame of the video frozen on the screen in the White House Situation Room.
“Thousands,” I responded matter-of-factly.
“Thousands?”
“Yes ma’am, thousands.”
I thought again to make sure I wasn’t overstating my case. We had been at war for eight years. We were conducting an average of ten missions a day in Iraq and a bit fewer in Afghanistan. At least half of those missions involved helicopter insertions or the use of helicopters for direct assault. Multiply that times 365 days; multiply that times six to eight years. Yep, “thousands” is probably on the short side.
“Ma’am, we do helicopter assaults every single day, multiple times a day. In fact, this kind of direct assault is easier than most.”
Minutes earlier the screen in the Situation Room had been filled with two “Little Bird” helicopters swooping in on a fast-moving Iraqi vehicle. The Little Birds, or MH-6s, were the smallest, most agile, and arguably the most lethal helicopters in the special operations inventory. A Plexiglas bubble surrounded the cockpit and inside the cabin there was only enough room for a pilot, copilot, and two passengers. The Little Birds were equipped with skids instead of wheels, and on this mission a pair of SOF operators were sitting on each skid, leaning forward, taking aim at the engine block of the fleeing Toyota Hilux truck.
Moving at over sixty miles an hour, the Hilux rumbled down a dirt road outside Ramadi. A cloud of dust rose fifteen feet in the air as the wheels spun with each evasive turn. Inside, you could see the driver, his face dripping with sweat as he tried to outmaneuver the pursuing helicopters. From the backseat, two men leaned out the window and fired erratically at the helicopters as the Little Birds closed in for the interdiction. Like a well-synchronized aerial ballet, the pilots swung their helicopters into position, each bird on one side of the vehicle, matching the Toyota’s speed. From the skids, the snipers took two shots apiece into the engine block of the truck. Within seconds the vehicle rolled to a stop. The helos landed just in front of the truck and the operators unhooked from the skids, jumped from the cabin, and surrounded the two vehicles. The helpless Iraqis tossed their guns from the vehicle and surrendered immediately.
Lasting no more than three minutes, the video had clearly grabbed the attention of President Obama and his national security team. For those in Washington the war was generally viewed from twenty thousand feet. Predator video. Grainy images. Precision bombs exploding on compounds with faceless insurgents killed by technology. For those not used to war, this was a different look—a high-risk chase scene, with real people and real guns. But it also showcased the incredible professionalism and courage of our pilots and special operators.
Everyone in the Situation Room turned to the President. Placing his folded hands on his chin, he looked down at the long table and said thoughtfully, “So Bill, as I understand it, your intent is to move two Navy destroyers off the coast of Somalia.” I nodded as he continued. “You’re going to use the destroyers as a launch platform for four Little Birds and some SEALs.”
“Yes sir.”
I could see the President visualizing the mission in his head.
I grabbed the remote and brought up the map of the Somali coast on the screen. “We know from human intelligence that Nabhan travels periodically from Barawe to Marka. While Nabhan doesn’t use any technical device, his courier, who we have identified, always carries a phone with him. Our HUMINT source says that Nabhan and the courier will be traveling in a blue four-door sedan on Tuesday of next week.”
“Why helicopters?” asked Bob Gates, the Secretary of Defense. “Why not just bring in some fighters and drop a bomb on them?”
It was a question I had anticipated, but I knew the answer would not satisfy those sitting around the table.
“Sir, we don’t know exactly when Nabhan will be leaving Barawe. The HUMINT source has given us a compound to watch, but the time window for Nabhan’s departure could be anytime throughout Tuesday.”
I went back to the map of Somalia. “In order for us to have a fixed-wing strike package overhead, we would have to move the aircraft carrier from the Arabian Sea down off the coast of Somalia. Then we would need two F/A-18 strike aircraft constantly in the air until we identified the blue sedan.”
I returned to the map. “It will take two days for the carrier to transit from the Arabian Sea to Somalia—a day to execute the mission and two days for the boat to return. During that time, there will be no Navy aircraft support for either Iraq or Afghanistan. That would put a lot of soldiers in theater at risk.”
