8.

SEAL Team Six

Green Team was a selection course—some of us would fail. Most of us were in our thirties. I was exactly thirty. The instructors timed our runs and swims. We practiced land warfare, parachuting, and diving—all taken to a whole new level. For example, we probably did around a hundred and fifty parachute jumps within four weeks: free-falling, HAHO, canopy stacking, etc. Our curriculum included free-climbing, unarmed combat, defensive and offensive driving, and Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE). Although we spent a little time on skills such as how to break into a car and how to start it with a screwdriver, we spent more time on how to maneuver the vehicle and shoot from it. The instructors evaluated us and ranked everything we did, including an overall score and ranking.

The easiest part for me was the O-course, and the hardest part was John Shaw’s shooting range practicing close-quarters combat. More than learning how to pick a lock open, we learned how to blow the door off its hinges. We shot thousands of rounds every day. I was told that in one year, SEAL Team Six alone spent more money just on 9 mm ammunition than the entire Marine Corps spent on all its ammunition.

I learned CQC at a whole new level. Even though I was already a SEAL, I hadn’t done it like SEAL Team Six does it. During one drill, we had to enter a room, engage the targets, shuffle-shoot, sprint, and shoot a stop target. The instructors constantly reconfigured the rooms: big, small, square, rectangle, enemy, friendly. They constantly reconfigured the furniture inside the rooms, too. We were constantly under scrutiny; the instructors showed us recordings of our performance on video.

Bobby Z., a tall blond-haired kid, and I were always within a couple of seconds of each other. Sometimes we were so close that I felt the blast of his muzzle blow my hair—this was with live ammo. A large gap grew between us and everyone else. After reviewing the video, we saw that Bobby and I didn’t slow down while we shuffle-shot side to side. Most people slow down a lot to engage their targets, but we didn’t. Bobby kicked my butt on the runs and swims.

While in Green Team, Bobby and I went back and forth in the number one position. I ended up being ranked at number two. Part of the reason for the ranking was that we actually went through a draft. While we were out at John Shaw’s shooting school, scouts from Red, Blue, and Gold Team came out to watch us train—getting feedback from the rankings, cadre, and our live performance. They weren’t impressed to find out about the guy who came back drunk from a strip club, crashed his car into a bridge, and flew through his windshield.

SEALs constantly work in danger, but Team Six pushed those danger levels higher. In the first years of Six’s formation, during CQC training, a Team member stumbled and accidentally squeezed the trigger, shooting Roger Cheuy in the back. Cheuy later died in the hospital due to a staph infection. “Staph” is short for “staphylococcal,” and that strain of bacteria produces toxins similar to those in food poisoning. The Team member was not only kicked out of Six but kicked out of the SEALs. In another incident, a freak CQC accident, a bullet went through one of the partitions in the kill house and entered between the joints in Rich Horn’s bullet-resistant vest, killing him. In a parachuting mishap, Gary Hershey died, too.

Six months after my Green Team started, four or five men had failed out of thirty. Although we had some injuries, none of them were fatal. Red, Blue, and Gold made their first picks of the draft. Red Team picked me up in the first round. Just like the NFL draft. Similar to the Washington Redskins, Red Team’s logo was the American Indian—some activists may find it offensive, but we embraced the bravery and fighting skills of the Indians.

Just because I got drafted in the first round didn’t mean I got treated better in the Team. I became an assault member just like everybody else. My boat crew was one of four. I was still the F-ing New Guy (FNG). Never mind I’d been in combat and some of them hadn’t. I would have to earn their respect.

Now I belonged to a cover organization with an official commander, address, and secretary to answer the phone. When applying for a credit card, I couldn’t very well tell them I worked for SEAL Team Six. Instead, I gave them the information for my cover organization. I showed up to work in civilian clothes, rather than a uniform. Nobody breathed the words “SEAL Team Six” back then.

Even after passing Green Team and gaining acceptance to Team Six, we continued to hone our shooting skills at John Shaw’s Mid-South Institute of Self-Defense Shooting in Lake Cormorant, Mississippi. He had a huge range with left-to-right, pop-up, and other targets. His kill house was top of the line. Eight of us from Red Team went there to train. On the first Friday night we were there, the eight of us went out to a strip bar across the river in Tennessee. Our designated driver was a non-SEAL radio geek assigned to the Team as support. His name was Willie, but we called him Wee Wee. He read a lot and hardly ever said more than three words. Wee Wee wouldn’t join us inside, so he waited outside in the van and read a book. The Team van was black with blacked-out windows. It had government Virginia plates and upgraded suspension. The seats were customized and carried eight people comfortably. Team Six had vehicles with armor, bullet-resistant windows, run-flat tires, police lights, and a siren behind the grille, and interior pockets for holding weapons, but this was simply a support van to haul personnel and equipment inside the United States. After we’d finished in the bar, Wee Wee drove us away in the van.

