AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION IN THE UNITED STATES
April 2011
With an apostrophe.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What?”
“With an apostrophe,” I said. “It’s Neptune’s Spear. With an apostrophe.”
The young lieutenant commander looked at me with some surprise. “Sir, the computer doesn’t generate names that have an apostrophe.”
“Of course it doesn’t.”
He smiled and nodded. “I like it.” Picking up the magic marker, he wrote on the whiteboard in large letters: OPERATION NEPTUNE’S SPEAR. BRIEFBACK TO THE CHAIRMAN.
As silly as it was, I had actually put some thought into the name. I wanted a name that would symbolize the SEAL assault force’s maritime roots, that would represent justice in the form of the sea god’s three-pronged lance. A name that would resonate with the team of handpicked operators; a name that people might remember if the mission went well and would hopefully forget if it went south. In my office at Fort Bragg there was a small bronze statue, which I had purchased in a curio store in Venice years before. It was the Greek god Poseidon riding on a seahorse. Poseidon had a long-shafted trident spear in his grasp and the seahorse was rearing, his two legs kicking in the front and his tail flowing behind, ready to attack. I didn’t normally go in for this kind of symbolism. It seemed ridiculous. But the statue caught my eye and I had to admit—it was cool. So when the time came to attach a name to our planned operation, I thought back to the bronze figure. I knew I couldn’t call it “Poseidon’s Trident” because if the mission failed, every one of my generation would remember the disaster film The Poseidon Adventure, and that would be the mission’s legacy. So, Neptune’s Spear it was—with an apostrophe.
Three months earlier, the Deputy Director of the CIA, Michael Morell had briefed me that the CIA had a lead on the location of Osama (a.k.a. Usama) bin Laden (UBL). Through a series of courier follows, surveillance, and technical collection, the Agency identified a large walled-in compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan. The compound was just down the road from the Pakistani military academy and a mile or so from a major ammunition storage point. Photos revealed the presence of an individual they called “the pacer,” a tall man in flowing robes who walked around the interior of the compound, but never went outside the walls. The intelligence was interesting, but the truth was there had been dozens of bin Laden sightings since 2001 and none of them ever panned out. Still, I had to admit this lead seemed much more compelling.
After the Agency briefing I reported back to Secretary Gates and Admiral Mike Mullen at the Pentagon. Situated on the outer ring of the Pentagon, the Secretary’s office was long and expansive, with a magnificent view overlooking the Potomac River and across to the center of Washington, D.C. On the walls were portraits of Lincoln, Washington, and several unknown soldiers, a constant reminder that the Secretary’s decisions affected the entire nation.
“What do you think, Bill?” the Secretary asked.
“Sir, it’s a compound. We do compound raids every night in Afghanistan. It’s not tactically difficult. Getting to the target undetected will be challenging, but once we’re there, it’s pretty straightforward.”
“How many men will you need?” Mullen asked.
“Sir, normally a compound raid includes about fifty to seventy guys. You isolate the compound, position small elements at critical blocking points, have an assault force that breaches the walls and gets the high-value target—then you have a medical team, forensics and exploitation team, biometrics, etcetera. But again, this will all depend on how we get to the target.”
“What’s the minimum number of men you need?” the Secretary inquired.
I thought for a moment. It was a very large compound. Well over thirty thousand square feet. “Probably twenty-five to thirty men. But that’s assuming a lot of risk.”
“Okay, Bill,” Mullen said. “I don’t know that we need to do anything right now. The Agency has the lead, but sooner or later they may want your advice and some assistance in the planning.”
“No worries, sir. We’ll be standing by to help with whatever they need.”
“How long are you in town, Bill?” the Secretary asked.
“Sir, I head back to Afghanistan tonight, but I can return whenever the Agency needs me.”
“William,” Mullen began. “You can’t tell anyone else about this mission. If word were to leak out it would be disastrous.”
“I understand, sir. But if the time comes that the Agency needs some detailed planning, then I will have to bring others into the inner circle.”
The Secretary and Admiral Mullen thanked me, and that afternoon I boarded the command’s plane and returned to Afghanistan. One month later, while still in Afghanistan, I received a call from the Vice Chairman of the Joint Staff, General Cartwright, requesting that I return to D.C. for further meetings with the CIA. It was highly unusual for me to keep leaving the battlefield to return to the States, but things were beginning to heat up in Libya and most of my staff assumed I was heading back for classified discussions with the Joint Staff or the White House.
As the commander, every move I made was recorded by the personnel in my operations center and logged into our daily digital notebook. There was no hiding my comings and goings, but the reason for my travel was never noted. My executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Art Sellers, was the only member of my staff who knew something unusual was in the works. Sellers was an Army Ranger who had been my XO for the past year. He traveled with me everywhere. His job was to ensure that all the decisions required by the command received my attention. He reviewed every piece of paper that came into my office. He coordinated every visit. He screened every call and managed every small crisis that is part of running a large command. He was one of the most valuable men in my command, and I trusted him with my life. But even as trusted as Sellers was, I had my orders.
We landed in D.C. late Monday evening.
“So, sir. What time is your appointment at… the Pentagon?” Art said, drawing out the final word.
“We need to be at ‘the Pentagon’ at 1300. Call this point of contact and he will ensure we are cleared in.” I handed Sellers the number of my CIA contact. “Look, Art, I can’t tell you anything right now and I need you not to ask any questions.”
“No problem, sir.”
“Also, I need you to cover for me with the headquarters staff. Sooner or later they will smell something and start to ask questions. Keep to the story until I tell you otherwise.”
Sellers was unfazed. “Roger, sir. Understand.”
I knew that he did. Art was the consummate professional, and over the next several months he would be key to the success of the mission—even if he didn’t know it at the time.
The next day I headed over to the Agency to meet with my point of contact and review the intelligence on the target. Morell and his team had given me a great overview, but now I needed to look at the Abbottabad compound in detail. The planning team from the Agency was segregated from the headquarters building in an innocuous-looking one-story facility that no one visited. It was perfect.
Sellers drove me through the main gate of the CIA and dropped me off in the parking lot. My command had dozens of folks working at the CIA, and sooner or later I knew one of them would spot me slinking into the facility. By then I hoped to have a better cover story.
My Agency contact met me outside the facility, cleared me into the building, past the lone guard, and walked me back into a large room filled with boxes of paper, cartridges, and ink. The building was a holding area for all the CIA’s administrative material. “We’re going to get this all cleaned out,” he said, waving at the clutter that filled the room.
We made our way to a large table upon which sat a small model of the Abbottabad compound. I was introduced to a number of the CIA analysts who had been developing the intelligence and the Special Activities Division (SAD) officer who was planning the CIA’s raid option. For the next hour the analysts used the scale model to outline all that they knew about the compound, “the pacer,” the Pakistani military, and the civilians in the area. It was an impressive display of the Agency’s intelligence collection and analysis capability. The depth and detail of the intelligence was unlike anything I had ever seen before—on any subject. However, even among the analysts there was no consensus on whether “the pacer” was bin Laden. Some placed the confidence level at 95 percent, others as low as 40 percent.
Next, the SAD officer briefed me on his plan to get bin Laden. SAD was the Agency’s paramilitary unit. They were mostly former special operators or Marines who helped train, equip, and run covert forces around the world. They were very good at what they did, but they were a small outfit with no real raid capability. The officer briefing me was a former captain in the Army with some reconnaissance background. He was professional, detailed in his briefing, and interested in my critique of his plan. I offered some small suggestions, but stayed away from any sweeping recommendations.
There was always some professional tension between the Agency and my command. In the world of counterterrorism we had similar equities. Throughout the hunt for high-value targets in Iraq and Afghanistan our HUMINTers, those uniformed case officers who gathered intelligence to support military operations, were often in competition with the Agency case officers. The CIA case officers felt it was their job to gather the intelligence. Legally both agencies were correct. Under Title 10 of the U.S. Code, the Department of Defense has traditional military authorities that allow qualified individuals to collect intelligence that will ultimately be used for military operations. Under Title 50, the Agency has intelligence authorities to do similar missions under covert action. While this distinction is much clearer outside a theater of war, during wartime, such as in Iraq or Afghanistan, the authorities tended to overlap and occasionally caused some bruised feelings. Having said that, overall the military and CIA relationship was very strong. Still, at this early juncture in the mission, I didn’t want to be perceived as the “Pro from Dover” coming to preach rightness to the Agency. So I remained quietly appreciative of the briefings and only asked questions to clarify some small points. After the briefings, the team of analysts departed and I sat around the model looking at the compound and thinking through how I would approach the problem.
Two hours north of Pakistan’s capital, Abbottabad was a city of approximately three hundred thousand people. It was, by Pakistani standards, fairly affluent. The city was home to the Pakistan Army’s military academy, a large ammunition depot, a barracks, which housed a Pakistan Army infantry battalion, and several police stations.
The compound itself was situated down a small dirt road about half a mile from a main highway that cut through Abbottabad. While there were houses around the compound to the north and to the west, there was open space to the south and for several hundred yards to the east. Off to the east was a densely populated middle-class neighborhood. Fortunately, a small canal separated the neighborhood from direct access to the compound. Any young person could easily traverse the canal, but it was a minor obstacle that I knew would dissuade some older Pakistanis from coming to the compound if things got interesting.
The compound itself was irregularly shaped, with a long straight wall on the north side, two walls on the east and west running perpendicular to the north wall, and then, extending from the east and west walls, two long walls that met at a point to the south. On the north wall was a double metal door that opened up to the driveway. Also on the north were two private doors that presumably led into the home. The home itself was three stories high and the windows looked out toward the south. The compound was divided into two areas—a living area with the main house, a smaller guesthouse, and another even smaller building on one side of the driveway, and an open courtyard where some goats and chickens were kept. Each separate area was self-contained within the walls of the compound. You could not easily move from the courtyard to the living area without going through several metal gates, all of which were locked.
While the compound was somewhat unusual, with its high walls, barbed wire, and security lighting, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for Pakistan and certainly not for what we had seen in Afghanistan. The only real aberration was an unusually high wall to the south. While the main walls surrounding the compound measured twelve feet high, the south wall had been built up another six feet. At eighteen feet high it was quite difficult for anyone to see inside the compound from any vantage point in Abbottabad.
What the analysts didn’t know was the layout inside the living quarters. Overhead imagery could tell you a lot, but it couldn’t see through walls. The analysts believed that there were no underground tunnels, but they couldn’t be sure. If it was bin Laden, there was a general assumption that he would have an escape route out of the compound. This was common practice, and during my time in Iraq and Afghanistan, we frequently found tunnels where the high-value targets would hide until the security forces left their homes. Additionally, and most disturbing, the analysts didn’t know if the house was wired with explosives. Again, this was not uncommon with many compounds we had raided over the years. While the possibility of booby traps, explosively wired houses, pressure plate IEDs, and escape routes loomed large, there were no obstacles that we had not encountered before. I was confident that if we could get to the compound, we could get bin Laden—if he was there.