“Why not just bring a bomber from our base in Al Udeid?” asked one of the back-row participants.
“The problem is twofold. First, timing. We will have about a fifteen-minute window in order to target Nabhan when he is not in a high-collateral-damage area.”
I circled the short stretch of road on the map that we had colored green. Our task force targeteers had surveyed every mile of the road to determine the area with the least possibility of civilian casualties. With the exception of that small portion, the rest of Nabhan’s route was red—a “no-go” for the operation.
“The second problem is trying to hit a vehicle moving at over forty miles per hour. It can be done, but it’s tricky and the potential to miss the target is high.”
The expressions on the faces of those sitting around the Situation Room were predictable. I was not making my case.
“I’m just concerned about a helicopter raid into Somalia,” Secretary Clinton said. “Last time it didn’t work out so well.”
And there it is. Just as I had worried. Black Hawk Down, October 3, 1993, Mogadishu, Somalia. On that day in October the task force, along with an element of UN soldiers, were attempting to capture lieutenants of Somali warlord Mohammed Farah Aidid when everything went wrong. An hourlong mission turned into the deadliest battle since Vietnam, costing the lives of eighteen American soldiers and the loss of several helicopters. Despite the incredible courage of the special operations forces, the fallout from the battle caused a fundamental shift in U.S. policy abroad, and the memory of that day lingered over every special operations mission involving helicopters.
Now was the time to play my hole card. “I do have a bombing option, but it’s experimental, and”—I paused—“at some point I will still have to put helicopters on the ground to retrieve the bodies to ensure it’s Nabhan.”
Admiral Mike Mullen nodded at me to continue.
“We have been working on a new piece of ordnance that can be dropped from a small airplane and, using laser guidance, can hit a target moving at forty miles per hour. It’s only about a thirteen-pound warhead, but it’s enough to do the job.”
President Obama shifted in his chair and sat upright. “So where would you launch this plane from?”
“Sir, we have a clandestine base in a neighboring country that we would use to stage and launch the aircraft.”
“Would that country be witting of our operation?” Clinton asked.
“Yes ma’am. We have already cleared the concept with the U.S. ambassador, who will notify their president before the strike. The ambassador doesn’t think there will be any problems getting host nation approval.”
Around the table, the mood began to change.
“So, you would drop this small bomb and then the helos would come in and pick up the remains? Is that right?” the President asked.
“Yes sir, that’s right. But if I may, sir. I still believe using the helos as the first option is the best approach. If the small bomb misses its target then Nabhan will make a run for it, and that will complicate the mission considerably.”
I glanced at Gates and Mullen to see if I had overstepped my bounds. They both remained expressionless. Clinton still seemed concerned, but I sensed she was supportive. Contrary to public perception, I had found Clinton to be almost hawkish. She asked all the hard questions, but never shied away from making the tough recommendations. I liked her style.
“Okay, Bill. Let me think about this,” the President said.
“Mr. President, with your permission, sir, I would like to move the destroyers off the coast of Somalia and position the four Little Birds and SEAL assaulters on board. If you decide not to conduct the mission then no harm no foul. But at least they will be in position if you give us the go-ahead.”
The President looked at Gates and Mullen, who both nodded in the affirmative. “Okay, Bill. Do what you need to do in order to be prepared.”
The President thanked me and then asked me to step out so the principals could talk in private. I lingered outside the Situation Room for twenty minutes until the meeting finally broke up. As the members filed out of the room, General Hoss Cartwright came over to talk.
“I don’t think the President is going to approve it, Bill.”
I nodded stoically.
“They are worried about helicopters in Somalia.” Before I could say anything, Cartwright continued. “I know, I know. But that’s just the way it is.”
Outside the main entrance of the Situation Room I could see the President still talking with Clinton. He was listening intently. She finished, he thanked her, and then he walked out into the main West Wing corridor.
“Anyway,” Cartwright said, “I should have an answer for you within the next day or two.”
“Thanks, sir. I appreciate it.”
Cartwright departed and Mullen came over to talk with me.