At a stoplight, three rednecks in a jacked-up four-wheel-drive truck with dual exhausts stopped next to us. They saw short, skinny Wee Wee wearing Clark Kent glasses as he drove with his windows down partway but couldn’t see the eight of us through the blacked-out windows in back. “Hey, Yankee bastard,” yelled one of the rednecks. “Go home!” Never mind that our Virginia license plate came from a state that fought with the South during the Civil War—home of the South’s general Robert E. Lee.

One of our guys in the back shouted, “F*** you, redneck!”

The light turned green. Wee Wee drove forward until he came to the next red light and stopped. The rednecks stopped beside us again.

“Hey, you little skinny bastard. You’re all mouth, aren’t you?” They thought Wee Wee had mouthed off to them.

“Hey, hillbilly,” one of us shot back. “How do you feel knowing your father and mother were brother and sister?”

Now the rednecks were pissed. “Pull over, you skinny bastard.” They spit tobacco out of their windows. “We’ll teach you a lesson.”

Wee Wee now had beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead as he pushed his glasses higher on his nose. We were holding our breath to keep from laughing our asses off and letting them know we were in the van. Someone whispered, “Wee Wee, pull over up here.”

Wee Wee drove a couple of miles and pulled over on the side of an on-ramp heading to the interstate highway.

The dumb rednecks followed and stopped next to us. They taunted Wee Wee to get out of the van. “What’s wrong, Yankee?” they yelled. “Did your mouth write a check your ass can’t cash?”

We stacked on the roll-out door like we would for an entrance to assault terrorists. I had my hand on the door handle with half the guys stacked on each side of me. Three of us would exit and peel left, and three would exit and peel right. “Wee Wee, tell them to come over to the roll-out door.” Wee Wee convinced the rednecks to come to the other side of the van so they would be out of traffic.

The rednecks walked around to our door. Just as they arrived, I ripped the door open. Like magic, the six of us appeared in a circle around the three rednecks. Their eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their skulls.

One of the rednecks spit out his tobacco. “See. See, John. I told you. I told you one day your mouth was going to get us in trouble.”

“Hey, dumb-ass, first of all, none of us are Yankees.” I gave them a history lesson. “Second, Virginia wasn’t a Yankee state. Third, the commanding general of the South, Robert E. Lee, was from Virginia.”

It seemed like the rednecks were calming down when John started running his mouth again.

So we decided to teach them a life lesson, not to prey on the apparent weakness of others. Basically, we stomped a mud hole in their asses. To drive the lesson home, one of us told them, “You guys take your pants off.”

They looked at us strangely for a moment, but they didn’t want another beating, so they stripped down to their underwear.

We took their keys, locked their truck doors, threw their keys into the bushes, and took their shoes and trousers. “Go down to the next exit, stop at the first 7-Eleven on the right, and you’ll find your stuff inside the bathroom.”

The next morning, we were sitting at John Shaw’s range having coffee before starting our shooting drills when a police officer who is one of Shaw’s assistant instructors drove up and got out of his police truck. He walked up to us and spoke. We knew him well because we trained with him often and went out drinking with him, too. He was also a Harley-Davidson rider who fit in with us. “I heard the funniest story at about one thirty this morning.”

“What’s that?” we asked innocently.

“I get a call from the 7-Eleven that three men walked up in their undershorts. The cashier locked the door and wouldn’t let them in. The three men claimed they needed to get inside to get their clothes. When I showed up, half the police force showed up with me. And I’ll be damned, there were three men standing there in their underwear. We listened to their amazing story. Get this, a blacked-out van with Virginia plates, kind of looks like that one there”—he pointed to our van—“pulled up beside them. Suddenly, eight buff guys, kind of like you guys, surrounded them like Indians on the warpath and beat the crap out of them for no reason. So we let the three inside the 7-Eleven and searched for twenty minutes, but we didn’t find their clothes anywhere.”

We had been laughing so hard that night that we’d forgotten to stop at the 7-Eleven. Their shoes and clothes were still in the back of the van.

