SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper (30 page)

BOOK: SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper

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I woke up at 1200 and boarded a helo with the PJs, Scotty and Tim, to do a “goat lab.” We flew south of the hangar and landed in a field with some goats we’d purchased from a farmer. I stood in the field with my back to a goat while the Delta surgeon, Major Rob Marsh, shot it. Then he’d say, “Go.”

I turned around and had to figure out what was wrong with the animal. Stop arterial bleeding, restore breathing with a trachea tube, patch up a gunshot injury, fix a sucking chest wound … He’d screw with us—shoot the gun up in the air a couple of times. I turned around and checked the goat for a gunshot wound but there wasn’t one. Turned it over and found a knife puncture wound on the right side of its lung. So I sealed the lung and put the good lung on top. Another time, Major Marsh had his foot on the goat’s hindquarters. When he lifted it, blood spurted like a geyser from a femoral artery. Very similar to the arterial bleeding of a human. So I stopped the bleeding. Of course, if we failed, the goat died.

Animal rights activists would be upset, but it was some of the best medical training I ever had. After we finished with the goats, we gave them back to the locals and they ate them. A small price to pay, especially in comparison to the millions of cows and chickens the world kills, for training so realistically in how to save a human life.

SEPTEMBER 24, 1993

The next day we were briefed on raiding a teahouse frequented by Colonel Abdi Hassan Awale (a.k.a. Abdi Qeybdid), Aidid’s interior minister. All four of us would handle prisoners, and, if needed, Casanova and I would assist Delta with the assault.

While waiting for our next mission, four Delta snipers, Casanova, and I hopped on two Little Birds and went on an African safari out on the plains—training. Armed with our CAR-15s, we sat on the skids of the helos and hunted wild pigs, gazelles, and impalas. I was the only one who shot a wild pig. We landed and picked up the pig with the other kills. For snipers, it was great training for shooting moving targets while flying. We returned to the hangar, where I cut out the tusk for my son, Blake. I didn’t think a tusk made a proper gift for my daughter, and there were no gift shops in Mogadishu, so I would have to find Rachel something later. I gutted the pig, skinned and cleaned it, and put it on a spit. Then we had a big barbecue for everyone—a welcome change from the MREs and cafeteria food.

* * *

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. It was time to blow off some steam. Volleyball, special ops style, is a contact sport. The officers challenged the enlisted men to a game. Before the match, we ambushed the officers. I helped snatch Delta Force’s Charlie Squadron commander, Colonel William G. Boykin. We put a
ROGUE WARRIOR II
tank top on him and flexicuffed his hands and feet to a stretcher. Delta shared my distaste for the Dick Marcinko
Rogue Warrior
nonsense. Then we took pictures of Colonel Boykin.

When Boykin was twenty-nine years old, he attempted to pass selection for Delta Force. Lieutenant Colonel “Bucky” Burruss didn’t think Boykin would make it with his bad knee. In addition, a Fort Bragg psychologist tried to reject Boykin for Delta because he was too religious. Boykin surprised a lot of people by passing selection to become a Delta Force operator. He served in the 1980 Iranian hostage rescue attempt, Grenada, Panama, and the hunt for Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar.

In the regular military, enlisted men don’t snatch commanding officers and flexicuff them to stretchers, but the special ops culture is different. For SEALs, the tradition of enlisted men training alongside officers goes back to our World War II frogmen ancestors. After we finished taking pictures of Colonel Boykin, he said, “I just wish you guys would’ve kicked the crap out of me instead of making me wear that tank top.”

SEPTEMBER 25, 1993

Even though we and the QRF pilots liked our Eyes over Mogadishu Mission, the upper echelon canceled our evening QRF flights, again. Military politics bounced this back and forth—some nights we were allowed to participate and some nights we weren’t—probably because someone above didn’t like sharing his piece of pie with Delta and the SEALs.