Mullen looked around to ensure no one was listening. “I don’t know, Bill. This is a tough one for them. But I think you made a good case. We’ll just have to see.”
“Yes sir, I understand,” I said. “But just so I’m clear. I do have the authority to move the destroyers, the Little Birds, and the assaulters into position off the coast?”
As Mullen started to speak, several senior White House officials were gathering nearby for the next Deputies Committee meeting in the Situation Room. We stepped a bit farther into the corner so no one could hear the conversation.
“Yes,” he started. “We discussed the pre-positioning after you left, and everyone agrees that this is a prudent thing to do. The President just needs a day or so to mull over his decision.” Mullen smiled. “You’re doing a great job, William.”
“Thanks, sir,” I replied, knowing that when Mullen called me “William,” there was no greater expression of his support.
That evening I returned to my headquarters at Fort Bragg. The staff gave me a quick update on all the ongoing combat missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, and by 2200 hours I headed to my quarters on base, exhausted from the overseas travel and time in D.C.
As I opened the front door to my house, I could hear Georgeann on the secure phone upstairs. “He’s at work,” she said.
“I’m home! I’m home!” I yelled, bounding up the staircase.
Georgeann handed me the phone, covering the receiver. “It’s General Cartwright,” she said.
I grabbed the phone. “Yes sir.”
“Bill, the President gave us the go-ahead.”
That didn’t take long, I thought.
“Great, sir!”
“But before you take any direct action against Nabhan, you will need final approval from the Secretary.”
“No problem, sir. We’ll have a twenty-four-hour video teleconference set up between the Pentagon, the White House, the embassy in Nairobi, and our State Department liaison officer.”
“So what’s your plan right now?”
“Sir, I am already coordinating with Central Command and Africa Command to reposition the two destroyers off the coast of Somalia. The SEALs and the Little Birds will start moving by C-17 tomorrow, and we should have all the players in place within about seventy-two hours.”
“Where will you command the operation from?”
“Sir, I’m heading back to Afghanistan tomorrow. We have a lot going on in theater, but I can easily manage this mission from my headquarters in Bagram.”
“All right, Bill, good luck!” Cartwright said and then hung up.
The next morning, I kissed Georgeann goodbye, boarded my jet, and fifteen hours later was back in Bagram, guzzling Rip Its and trying to fight the war.
“He’s moving,” came the call from the operations officer.
“Roger,” I said, watching four people get in the blue sedan and pull away from the compound. The video feed from the Predator zoomed out slightly as the car exited and turned onto a side street.
On another screen was the face of Captain Pete Van Hooser, the commander of the SEAL unit in charge of the mission. Pete had tactical control of the operation. From his command center in Virginia, he could communicate directly with the SEAL assaulters aboard the lead destroyer.
Van Hooser was a remarkable officer. At sixty-two years old, he was the oldest captain in the U.S. Navy. A former Marine, he decided to become a SEAL late in his career. A parachute accident and subsequent complications from the operation left him as a below-the-knee amputee. Still, there was nothing that could stop Pete. He was a good runner, a strong swimmer, and never complained about his disability. He was an inspiration to all who knew him and one of my best commanders.
“Sir, I’ve got blades turning,” Van Hooser said.
“Roger. Blades turning,” I responded, watching the blue sedan as it meandered around the small town of Barawe. Van Hooser would keep the helos on deck until we knew for certain that the car was on the coastal road and heading north. The time from launch to interdiction was ten minutes. The flight of the helos would have to be perfectly timed so as not to interfere with the bombing run from the aircraft above, but at the same time be in position to land immediately after the strike. All of this movement would have to be tightly choreographed to occur within the low-collateral-damage area. If Nabhan or one of his lieutenants heard the overhead aircraft or saw the helos before we were ready to strike, he would evade into the nearest town and the mission would be scrubbed. It would be years before we would have another opportunity to get him.
“Is it him?” I asked no one in particular.
My technical intelligence liaison looked at me without expression. “Not sure, sir. All I can tell you is that the device we’ve been tracking is in that car. I have no way of knowing if Nabhan is with it or not.”