For the next several hours I looked at the bigger picture. How could I get an assault force to the compound? It was about 162 miles by air from the border of Afghanistan to Abbottabad. The Pakistanis had a sophisticated Integrated Air Defense System (IADS), and we knew from experience that their radars could pick up our helos and airplanes when we flew close to the border.
I looked at several other alternatives. Could we do an offset parachute insertion into a remote landing zone and then walk to the compound? Could we pile some commandos into a Trojan horse–like vehicle and drive to Abbottabad? Could we come in under tourist visas, assemble at a safe house, and get the Agency to move us to the compound? Unfortunately I didn’t know the answer to any of these questions.
After several hours I left the facility and met up with Sellers. We headed back over to the Pentagon so I could debrief the Secretary and Admiral Mullen.
After a short review of the new intelligence, I said, “Sir, I need to bring at least one more man into the planning effort.”
Gates and Mullen exchanged glances. “Who do you have in mind?” the admiral asked.
“Captain Rex Smith, sir. He’s a Navy SEAL with extensive combat experience, and he works here in D.C. He can move around the town without drawing a lot of attention.”
“All right,” Mullen agreed. “But he’s the only guy for now. I’ll talk to the Agency and the White House. Don’t speak with him until I get back to you.”
“Yes sir.”
“Bill, can you do this mission?” Mullen asked again.
“Sir, I don’t know yet. I need to talk to some folks. We will need to do some detailed planning and rehearsals. Only then will I know if it’s feasible.”
“The President is likely to want a Concept of Operations in a few weeks,” the Secretary noted.
“In a few weeks I can have a detailed concept,” I said. “But without bringing in the aviation and ground operators to really look at the problem and rehearse the concept, there is no way I can be certain of success.”
“Okay,” Mullen said. “For now it remains just you, and I will check on your D.C. guy. But no one else is allowed in until the President agrees.”
“Understand, sir.”
I left the Pentagon and headed back to my hotel. Within an hour I received word that Rex Smith was approved to join my one-man team.
Nicknamed “the Senator,” Rex was the spitting image of the 1950s movie star Robert Mitchum. He was always poised, with a coolness and sense of confidence that makes him the man in the room whom everyone wants to listen to. Tall, broad-shouldered, with black hair, he was wickedly smart and exceptionally experienced. The captain had worked for me on several occasions in the past decade, and I trusted his operational judgment implicitly.
I closed the door to his small office.
“Rex, I’m going to tell you something, and I need to ensure that no one, absolutely no one else, learns about this.”
As big men tend to do, he was slightly slouched in his chair. He sat up and leaned forward. “Yes sir. No one will know.”
“No one,” I repeated.
“Yes sir. No one.”
“We have a lead on bin Laden.” I let it sink in for a second. “The Agency is planning a mission to get him. They have asked us to help with the planning.”
Rex nodded. Like me, he had been through bin Laden sightings before, so his reaction was measured.
“I need you to go over to the Agency and listen to what they have to say. They have developed a number of courses of action, only one of which is a raid option. But right now that’s not at the top of their list.”
He shifted in his chair and asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. Just listen. The last thing I want is for the Agency to think that we are trying to take over the mission.”
“Should I help with the planning?”
“The SAD guys are planning the ground option. If they ask for your insight then provide it. But stay away from implying we could do it better.”
“Okay, sir.”
“I head back to Afghanistan tonight. So call me if things begin to develop or you have any questions.”
“Yes sir.”
I knew that Rex was the perfect man for the job. He was engaging and had a likability that generated openness and partnership. If anyone could gain the Agency’s trust, it was “the Senator.”
By the next day I was back in Afghanistan. Over the next few weeks Rex called me almost every day with an update. Now that he had seen the intelligence, his enthusiasm was evident. This might just be the real deal and he knew it.
As expected, I received a call three weeks later asking me to return to the States. The President wanted a meeting to review the intelligence and discuss his options. Heading back to the States so soon after returning to Afghanistan would normally have spiked attention, but Libya was falling apart and NATO and the United States were supporting the National Liberation Army fighting against Gadhafi. For the next several months, all my movements and my frequent visits to the White House were assumed to be closely held planning for Libya.
Soon after arriving back at Fort Bragg, I contacted some subject matter experts and, without revealing too much, tried to get answers to my four questions: Could I insert a small team into an offset drop zone and have them walk on foot to the compound? Could we build a Trojan horse truck, fill it with armed operators, and drive across the border from Kabul to Abbottabad? Could we take commercial flights directly into Islamabad, get weapons and gear from the Agency, and drive to Abbottabad? Finally, could we fly the 162 miles from the border undetected by Pak radars and go straight to the target?
My command had one of the finest Air Force aviation squadrons in the military. The pilots from this squadron knew every trick in the book when it came to inserting a small unit of operators onto a parachute drop zone. I called the squadron commander and told him that I needed one of his best pilots for a few days just to do some preliminary planning for a possible Libyan contingency. It was a shallow cover story and it’s likely the commander didn’t believe it, but he knew not to ask too many questions.
After a day of looking at possible air insertion routes and likely drop zones, it was apparent the offset infiltration idea was not going to work. Next I contacted some of our clandestine operators and asked them to look at the Trojan horse idea. While it had merit, it also had the greatest risk of compromise and took the longest to execute. Finally, I ruled out entering the country on tourist visas because the scrutiny of Americans entering Pakistan had been significantly elevated after the Raymond Davis incident. Davis was a government contractor who killed two undercover Pakistani policemen after he mistook them for criminals trying to assault him. Consequently, every American was now viewed suspiciously and there seemed to be no way of getting men and weapons into Pakistan without getting caught.
As expected, the Pakistanis had a well-integrated air defense capability. However, the Pakistanis viewed their greatest threat as coming from India. Consequently, there appeared to be holes in the radar coverage on their western frontier that we could use to mask our helicopter insertion.
As I reviewed each option I compared them against an intellectual model I had created twenty years earlier while studying at the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California. The model was based on a theory that attempted to explain why special operations forces succeeded, particularly in light of the fact they are a small force normally going against a well-defended target. Carl von Clausewitz, the great Prussian military strategist, said that the defense is stronger than the offensive, because the defense only has to “preserve and protect” while the offense has to “impose its will upon the enemy.” The “defense” in this case was the Pakistani air defenses, the battalion of Pak infantry surrounding the objective, and the Abbottabad compound itself.
Clausewitz asserted that the only way for an attacking force to overcome the natural strength of the defense was through mass and maneuver. But special operations missions seemed to defy conventional wisdom—why was this? I concluded that special operations forces were able to achieve “relative superiority” over an enemy by developing a “simple plan, carefully concealed, repeatedly rehearsed, and executed with surprise, speed, and purpose.” And to compare my theory against real missions, I conducted eight case studies and developed a relative superiority model. The model showed how, in the course of a commando mission, the special operations force gained “relative superiority,” how long they maintained it, and when they lost it. What is crucial for the success of any special operations mission is to minimize the time from when you are vulnerable to when you achieve relative superiority. Unlike real military superiority, relative superiority only lasts for a short period of time. No matter how I compared each Abbottabad option to the relative superiority model, the outcome was the same. The best approach was the simplest and the most direct: fly to the target as quickly as possible, get bin Laden, and get out. Nothing complicated, nothing exotic, just like thousands of missions we had done before. By the end of the week I knew what needed to be done. What I didn’t know was, could it be done?
The day prior to briefing the President, the Director of the CIA, Leon Panetta, asked me to meet with him and his key staff members at Langley. Since he had taken over the CIA in 2009, Panetta and I worked together on a number of operations. He was the consummate team player, gregarious, bawdy at times, with a laugh that was contagious. You couldn’t resist Leon Panetta’s embrace. And no matter what you were doing, it was never about Panetta. It was always about doing what was right for the nation. But Panetta also had a tremendous depth of experience that served the Agency and eventually Defense very well. An eight-term Congressman from Monterey, Panetta had also been the White House Chief of Staff under Clinton and the Director of the Office of Management and Budget. He knew Washington.
In the Director’s office, with his senior staff present, we reviewed the current options for Abbottabad. General Cartwright had advocated for an air option to bomb the compound. Having bombed a number of compounds in my day, I knew that to ensure bin Laden was dead, the air option would require a massive ordnance drop. While this might ensure bin Laden’s demise, it was likely to have significant collateral damage and leave a large smoking hole in the middle of Abbottabad. Probably not good for U.S.-Pakistani relations. Even after the bombing raid, we would never know for certain if bin Laden was dead. While this option seemed far-fetched to me, it remained a viable one.
The second option was a CIA-led snatch and grab using a handful of Special Activities Division officers who would quietly enter Pakistan, travel from Islamabad to Abbottabad, and grab bin Laden. However, the flaw in the plan was trying to get bin Laden out of Pakistan, either dead or alive. There was an offshoot to this SAD plan that involved the Pakistanis. No one in the room thought bringing the Pakistanis into our confidence was a good idea, but we wanted to provide the President with all the options. The final option was the special operations raid.
“Well?” Panetta told his staff. “I’m in favor of the SOF raid, but I want to know what the rest of you think.”
Going around the room, I was surprised by the responses. Those CIA officers who disliked SOF the most seemed to be our staunchest supporters. Panetta encouraged professional dissent and there was no holding back from some of his senior staff.
“There is no fucking way we can let the Paks in on this. That option should not even be on the table,” came one reply.
“What happens after we bomb the shit out of this place and it’s not bin Laden? I mean, these guys have nukes and they are already pissed off about Davis.”
“Look, the ISI must know bin Laden is there. For God’s sake, he’s a fucking mile down the road from their West Point.”
“While I like our SAD guys, this is just beyond the scope of what they can do.”
Everyone had an opinion.
Finally, Panetta turned to me. “Bill, what do you think?”
I looked around the room. Most of the senior staff and I had worked closely together for the past ten years. Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen, Somalia, Kenya, Djibouti, Lebanon, Israel—somewhere our paths had crossed. They were exceptional patriots and very, very good at their profession. But there were one or two senior officers who felt threatened by SOF and always tried to undermine our efforts. And in this crowd, those senior officers’ opinions mattered.
“Sir, right now I don’t have enough information to tell you whether the special operations raid will work. We have a lot of detailed planning still to do and then I need to conduct several rehearsals before I’m ready to give you or the President a good answer.”
“What about the SAD option?” one of Panetta’s staff asked me.
I hesitated. I really liked the young SAD officer who was planning the CIA mission, but relative to my SOF operators, his team had limited combat experience; and in order for his operation to be successful, he still needed helicopter support.