The policeman continued, “Before I left, one of the men said, ‘See, John. I told you your mouth was going to get us in trouble.’ Then, still in their underwear, two of them started punching John in front of the gas pumps. We broke them up and asked what was meant by ‘big mouth getting us in trouble,’ but they shut up.” The policeman shook his head. “Can you believe such a crazy story?”

None of us said a thing. After an awkward moment, we stood up and began our morning drills.

Later that afternoon, the police officer said, “If somebody’s going to be a dumb-ass, sometimes a good ass-whooping is just what they need. Whoever those guys were in the black van might’ve saved those three men’s lives from someone who isn’t as patient with rednecks mouthing off.”

We nodded our heads in polite agreement.

*   *   *

In spite of being the FNG, I had my eyes on the next challenge: becoming a sniper. I was an adrenaline junkie for sure. SEAL Team Six wanted us to be in our individual color teams for three years before applying to become a sniper.

During the fall of 1992, I requested to go to sniper school. Our Red Team chief, Denny Chalker, told me, “You’re a great operator, but you haven’t been in the Team long enough. It’s an unwritten rule that we want you here three years before you go to sniper school. Besides, your boat crew leader doesn’t want to lose you.”

Red Team only had two snipers, though, and we needed four to six. My being a hell of a shot didn’t hurt matters. A week later, Denny said, “You know what? We changed our mind—you can do it. We’re going to send you and Casanova to sniper school.”

Although we would stay in Red Team, we would also become members of Black Team—the snipers. Casanova and I could’ve chosen from three schools. The SEALs had started their own little sniper school. The army had the Special Operations Target Interdiction Course at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The Marine Corps had theirs at Quantico, Virginia. I knew the Marine Corps sniper school would be the biggest kick in the nuts—like a mini BUD/S Training—but their school had the longest tradition, the most prestige, and, more importantly, the best reputation in the world.

*   *   *

So I went to Marine Corps Base Quantico, which covers nearly one hundred square miles near the Potomac River in Virginia. Also located on the base are the FBI and Drug Enforcement Administration academies. Tucked away in the corner of the base next to Carlos Hathcock Highway is the Scout Sniper School, the Marine Corps’ most demanding school. Among the few accepted to the school, only around 50 percent pass.

The ten-week course included three phases. On day one of Phase One, Marksman and Basic Fields Craft, we took the Physical Fitness Test (PFT), checked in our gear, and handed in our paperwork. Those who failed the PFT were sent home with no second chance.

After the cadre figured out which students stayed, we took our seats inside a cinder-block building with blacked-out windows and one classroom, called the schoolhouse, and received a general briefing about the course.

The next day, a gunny sergeant stood in front of us in the schoolhouse. He looked to be in his early forties with a marine high-and-tight haircut. He was a member of the President’s Hundred, the top one hundred civilian and military marksmen in the yearly President’s Match pistol and rifle competition. Our instructors also included combat veterans and laid-back gurus, cadre of the highest caliber.

“A sniper has two missions,” the gunny sergeant said. “The first is to support combat operations by delivering precision fire on selected targets from concealed positions. The sniper doesn’t just go out there shooting any target—he takes out the targets that will help win the battle: officers, noncommissioned officers, scouts, crew-served weapons personnel, tank commanders, communication personnel, and other snipers. His second mission, which will take up much of the sniper’s time, is observation. Gathering information.”

*   *   *

Out on the range, Casanova and I worked together, alternating between spotter and shooter. For rifles, we had to use the Marine Corps M-40, a Remington 700 bolt-action .308 caliber (7.62 × 51 mm) heavy-barrel rifle that holds five rounds. Mounted on the rifle was a Unertl 10-power sniper scope. I would shoot first, so I made sure the scope was focused. Then I adjusted the bullet drop compensator on my scope to modify for the effect of gravity on the bullet before it reached its target 300 yards away. If I changed distances, I would have to correct my dope again.

Casanova looked through his M-49 20-power spotting scope, mounted on a tripod. Without the tripod, the scope’s strong magnification causes the visual to shake with the slightest hand movements. Casanova used the scope to approximate wind speed, which is usually a sniper’s greatest weather challenge.

Wind flags can be used to estimate wind speed by their angle. If a flag is at an 80-degree angle, that number is divided by the constant 4—to get 20 miles per hour. Likewise, if the flag only waves at a 40-degree angle, 40 divided by 4 equals 10 miles per hour.