That night, Aidid’s militia used an RPG to shoot down one of the QRF helicopters. The pilot and copilot were injured, and three others died. Aidid supporters had mutilated the dead soldiers’ bodies while the pilot and copilot evaded capture. The Pakistanis and United Arab Emirates (UAE) forces secured the area within minutes, protecting the surviving pilot and copilot as well. Our PJs, with us in support, were ready to rescue the survivors within fifteen minutes, but it was the opinion of all of us in the hangar that the QRF leadership was too ineffectual to do their job properly and too proud to let us help. It took QRF’s Search and Rescue two hours to arrive. Totally unacceptable. Not only did the QRF leave their pilot and copilot vulnerable, they also endangered the Pakistanis and UAE forces protecting them on the ground. Where was the
quick
in the Quick Reaction Force?
If Casanova and I had been on that flight, we probably could’ve saved them.

Some in the military thought that this RPG shooting down a Black Hawk was a fluke. The RPG was made for ground-to-ground fighting, not ground-to-air. Aiming one at the air meant the back blast would bounce off the street and probably kill the shooter. Also, the white rocket trail marked the shooter’s position for helicopter gunfire to take him out. The Black Hawk seemed too fast and too well armored to be shot down by such a weapon. The military would be proved wrong.

SEPTEMBER 26, 1993

Next morning we stood by for a raid on the teahouse. If it didn’t go down, we’d shift to another mission. No sense spending all our time preparing for a dry hole.

One of Aidid’s lieutenants turned himself in to UNOSOM and said he was no longer an Aidid supporter. Now he’d be working for us.

In the evening, a .50 caliber antiaircraft weapon was being set up at the pasta factory, and the next day it was dismantled. Aidid’s people had seen how we operated on more than one occasion—and now they were preparing to shoot us out of the sky. They were smarter than we gave them credit for.

SEPTEMBER 27, 1993

Qeybdid and two other lieutenants were in the NBC building. We jocked up with the helo and ground forces, but we had to cancel the mission because Aidid was supposedly sighted elsewhere, and they wanted us to stand by to chase Elvis.

The CIA, SIGINT, and military counterintelligence took eleven guys into custody who were believed to be the controllers and launchers of the enemy mortar teams.

SEPTEMBER 28, 1993

We went to the memorial service in the 10th Mountain Division hangar for the three men who died in the QRF helo crash. Condor attended. After the service, he told me, “We’ve got a lot of targets, but all the military red tape and smoke prevents us from touching them.” He was clearly disgusted.

The QRF had difficulties working with Delta. Delta had difficulties working with the CIA. Beyond those difficulties were the problems within the United Nations, particularly Italy. The Clinton administration’s lack of support compounded the mess. The three QRF bodies were loaded onto the plane to fly home.

Later that day, although I didn’t want to, we got together with Delta on the runway for a group picture. I unhappily stood at the back of the group.
Why are we doing this? So someone can get a copy and target each of us individually?
I was told to do it, so I did. Looking back, I’m glad. It’s the only picture I have of my buddy Dan Busch, a sniper in Delta Force’s Charlie Squadron, standing next to me. It’s my only picture of others, too. Sometimes I look at this picture, which I keep in my personal office, and honor their memory.

SEPTEMBER 29, 1993

Wednesday, we received a brief that no hard intel was available, running contrary to what Condor had told me the day before. I flew out to the USS
Rentz
(FFG-46), a frigate carrying guided missiles, sailing off the coast, where I studied for my upcoming exam for promotion to E-7. When I returned to the hangar, I found out we had a mission in five minutes, but it was canceled.

The lieutenant colonel who had responsibility for Delta Force’s Charlie Squadron on the ground informed me of a plan to upgrade the compound to include air conditioners, tents, and trailers. There wouldn’t be any personnel rotation. We would leave when the mission was complete. I was slated for a signature flight with Sourpuss at 2200, but our bird broke before we could take off.