“Sir, I think the SAD option is workable, but based on their current planning they’ll still need a helo to extract their team and bin Laden.”
“Then why not just have your guys do the mission?” Morell said, asking the obvious.
I turned to Panetta. “Sir, we can support the SAD guys or we can do a unilateral SOF raid, but we’ll need to choose one or the other.”
“Look,” Panetta said. “I think the only real option we have here is the special operations raid. But let’s keep looking at the other courses of action and see what unfolds.”
Two of the senior officers present were former CIA chiefs of station in the Middle East, and I could tell by their body language that, while they respected the SAD guys, they thought the SAD plan was unworkable. Panetta tabled the discussion and asked for a further review.
For the next hour, Panetta drilled his staff on finding ways to verify that “the pacer” was bin Laden. Could we get better overhead photos? Could a CIA source plant a camera on the outer wall and look into the compound? Without proof that “the pacer” was bin Laden, the President was unlikely to authorize any direct action against the Abbottabad compound.
As the meeting ended Panetta pulled me aside and reaffirmed his support for the SOF raid. I was pleased that he was so firmly in the raid camp, but I wasn’t ready to lead the charge just yet and I didn’t want to offer the President of the United States an option that I couldn’t guarantee.
Sellers dropped me off outside the White House. I wore my Navy Service Dress Blue, the double-breasted uniform with the gold stripes on the sleeves. I debated wearing a suit to the White House in order to avoid being recognized, but with Libya in full swing, hiding in plain sight seemed to be a better idea.
As I approached the south entrance along the back side of the Old Executive Office Building, I heard my name called. There, waiting to pass through the south entrance, was Karen Tumulty, a childhood friend whom I had not seen in forty years, but who I knew was a reporter for the Washington Post.
“Bill!” she said, hugging me. “What are you doing here?”
Just what I needed. A Washington Post reporter. What was I doing here? Hadn’t I thought through that question? No. Apparently not.
“Oh, well. You know. A lot going on in the world.” I smiled.
“Libya, huh?”
“Well…” But before I could stammer any more, I quickly changed the subject and asked about her family and her career. We talked for several minutes, trying to catch up on the past forty years. Karen was an extremely well-respected political reporter, and while national security was not her beat, reporters are curious by nature. The sooner I could break contact the better.
“Karen, it was great seeing you again. I’m in D.C. a lot. Maybe we can get together for coffee.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said. “No business. I promise I won’t ask about your work.”
“It’s a deal.”
I hugged her one final time, picked up my badge from the Secret Service agent, and walked onto the White House grounds. I drew a deep breath. Next time I would be better prepared for the unexpected.
The Situation Room was empty when I arrived. The director of the SITROOM was a Navy captain. He subtly made it known that he was unaware of whatever was transpiring that afternoon. There was no record of the meeting on the President’s calendar, and the Situation Room schedule only indicated that the room was blocked.
Moments later my old friend Nick Rasmussen showed up. Nick was one of the few NSC staffers read-in to the planning, and over the next few months he would provide me invaluable insight into the thinking of the President and his national security team.
Before long the room began to fill up. Secretary Gates, Chairman Mullen, and Hoss Cartwright arrived together, followed by Vice President Biden; Secretary Clinton; Leon Panetta; the Director of National Intelligence, Jim Clapper; the National Security Advisor, Tom Donilon; Denis McDonough; John Brennan; and a small briefing team from the Agency. As the junior man present, I sat at the end of the table.
A few minutes after everyone was seated the President arrived without any fanfare. He looked tired. I recalled that he had just returned from a trip to New York City and a big event the night before.
The President slid into the chair at the head of the table, his long frame laid back almost in recline. The CIA team briefed the intelligence. Panetta gave his overall assessment, and then the President asked the principals for their opinions. All agreed that the intelligence was compelling, but it lacked a level of certainty and no one was ready to take any action just yet. Panetta then reviewed the four options.
The President and others quickly dismissed the idea of including the Pakistanis in the mission. If bin Laden was just a mile from the Pakistani military academy, surely they had to know about it. Confiding in the Pakistanis could easily mean bin Laden would run, and then it might take another ten years before we found him again. It was too risky.
That meant that there were only three other options—the bombing option, the SAD snatch and grab, and the special operations raid. Hoss Cartwright walked the President through the bombing option, but it was clear that this course of action made everyone uncomfortable. To completely level the compound and ensure bin Laden didn’t survive would require twenty-eight two-thousand-pound bombs. While the size of the ordnance load was of concern, what really bothered the President was the loss of innocent lives. The CIA reports assessed there to be three to four women and up to fifteen children in the three-story house. All of them would die along with bin Laden. And what if it wasn’t him? the President asked. What if it was just some Arab sheik with a number of wives?
Panetta briefly discussed the SAD option, but then passed the briefing over to me to outline the special operations raid.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” I began. “Sir, as briefed, the Abbottabad Compound Number One is 162 miles from the Afghanistan border. I’m confident that once I get an assault force on the ground, we can secure the facility and capture or kill the high-value target. Getting to the compound is the hard part.” I paused briefly. “I analyzed a number of options to include parachuting into an offset drop zone and walking to the target, trying to drive across the border in a makeshift vehicle that could hide the operators, and finally, just flying directly to the target as we do every night in Afghanistan.”
Panetta chimed in. “Mr. President, Bill is looking into the use of some special helicopters we have that may be able to get past the Pakistani air defenses.”
Onscreen in the Situation Room, I pulled up a picture of our specially configured Black Hawk helicopters. “Sir, it’s possible that these helos can avoid radar detection and make it to the compound.” As I looked around the room all the principals were fixated on the unusual-looking helicopters on the screen. “But there is a lot I don’t know.”
“Like what?” the President asked.
“Sir, I don’t know if the helos can carry enough men.”
“How many do you need?”
“At a minimum about twenty men and their equipment.”
The President, still looking intently at the photo, nodded for me to continue.
“A lot goes into determining the lift capacity of a helo,” I continued. “Fuel, temperature, altitude, and time on target. For example, sir, if the temperature is one degree different than what we forecast it could change the entire load and fuel requirements to do the mission. If the time on the ground is longer than anticipated, then the helo will have to refuel, and that is another element of risk.”
I could feel some of the enthusiasm for the raid waning. “In addition, these are untested helicopters. While the MH-60 Black Hawk is a proven airframe, these birds have been so reconfigured that I don’t know how well they will perform.”
Everyone was quiet. While I wanted to be entirely truthful about the limitations of the helicopters, I also didn’t want to completely undermine the raid option.
“But sir, it is also possible that our regular Black Hawk helicopters could use the mountains to skirt the air defenses, and if that’s the case then getting to the target is very much doable.” I paused to let that sink in. “However, I just don’t have the information now to tell you whether any of these helo insertion options are viable.”
“What do you need, Bill?”
“Sir, I need to bring in some experts to help me with the air and ground planning phase.”
“How many extra folks are we talking about?”
“Sir, I will need five more men read-in to the mission.”
The President looked around the room to see if anyone objected. “Okay, Admiral. Do the additional planning and get back to me.”
Tom Donilon, the President’s National Security Advisor, spoke up. “Mr. President, we have another meeting scheduled for 29 March.”
“Okay, let’s reconvene on the twenty-ninth. Everyone knows what information I need?” the President asked, looking around the table. “Yes sir,” came a collective response. The President thanked everyone and departed the room. Most of the principals stayed behind to ensure they all understood what tasks the President had assigned them.
On the way out of the Situation Room, Panetta pulled me aside and said, “Bill, you know what needs to be done, don’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
He smiled, slapped me on the back, and said, “Okay, let’s get at it.” There was always something reassuring about having Leon Panetta in your corner.
That evening I went back to my hotel room and thought through exactly who I needed. The air piece was easy. I would reach out to Colonel John “J.T.” Thompson, the commander of our elite special operations aviation unit, and ask for his most experienced warrant officer to lead the tactical portion of the air planning. Additionally, I would need to have the lead pilot from the special Black Hawk unit to provide the technical information necessary to determine if his aircraft could perform as advertised. Finally, I would have to make a decision on the ground assault element. Would I choose Navy SEALs or Army special operations? There were only two men I trusted well enough to lead the ground operation. Both officers were extremely experienced in combat, both superb tacticians, and most importantly, I felt, both were consummate team players. With all the tension that would invariably develop as a result of this high-profile mission, I needed someone who could calmly build the joint operational team and not get overpressurized when the stakes got high.
After checking the Afghanistan deployment schedule, I learned that the Army officer and his squadron had just deployed to Afghanistan. There was no way I could pull the officer and his leadership team out of Afghanistan and bring them back to the States without someone getting wind of a big operation. On the other hand, the Navy SEAL officer and his squadron had just returned from Afghanistan and were on leave for three weeks. Three weeks! It was the perfect cover for action. No one at his command would ask about his whereabouts. No one would miss him at work.
I contacted Rex and told him to call the SEAL officer and his master chief and get them to D.C. the next day. I subsequently called J.T. Thompson and requested the additional air planners. Thompson immediately knew something was up when I asked to have a warrant officer from the special helicopter unit meet me in D.C. Not wanting to be too nosy, but also not wanting to be left out of something important, Thompson inquired if I needed his personal assistance as well. I couldn’t help but chuckle. I would have done the same thing. Not now, I told him, but the time might come, so don’t go anywhere soon. Thompson was a superb helo pilot and equally impressive officer. I knew that sooner or later I would bring him into the fold.
The next day, Rex rounded up the four new members and escorted them to CIA headquarters. In the back room we had convened the CIA analytical team and the leadership of the SAD element. Rex hadn’t provided the new guys with any information on why they were here nor whom they were meeting with.
As the men entered the room I greeted them at the door. The two SEALs I knew well, but the two warrant officers from the aviation unit were new to me. They had no idea why they were at the CIA, but they knew my presence and the fact that we were hiding in some small nondescript building must mean something was afoot. All of the four were exceptionally experienced combat operators.
On the table in the center of the room was a scale model of Abbottabad Compound One (AC-1). After quick introductions with the CIA team, we sat down for a lengthy briefing on “the pacer” and all additional intelligence surrounding AC-1. Once again, the depth of the intelligence and the quality of the briefings were exceptional.
After the intelligence briefings were completed we talked through the four options still before the President.
“Gentlemen, in less than two weeks the President expects a fleshed-out concept for the raid option,” I started. “Your job is to tell me whether or not we can do it.” They nodded but said nothing. “I’ve looked at several other options to get to the target, but frankly, I don’t think any of them are feasible. I’ll give you a day or two to relook at my analysis, but then we have to decide on one course of action and start planning.”
“Sir, have you looked at jumping into an offset location?”
