8

Dam Neck, Virginia
January 12, 2011, 0812 Hours Local Time

It was cold enough in the shoot house that the SEALs could see their breath. The target villa was three stories high, perhaps forty feet to its roofline, and seventy feet in width. There was one door, right in the center, and no windows. There were two circles taped on the shoot house deck to indicate the fast-rope locations; in the center of each, a sixty-foot, soft, thick fast-rope was suspended from the ceiling. The platform from which the SEALs would drop was just over forty-five feet above the deck.

From the left side it was just over ten yards to the single doorway, a straight run at about a 40-degree angle. The right-hand circle was just to the right of a square perhaps twelve feet on each side, built out of eight-foot-high moveable wall sections. Troy walked over and—habit—pulled on the fast-rope. Secure. He checked the angle. From the right-hand circle, the door couldn’t be seen.

“Breachers and entry team have to see the door,” he called out. “So we drop left, Alpha right.”

Rebel grabbed the right-hand fast-rope and hoisted himself a couple of feet off the ground. “Makes sense.”

The first two assault elements broke into swim-team pairs and lined up to check equipment. They were jocked up in full assault kit: the newest model light ballistic helmets with dual-tube NODs—night observation devices—and talk-through Peltor hearing protection with boom mikes that were connected to their communications suite M-BITR radios.

Each assaulter had tailored his kit individually. Most favored lightweight plate-carriers with the stand-alone ceramic plates that made them more battlefield agile. Some wore CamelBak hydration-capable vests. Others had subload from which they attached pistols, magazine holders, and first-aid blowout kits. Other pouches held flexicuffs, rolls of tape, and other miscellaneous supplies.

The official issue handgun for the U.S. military is the Beretta M-9, a 9mm semiautomatic pistol. Almost universally, SEALs reject that pistol in favor of one they consider more reliable and accurate, the Sig-Sauer 226 semiautomatic 9mm pistol. At DEVGRU the pistols du jour were Sig 226s, loaded with 124-grain +p+ hollowpoint, and Heckler & Koch’s new .45 ACP semiauto, with Speer 200-grain +p hollowpoint. Both pistols were durable enough to survive a maritime environment.

Long guns were either HK416s, short-stroke, gas-piston-driven automatic assault rifles that fired the 5.56 NATO round, or, for working perimeters and stand-off, 7.62 LWRCI REPRs—gas-piston-driven rapid engagement precision rifles with 16.1-inch barrels, or the 12-inch barreled REPR JKW (joint kinetic weapon)—slung off a variety of slings, depending on each SEAL’s preferences and the mission requirements.

Altogether the assaulters’ gear weighed close to fifty-five pounds. It was bulky, and it could be cumbersome when a dozen SEALs were crammed into the fuselage of a helo. Especially when the goal was to get all twelve out of the helo and onto the ground in ten seconds or less.

The reason for the rush? To avoid vulnerability. As Admiral Bill McRaven wrote in Spec Ops, there is an area of vulnerability in every special operations mission during which the probability of mission completion can be compromised—compromised by what Clausewitz called la friction, compromised by the fog of war, compromised by Murphy’s Law. Whatever the cause, the longer that area of vulnerability exists, the more likely it becomes that things will go south and relative superiority will not be achieved. So, when getting boots on the ground ASAP was key, fast-roping was the most effective insertion method.

Basically, fast-roping is a controlled free fall. The operator goes out the helo and descends a rope using his hands as brakes. Thick leather gloves prevent rope burns—but not always. In fact, some fast-ropers have been known to adapt extra-thick welder’s gloves as their descent equipment of choice. The fast rope itself is an olive green, multiple strand, right-hand lay weave, soft-woven, multifilament polyester over multifilament polypropylene, with a diameter of one and three-quarter inches. It is known as a Plimoore fast rope. Plimoores come in four lengths: 30, 60, 90, and 120 feet, the most common being 60 or 90 feet. They have a tensile strength that exceeds thirty thousand pounds.

Today the SEALs would have it easy. They were dropping off a platform on a single rope, not a hovering helo and twin ropes, where the rotor wash could smack them onto the ground if the helo shifted, or toss them into the air as they ran through the wash vortex. Still, between the weight of what they carried and the cumbersomeness of it all, even this sterile exercise could end in injury. Fast-roping is, to repeat, a (slightly) controlled free fall. And the human body free-falls at 180 feet per second—more than 120 miles an hour—once it achieves terminal velocity.

Or, as Boatswain’s Mate First Class “Heron” Orth was fond of saying, “Ain’t gravity wonderful.”

0819 Hours

Dave Loeser came into the shoot house all geared up and carrying a thirty-gallon blue plastic garbage can. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled to get everyone’s attention. “Change of plans, guys.”

He dropped the garbage can on the cement deck. “Magazines, please. All ammo please.”

He waited as the twenty-four shooters cleared their weapons, extracted magazines from their pouches, belts, and thigh rigs, and dropped everything into the can.

