The Reaper: Autobiography of One of the Deadliest Special Ops Snipers (13 page)

“Whoa, dude. Calm down,” I told him. “We don’t have any intel yet. We don’t even have confirmation the plan’s a go.”

“I don’t care. I dream about doing this stuff.”

I had to agree. To that point, we hadn’t heard of any of our snipers doing this kind of operation in Afghanistan—extended time behind enemy lines, stalking and tracking.

Caleb and Julian were pissed.

“Why you two? Why do we get stuck with the regular operations?”

I felt bad for them, well, not too bad, and said, “I don’t make the rules. We got lucky and got into a lot of action right away, a bunch of kills. They want to go with the hot hands, I guess.”

“Roger that. Makes sense, but still.”

I couldn’t really sleep after hearing about this possibility, so I went to the TOC, the Tactical Operations Center, and on my way, I saw four of the RECCE guys, including Davis, outside their tent.

I couldn’t contain my excitement. I went over to them and said, “Hey, listen, I’m going down to the TOC. If you guys want to go with me, we can look at a few maps and get a better sense of what you guys want to do. As a sniper, I like to get a good feel for the environment and especially the terrain. The colors, you know. Have to bring the ghillie suit and need to camouflage our equipment. It is good to get a sense of the buildings, in case my range finder craps out, the batteries go—”

I realized I was rambling, but it was enthusiastic rambling and the RECCE guys agreed to join me. We spent the next few hours viewing maps and going over other intel they provided. Pemberton joined us, and I was really, really feeling good about things. This was what I’d joined the army to do, and now I was doing it. I was also impressed by one of the guys in the TOC. He wore a backpack with some kind of satellite receiver in it, and he had an earpiece through which he could listen to all different transmissions from the eyes in the sky to guys on the ground. He was helping us track this target’s movement and it was like we were getting updates in real time. I was so fired up, I decided not to wait to go to our platoon sergeant to fill him in and to get his permission to pursue this opportunity.

He was out of it that night, and I must have banged on his door for five minutes before he finally woke up. I started filling him in on what the plan was, going into a lot of detail. He listened patiently and then said, “Cool. No problem. Do what you have to do. We’ll get a couple of other snipers to go with us for the next few days.” I needed to let Sergeant Casey know what we were doing so he could grab the remaining two snipers from second platoon. It kind of sucked for them because they would then have to run ops for both their unit and mine.

Later the next morning, I reported to the commander and he was also very supportive. He just wanted to make sure that we were going to be safe and that our plan was a good one. We also had come up with a plan B, which he was glad to hear about, as well as backups for us in case things went sideways. He knew that we were a valuable asset, and having eliminated as many bad guys as we had to that point worked in our favor.

Pemberton and I spent the next three days packing and we kept debating the different priorities. We had to balance going light and suffering if we didn’t have the proper amount of food and clothing and water. We each ended up carrying eighty pounds of gear after experimenting with different proportions. I must have put my rucksack on the scale twenty times each day. The two of us were busy little dudes while everyone else in our platoon was taking it easy, walking around and calling home. We tried to keep a low profile, but when you’re packing your gear and stacking ammo all around, guys are going to be curious. We couldn’t tell them what we were up to, and that didn’t sit well with some of the guys. Just saying that we were going out with the RECCE guys fed into their desire to know. Fact is, even if I could have told them who we were going after, I wouldn’t have been able to. I didn’t even know the target’s name at that point.

Once the green button was pushed, Pemberton and I made our way over to our new teammates’ tent. My jaw dropped when I saw how many large bags these guys were going to bring along. They had portable satellite dishes and what looked like enough batteries to stock a Radio Shack store. I also noticed that they had native clothing, a
kameez,
a long dresslike robe, and a
pakol,
or rounded hat, that sat on top of long hair they’d dyed to better blend in with the locals. A lot of times the RECCE guys had to move among the population undetected. I thought that was kind of cool, going undercover, but it was something I didn’t think I’d be able to pull off myself. I was glad that I had one job. Take this target out.

The final version of the plan called for us to be out in the field tracking this guy. Once we had eyes on him, we’d call in a platoon to help support us. Whether it was going to be the guys in first platoon that Pemberton and I were with wasn’t clear. It was going to be a case of calling in whoever was closest to our location. I felt good about the plan, especially knowing that we had thirty-five to forty other Rangers who were going to be called in.