“I have.”
“How about driving across the border?”
“I have.”
“What about just flying into Islamabad and going directly to the target?”
“Yeah, looked at that too. But you guys check my work and let me know if I missed anything.”
As expected, the SEAL commander immediately pulled the small team together and said, “Okay, you know what the boss needs. Let’s get to work.”
Without any prodding, the CIA analysts gathered around the operators and offered their help. For the next two weeks every conceivable bit of intelligence was reviewed and re-reviewed. Experts on Pakistani air defense and radar systems were brought into our planning facility. Imagery analysts answered every question about the compound: the height and thickness of the walls, the outdoor lighting, the living facilities of “the pacer,” the possible number of women and children, the surrounding neighborhoods, the location of the Pakistani police and military units. Additional analysts provided detailed assessments of likely Pakistani reaction once we were detected. We knew from previous incursions across the Pakistani border that the Paks would engage our helos and ground forces at the first opportunity. Throughout the course of the next two weeks, the mission planners provided an extensive list of Requests for Intelligence (RFIs) to the CIA analysts. Only one RFI seemed unanswerable: Was it bin Laden or not?
It didn’t take long for the planners to confirm my suspicion that the only real raid option was a direct helo flight to AC-1. The hard part was trying to determine if we could get to AC-1 with the right number of SEALs, in the right helicopters, without being detected. The only way to test this concept was to exercise the plan against a simulated Pakistani threat. That meant bringing in a lot more folks, and that meant getting the President’s approval.
On March 29 we met again with the President and the other members of his national security team who were read-in to the operation. The CIA briefed the updated intelligence, but they were still no closer to determining the identity of “the pacer.” We debated the merits of all the courses of action again.
By this time, however, the Air Force had provided General Cartwright a new kinetic option. Instead of a massive bombing run, it was possible to drop a more surgical weapon that could kill “the pacer” and limit the collateral damage. However, this course of action would require the strike platform to be overhead at precisely the time “the pacer” was in the AC-1 courtyard. Additional overhead photos showed that he always had several children surrounding him during his daily walks.
The new option was compelling. If it worked, then no boots on the ground were required. The Pakistani reaction would likely be stern but short-lived, and the likelihood of killing people in the surrounding houses was eliminated. The nagging fact was that with any kinetic operation we still wouldn’t know if bin Laden had been killed. And in this case, children were likely to die.
Finally, the President turned to Panetta and said, “Okay, let’s talk about the raid option.”
Panetta nodded to me.
On the table in front of the President was a scale model of Abbottabad Compound One. Additionally, I had placed a few PowerPoint slides in front of each member in the room.
I began the brief. “Sir, the plan is pretty simple. When directed, I will move an assault force from the United States to Afghanistan. The force will consist of twenty-four SEAL operators, a CIA officer, two special modified Black Hawk helicopters, and a military working dog. We already have positioned in Afghanistan another two MH-47 medium lift helicopters. They’ll provide a Quick Reaction Force and additional fuel if required.”
The first slide gave the battlefield geometry, a map showing the distance between the Afghanistan border and Abbottabad. The second slide was a graphic portrayal of the Pakistani air defense radar coverage. Red arcs meant we were likely to be detected. Green was clear. There wasn’t much green.
“On order, we will launch the assault force and fly the 162 miles to the Abbottabad compound.”
The President’s eyes followed the proposed path of the helicopters on the slide. “Can you get by the air defenses?” he asked.
“Sir, I don’t know yet. We’re still studying the problem. But if we use the mountains as a shield then there is a possibility we can get pretty close to the compound before being detected.”
Sitting up in his chair now, the President was focused, and I could see the questions mounting as I continued the brief. “How close?” he asked.
“Sir, once we break out from behind the mountains, it will be two minutes before we can reach the compound. At that point, the sound of the helos will give us away and it’s very likely that someone in the compound will hear us.”
“Continue.”
“Yes sir.” I flipped to the next slide, which was an overhead photo of the Abbottabad compound with arrows showing our proposed insertion routes.
“Sir, the first helo carrying twelve men will fast-rope into the center of the compound, clear the small guest quarters, and then breach the bottom floor and clear from the bottom up. The second helo will drop off a small element outside the compound to ensure the escape routes are covered and then lift the remaining men onto the roof of the living quarters so they can clear from the top down.”
“What about women and children?” Secretary Clinton asked.
“Ma’am, we expect up to a dozen children in the compound and probably five women. This is a challenge we deal with every day in Afghanistan. The men know how to handle large groups of noncombatants.”
“But what if one of them poses a threat?” someone else asked.
“If they have a suicide vest or are armed and threaten the assault force—they will be killed.”
The sudden realization that others besides bin Laden could be killed, not by a bomb, but by a U.S. soldier with a gun at point-blank range, seemed to bring the reality of the mission into focus.
I wanted to ensure that there was no misperception about how this raid would go down. “Sir, if there are people in the compound who pose a threat to the operators, they will be killed. It will be dark. It will be confusing. If it turns out that bin Laden is not in the compound, there are still likely to be dead Pakistanis as a result of the raid.”
The President nodded. “I understand.”
“How long do you think the mission will take?” Brennan asked.
“It’s about a ninety-minute flight from the Afghan border to Abbottabad. I intend to spend no more than thirty minutes on target and a ninety-minute flight home.”
“How quickly can the Pakistanis react?” Secretary Gates inquired.
“Sir, we’re not exactly sure, but we will have intelligence on their movements and we will be able to relay that information to the assault force.”
I presented the last two slides, which showed the helo route out of Pakistan and some additional information on our planned rehearsal schedule.
“Can you do the mission, Bill?” the President asked.
“Sir, I don’t know yet. This is just a concept. Before I can tell you with any assurance, I need to identify the assault force, do more planning, and conduct several rehearsals. Only then will I know if the concept is valid.”
“How much time do you need?”
“Sir, I need three weeks.”
Without hesitation the President said, “Okay, Admiral. I think you have some work to do. Pull your team together and get back to me in three weeks.”
“Yes sir.”
The meeting broke up without a lot of discussion. Afterward, I talked to Panetta, Mullen, and Brennan. The Agency had constructed a mock-up of the Abbottabad compound near my home at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. We would find a cover story to assemble the operators. We would brief them in, do the first set of rehearsals, follow that with a full dress rehearsal, and in three weeks be prepared to brief the President on whether the raid was feasible. It was going to be a busy few weeks.
Within twenty-four hours I had ordered the special operations units to assemble in North Carolina. On the SEAL side, all were senior enlisted from the same SEAL squadron. All were handpicked by the SEAL commander. All had extensive combat experience. The aviation crews were equally experienced and also handpicked. But none of them knew why they were being asked to come to North Carolina on such short notice.
The following day, as we ushered the members of the raid team into the conference room at our North Carolina location, I could see a look of annoyance on their faces. By this time, I had briefed my boss, Admiral Eric Olson, on the bin Laden mission. Olson, along with the Under Secretary of Defense for Intelligence, Mike Vickers, and several CIA senior officers, were also present in the conference room. The operators’ body language was unmistakable. Clearly, they thought they had been dragged out of Virginia Beach and Fort Campbell to participate in some kind of no-notice exercise just to impress the brass.
I offered some short welcoming remarks and then turned over the briefing to a CIA officer. He began by handing out nondisclosure forms. I watched with some amusement as the body language began to change. Rarely were nondisclosure forms required for exercises, even sensitive ones.
It took a few minutes before the forms were signed and collected. Then another CIA official stepped up on the small stage and began to brief the target. The operators shifted in their chairs, sitting up to focus on the slides on the screen.
“Gentlemen, for the past several months the CIA has been tracking an individual we call ‘the pacer.’” Embedded in the slide was a link. The CIA officer clicked on the link and a video played on the screen. Everyone watched as “the pacer” moved around the compound at AC-1. “We have reason to believe that ‘the pacer’ is Osama bin Laden.”
At the sound of bin Laden’s name there was silence in the room. I could see a number of the SEALs glancing around at each other as if to ask, Are they screwing with us or is this for real?
The briefing went on for another thirty minutes. After the CIA analyst finished, I pushed away from my table, stood up, and made sure everyone was clear on why we were here.
“Gentlemen, the President has asked us to develop a raid option to capture or kill bin Laden. For the past several weeks a small team has been planning the mission, but now we have to find out whether the plan is executable. We have less than three weeks to test and rehearse the plan. At the end of that time I have to report back to the President on the viability of the mission.”
There was no emotion from the operators. No smiles. No acknowledgment of the magnitude of the operation. Now it was all business.
“The Agency has built a mock-up of the compound just a mile from here. You have two days to work through the movements on target. After that we will move to another location out west to do the full dress rehearsals.” I offered the other senior officers an opportunity to say a few words, but they recognized that this was about the operators, not a time to wax philosophically about the importance of the mission.
“I will turn you over to your boss and you guys can work out the details.” I paused. “Any questions?”
There were none.
“All right. Let’s get to work.”
The SEAL commander and his master chief immediately pulled together the other SEALs and helo pilots and began to outline the next twenty-four hours. Within an hour, rehearsals on the mock-up had begun.
Eric Olson, Mike Vickers, and I drove to the mock-up site and watched as the SEALs did a dozen or so ground movements while the helo pilots flew multiple approaches on the compound. The Agency had done a masterful job of constructing the mock-up. There was a chain-link fence built to exactly the height and dimensions of the walls surrounding the real AC-1. In the middle of the fencing was a Lego formation of shipping containers stacked one on top of the other to simulate the living quarters and the small guesthouse. Every key feature of AC-1 was accounted for. However, owing to the short amount of time the Agency had to construct the site, there was no way to exactly replicate the thick concrete walls that surrounded the compound in Abbottabad. Later, this shortfall would come back to haunt us. Additionally, we had no knowledge of what the inside living quarters looked like. The Agency engineers and analysts made some calculations based on square footage and normal construction in the region, but we all knew that until the operators entered the house there was no way of knowing how the rooms were laid out.
Within forty-eight hours we completed the North Carolina rehearsals and subsequently moved the force out west to begin the final set of dress rehearsals. These final rehearsals would tell me whether or not I could stand before the President of the United States and, with confidence, say that we could do this mission. At this point, I was a long way from certain.
The Air Force base was located in a remote area. While the Air Force officers weren’t read-in to the mission, they knew that owing to the priority we had been given, something very important was in the works. They were incredibly professional and equally discreet.
Our task force had grown considerably since my last meeting with the President. In addition to the special operations units and my small staff, I brought in a few operational planners and senior officers from Fort Bragg, as well as my Command Sergeant Major, Chris Faris, and Captain Pete Van Hooser from Virginia Beach. All would be needed as we prepared for the mission, deployed forward, and, if directed, conducted the mission.