If no flag is available, the sniper can use his observation skills. A wind that is barely felt but causes smoke to drift is less than 3 miles per hour. Light winds are 3 to 5 miles per hour. Wind that constantly blows leaves around is 5 to 8 miles per hour. Dust and trash are blown at 8 to 12 miles per hour. Trees sway at 12 to 15 miles per hour.

A sniper could also use the spotting scope method. When the sun heats the earth, the air near the surface ripples in waves. The wind causes these waves to move in its direction. To see the waves, the sniper focuses on an object near the target. Rotating the eyepiece a quarter turn counterclockwise, he focuses on the area in front of the target area, which makes the heat waves become visible. Slow wind causes big waves, while fast wind flattens them out. This method of recognizing wind speed takes practice.

Winds blowing directly from left to right, or right to left, have the most effect on a shot. They are called full value winds. Oblique winds from left to right, or right to left, are designated as half value winds. Front to rear, or rear to front, are no value winds—having the least effect.

Casanova gave me the wind speed: “Five miles per hour, full value, left to right.” Three-(hundred)-yard range times 5 miles per hour equals 15; 15 divided by the constant 15 equals 1. I adjusted the horizontal reticle in my scope one click to the left. If I had two windage from the right, I’d adjust two clicks to the right.

I took my first shot at a stationary target—hit. After two more shots at stationary targets and two at moving targets, I became spotter while Casanova shot. Then we threw on our packs, grabbed our equipment, and ran back to the 500-yard line. As in the Teams, it paid to be a winner. Again, we alternated between taking five shots each at three stationary and two moving targets. Then we did the same at 600 yards. It’s tough to slow the breathing and heart rate down after running. At 700 yards, we hit three stationary targets again, but this time, the two movers would stop and go. At 800 yards, the two stop-and-go movers became bobbers, waving left to right and right to left. At 900 and 1,000 yards, the five targets remained stationary. Out of thirty-five rounds, twenty-eight had to hit the black. We lost a lot of guys on the range. They just couldn’t shoot well enough.

After the range, we returned to the schoolhouse and cleaned our weapons before doing a field sketch exercise. The instructors took us out to an area and said, “Draw a sketch of the area from the left wood line to the water tower on the right. You’ve got thirty minutes.” We drew as many important details as we could, and drew in perspective: Nearby objects are larger than distant objects; horizontal parallel lines converge and vanish in the distance. On the bottom of the sketch, we wrote down what we saw: patrol, number of 2.5-ton trucks (deuce-and-a-halfs), et cetera. The instructors graded us for neatness, accuracy, and intelligence value. Seventy percent or higher was a passing grade. Later, we would only have fifteen minutes.

A sniper also keeps a log to be used with the sketch, so he has a written record of information regarding key terrain, observation, cover and concealment, obstacles, and avenue of approach (summarized as KOCOA) in addition to his pictorial sketch.

We also played Keep in Memory (KIM) games. The instructor would pull back a tarp on a table and expose ten to twelve small items: spent 9 mm cartridge, pencil flare, Ziploc bag, pen, broken pair of glasses, photograph of someone, acorn, and other items that could fit on the tabletop. In ten to fifteen seconds, we had to memorize everything. Then we went into the classroom, grabbed a piece of paper, and drew everything we had seen. Finally, we had to verbally describe what we saw. Sometimes we used scopes and binoculars to report full-sized items at a distance. If, on a routine basis, I couldn’t remember 70 percent or more, I’d be kicked out. A basic skill of a sniper is being able to remember and report what he sees. We also had to “burn through” grass and bushes—find an observation post (OP) while grass and bushes obstructed our vision—using the vegetation to cover us from being spotted by the primary observation post.

In Phase Two, Unknown Distance and Stalking, those of us who remained after Phase One ran ten 100-pound steel targets out to distances between 300 and 800 yards. Because we didn’t know the exact distance to the targets, we had to estimate. First-shot hits scored ten points. Second-shot hits scored eight. There were no third shots. Upon completion, Casanova and I rearranged the targets and did it again. We had to maintain a 70 percent average over the three weeks of shooting to stay in the school.