This was always our dilemma. We knew Nabhan never carried a phone, and the only way we could identify him was through his courier. If we struck the sedan and it turned out to be the courier and his wife and kids, then I would have to live with that mistake for the rest of my life.
The blue sedan suddenly turned west, heading in the direction of the coastal road. Everyone in the SAR perked up, but for all we knew he could just as easily be going to the market for bread.
“What’s the status of Charlie Three Five?”
“Sir, the aircraft is ten minutes out. The Griffin is armed and ready for deployment.”
“Joint Staff, this is McRaven,” I said, speaking into the small microphone at my desk.
“Yes sir,” came the response from an Army two-star manning the video from the Pentagon.
“Request permission to conduct strike operations.”
“Sir, Secretary Gates has authorized me to grant approval upon your request. Good luck, sir.”
The request for approval was fairly perfunctory. I knew well ahead of time that if the conditions for the operation were met—that is, the blue sedan was heading down the coastal road, strike assets were in place, and low CDE was confirmed—the Secretary would agree to grant permission. But it was a step I had to take to comply with the President’s orders. While the blue sedan still wasn’t on the coastal road, I didn’t want to wait until the last minute.
“Sir, the targeted vehicle has just merged onto the coastal road and is heading north.”
I could hear the excitement in the operations officer’s voice, but like everyone in the SAR, he tried to remain dispassionate and professional as he called out the checklist for the mission.
“Roger,” I replied, watching the blue sedan as it gained speed on the poorly paved road.
If the blue sedan maintained forty miles per hour they would be in the targeted area within fifteen minutes. I looked up at the fifty-inch face of Pete Van Hooser.
“Pete, the Secretary has granted approval. You are cleared hot to execute the mission on your timeline.”
“Roger, sir. I understand we have approval to execute the mission,” Van Hooser said, repeating the operative words so no one was in doubt of the order.
My staff began providing me minute-by-minute updates.
“Sir, Charlie Three Five moving into position.”
“Sir, helos set to launch in five minutes.”
“Sir, targeted vehicle maintaining course and speed.”
My operations officer leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Sir, it looks like we may have some weather moving in.”
“Weather?”
“Low clouds. It’s possible they could obscure the target for the bombing run.”
On the screen there were patches of light, airy clouds drifting across the coastal road. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t have presented a problem, but the Griffin’s guidance system needed an unobstructed view of the target or we couldn’t guarantee a direct hit.
Over the radio, I could hear the weapons officer aboard Charlie Three Five. He was making final preparations for launch and didn’t seem concerned about the cloud cover.
“Pete, are you catching all this?” I asked, looking into the large TV screen.
“Yes sir,” Van Hooser responded.
I could see Pete’s operations officer lean over and whisper in his ear. Van Hooser nodded back to the officer and then pushed the talk button. “Sir, if the Griffin can’t be launched, do we have permission to use the miniguns?”
Two of the Little Birds were equipped with highly lethal side-mounted miniguns that put out six thousand rounds a minute. In the SAR, my executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Pat Ellis, looked at me as if to say, Sir, be careful before you answer. In my briefing to the President, I had agreed to use the Griffin as the primary strike platform. The SEALs and the helos were only there to pick up the remains. I had sold the mission as a bombing run, not a direct action mission by the helos and operators. Any deviation from the original plan would be counter to my guidance from the President.
“Pete, let’s stick with the plan for right now.” I glanced at the screen showing the blue sedan moving down the coastal road. “It still looks like the weather’s good for the Griffin.”
“Roger, sir.”
Before me on five giant screens unfolded all of the action: the blue sedan moving steadily down the road; the helos turning on the decks of the destroyers; the patch of isolated road, now twelve minutes away from the vehicles’ arrival; the SEAL command center and the Joint Staff command center. I knew that several other stations were watching me as well—the White House, the State Department, and the U.S. embassy all had video links into my SAR.
Mounted high above the TV screens, the mission countdown clock now read ten minutes. Ten minutes at forty miles per hour and the blue sedan would be in the kill zone.