We set up our rehearsal command post in a small single-story building away from the main base. While the operators continued to exercise their tactical scheme of maneuver, my staff rehearsed the command and control aspect of the mission. The staff prepared detailed execution checklists, reviewed every possible scenario, and looked at every backup plan. I directed the staff to build a decision matrix, so that in the heat of the moment if something went wrong on the mission, I didn’t have to think through all the alternatives. We would work through all the possible problems ahead of time and be prepared with options. Most of my decisions were binary:
If we were detected crossing the border would we continue? Yes or no?
If we were detected one hundred miles out? Yes or no?
Fifty miles out? Yes or no?
What if we had mechanical problems with the helicopter one hundred miles out?
Fifty miles out?
Once on target, what if bin Laden was not found within fifteen minutes?
Within thirty minutes?
What if the Pakistanis converged on the target within fifteen minutes?
Within thirty minutes?
The list of possible problems was extensive, but the decisions were easy. Hard to make, but easy to discern. If we were compromised crossing the border we would turn around and try for another day. If we had a helo set down for mechanical problems at a hundred miles out from the target, but the helo was not detected, we would continue on with the force we had. If a helo crashed, but we still had sufficient force to move to the target, we would continue the mission, but alert the Quick Reaction Force and medevac. Everything was binary. On missions like these you don’t want emotions to drive your decisions. If we were compromised crossing the border and the Pakistanis threatened to shoot down our helos, you could easily convince yourself that the mission was so important that you must press forward. Decisions like that rarely ended well. We had a backup plan for every contingency and a backup to the backup.
In addition to rehearsing the SEAL ground movements and the command and control, the helos flew against a simulated Pakistani threat, trying to determine if they could mask their approach to the target. The results looked promising, but not conclusive. As I talked with the pilots, who had extensive experience in the region, they were much more confident that by using the mountains, they could hide from the Pakistani radars. While I trusted them, I remained concerned.
By the week’s end, we had rehearsed every individual aspect of the mission multiple times, but we still hadn’t put it all together. And if my research from the Naval Postgraduate School was correct, a full dress rehearsal was absolutely necessary to find flaws in the plan. Every historical mission I analyzed for my thesis showed that when a particular part of the mission wasn’t rehearsed, that portion invariably failed. Unfortunately, time was running out and we would have to conduct our first full dress rehearsal in front of the military and civilian leaders who would ultimately influence the President’s decision.
“I’m not sure the Black Hawks can make it to the target and return without refueling.”
“What?”
J.T. Thompson looked me in the eye and said again, “Sir, we’ve done the calculations a dozen times, and with the weight of the operators and the temperatures we expect to have on the night of the mission, I don’t think we can make it there and back without stopping to refuel in Pakistan.”
I took a deep breath. All along we had planned to fly the two Black Hawks to the target, loiter for up to forty minutes, and then return. Every calculation we made indicated we could do this without refueling. Now, right before our briefing to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the plan was changing dramatically. Refueling the Black Hawks meant bringing in an additional MH-47 Chinook with a Forward Air Refueling Pod (FARP), a large fuel bladder. That meant another helo in Pakistani airspace and it also meant finding an isolated area where the Black Hawks and the Chinooks could land, undetected, and spend twenty minutes on the ground refueling.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Thompson said. “It’s still possible we could make it there and back, but if there are any variations in temperatures or headwinds, we’ll find ourselves landing in Taliban-controlled Pakistan and having to refuel. I’d rather we plan for it now.”
I knew Thompson was right. I had been pushing the mission planners hard to find me an option that used only two helos to get the SEALs in and out of the target. The more complex the mission, the more likely it was to fail and, I also knew, the more likely it was to be disapproved by the President.
“Okay J.T., I assume you guys have identified a secure FARP location.”
“We have, sir.”
“Well, let’s make sure the refueling is part of tonight’s rehearsal.”
“Yes sir. We’ve already taken that into account.”
I slapped Thompson on the back and said, “We’ll be fine, J.T. Get back to the guys and let’s just ensure we have everything necessary to carry out the FARP.” Thompson nodded and left. I had no doubt in my mind that he and his men would make it all work. They were simply the best in the world.
Admiral Mullen leaned forward on the aluminum bench to get a better look at the map on the floor.
“Sir, the second helo carrying Chalk Two will move to a position just outside the compound walls, fast-rope the three SEAL operators, our CIA colleague, and the military working dog. This element will secure the outside of the compound and, if required, keep the locals away from the action.”
“How fast do we think the Pakistanis could react once they know we are on the ground?” Mullen asked.
The SEAL chief petty officer briefing the Chairman answered without hesitation. “Sir, there is a police station about one mile from the target and then an entire infantry battalion approximately four miles from the target. We assess that the police will arrive first, but that it would take at least thirty minutes before an armed element from the battalion arrived. Our bigger concern is the locals who live in the houses just across this small ditch.” The chief pointed out the ditch on the floor mock-up. “With all the noise from the helos it’s highly likely that they will come over to see what’s going on.”
The chief pointed to the CIA officer who was sitting with the SEAL assault force. “Sir, Mohammad is a Pakistani American fluent in both Urdu and Dari. If a crowd develops Mohammad will tell them it is a Pakistani exercise and to go back to their homes.”
The SEAL commander chimed in. “Sir, it’s not a very good cover story, but it should buy us a few minutes and that’s all we really need.”
For the next two hours each special operations unit presented their portion of the mission to Mullen and the other VIPs. Afterward Mullen spoke personally to each man and asked them point-blank, “Are you confident you can do this mission?” Without any reservations, the answer was yes.
Pulling me aside after the brief, Mullen said, “I see we’ve added another helo to the plan.”
“Yes sir.” I hesitated a bit. “It might not be necessary if all the conditions are right, but we need to plan and rehearse as though it were necessary.”
Mullen nodded. “I agree.”
Throughout the entire planning and briefing for the mission, Admiral Mullen had been firmly in my corner. Over my time as the SOF commander, he was very active in supporting dozens of missions we had conducted all around the world. When other seniors in the interagency became weak-kneed about risky missions, Mullen’s strong leadership and confidence in the special operations force always carried the day. This mission would be no different. If the Chairman supported the raid, the President was likely to give it much greater consideration.
Over the course of the next five hours the task force conducted a flawless rehearsal. Afterward, the VIPs departed the air base and headed back to D.C. I followed shortly behind and made final preparations for the next day’s brief to the President. After tomorrow, there was nothing more I could do to convince the U.S. leadership that we were ready.
Panetta smiled as I finished my briefing to the President. The room was quiet as the President thought through what I had just told him. The mission was executable, I said. And I was confident we could get to the target, capture or kill bin Laden, and get back safely. I explained the need for the FARP and the third helo. The President politely questioned why this was just coming to light now. I explained that it became apparent when we did the additional air planning that if the temperature on target and load variations in the helo were just a few degrees or a few pounds different, then we likely wouldn’t make it all the way back to Afghanistan. The additional MH-47 with the FARP would preclude an emergency refueling in the FATA (Federally Administered Tribal Areas). The President acknowledged the change without a lot of concern.
I felt I was answering each of the President’s questions to his satisfaction. Without trying to make my case, at the expense of the other options, there seemed to be more appreciation for the raid than I had seen in past meetings. And then the conversation turned abruptly.
“What happens if the Pakistanis surround the compound when the SEALs are inside?” the President asked. Before I could answer he continued. “What happens if we get into a big firefight?” His words were measured but pointed. “What happens if they start shooting at our helos?”
Around the room the principals began to shift uncomfortably in their large leather chairs. Yeah, McRaven, what are you going to do when that happens?
All eyes turned toward me.
“Sir,” I replied, “we have a technical term for that in the military.”
Gates and Mullen exchanged puzzled glances.
“We call that”—I paused—“when the shit hits the fan!”
“Exactly!” the President responded loudly.
The Secretary and Chairman broke out laughing, but some of the senior staff seemed unamused by my humor.
I explained that with twenty-four heavily armed SEALs we could hold off the Pakistanis long enough to extract from the target. But in fact, part of our planning was not to engage the Pakistani police or the military so we didn’t escalate the situation and create an international firestorm. Clearly, the President didn’t want to compromise the success of the mission or the safety of the SEALs by trying to build a plan that was too concerned about the political fallout—which I greatly appreciated.
The President directed me to develop an alternate plan to “fight our way out” if the SEALs found themselves surrounded by the Pakistani military. “We are not going to have U.S. forces held hostage by the Pakistanis,” he said emphatically. This was an easy addition to the base plan. There were ample forces in Afghanistan to provide backup if the SEALs needed the support. Those forces wouldn’t need to be notified until the day of the mission, so OPSEC (operations security) could be maintained.
The meeting went for another thirty minutes as we reviewed the timeline for key decisions. Before wrapping up, however, the President turned to Mike Leiter, the Director of the National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC), and asked him to have another group of intelligence analysts review CIA’s assessment about “the pacer.” Was there too much groupthink? Wasn’t this what happened with WMD in Iraq? Maybe other intelligence analysts had another view.
At the end, the President thanked everyone for their hard work, and Donilon scheduled another meeting in a week to review the options one final time.
A week later we reconvened again. The President turned to Leiter.
“Well, Mike, what do your folks think? Is ‘the pacer’ bin Laden?”
Leiter paused, looked down at the assessment his analytical team had provided him, and very carefully stated, “Sir, the team of analysts think the chance it’s bin Laden is anywhere between 60 percent and 40 percent.”
When he said 40 percent, everyone in the SITROOM took a deep breath.
“Forty percent!” Panetta exclaimed.
“That’s on the low end,” Leiter quickly responded. “But that’s still thirty-eight percent higher than we’ve been in the past ten years.”
“Mr. President,” Panetta launched in, “I am fully behind CIA’s assessment, and while I can’t tell you with certainty that it’s bin Laden, I put it at well above 60 percent. I think it’s him!”
The President looked at Panetta and nodded, and while everyone knew the 40 percent figure was the worst-case prediction, clearly the new assessment had brought added anxiety to the mission.
“All right, everyone. Let’s go over this one more time,” the President said.
After another hour of revisiting the intelligence and the options, the President gave me approval to move the SEALs and helo assault force to Afghanistan, but he made it clear that he had not made any decision yet. I left Washington on Wednesday evening, arriving in Bagram late on Thursday night.
My arrival back in Afghanistan drew no attention from either my forward-based staff or the senior leaders in country. Owing to my constant movements back and forth, my return seemed routine.