“Check one another, please, and call clear when you’re done.” He watched as the SEALs patted one another down. Loeser looked over in Blair Gluba’s direction. “Hey, hey, Gunrunner, don’t get fresh with Rebel.”

“Not to worry.” Len Elliott towered above the short SEAL. “He can’t reach the good parts.” He looked down. “Can you, ankle biter?”

Gunrunner rolled his lips back over his teeth and growled.

Alpha 1-Team’s Myles Fisher, call-sign Fish, laughed. “Hey, we got our own Jack Russell.”

Cajun Mistretta’s arms were raised in a surrender position as Troy patted him down. “Hope Gunrunner have his shots.”

Fish: “Hope Rebel have his.”

Three minutes later, Loeser received a thumbs-up from Walker. “All clear, Boss.”

“Good.” Loeser pulled a BlackBerry out of his chest pouch. Two minutes later one of DEVGRU’s armorers walked in, wheeling a mobile storage cabinet.

Cajun was the first to get it. “Oooh, oooh, we gonna get the chance to shoot real people today, ain’t we, Boss?”

0824 Hours

The SEALs exchanged their HKs and REPRs for preconfigured Simunitions guns. They were the same size and weight, but the barrels were bright blue and were specially tailored for Simunition’s 5.56, primer-powered marking cartridges. Handguns were different. Marking cartridges came only in 9mm, and so Sig-Sauers and HKs were outfitted with Simunition kits that had proprietary barrels and lighter recoil springs.

“Saddle up, gents.” Loeser led the way up the ladder attached to the shoot house’s north bulkhead.

0845 Hours

Atop the platform the SEALs split into assault elements. Troy’s 6-Charlie broke into three pairs: T-Rob and Padre, the pairing Walker referred to as “Kindergarten SEALs,” Chief Quartermaster Jack “Jacko” Young with Cajun, and Heron with Alpha’s senior NCO, a tall, lean sniper with a wispy Fu Manchu mustache, Chief Gunner’s Mate (GUNS) Kerry Brendel, call-sign Rangemaster.

Loeser checked equipment. When he was satisfied, he called “Stand BY . . .” The shoothouse lights went out. “EXECUTE!”

Troy muttered, “Shit.” He dropped his NODs so he could see the fast rope. His left hand was on Cajun’s left shoulder; Padre’s hand was on his.

Troy was third in the stick. He moved forward as quickly as he could, following the breachers. Jacko hit the rope first. Disappeared. Cajun hit the rope, then Troy followed as Cajun’s head disappeared below the platform.

Hit the rope hard.

0.05 seconds. Hands up. As his arms go high, his rifle smacks the back of his head.

0.87. He can feel the heat start to build on his palms as the rope slides past his hands.

1.4. Brake-squeeze—heat.

1.6. Troy’s knees buckle as he hits the deck. He lands off balance, his NODs out of position.

Quickly he rolls to his port side, gets his night vision where it needs to be, and scrambles to his feet so he won’t get smacked by Padre.

Drops his thick gloves, retrieves his weapon.

4.8. Quick mag check. Senses Padre behind him.

5.9. Move toward door. Scan and breathe. Weapon up. Trigger finger indexed.

8.2. Door breached. Cut the pie. Clear. Make entry.

9.1. In. Go left. Scan and breathe. Furniture. Couch. Movement. “Gun!”

Head. Shoulders. An AK coming over the top of the couch.

Two-shot burst. Never stop moving. Head shots. Advance, advance, advance. Target down. Coup de grace as he goes past.

Keep moving toward the door on the left.

Padre’s voice in his ear. “EKIA.” Enemy killed in action. “Go door.”

Shots coming from their right. Breaching team has made entry and is engaging. Troy can hear their comms in his ears.

13.6. 1-Alpha has made entry and is proceeding to stairwell. Troy allows himself to think, We’re swarming.

17.4. At the door. No visible hinges. It opens inward. Paneled.

Padre’s hand on the knob. Troy’s head goes up-down once. Turn.

Locked.

Stand back. Kick.

Wood splintering. Door slams into far side wall.

Instinct: charge.

No: fatal funnel.

21.5. Light. Troy retrieves infrared flashlight from right chest pouch.

Cut the pie. Line of sight?

Clear. Ten-foot hallway. Door left six feet, second door left eighteen feet. Hallway ends in a T.

Troy starts to move forward. Stops. Shines the IR at the deck. “Deck clear.” He’s been checking for tripwires.

30.9. First room. Cut the pie. Scan and breathe. Troy edges slowly around the door jamb, his 416 up; Trijicon night-vision-capable sight bright. He keeps moving until he can see the whole room. It’s empty. “Clear.” He backs out of the room.

39.5. Padre leapfrogs Troy’s position. They move quickly down the hallway heel-toe, heel-toe, knees slightly bent, bodies angled slightly forward in an aggressive stance, the muzzles of their weapons absolutely rock steady. They are breathing steadily and their eyes never stop moving side to side, down the hall.