SEPTEMBER 30, 1993

The following day, outside, under the U.S. flag, instead of flying Delta’s flag, for the first time they flew SEAL Team Six’s flag, a black American Indian head on a red background. Little Big Man on his own initiative had carried it from the Red Team ready room with his other equipment to Mogadishu. When SEALs go somewhere, we surreptitiously let people know where we’ve been. While I was with SEAL Team Two, as we departed a Norwegian submarine, we covertly covered their dinner table with our flag. It would be nice to take a picture with the four of us and our Red Team flag draped across Aidid. Or if we caught General Garrison asleep we could tuck him into bed using our flag:
Garrison likes Delta, but he feels safer wrapped up in a SEAL Team Six security blanket.
Then we’d post the pictures in our ready room alongside the other photos. That would be big bragging rights for us.
Buy us beer for the rest of the year, suckers. While you stayed home going to driving school, look what we did.

Around noon, we received a report that Qeybdid had been sighted. We prepared to go, but the reconnaissance bird lost him, and we didn’t launch. Finding one man in the maze of Mogadishu was like finding a mole inside an elephant’s butt. We should’ve taken him when we had the chance before, but instead, we chased Elvis sightings.

Contrary to what the lieutenant colonel had told us the previous day, Commander Olson told us we would be rotating out two at a time.

That afternoon, a hammerhead shark attacked a soldier getting some R&R in waist-deep water at the beach. The soldier lost one leg up to the hip, the other leg up to the knee, and lots of blood. I lined up with others to give blood. He took twenty-seven units of blood. Unfortunately, someone put a breathing tube in his esophagus instead of his trachea. He wasn’t expected to make it through the night. Although he survived, he was brain dead—remaining in a coma. I don’t know who was more to blame, the shark or the person who put his breathing tube in wrong.

OCTOBER 2, 1993

In the afternoon, we geared up to hit Aidid at Sheik Aden Adere’s house. We stood on alert for three and a half hours. Aidid had been at the same house for four hours. Again, the CIA seemed to have a sure thing, but the hit didn’t go down. The Agency was furious.

OCTOBER 3, 1993

When I woke up, the CIA told me they wanted to set up a couple of repeaters in the Lido district of Mogadishu. An asset could use his handheld radio to transmit to the repeater, which could relay the transmission back to the army compound. Likewise, the base could transmit to the asset via the repeater. This would allow for stronger radio transmission at longer distances.

I wore desert cammies with body armor underneath, including the hard armor inserts. Over my cammy top, I put on a bandolier with ten magazines, thirty rounds in each, for a total of three hundred rounds. The bandolier gave me freer movement as a sniper, especially when in the prone position or standing up against something like a wall, than the bulkier web gear. Also, I wore my trusty Adidas GSG9 boots over my military olive drab wool socks. Cotton socks stay soggy wet in the desert, but wool pulls the moisture away from the skin. The evaporation process also helps cool the feet during the day. In the evening, when the desert becomes cold, wool keeps the feet warm. As a sniper, I didn’t wear knee pads or the Pro-Tec helmet of assaulters (because of various types of head trauma during the Battle of Mogadishu, JSOC would later change to an Israeli ballistic helmet). For communication, we wore bone phones with the durable waterproof Motorola MX-300 radios, capable of encryption, on our belts. The earpiece went behind the ear, so it wouldn’t obstruct our hearing. Two mike pads pressed against the trachea. The mike didn’t come out in front of the face, so while aiming, we easily settled a cheek to the butt of the rifle without interference. Of course, I carried water in the Camelbak. As usual, I carried my Swiss Army knife, which I used almost daily.

We rode Huey helicopters out to the Pakistani Stadium, then rode indigenous vehicles to two houses. After inserting the repeaters, we drove back to the camel factory on the beach, where the helos picked us up. I had no idea this was about to be the longest day of my life—and nearly my last.

PART THREE