I immediately convened the small group of officers who were witting to the plan. Earlier I had directed my deputy commander, Brigadier General Tony Thomas, to travel with the assault force and ensure everything was ready to go by the time I arrived in theater. Thomas, a former Ranger and Army special operations assaulter, had extensive combat experience and was one of the finest officers with whom I had ever served. He confirmed that the force was ready. Additionally, I had given the task of building the Quick Reaction Force (QRF) to Colonel Erik Kurilla, the Ranger Regimental Commander. Kurilla, one of the most aggressive combat leaders in special operations, was already in Afghanistan; and with all the ongoing daily missions, he devised a cover story to assemble the QRF without anyone taking notice.
The following morning, as per my usual Friday battle rhythm, I flew to Kabul to talk with General Petraeus. This was the third time in the past six years that I had worked for Petraeus—first, when he was the commander of the Multi-National Force in Iraq; second, when he was the commander of U.S. Central Command; and now as he headed the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) in Afghanistan. Petraeus had always been incredibly supportive of special operations, and I liked him a lot. Unfortunately, there were many in Washington who didn’t feel the same, and consequently Petraeus had been left out of the planning for the raid. From the beginning of Neptune’s Spear, I had asked to ensure both General Petraeus and General Jim Mattis, the new CENTCOM commander, were kept in the loop. But, because of concerns over expanding the inner circle, they did not participate in the operational discussions. Finally, right before I departed Washington, I was told that General Cartwright would call Petraeus and Mattis and fill them in on the operation. Consequently, when I showed up in Petraeus’s headquarters that morning I assumed he was fully briefed on the mission.
“Sir, I understand you’ve been briefed on the operation,” I said as I sat down at the small conference table in Petraeus’s office.
Petraeus cocked his head slightly, with a look of mild disdain. “Hoss called me and said something about a cross-border operation.”
Something about a cross-border operation? I am so screwed, I thought.
I looked at Petraeus. He had no idea about Operation Neptune’s Spear. Cartwright hadn’t given him any details at all.
“Well,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “It’s a little more than that.”
“What is it?”
I grabbed my set of five slides, got up from the table, and moved to Petraeus’s desk. “We’re going after bin Laden.”
“What?” Petraeus said, almost laughing.
“We’re going after bin Laden,” I repeated. Laying the slides in front of Petraeus, I walked him through the plan.
“Holy shit!” he said, looking at the distance to the target.
I laid the second slide down.
“Holy shit!” he said again, looking at the compound in Abbottabad.
I finished with a couple more slides.
“Are they really going to let you do this?”
“I’m still waiting on the final approval from the President, but we are ready to go.”
Petraeus shook his head and smiled. “Well, all I can say is good luck, Bill. You’re certainly going to need it.”
Although I thought we had a good plan, I nodded in agreement because you can never have too much luck.
Late for a meeting, Petraeus stood up, shook my hand, and laughed again. It was a reassuring laugh. A friendly laugh. Not what I had expected, and somehow it made me feel better about the mission.
I left ISAF headquarters, hopped on a helo, and returned to Bagram. I called Mattis and found out he knew little about the mission as well. Like Petraeus, he wished me well and offered any help he could provide. That afternoon a congressional delegation was visiting our special operations headquarters in Bagram. Among those in the know, we had debated whether to cancel the visit, but I wanted to keep everything on the schedule until the very last minute. Consequently, I greeted the congressmen and their staffs, gave them a brief of our daily operations in Afghanistan, and provided them a tour of our facility. They departed by early evening without any inkling that a major operation was in the works. Soon after the congressional delegation left, I received a call from Panetta. He informed me that the President had made the decision. Operation Neptune’s Spear was a go.
The following day, Saturday, I received a call from our operations center in Jalalabad (JBAD). The weather along our planned infiltration route had some low-lying fog. It was passable and likely wouldn’t present a major problem for the helos, but the weather on Sunday looked even better, so I made the decision to delay the mission one day. I passed on my decision to the CIA, who informed the Director and the President that I had rolled the launch twenty-four hours.
Later that evening I received a call from the White House operator that the President wanted to talk with me around 1700 East Coast time. Right before the top of the hour I called the number I was given and was connected with the President’s secretary. She politely put me on hold until the President came on the line.
“Bill, how are you doing?”
“Fine, Mr. President.”
“How are things going out there?”
“We’re all set, Mr. President, but the weather in Pakistan was a bit foggy so I decided to wait until tomorrow. We’ll be good to go on Sunday.”
“Well, don’t push it unless you’re ready.”
“No sir. I won’t rush to failure.”
“Well, Bill, I just wanted to call and wish you and your men good luck.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I want you to tell them that I am proud of them. Make sure you tell them that, Bill.”
“I will, sir.”
“What do you think? Is he there, Bill?”
“I don’t know, sir. But I do know that if he is there—we will get him. And if he’s not, we’ll come home.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. Maybe I was reading too much into it, but I felt the President understood the risks my men were taking and truly appreciated their courage and their patriotism.
“Well, again, good luck, Bill.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” I hesitated just a second, wondering whether I should tell the President of the United States that I understood the difficulty of his decision and that I appreciated his leadership.
“And thank you for making this tough decision,” I said.
“Thank you, Bill.”
The phone went dead. Now all that was left to do was conduct the mission.
The small twin-engine plane landed with a thud at the airfield in Jalalabad. We taxied to the end of the runway, I got out of the plane, and was met by a young petty officer. He drove us the half mile to the SEAL compound, where I quickly dropped my gear in my room and headed into the small Joint Operations Center, which we had commandeered to use as our command and control hub.
Inside the small plywood building were an array of large flat-panel displays, computers, and telephones. The SEAL Team commanding officer, Pete Van Hooser, and his master chief met me at the door and briefed me on the preparations for the mission.
“We have one final briefing in an hour,” Van Hooser said. “After that, the boys will get some rest until it’s time to suit up.”
As the commanding officer of the SEAL Team conducting the mission, I had placed Van Hooser in charge of overseeing the tactical execution of the mission. He would be in direct contact with the SEAL ground commander and provide me all the updates as the mission unfolded. Along with Van Hooser was J.T. Thompson, who would oversee the helo portion of the mission and report to Van Hooser. Additionally, in the JOC were parts of my headquarters team and representatives from CIA and a small Air Force element to help with the ISR.
At my request, the SEALs built me a closet-sized room inside the JOC where I could have some privacy as I talked to Panetta and his team, but inside the closet I was still in position to look at the tactical action on the large screens and hear the radio communications.
An hour later we convened in a large warehouse where the operators gave me their final mission brief. It was exceptionally detailed and covered everyone’s responsibilities. I reemphasized a couple of points to ensure everyone knew my orders.
“I want to make sure we communicate. One of the reasons the 1980 operation to rescue Americans from Tehran failed was that the assault force was overly OPSEC conscious. I want you to communicate to me and with each other so everyone knows what’s going on. Do not be afraid to get on the radio and talk. The Pakistanis are not likely to intercept our comms, and if they do, they won’t be able to stop us from getting to the target.”
Everyone nodded.
“Next, for you pilots, fly safely. Do not try to fly fifty feet off the deck or be so damn close to each other that you create a risky flight profile. Your job is to get the SEALs there safely. If you have problems with the helo, set down in a remote area and work through it. Slowly, methodically, safely.”
I looked at Thompson and the warrant officers who were flying. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“For you SEALs. Do not shoot any Pakistanis unless you absolutely have to in order to save your life. Is that clear?”
They nodded and seemed to understand and appreciate the political complexities of the mission. Being professional also meant knowing when not to shoot.
“Finally, this mission is to capture or kill bin Laden. Capture him if you can, but if he presents a threat at all, any threat whatsoever—kill him.”
We had gone over the rules of engagement before, but I wanted to ensure there was no misunderstanding. After twelve years on the run it was thought that bin Laden likely slept with a suicide vest either on his body or next to him. Every SEAL in the briefing had encountered Iraqi or Afghan fighters who inexplicably detonated themselves when the assault force arrived. Consequently, we had clear criteria for what posed a threat. Unless bin Laden was in his underwear with his hands in the air, then it was possible he was wearing an explosive vest and was therefore a threat to the force. In the middle of the night, in a confusing combat situation, with the adrenaline pumping and people moving around the target, the SEALs didn’t have time to stop and assess a threat to the force. As I had told the President and his national security team, if there were men, or women, on the target and they appeared to be a threat, then they would die—period.
At the end of the briefing, I stood up from my folding chair and faced the gathering of SEALs and helo crews.
“I think most of you know that I am a basketball fan.”
Some in the crowd smiled, having played pickup ball with me on several occasions.
“There is a great scene in the movie Hoosiers,” I said, waiting a second to let it sink in.
“Hoosiers is the story of a small-town basketball team in Indiana that reaches the high school state championship in 1954. They travel to Indianapolis to play a team from the big city. Most of these small-town kids have never been to a city and the stadium in Indianapolis is huge.”
I moved away from my chair and drew closer to the men.
“At one point, the coach, played by Gene Hackman, realizes the boys on the team are intimidated by the size of the stadium and the fact that they will be playing on the big stage in front of thousands of people. Hackman grabs one of the players and hands him a tape measure. ‘Measure the height of the basket,’ he tells the player.
“Reeling out the tape measure, the player announces, ‘Ten feet.’
“Hackman grabs another player and tells him to pace off the length of the court. The player does so and tells Hackman that it’s ninety-four feet.”
Some in the audience were starting to get my point.
“Hackman tells his team that the court is exactly the size of the court at home. That the basket is exactly the height of the one at home.”
Now heads were nodding.
“Gentlemen, each of you has done hundreds of missions just like this one. This mission is no different. The court is exactly like the one you’ve played on for the past ten years. There is no need to do anything differently. Just play your game like you always have and we will be successful.”
I thanked them and started to leave. Those sitting stood up, and a few shook my hand as I departed. I would see the SEALs and helo crews off before they launched. I walked out of the warehouse and into the warm night air. It was five hours until showtime.
“It’s about time, sir,” Faris advised me.
I looked at my watch. The SEALs would be gathering around the fire pit for one final talk from their squadron commander. Then they would load the helos and await my orders to launch.
Faris and I walked out of the JOC and without speaking strolled over to the fire pit. Chris Faris had been my right-hand man for the past three years. There was no finer enlisted man in the military. He was raised in the Rangers and then spent eighteen years as an Army special operations assaulter, rising to the position of Command Sergeant Major. Faris had been in combat since he was twenty—Mogadishu during Black Hawk Down; South America chasing Pablo Escobar; Bosnia and Kosovo; and of course, Iraq and Afghanistan. He was the perfect balance of professional NCO and personal friend. He never stepped over the line with respect to our friendship, and he was fiercely protective of my position as the commander. However, he told me all the ugly truths that a good commander needs to know. He often challenged my decisions, forcing me to defend my position and thereby ensuring a better outcome. But when I made a decision, he accepted it as his own and supported me completely. I rarely made an important decision without Chris Faris. He also knew when not to talk, and as we walked to meet the SEALs, this was one of those times.