In addition to shooting skills, sniper school also taught us about concealment. We had to make our own ghillie suits. First, we prepared our clothing: BDU tops and bottoms. Next, using high-strength thread that wouldn’t rot, such as 12-pound fishing line, we attached netting (example: a military hammock or fishing net) to the backs and elbows of our suits. Shoe Goo is even easier to use than needle and thread. Then we cut strips of burlap about 1" wide and 9" long and tied them with overhand knots onto the netting. We pulled lengthwise at the material from the end so the burlap frayed. Using a can of spray paint, we colored the burlap. Casanova and I added natural foliage from knee level or lower, which is where a sniper moves. Leaves taken from above would stand out on a sniper crawling low to the ground. We were careful not to add anything too long that might wave around like a flag. Leaves work best because they last the longest without spoiling. Grass spoils the fastest—in around four hours. Around the rifle buttstock, we wrapped an olive drab cravat and tied it off with a square knot to break up the weapon’s outline. Another cravat went around the barrel and scope, similar to wrapping an arm with a bandage. Attaching burlap straps broke up the cravat’s solid green color. Similarly, we camouflaged the M-49 scope, binoculars, and other gear.

On weekends, our time off, Casanova and I learned and practiced the art of invisibility. We worked on our ghillie suits. Then we wore the suits outside and lay down in different environments, trying to spot each other. Most spare hours were spent honing our invisibility skills.

Stalking caused the most students to fail. The location of each stalk varied, and we had to change our color schemes and textures to blend in. Optics came in handy during the stalk. The naked eye can scan the widest area. Binoculars can be used to take a closer look, yet maintain a relatively wide field of vision. The sniper scope usually allows a slightly closer inspection than the binoculars, but with a narrower field of vision. The spotting scope magnifies the greatest, allowing the sniper to investigate objects closely; however, the field of view is the narrowest.

The closer a sniper gets to the target, the more slowly he moves. At 2 miles to a target, the sniper stalks smoothly and quickly from cover to cover for a mile. He becomes stealthier for the next half mile, adjusting to how much cover and concealment the terrain provides. Within the last half mile to the target, the sniper’s movement becomes painstakingly careful—crawling low to the ground. The right hand only moves forward one foot in thirty seconds. Then the left hand moves forward just as slowly.

Sometimes previous stalkers leave a trail. The advantage of using their trail is that they already smashed down vegetation, saving precious seconds of easing each bush or blade of grass down.

Within three to four hours, we had to stalk a distance of 800 to 1,200 yards, arriving within 200 yards of the Observer in an OP. If the Observer spotted us with his spotter scope before we got within two hundred yards of our position, we only got forty points out of one hundred—failure.

If the Observer saw a bush move, he’d call one of the Walkers on the radio. “Walker, turn left. Go three yards. Stop. Turn right. One yard. Stop. Sniper at your feet.” Any sniper within a one-foot radius of the Walker was busted. Those who were busted usually hadn’t made it within 200 yards of him. The sniper stood up with his gun and walked to the bus. Fifty points—failure.

Upon reaching our final firing position, within 200 yards of the Observer, we had to set up our weapon and fire a blank at the Observer. If the sniper couldn’t properly ID the Observer, give correct windage or elevation, or shoot from a stable shooting platform, sixty points—failure. If we could do all that, but the Observer spotted the muzzle blast, he’d talk the Walker to our position and bust us. Seventy points—a minimum pass.

If the Observer didn’t see the shot, the Walker shouted out to the general area where he believed the sniper to be, “Fire the second shot!”

Most people got busted because the Observer saw brush movement from the muzzle blast on the second shot. Eighty points.

The final part of the stalk was to see if the sniper could observe a signal from the Observer. If the blast of the second shot moved the medium being shot through, such as twigs, grass, or whatever, and the sniper couldn’t see the Observer’s signal—ninety points.

“Target is patting himself on the head,” I said.

The Walker radioed the Observer, “Sniper says you’re patting yourself on top of the head.”

“Yep, good stalk. Stand up. Go to the bus.” Perfect stalk—one hundred points. We needed at least two perfect stalks out of ten, in addition to an overall average of 70 percent or better.

Even in fall, at 70 degrees, Quantico was still hot as hell while under the sun wearing a ghillie suit, pulling gear in a drag bag, and painstakingly creeping low on the ground. People dehydrated. After finishing the stalk, we had to go back and beat the bushes to find those who had passed out. We carried them back to the barracks.

Casanova and I stayed in a hotel room off base, while the marines stayed in the barracks across the street from sniper school. We were still on call. If our pagers went off and we had to bug out, we could leave without a lot of people wondering what was going on. Boy, we were prima donnas, having the best of everything—flying first class and renting a car for each pair of men. In our hotel room following a stalk, I had to check Casanova on the places he couldn’t check himself for ticks, which might cause Lyme disease. Left untreated, Lyme disease attacks the central nervous system. Casanova did the same for me. Nothing more intimate than having your buddy use tweezers to pull a tick out from around your anus.