Van Hooser calmly announced, “Sir, helos launched.”
The Little Birds lifted off from the decks of the destroyers, linked up in modified V-formation, and began their low-level approach to the coast.
In the SAR, all eyes were fixed on the blue sedan and all ears on the voice of the weapons officer in Charlie Three Five.
“Alpha Three Three, this is Charlie Three Five, request permission to drop when target is in the cleared area.”
Van Hooser, his voice devoid of any angst, responded. “Roger, Charlie Three Five, you are cleared hot when the sedan reaches the kill zone.”
The blue sedan was now two minutes out. Our technical intelligence assets had a good fix on the phone. The aircraft was lining up for the strike.
“Sir, we have clouds rolling in.”
Onscreen a patchwork of wispy clouds was moving quickly toward the target area. Van Hooser was seeing it too.
“Charlie Three Five, this is Alpha Three Three, how’s it looking?” Van Hooser asked the weapons officer.
“Sir, it’s all good on this end. We’re about one minute out from release.”
The blue sedan, rumbling down the road, was completely oblivious to the fact that in sixty seconds all its occupants would be dead.
Offshore, the helos had established an airborne holding point. Circling just feet above the water, they would maintain their position until Van Hooser ordered them in.
“Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten. The vehicle is now in the target zone,” came the call from operations officer.
The clock continued to count down. The blue sedan continued to move. No one said a word. I knew that on board the aircraft the weapons officer and his crew were lining up the vehicle with the Griffin’s targeting system. He had a fifteen-minute window and wanted to ensure success.
The aviators on my staff had an open chat window with the crew and the SEAL command center. My operations officer turned from his computer and spoke in a low voice. “Sir, I’m watching the chat and the crew seems to be having some difficulty lining up the target.”
“Roger,” I acknowledged and looked at the clock. We still had plenty of time.
Van Hooser looked calm behind his desk, but I knew that, like me, he wanted a bomb in the air—now! The clock continued to count down.
“Ten minutes remaining,” came the call from the SAR noncommissioned officer.
On a digital map, the intelligence petty officer was tracking the movement of the blue sedan. It was a third of the way into the kill zone.
Behind Van Hooser there was a small flurry of activity. In my SAR came another announcement. “Sir, Charlie Three Five is having difficulty lining up the target.” And another: “Sir, clouds are on the coast. I don’t know if Charlie Three Five can see the target.”
I resisted calling Van Hooser, but I could see on his face that concern was mounting.
Van Hooser mouthed something to one of his officers and then turned and faced the camera. “Sir, I know you’re tracking all this,” he said. “I’m going to reposition the helos a mile off the coast. We’re talking with the aircrew and they still believe they can get a lock on the sedan before it exits the kill zone.”
“Roger, Pete.”
I looked at the clock. Seven minutes left.
Inside the SAR came another announcement. “Sir, Charlie Three Five says they will have target lock in two minutes.”
“That’s cutting it a little close,” my executive officer said, pacing behind me.
Seven minutes turned into six and then into five and then into four. Onscreen, Van Hooser was belting out instructions to his staff. We were running out of time. In the SAR, the digital map showed the blue sedan nearing the end of the targeted zone. Soon the car would be entering a small village. Any attack there would surely injure innocent civilians.
My operations officer spoke up. “Sir, Charlie Three Five says they can’t get a lock on the vehicle. The clouds are covering the target.”
“Shit!” Looking up onscreen, I could see a broken layer of low-lying clouds, the blue sedan coming in and out of view. From their holding point, Van Hooser had directed the helos toward the target.
“Sir, helos are inbound,” the ops officer announced. “One minute to the target vehicle.”
Van Hooser tapped the talk button and looked into the camera head-on. “Boss, request permission to shift to guns,” he said, a sense of urgency in his voice.
On the screen the village was coming into view. The sedan was moments away. If it was Nabhan, this might be our last chance. If it wasn’t, I would be responsible for the deaths of four innocent people.
“Shift to guns!” I yelled.
“Roger, shift to guns!” Van Hooser repeated.