The SEALs were clustered around the fire pit. Music was blaring, some hard rock song, and most of the operators were adjusting their kit one final time. There was an air of tension, but that was not uncommon before any tough mission. I sensed no fear, just anticipation and a desire to get the operation underway.
“Kill the music,” one SEAL yelled as I approached. They closed in around me and I turned to Faris so he could say a few words. Even though he was an Army NCO, he had the respect of everyone in the SEAL community. Faris reminded them of the British SAS motto, “Who Dares Wins.” Tonight we were daring greatly, and he told them he was confident they would come home victorious.
Faris turned to me. I hadn’t put a lot of thought into what I might say. But it occurred to me, just moments before, as I was walking from the JOC, that everyone gathered around the fire pit was thinking the same thing.
“Gentlemen, first let me say that I talked to the President yesterday evening and he told me to pass on his thanks and appreciation for what you are about to do.”
Most of the men were deep in thought, their heads cast downward, but I could tell that they were beginning to understand the magnitude of what they were about to undertake.
I moved a little closer to the fire and scanned the group of men standing before me. They were rough-looking. Serious. Professional. Focused. They had their game face on, but I knew that beneath the body armor they were like any other men. They had families. Wives and kids. Friends back in Virginia Beach. They were good men. Men you would want as your friends, your neighbors. Men you could count on when things got bad—real bad. Men who loved each other as only those who have experienced combat together can. They didn’t know what the night would bring, but they knew they were lucky to be chosen for this mission. And that was my message. It was simple.
“Gentlemen, since 9/11 each one of you has dreamed of being the man going on the mission to get bin Laden. Well, this is the mission and you are the men. Let’s go get bin Laden.”
There were no smiles, no cheering, and no contrived jubilation. It was time to get to work.
“Launch the assault force. I say again, launch the assault force.”
“Roger, sir,” Van Hooser replied. “Launch the assault force.”
I could hear Van Hooser relay the order to the SEAL squadron commander aboard the helo.
In my small closet, Art Sellers had set up a video teleconference with CIA headquarters, the U.S. Embassy in Pakistan, Brigadier General Brad Webb, my command’s liaison in the White House, and General Tony Thomas and Colonel Erik Kurilla back at Bagram. Additionally, on Sellers’s laptop was MIRChat, a means of chatting with everyone on the JOC floor and those around the world who were allowed to monitor the mission. Outside my closet sat my good friend, the CIA Chief of Station in Afghanistan. He and I had been together in Afghanistan many times over the past ten years. There was no better ally in the interagency.
At exactly 2300, I peered out from my closet and looked at the big screen as the two Black Hawks lifted off, followed soon thereafter by two MH-47s. Minutes later they were crossing the border into Pakistan. For the next ninety minutes I tracked the execution checklist as the helos went from point to point, making their way undetected through the mountains and valleys of Pakistan.
Throughout the mission we monitored the Pakistani radars to determine if anyone had picked up on our presence. At one point about halfway through the flight the SEAL squadron commander called the JOC and calmly radioed that a large spotlight was emanating from a nearby city, sweeping the mountainside, apparently looking for something.
Intelligence hadn’t detected any Pakistani reaction, and I relayed back through Van Hooser for the assault force to press on. It appeared to be nothing of concern. Forty minutes later we were closing in on the target.
“Sir, General Petraeus is on the MIRChat,” Sellers said.
“What?”
“He’s on the chat and wants to know if we are still doing the mission tonight.”
Petraeus had left his headquarters in Kabul and walked down the street to the small building that housed my special operations liaison officer. He had questioned the officer about the status of the mission, but the officer, who was not read-in to the operation, didn’t have a clue what Petraeus was talking about.
I laughed. “Art, tell General Petraeus that we are ten minutes out from time on target.”
Sellers sent back my response, to which Petraeus replied, “Good luck!”
“Sir, General Webb is on chat now.”
Brad Webb, my assistant commander, was in the White House in a small anteroom just off from the larger Situation Room. He had full communications with me and also was monitoring the same video feed I was receiving from my overhead assets.
I was looking out my closet watching the big screen as the helos broke out from behind the mountains and began their last two-minute flight to the Abbottabad compound.
“Yeah,” I said, somewhat distracted.
“Sir, he says the Vice President just walked into the anteroom.”
“Okay,” I acknowledged, still eyeing the big screen as the helos approached the target.
“Sir, General Webb says the President just walked into the room.”
“Got it, Art.”
A moment later, “Sir, he says everyone is now in the room watching the operation.”
I had to chuckle. I could imagine Brad Webb sitting alone in the anteroom and then, without warning, the entire national security team converges around him. Webb was a superb officer and he had all the right experience to answer any questions the President or others might ask. I didn’t give it a second thought.
“Sir, we are two minutes from the target,” I notified Panetta.
“Okay, Bill,” came the reply from CIA headquarters.
The first helo approached the compound, moving into position between the three-story living quarters and the eighteen-foot-high concrete wall that bordered the southern fence line. As he maneuvered the Black Hawk into fast-rope position, I could tell the pilot was having difficulty holding position. The helo wobbled and pitched upward trying to maintain altitude.
“They’re going down!” someone yelled.
As it spun slowly out of control, I was already thinking of the next step. Less than thirty minutes behind the two Black Hawks were the MH-47 Chinooks. We lagged the Chinooks behind the initial assault force over concerns that owing to its large radar and noise signature, it might be detected and compromise our surprise. But right now, surprise was no longer an issue.
Struggling to maintain lift, the Black Hawk pilot nosed the aircraft down, forcing it over the small interior wall and into the open animal pen just on the other side of the driveway. Bricks and concrete flew in all directions as the tail boom of the spinning aircraft clipped the outer wall, driving the fuselage into the ground and slamming the SEALs and crew to the metal deck of the helo.
It all unfolded in slow motion, but having lost several helicopters during my time in command, I knew the difference between a crash and a hard landing. This was a hard landing.
Three weeks earlier, the Black Hawk pilot and I had talked about the worst-case scenario coming into the compound. We both agreed that the most dangerous point in the mission was when the Black Hawk came to a hover just outside bin Laden’s third-story living quarters. The potential for bin Laden or one of his men to fire an RPG into the hovering helo was high. Snipers and door gunners were positioned on the right side of the helo, prepared to engage any threat, but still the possibility of an RPG existed.
The pilot assured me that even if he took an RPG, as long as he survived the initial blast, he could get the helo into the open animal pen and land it safely. As it turned out, the high temperatures that evening and the eighteen-foot-high concrete wall created a vortex effect from the propeller downwash, causing the helo to lose lift. The pilot, true to his word, had gotten the men safely, albeit dramatically, on the ground.
“Sir, we have a bird down,” Van Hooser announced unemotionally.
“Roger, Pete, I’m watching. What’s the timeline to get the 47 in?”
“Sir, she’s thirty minutes out.”
“Okay, bring her to a holding position. She will have to be the extract bird.”
“Roger, sir.”
Thompson contacted the Chinook and maneuvered the helo to within five minutes of the compound. The aircraft would hide behind the ridgeline until it was necessary to call her in.
In the meantime, I contacted Panetta and let him know the status. “Sir, as you can see, we have a helo down,” I said. By then the SEALs were already out of the aircraft and beginning to execute an alternate plan.
“The SEALs are continuing on with the mission. I will keep you posted.”
Panetta nodded, but there was a real look of concern on his face.
Not immediately knowing what had caused the first helo’s problems, the pilot of the second helo landed outside the compound walls. From my closet I watched on the video screen as the SEALs moved toward the main compound.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
Flowing in two directions, the first SEAL element approached the small guesthouse and a short burst of gunfire lit up the screen. Moments later came the dispassionate call.
“One EKIA.”
At the same time, multiple explosions flashed on the video as the SEALs blew down the hardened steel doors that were protecting the outer and inner cordons of bin Laden’s small fortress.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
Inside the main building, away from my view, the SEALs engaged another of bin Laden’s men. As they made their way to the second floor another call came from the JOC NCO.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
I knew from the plan that the assault force was clearing the floors one by one. They encountered a threat on the first floor and on the stairwell leading to the second floor. Both enemy were dead.
Outside the three-story building, I could see the dark figures of the SEALs as they methodically cleared the rest of the compound. Everywhere, beams of infrared light from the weapons’ laser pointers swept across the ground, into the windows, across the buildings, and into the shadowy spaces that could be hiding another threat.
“Sir, we have visitors.”
“Roger,” I replied, watching the small crowd of locals assembling near the entrance to the compound. “What are we hearing from the police?” I asked.
“Sir, it’s all quiet right now, but the cell phones in the area are starting to buzz.”
Only a mile away, the Abbottabad police were within earshot of the activity in the compound. One of my biggest concerns was that the police, good men just doing their job, would show up and get into a firefight with the SEALs. It would not go well for the Pakistani cops.
Inside the compound a two-man element of the assault force had nearly reached the third floor. From behind a curtain separating the stairway from the third floor, a shadowy face emerged, his dark eyes fixed on the men rushing up the stairway. The lead SEAL, his gun tucked firmly into his shoulder, finger on the trigger, fired toward the figure, but the rounds impacted high. Without hesitation, the SEALs stormed up the last few steps, through the curtain, and into the room. Inside, two young girls stood at the entrance. Nearly certain that the girls were wearing suicide vests, the lead SEAL threw himself on the young women to shield his partner from the blast. Entering the room immediately behind, the second SEAL came face-to-face with a tall, thin man, who was using an older woman to shield his body.
The second SEAL, Senior Chief Petty Officer Rob O’Neill, leveled his weapon and fired three rounds at the man, two to the head and one more for good measure. The tall man crumpled to the floor, dead before he hit the ground.
Inside the JOC, I was getting updates from Van Hooser and Thompson. The SEALs were still clearing the three-story house and the helos were holding their position outside Abbottabad.
I looked up at the clock. Fifteen minutes had passed since the assault began.
“Sir, the squadron commander is on the radio,” Van Hooser alerted me.
The voice was unmistakable. Deep, calm, in control. “This is Romeo Six Six.” He paused and you could hear a small shudder in his voice. “For God and Country, Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo!”
The hunt for the most wanted man in the world was over. We had gotten bin Laden.
The JOC erupted in cheers, immediately followed by Van Hooser’s booming voice. “Shut the fuck up!” he yelled. “We still have to get these guys home.”
The JOC immediately quieted down.
Van Hooser was right. We still had a long way to go. I had no sense of relief, no internal exhilaration, no feeling of victory. The mission was not over. We were 162 miles from home and the Pakistanis were now beginning to wake up and muster a military response.
I relayed the message to Panetta, “Sir, we have Geronimo.” But it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t know if Geronimo meant bin Laden had been found and captured, or killed in the assault.