It took me three or four stalks before the lights went on in my brain: Now I see what they’re trying to get me to do. Keep my overhead movement down. No shine, glare, or glitter. During one of my earlier stalks, I crept through a field of new wheatgrass. A kid came flying past me.

“Man, you’re moving too fast,” I whispered.

“I saw the Observer in my binoculars. He hasn’t had time to set up yet. I’m going to sprint up here and make up some distance before he starts looking for us.”

Dumb-ass.

He cut right in front of me—moving way too fast in a low crawl.

Damn.

“All snipers, freeze,” a Walker said.

We froze.

The Observer talked the Walker within a foot in front of me.

The kid was five feet ahead of me because he’d moved so fast.

“Sniper at your feet,” came the voice over the Walker’s radio.

“Yep. Stand up, Wasdin.”

You sonofabitch. What could I do? Go whining back to the instructor and say, “It really wasn’t me”?

Forty points. That hurt. Especially for the early stalks, every point mattered. I considered the possibility that I might fail because of this. It didn’t please me to imagine showing up at Dam Neck, Virginia, saying I failed sniper school.

Although the kid’s tactic was theoretically sound, doing it at my expense was unwise. Needless to say, I had a meeting with the kid back at the compound. “If you think that’s a good call because you see the instructor is not ready, you make it, but don’t you ever come crawling up beside me or in front of me like that again. If you get me busted again, we’re going to have a different type of conversation.”

He never made the same mistake again, and he graduated sniper school with my class.

Even after a sniper had enough points to pass, if he got busted on the same thing over and over, the instructors would fail him regardless of his score. Some guys failed because they couldn’t make their ghillie suit blend in with the environment around them.

Dude, we’ve had this class for a month now. We’ve been working on these suits since before we got to this course. Why can’t you go out there and look at the terrain and make your suit match it?

Some guys could make their suits match the environment but couldn’t stay flat. I saw so many asses in the air. Guys would crawl up next to a tree and think that the tree made them invisible. The instructors called it “tree cancer.” Their eyes would follow a tree down—linear, linear, bump at the bottom. What’s that tree got—a cancerous nodule there? Fail.

There was a lot more to sniping than just making a long-range shot. An Olympic shooter who could make the shot but couldn’t make the stalk wouldn’t be a sniper. At around stalks seven, eight, and nine, the instructors called out certain people. Even if those students could’ve made perfect scores on their final stalks, they wouldn’t have enough points to pass sniper school. We never saw them again.

I ended up with a total of eight hundred to eight hundred and fifty points out of one thousand—including the points I lost for the kid’s impatience.

Phase Three, Advanced Field Skills and Mission Employment, included a final op. Regardless of how well we did on the shooting range, sketches, KIM games, or stalks, we had to pass the final three-day op. The instructors expected a high level of maturity and independence from us. Snipers often work in pairs without direct supervision. They must be capable of making decisions themselves, which includes decisions to adapt in a fluid environment.

Under cover of night, during the final op, Casanova and I arrived at our FFP and made our sniper hide. First, we dug down four to six inches, carefully removed the topsoil and grass, and laid it to the side. Next, we dug a pit approximately 6' × 6' wide and 5' deep. At the bottom of the pit, Casanova and I dug a sump about 2' long, 1.5' wide, and 1' deep, sloped at 45 degrees to drain any rainwater or unwanted grenades. Also, to prevent the rain from caving in our hole, we lined the top rim of the pit with sandbags. Then we cleared away an area near the top of the hole where we could rest our elbows while spotting and sniping. After that, we covered our hole with logs, rain ponchos, rocks, dirt, and the sod we had placed to the side earlier. Finally, we created a rear exit hole, camouflaging it with fallen tree branches. Inside the exit hole, we placed a claymore mine to welcome any guests.

We kept a log of everything that went on at the target area, a house in the middle of nowhere with vehicles around it. A patrol walked over us but couldn’t see us. At one-hour intervals, Casanova and I alternated between spotting and sniping. We ate, slept, and relieved ourselves in the hole. The hard part was keeping one of us awake while the other slept. At night, we had to get out and go take a look at the back of the house. Listening to our radio at the designated time, we received a shoot window—the time frame for taking out the target: “The man in the red hat will appear at oh two hundred on November 8. Take him out.” A man with a blue hat showed up. Wrong target.