Padre’s muzzle is pointed directly ahead. Troy’s muzzle is parallel to Padre’s, eight inches off his right shoulder.

49.9. Second doorway. No door. Padre starts to cut the pie.

Troy’s peripheral vision picks up movement on the right side of the T, eight yards away.

Both eyes open, HK muzzle downrange, Troy’s left hand squeezes Padre’s shoulder.

Padre stops.

01:16.5 minutes. Troy’s finger is on the HK’s trigger. A hand appears, then an arm. Torso. Burka-clad figure at the end of the hall.

Padre’s flashlight is in his left hand. Shines a blue light down the hallway.

Troy: “Step out. Show us your hands.”

Burka-clad figure displays both arms, both hands. They are empty. Troy hears gunfire from above.

Can’t lose focus. They still haven’t cleared the second room. Can’t go past it. Make her come to us.

His hand on Padre’s shoulder. Pull Padre back. Quickly, they move backward until they reach the cover of the first room.

01:43.0. “Walk this way. Keep your hands in the air. LET US SEE YOUR HANDS!”

Burka-clad figure complies. When she is ten feet away, Troy shouts, “Stop!”

She complies.

“Turn around.”

She complies.

“Hands out where we can see them.”

No reaction.

“HANDS OUT WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

02:30.0. Finally, she shows her hands. There is nothing in them.

“BACK TOWARD US.”

She complies. Slowly. Way too slowly.

When she is within arm’s reach, Troy grabs her arms, pinions them, slaps flexicuffs on her wrists, forces her to the floor.

He drags her into the cleared room while Padre’s eyes and weapon never leave the hallway.

03:30.0. Troy has secured the flexicuffs with tape, bound the captive’s feet together, and taped around her legs at the knees. Once she’s been secured he pats her down to make sure there are no weapons or explosives. “Clear.”

03:55.0. They resume the search. Down the hallway to the second door. Cut the pie. Padre moves cautiously around the arc, HK up.

04:14.0. The muzzle of Padre’s HK is just past the plane of the doorjamb.

A burst of fire comes up from floor level. Stitches Padre from his waist to his right shoulder: six nasty pink marking round starbursts.

Transmit: “Padre down. Port side hallway ground level.” The sonofabitch was lying prone, up against the hallway wall.

Padre falls back. Troy already has a grenade in his hand. Pulls the pin, reaches around, lobs it into the room, drags Padre to safety.

Waits for the flash and the explosion. Starts to move down the hallway to the T, and then—

5:07.0. A whistle. Then: “Stand down, stand down,” in Troy’s headset.

The shoot house lights come up full.

The SEALs assemble in the landing area. They clear weapons, pull off their helmets, reach for the hydration hoses secured to their shoulder harnesses, and suck on water or sports drinks. It is forty-six degrees inside the shoot house, but every one of the two dozen SEALs has sweat through his uniform.

Troy shakes his head. “Not great.” He and Padre had fallen behind schedule almost from the get-go. There has to be a way to factor in prisoners and still maintain pace. And—worse—his shipmate got shot. In fact, of the twenty-four assaulters, five have telltale pink starbursts on their uniforms. That’s more than a twenty percent casualty rate.

Totally unacceptable.

0919 Hours

Dave Loeser dropped his gear on the deck. He’d been watching the exercise from the control room, a cargo container on a catwalk fifty feet above the deck. Night-vision-capable video cameras had taped the entire exercise.

He wasn’t happy with what he’d seen. The entire assault force had fallen behind schedule. They’d been slow to react. The Alpha SEALs took forever to get up the stairs—in fact, no one had made it to the third floor, where five role-players were waiting.

And no one in the assault force saw the sentry who was crouched behind the eight-foot-high square structure, and who’d shot two of the SEAL rear-guard security element.

But this was only the first time today they’d run this particular scenario. The role-player positions might change over the next several iterations, but the layout would remain the same. That’s what JSOC wanted, and that’s what JSOC would get.

More to the point, this was a teaching exercise. The Red Squadron CO understood two of the most basic principles of Warrior training: that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, and the more we sweat in training, the less we bleed in battle.

Which is why Loeser knew he had to go positive. Everyone knew they’d screwed up—he could see it in their faces. No need to rub it in.

So he started on a light note. “Here’s the good news, gents: we are making progress. No one shot themselves or their swim buddies.” He paused, looking at the pink starbursts on Padre’s multicams. “Although, I do see Padre was . . . blessed. Or is that, as they say in French, blessé, Padre?”

He waited for the laughter to subside. “But you know and I know we got a lot of work to do.” He paused. “First, let’s hear from the role-players, see what they thought of your performances and how they took advantage of you. Then you can critique yourselves, see what lessons we can take away from this. And then we can do it all over again. And again. Until we get it right.”