I was used to flying in Chinooks, but it was weird to just have six guys in a compartment as big as the ones Chinooks had. Usually you’re crammed in there, but all that empty space was a reminder that for the first part of this operation, tracking the target, we were on our own. Of course, we were going to be in constant communication with command, but still. Even the crew chiefs were a little surprised to see us. As we loaded onto the ramp with hundreds of pounds of gear, sniper rifles, and bearded men, one of them looked at us and asked, “Who are you guys? Delta, Rangers, SEALs?”

Derek, another of the RECCE group and their leader, looked at him and yelled over the sound of the turbines and rotors, “We’re just regular guys.”

The crew chief shook his head, knowing that he was being lied to and knowing that asking again wouldn’t do any good.

Things got a little worse just before takeoff.

Derek told us, “We’ve got a twenty-five-mile hike ahead of us as soon as we hit the ground. Get some sleep.”

I started shaking my head, and I know my eyes were wide as saucers.

From behind Derek’s beard I could see his teeth. “No, man. We’re meeting up with some marines. Stay with them for a bit, and operate out of their little camp.”

He went back to sit down and a minute later we were airborne. I heard the pilot swearing up and down as we took on mortar fire. He made evasive maneuvers and then climbed as rapidly as he could, getting us above the max ordinance where they thought the projectile could reach. Once I could feel that we’d leveled off, I unclipped my safety line and tried to get some sleep. I shut my eyes and reviewed the maps in my mind. When we got the one-minute out call, I staggered up to one knee, struggling with all that gear I had in my ruck. I took one more look at the terrain below us. I couldn’t see any structures at all, and I wondered how those marines could be out there in the middle of nowhere.

As we were offloading, a marine came up to Davis and asked him who we were. Before he could respond, the marine said, “Don’t tell me. Delta Company. SEAL team 6, right?”

The guy knew the drill; special ops guys couldn’t tell anybody else who they were. Shrugging into my pack, I looked out across the way and all I could see was one small building that looked like it was surrounded by impact holes from mortar rounds, about six feet in circumference. Out of the rotor wash, one marine emerged from the dust cloud wearing nothing but a T-shirt and underwear. He had a lit cigar clamped between his teeth.

“Hey, guys, welcome to our little home. Just follow me. We’re going to get you guys situated.”

As we made our way toward the building, I noticed that in each of those holes, someone was sleeping. I saw them there, and I thought I’d never again complain about the air-conditioning being too cold or not cold enough or the chow not being as hot as it should be. These guys had it rough. After the marine in charge led us into the building, we all stood there looking around at nothing much.

He gestured around the single room with its bare floor and four walls.

“This is the spot, guys. You can do whatever you want in here. I know you are going to be in and out all the time. Don’t worry about my guys asking you any questions, they get the drill. Just do what you have to do and good luck.”

With that, he left us, leaving behind a trail of cigar smoke.

The RECCE group began to immediately set up the comm links and satellite equipment, making calls and consulting their laptop. I heard them checking in to let the commanders know that we’d landed and passing along our coordinates. I immediately grabbed my 550 cord—a rope that could support that much weight—and started stringing up a hammock-type sleeping spot. Calling it a “sleeping spot” isn’t very accurate. Torture rack would be better. Even though I’d brought hundreds of feet of the stuff, there still wasn’t enough to make a really solid surface. I remember my mom buying a beef roast that was all trussed up with string, and when she cut that away, there were all these indentations in the meat. Well, that was what was happening to my body, and that meant my circulation was being cut off.

I don’t know if I would have slept much even on a decent bunk. I was wrapped up in paying attention to the comm device. I wanted to keep track of what was going on back with our guys in the first. There was a whole lot of static and fits and bursts of sound and flashes on the display. I kept seeing TIC come across the screen and my heart raced. TIC stood for “troops in contact.” That meant that our guys were either taking fire, firing on the opposition, or in most cases, exchanging fire with the enemy.