Before the op, Casanova and I prepared a range card, shaped like a protractor, of the target area. Upon arrival at our FFP, we modified it by adding details such as dominant terrain features and other objects. We divided the card into three sectors: A, B, and C. Using prearranged arm and hand signals, Casanova motioned that our target had arrived in Sector B, 1200 on a clock face, 500 yards away. Then he pointed at the location on the range card.

I acknowledged with a thumbs-up, having already dialed in my dope. My crosshairs rested on the chest of the mannequin with a red hat standing in front of a window. If I missed, I wouldn’t graduate sniper school. Casanova would still get his chance to make the shot, but I would fail. I calmly squeezed the trigger. Bull’s-eye. After taking the shot, we stealthily exfiltrated to our pickup point, which required land navigation with a map and compass—no GPS.

Back at the schoolhouse, Casanova and I gave a brief about what we saw on the way in, what we saw on the way out, and when we saw it. We used photographs and field sketches in our presentation. The possibility of failing sniper school still loomed over us.

The major told us, “You two gave an excellent brief. Your FFP was outstanding—one of the better ones I’ve seen. I personally walked on top of it. Your briefing technique was superb.” We breathed a sigh of relief. Of course our briefing technique was outstanding—we’d been doing it since BUD/S.

Unfortunately for the other sniper students, we were first, and ours was a tough act to follow. I looked around the room, and the marines were not looking forward to giving their briefs. One young marine was an excellent marksman, but the major reamed him so much that I felt bad for him. He had reenlisted to become a sniper. Both he and his partner were caught sleeping at the same time instead of keeping at least one awake in shifts. The lane graders busted them on their exfil. Their briefing technique showed no delivery skills. If a sniper can’t communicate what he saw, his information is useless. In the world of snipers, we call men like the two young marines “great trigger pullers.” Lots of people can pull a trigger. He and his partner would not be attending our graduation.

Dressed in our BDUs, we had an informal graduation. One at a time, our names were called to receive the diploma and the patch our class had designed. Until that point, we couldn’t have the patch, let alone wear it. Ours was cool: a skull with a hood and sniper crosshairs in the right eye—silver on black. In script on the bottom it read: THE DECISION IS MINE. A sniper decides the time and place for his target’s demise. The major awarded me my diploma. It wasn’t the diploma I wanted so much. Just give me my patch. He gave it to me. Our class also gave certificates of appreciation and copies of our patches to each of our instructors. They really earned them.

*   *   *

After sniper school, I returned home to Red Team, but I would only have a little time to spend with my family. At work, I immediately started learning how to shoot the .300 Win Mag with the Leupold 10-power scope. Going from shooting the marine 7.62 mm sniper rifle to shooting SEAL Team Six’s .300 Win Mag was like going from racing a bus to racing a Ferrari.

The KN-250 was our night-vision scope for the same weapon. Night vision amplifies available light from sources like the moon and stars, converting images into green and light green instead of black and white. The result lacks depth and contrast but enables the sniper to see at night.

Then we took a trip to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and began learning how to shoot the sound-suppressed CAR-15 while strapping ourselves outside helicopters on special chairs, like bar-stool swivel chairs with backs, attached to the helo’s skids. Getting up to speed on everything took a lot of time. This extended to communications—learning how to use the LST satellite radio with a special keyboard for sending encrypted burst transmissions.

*   *   *

Casanova, Little Big Man, Sourpuss, and I flew Down Under to train with the Australian Special Air Service. The flight took forever. We flew commercial, business class, from America’s east coast to the west coast. Then we flew to Hawaii. From Hawaii, we landed at Sydney Airport on Australia’s east coast. From there we flew across the continent to arrive in Perth, on the west coast. It was the longest flight of my life—worst jet lag I ever had.

In Perth, outside the Campbell Barracks, home of the Australian SAS, stood a monument to every Australian SAS soldier killed in the line of duty during training or combat—nearly forty names, many of them killed in training accidents. Inside the barracks, we stored our weapons in their safes, and they gave us a tour. In the evening, we stayed in town at a hotel on the Swan River. Although Sydney was the more popular destination, Perth cost less, had fewer tourists, and was prettier.

The Australian SAS sand-colored berets each bore a patch showing a metallic gold and silver winged dagger overlaid on a black shield. The major responsibilities of the Australian SAS—similar to the British SAS, which heavily influenced the creation of SEAL Team Six and Delta—included counterterrorism and reconnaissance (sea, air, and land). SEALs have a history of working with the Australian SAS that goes back to the Vietnam War.