Yelling out of my closet to the JOC floor, I asked Van Hooser to confirm if it was Geronimo EKIA. Seconds later came the response from Van Hooser. “Yes sir, Geronimo EKIA.”
Once again, I passed the information back to Panetta. On the screen in my closet, I could see Panetta and Michael Morell smiling broadly.
I looked up at the clock. The SEALs had been on the ground in Abbottabad for almost twenty minutes now. The plan called for thirty minutes on the ground—no more.
In the courtyard, I could see the SEALs and the helo pilots rigging the downed Black Hawk for destruction. A downed helo was always a possibility on every mission. Consequently, each crew carried sufficient demolition to destroy the classified electronics, and in this case, we brought enough explosives to destroy the entire helicopter. Still, we would have to wait until right before extraction to detonate the charges.
“Sir, the SEALs are requesting some additional time on the ground,” Van Hooser said.
“What’s the holdup?” I asked.
“Sir, they say they found a whole shit-ton of computers and electronic gear on the second floor.”
I looked at the clock. We were now closing in on thirty minutes and my gut told me to stick with the plan, but I also realized that the forensics from a hard drive could be vital to follow on missions.
“Okay, Pete. Tell them to grab as much as they can, but I don’t want them to linger too long. Ask J.T. how this will affect our gas situation.”
Van Hooser acknowledged and a few seconds later came the response. “Sir, J.T. says we are going to have to refuel anyway, so a few more minutes won’t make a difference.”
“Roger. Okay.”
I checked the clock again and looked at the monitors, which showed Pakistani activity. From my closet I could hear one of the intelligence analysts talking to Van Hooser.
“What’s going on, Pete?”
“Sir, the Pakistanis are up on comms. They know something is happening in Abbottabad but they don’t seem to know what.”
I looked at the clock. “How much more time do they need on the ground?”
“Sir, they are still rigging the helo, but the squadron commander says they can be ready to go in five minutes.”
Five minutes was an eternity, but I knew the ground commander understood the situation, and I would leave the decision in his hands.
The Pakistani communications began to light up. The Pakistani leaders were trying to understand what was happening. Was there a helicopter in Abbottabad? Was there a Pakistani exercise ongoing that they were unaware of? Were there Americans involved? How was that possible? Americans in downtown Abbottabad? A helicopter had crashed. In Abbottabad?
The crowd of locals had now grown to several dozen. Our Agency officer was very casually talking with the townsfolk. He informed them that this was a Pakistani military exercise and they needed to stand back. Much to everyone’s surprise, the locals bought the story and were very cooperative. No one seemed alarmed by the heavily armed American soldiers who were standing nearby.
“Sir, the SEALs are ready for extraction.”
“Roger.”
The second Black Hawk, which had successfully offloaded its SEALs during the initial assault, was now inbound to pick up the first ten SEALs and their precious cargo, the body of Osama bin Laden. Onscreen, four SEALs carried the body bag containing the remains of UBL. The remaining six provided security as they moved to the waiting Black Hawk.
The helo lifted off and began its next leg to the Forward Air Refueling Point located about thirty minutes from Abbottabad. Seconds later, the MH-47 Chinook came swooping into view on the large screen just as the downed Black Hawk inside the compound exploded. The plume from the explosion reached a hundred feet into the air, obscuring my view of the inbound Chinook. I listened to the radio calls, and within thirty seconds all the remaining SEALs were on the last helo outbound for Afghanistan.
I called in to Panetta. “Sir, everyone is out of the compound and headed back to Afghanistan. We still have a long way to go, though. I will keep you posted.”
Right about then, I overheard the intelligence officer notify Van Hooser that the Pakistanis were preparing to scramble their F-15s. Van Hooser passed on the intelligence to me. Once again, we had foreseen this possibility, and all the analysts were certain that the state of the Pakistani radars and their ability to find and then direct the F-15s to our position was highly unlikely. Still, I knew they were hunting us now and they could get lucky. President Obama had directed me to fight our way out if necessary; consequently, on the Afghan side of the border I had a “Gorilla Package” of U.S. fighters, radar-jamming aircraft, attack helicopters, the works. Nothing could stop our return now but an unfortunate accident.
Thirty minutes after the second Black Hawk left the compound with bin Laden’s body, it set down in a remote area of Pakistan. Soon thereafter, the MH-47 bearing the FARP set down beside it. Nineteen minutes later, the refueling was complete and both helos were on their way back to Afghanistan.
At 0330 local time, the last helo crossed back into Afghan airspace and minutes later landed at Jalalabad airfield. The boys were safely back home. But the mission was not completely over.
On the other side of the VTC, I could see that Panetta and others were celebrating the successful mission. The screen on my VTC suddenly changed and the President and his team came into view.
“Congratulations, Bill. Great mission!”
“Thank you, Mr. President, glad everyone is back safely. Sorry about the helo. It looks like I owe you about sixty million dollars.”
The President smiled.
“But sir, I still need to be certain that it is bin Laden. I have been on a number of missions before where we called PID,” I said, referring to positive identification, “only to be wrong.”
“Okay, Bill, I understand. How long before you can confirm it’s bin Laden?”
“Sir, the helo just landed with the body. Let me go take a look and I will get back to you within twenty minutes.”
As I was heading out of the JOC, the CIA Chief of Station stopped me at the door. “Bill, do you mind if I go with you to PID bin Laden? I have been chasing this guy for over ten years. I’d like to be there just to see it through to the end.”
“You bet! You can represent every Agency man and woman who had a stake in this mission.”
We loaded up in a small Toyota pickup and drove out to the hangar. There the SEALs were just arriving from the flight line. The joy of the moment was uncontainable. Guys were shaking hands, hugging each other, and yelling excitedly. They had just completed the most successful special operation since World War II.
The pickup truck containing the remains of bin Laden’s body pulled into the hangar with a few SEALs riding in the back. I walked over to the truck.
“Sir, do you need to see the body?” one of the SEALs asked.
“I do.”
Grabbing the remains, two SEALs pulled the heavy rubberized bag off the bed of the truck and laid it in front of me. I knelt down and unzipped the bag and exposed the body of bin Laden. My Agency colleague knelt beside me. Bin Laden’s face was contorted from two shots to the head and the beard was a little shorter and lighter. But it certainly appeared to be him.
“What do you think?” I asked the station chief.
“Sure looks like him,” he said.
“It does look like him,” I answered with a bit of hesitation.
“It’s him. It’s absolutely him,” one of the SEALs proclaimed loudly. “Look, here is the photo I took of him right after we killed him.”
I looked at the photo and we compared it with another likeness the Agency officer had. It was an exact match. Nevertheless, I was about to report to the President of the United States and I needed to be as sure as possible.
“Help me get him out of the bag,” I said to no one in particular.
We pulled bin Laden’s body out of the bag, but his legs were folded awkwardly in a fetal-like position. Grabbing his legs, I stretched them out until his body was full length. Knowing that reports had bin Laden at six foot four, I eyeballed the remains, and he certainly appeared tall.
Looking at the small gathering of SEALs that surrounded me, I turned to one young operator. “Son, how tall are you?”
“What?”
“I said, how tall are you?”
“Six foot two,” he responded.
“Good,” I said. “Lie down next to the body.”
He looked at me as if to say, Surely you’re kidding. “You want me to lie down next to the body?”
“Yes… I want you to lie down next to the body.”
“Okay, sir.”
The SEAL positioned himself within inches of the remains, and it was clear that the body lying on the hangar floor was a good two inches longer than the SEAL next to him. My Agency friend smiled. “It’s definitely him.”
I quickly shook a few hands and thanked the guys, but I knew that the President was waiting for my report.
“Sir, I can’t be 100 percent sure until we do the DNA tests, but it certainly looks like him, and all the physical features match.” I could see the President and his staff nodding their acknowledgment. “While his face was contorted from the impact of the rounds, I did have a SEAL, who was over six foot two, lie down beside the body, and the remains were at least six foot four.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the VTC.
“So let me get this straight, Bill,” the President deadpanned. “We could afford a sixty-million-dollar helo, but we couldn’t afford a ten-dollar tape measure?” In the background I could see the President’s staff laughing. I had no comeback and I didn’t need one. The smile on the President’s face said it all. It had been a good night, and just for a moment we could laugh about it.
“Sir, I’ve sent the pictures of bin Laden’s body back to Langley. They are going to do a facial recognition comparison and that should give us a reliable assessment in short order.”
“Okay, Bill, I know you have some things to do before this mission is complete, so I will let you get back to work. Please pass on to all your men and those that supported the mission that this was a historic night and all America will be proud of them.”
I couldn’t help but get a little choked up. “Thank you, sir,” I struggled to say. “I will pass it on.”
Within an hour I was on a plane back to Bagram. I landed, got on a waiting surrey, and immediately headed back to my headquarters building. Entering the two-story plywood structure, I noticed something was missing. It was the wanted poster of bin Laden that had hung in the building for ten years. For the thousands of men and women who had worked in this facility, it had been a daily reminder of why we were there. Now it was gone. I continued up the steps, strangely fixated on the small poster that had meant so much to so many. Opening the door, to where Thomas and Kurilla were working, I asked abruptly, “Who took the poster?”
Kurilla smiled. He lifted the cheap wooden-framed picture from behind his desk and said, “Sir, we thought you ought to have this?” For the second time that evening, I choked up. Tony Thomas and Erik Kurilla, two men who had given more to this long fight than just about anyone else in special operations, shook my hand and said thanks. For a soldier, when you have earned the respect of real warriors, there is no greater feeling in the world. I thanked them for all they had done that evening and then flopped down in the large Afghan chair and took a breather.
The television was muted in the background, but I could see Geraldo Rivera, a look of uncontrolled excitement on his face, as he announced that the President was going to speak in a few minutes. It was unprecedented that a President would come on television so late in the evening. It must be that Mohammar Gadhafi was dead, Rivera speculated. What else could it be?
As the President walked down the hall toward the podium, I pulled my chair closer to listen.
“Good evening. Tonight I can report to the American people, and the world, that the United States has conducted an operation to kill Osama bin Laden, the leader of Al Qaeda and a terrorist who is responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children.”
As the President talked, two Marine MV-22s and a Ranger security detachment, transporting the remains of bin Laden, were flying back into Pakistan and down the air corridor that led to the northern Arabian Gulf. There, waiting at sea, was the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson. By early the next morning, after an adherence to strict Islamic guidelines, the body of Osama bin Laden slid quietly into the ocean, never to be seen again.
For those who were lost in the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and in a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania; for those who had given their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan; for those men and women who, due to wounds, internal or external, would never be the same again; for all those around the world who suffered as a result of this man’s evil—justice had been served.