All I could think of was that I was out there in the middle of a hot Afghan summer, tired, hungry, and sore, and those guys were getting into some really cool action. For the first three days, we’d gone out on a couple of patrols, going to locations based on what the RECCE guys had seen on their laptop. The recon stuff didn’t last all day, and I spent most of my time messing with my gear and hearing and seeing TIC coming in. Those guys back there must have gotten into a bunch of stuff, because at least ten to fifteen times those three little letters kept teasing me.

I was concerned about the differences in terrain we might have to operate in, so I was spray painting my weapon, my clothes, in an attempt to do a better job of blending in. Finally, after four days, we got orders that the third platoon was going to work in support of us. We were to mount up in a truck and travel to another Marine base where our Ranger buddies would be. As we were rolling along in the truck, I noticed all these red markers sticking up out of the ground on both sides of our path of travel. I asked the driver what they were.

He looked startled and said, “That’s where the land mines are. This whole area is mined. Leftovers from when the Afghans and the Soviets were going at it. We can’t veer left or right, otherwise we’d be right in the middle of them.”

“You kidding me?”

“Hell, no.”

“So, if we start taking hits, I can’t even get out of this rig and lay down effective fire?”

“That’s right. Unless you want to get your ass blown up. I’m going to just keep on driving and get us out of here.”

I looked around me. All we had for protection was the canvas top. It was a long twenty-five minutes until we arrived at the base, a small mud-and-concrete Afghan school. A large group of marines had also just arrived and they gave us a hand unloading.

I said to Pemberton, “I’ve got some of my own unloading to do.”

“Yeah.”

“Finally,” I said. “Three days is a long time. Maybe that truck ride shook it loose. MREs.” Pemberton laughed, knowing that between us those letters didn’t stand for “meals ready to eat” but “meals refusing to exit.”

I got to experience my own
Platoon
moment, relieving myself in a cardboard box the size of a phone booth, pouring gas on it, and then watching later as a marine rolled out a barrel of our collective waste and set fire to it. Guys were walking around shirtless and sweating, and even though there weren’t any palm trees around, I could have sworn I was in Vietnam someplace. Only we weren’t going to be greeted by the smell of napalm in the morning, we were going to come under serious fire from the Taliban. The marines filled us in, letting us know that every morning at around five, just before sunup, we’d come under attack. The same thing had been happening day after day regular as clockwork.

I found Pemberton and let him know my plan. We’d set up a hide site and when those bad guys came in to fire on the school, we’d take them out.

“I’m in.”

Not only was Pemberton in, but the Marine captain was as well. That was after he became comfortable with the idea that it wasn’t going to be an entire platoon of Rangers, just me and Pemberton. At first he said, “You’re just going to go into an established village with known Taliban members and kill them just to help us out?”

“That’s the plan.”

In the end, we figured it was best to take a RECCE guy with us to keep comms in place and to notify chain of command what was going on, both back at the Marine base and with our Ranger platoon.

It had been ninety-six hours since I’d gotten anything near decent sleep, and I’m sure that contributed to the surreal impressions that night left me with. The sun was angling lower and Pemberton and I put on our ghillie suits and headed out along with McDonald to set up that hide site. In the low light, night vision wasn’t as effective as it could have been, and I found myself staggering a bit. I led the formation out of the back of the Marine compound, and I immediately picked up a scent. With the wind at my back, Pemberton and McDonald were leaving a scent trail as strong as anything I’d ever smelled. I knew that I was no spring breeze myself, and in that case that was a good thing. Blending in with your surroundings meant doing so in every way possible. Fresh soap smell or a clean body was a sure giveaway.

We crept along, going about as slowly as I ever had on any march, and the quiet was almost overwhelming. Knowing that there are other armed personnel out there who are bent on getting at you is a weird feeling, especially at night. It’s like your thoughts expand to fill up all the darkness, the blank black chalkboard ahead of you. I spotted a small outbuilding at one point, and thought it offered a good view of a wide-open field anyone coming toward the marines’ position would have to cross. We’d have plenty of time to put eyes on them and communicate with the marines. I wanted McDonald to enter the building first. He had an M4 assault carbine and it was the best weapon to use in that confined space. He also had a thirty-round magazine and a suppressor, all tactically superior for that application than my twenty rounds and my 308. Pemberton was behind us with his monster Win Mag, and I knew that if it came to him having to fire off rounds in that building, we were maybe beyond worst-case scenario and into some serious, serious trouble.