When we hit the shooting range, the Australians focused on fast-moving targets at distances of 200 yards. We had trained more on longer-range static targets. They had semiautomatic .308 sniper rifles, while we used our bolt action Win Mags. When sets of four targets whipped past us, we manually operated the bolt-action to load each new round in our rifles, only able to take down half of our targets. Meanwhile, the SAS just kept pulling their triggers, the gas operation automatically loading each new round, as they knocked down all their targets. We sucked booty. I realized that in a fast-moving environment like urban warfare, it’s a good idea to have someone with a semiautomatic .308 for the 200- to 400-yard range. Our automatic CAR-15s were maxed out at the 200-yard range.

When we went out to 500 and 700 yards, it was the Aussies’ turn to suck booty. Their semiautomatics lost accuracy at longer range, while our bolt action rifles retained accuracy. We also had better optics.

I drilled a target at 725 yards. The SAS guy behind me called on the radio, “Did he hit that one?”

“Yes.”

I fired again.

“Did he hit that one?”

“Yes.”

Again and again and again … He shook his head, and that evening we went to a bar where he bought me a Red Back beer, an Australian wheat beer named after the infamous Australian female spider that eats the male while mating—and has been known to bite humans, injecting them with its neurotoxic venom. It’s a popular beer among the Australian SAS. “Excellent rifle, mate,” he said.

Days later, with ammo locked and loaded in our sound-suppressed CAR-15s, we ventured into the outback for ten days. One night, on a 20,000-acre ranch, we loaded onto the SAS assault Range Rovers. Each vehicle had a special ram over the front grille where a shaped explosive charge could be attached to blow open a door on contact. Then the operators could jump off of the vehicle’s rails and assault the building—an impressive assault to watch. The Range Rover could also drop smoke from the rear to cover its escape. While driving, we shot moving targets: kangaroos. The kangaroos would graze on the rancher’s land, threatening to destroy the fragile landscape, leaving little for his livestock to eat, and spreading disease. In contrast to cuddly stuffed kangaroos, especially when provoked or cornered, a wild kangaroo can grab a human with its front claws and disembowel him with its powerful rear claws.

Casanova, Little Big Man, Sourpuss, and I used NODs and Insight Technology AN/PEQ series infrared lasers mounted on our CAR-15s. Shooting from a moving vehicle at running targets is tough. I moved my laser with the kangaroos. From the SEAL vehicle, our guns went pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow.

Four SAS guys rode in their Range Rover. Pow.

The SEAL Range Rover sounded like the American Revolution. Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow.

The Australians went Pow.

We fired six times for every one of their shots. Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow.

The SAS thought we did a lot of spraying and praying—until we surveyed the damage, and they saw the carcasses surrounding us. For every kangaroo they killed, we killed six. “Wow, you SEALs have some good toys.”

The next day, the rancher came out and saw the carnage. “You boys did excellent work. Thank you!” He looked ready to give us an Australian high five.

Back at their headquarters, we sat in a beautiful meeting room. The operators poured us some of their own SAS-regiment-label port wine from their SAS winery. Over drinks, one of the soldiers told us that he’d operated out of the same camp during the First Gulf War as the British SAS unit Bravo Two Zero, which was an eight-man team sent to operate in enemy territory to report enemy positions and destroy targets such as fiber-optic communication lines. During the second day of their operation, a farmer driving a bulldozer spotted them. The SAS let him go instead of detaining or killing him.

Over the next few days, Bravo Two Zero survived several firefights before becoming separated. Iraqi civilian fighters killed Robert Consiglio. Vincent Phillips and Steven Lane died of hypothermia. The Iraqis captured Andy McNab, Ian Pring, Malcolm MacGown, and Mike Coburn (New Zealand SAS), who were later released. Chris Ryan evaded Iraqi troops for eight days, trekking over 200 miles to Syria, the longest escape and evasion by any soldier. During the thirty minutes of telling us the story, the SAS operator became teary-eyed, seeming to know one or more of the operators who died. His main message to us was, “If you’re ever compromised, it’s better to kill or tie up the person who sees you than to let him go.”

The Australian SAS treated us well. They taught us some stuff, and we taught them some stuff. We were all better for it—which is why exchanges are so beneficial. As General George Patton once said, “Thorough preparation makes its own luck.”