Onscreen I could see the four helos in a tight flight formation as they crossed the beach. The driver in the blue sedan spotted the aircraft and immediately began to speed up.
“Sir, the birds are taking rounds!” the SAR NCO announced.
The helos with the miniguns swung into attack formation and returned fire on the now swerving sedan. From the overhead Predator video, the rounds coming from the helos looked like a single unbroken line of red and yellow fire. The bursts of ammunition lasted no more than five seconds. The driver and passengers were killed immediately and the sedan veered off the road into a small ditch, smoking from the impact of the rounds from the miniguns.
No one in the SAR said anything. All we could do at this point was watch. The two gunships stayed hovering in position as the other two Little Birds landed on the road. Even before the skids touched down the four SEALs on each aircraft jumped to the ground and ran toward the smoking car, rifles up, ready to engage any threat that might still be alive.
Two minutes passed and Van Hooser’s voice came back over the screen. “Boss, we have four military-aged males, all deceased. We will gather up the bodies and bring them back for identification.”
“Roger, Pete. Understand four military-aged males, all deceased. We’ll stand by.”
As the SEALs pulled the bodies from the wreckage of the sedan, a small group of locals from the village began to gather. I watched as the SEAL officer approached the villagers and asked them to stay back. They all complied and seemed more interested in knowing who was in the vehicle.
Within fifteen minutes the bodies had been placed in body bags and loaded onto the helo. The helos lifted off and began their return flight to the destroyers.
An hour passed before Van Hooser came back on the net. I could tell by the widening smile on his face and slight twinkle in his eyes that he had good news.
“Sir, we sent the photos off to the FBI and have received confirmation that one of the males is”—he paused slightly—“Saleh Nabhan.”
I tried not to look overly excited; killing men is not a sport. But when you bring justice to someone like Nabhan who was responsible for the deaths of hundreds, it does feel good.
“What about the other three?”
“All known accomplices of Nabhan.”
“Well done, Pete!” I said.
Van Hooser smiled widely and signed off.
The staff in the SAR went to work providing detailed debriefs to the Joint Staff, the White House staff, and others. Later that afternoon I received word that Admiral Mullen wanted to videoconference with me.
“Well, William, congratulations!” I could see that Mullen was genuinely pleased. “The President asked me to pass on his congratulations as well.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied.
“There is one thing, though, Bill.”
“Yes sir?”
Mullen had a wry grin on his face. “I specifically recall you telling the President that you weren’t going to use the Little Birds for direct action.”
“Well, sir,” I started to answer.
Mullen interrupted. “The President seems to recall that as well.”
“Yes sir.” I hesitated momentarily. “Unfortunately, the aircraft couldn’t get a good fix on the car and I had to make a command decision whether to let Nabhan go or bring in the Little Birds.”
Mullen leaned forward into the camera, his face growing larger on my screen. He gave me a fatherly look: a bit of sternness and a bit of pride. “Okay, William, we’ll let this one go,” he said, his left hand trying to cover the smile on his face.
“Roger, sir.” I smiled back.
“Get back to work, Bill. There are still a lot of bad guys out there.”
“Yes sir.” I gave a short salute and he signed off.
Over the three years to follow, the task force would capture or kill more than two thousand medium- or high-value individuals every year—individuals who were threats to our forces in Iraq and Afghanistan and to our homeland. In the course of those operations, more than three hundred special operations soldiers would lose their lives and thousands were injured, some never to live a normal life again.
Not a day goes by that I don’t reflect on the sacrifices of those men and women. It’s easy to judge the wars today and say they clearly did not deliver the peace or the change we had hoped for. But… how many more Americans, or our allies, would have died in embassies, in airplanes, in towers, in subways, in hotels, or on the streets if we hadn’t eliminated terrorists like Saleh Nabhan, or the countless others who were plotting against us? We may never know, but I take some consolation in believing that somewhere out there is a world leader, or a brilliant scientist, or a lifesaving doctor, or a renowned artist, or a loving mother or father—someone who will bring about real change in the world, someone who is alive today because my men did their job.
It is enough to let me sleep well at night.