KBL (44 page)

45

Hassan Town, Abbottabad, Pakistan
May 1, 2011, 2255 Hours Local Time

Charlie Becker rolled off the pallet he’d been using as his bed and onto the rug-topped dolly. He patted himself down in the old “spectacles, testicles, watch, and wallet” mode. Knives, check, check, check. Phone, check. Fireflies, check.

That was it. The begging bowl would be left behind. Charlie didn’t want any extraneous souvenirs from this particular TDY. The memories, he decided, would be quite sufficient.

Especially if tonight’s festivities went as planned.

He flipped his phone open and checked the time. It would take him one and a half hours to reach the end of the four-hundred-plus-meter street on which the Khan compound stood. He’d been instructed to be on-site at 0100.

Piece of cake. In fact, he planned to get there early, so he could check the compound and make sure nothing was amiss, then watch them come in. Charlie pulled himself onto the dolly, took padded sticks in hand, and cast off into the night.

46

Special Operations Apron, Jalalabad, Afghanistan
May 1, 2011, 2310 Hours Local Time

“Dave, you’re replacing Jack Young on Chalk Two, right?” Tom Maurer checked the watch on his left wrist. “We’re twenty minutes from Start Point.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.” Dave Loeser grinned as he headed toward the stealth Black Hawk to check that everything was shipshape. He’d ridden Chalk Two during most of the Fort Knox JTXs and could easily step into the injured SEAL’s position. He was pumped. He had expected to be included, but as part of the command package on the enabler helo. Now he’d been made an assaulter. It didn’t get any better than that.

Even though he was Red Squadron’s commanding officer, tonight Loeser would be working for Master Chief Danny Walker, Hotel 53’s assault leader, call-sign Jackpot. It made sense. Loeser had gone on perhaps a dozen capture/kill missions in the past year and a half. In that same timeframe, Jackpot had almost a hundred under his belt.

The SEALs were all jocked up now: lightweight ceramic body armor in hydration-capable carriers, Gen-III helmets with NODs. Their 416 magazines were loaded with heavy, solid 70-grain Barnes TSX rounds that worked so well in the AFPAK theater, their Sig-Sauer 226s held +P Speer Gold Dot 124-grain loads. The two breachers, 6-Charlie’s Heron Orth and 1-Alpha’s Myles Fisher, wore their breacher kits high on their chest, above the magazine pouches, as did the two Ranger breachers.

The assault element personnel would be cross-loaded. Each of the Black Hawks would have breachers, Rangers, snipers, and assaulters. That way, if one of the helos went down, there would still be enough personnel and equipment to get the job done and get out safely.

Maurer checked his watch again. Things were going relatively smoothly. The FAARP was ready to fly to a safe location within thirty-five minutes’ flight of Abbottabad. There were a total of five Sentinel drones in the air. He could get the secure feed from the one dedicated to the Khan compound on the tablet computer in his thigh pocket.

He watched as the assault package made its way to their respective aircrafts. Their radios had been synched so that the entire group could talk back and forth. Their comms would be piped back to the JOC, where Wes Bolin and Eric McGill would watch the Sentinel feed.

The Sentinel feed would also go straight to the White House, where Air Force Brigadier General Joseph Franklin, Bolin’s deputy, was set up in a small annex adjoining the Situation Room. And the feed went to Langley, where Stu Kapos and Dick Hallett would monitor it in the CIA operations center, and to JSOC’s National Capital Region Task Force Command Center in Pentagon City, Virginia.

Maurer turned back toward the JOC to see Wes Bolin and Eric McGill coming at him. The admiral was carrying a secure phone, which he handed to the SEAL.

“Call for you,” Bolin said.

Tom put the unit to his ear. “This is Captain Maurer.”

Wes Bolin enjoyed watching the younger man’s reaction. It was, he thought, wonderfully genuine and also well-deserved.

Maurer said, “Thank you, Mr. President. We will. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He handed the phone back to Bolin, his eyes still wide with surprise.

“Go to work, Tom,” Bolin said. “Do it right. Make it look easy.”

“The only easy day was yesterday, sir.”

“Hoo-yah, Captain. Good hunting.”

Special Operations Apron, Jalalabad, Afghanistan
May 1, 2011, 2330 Hours Local Time

Chief Warrant Officer Tom Letter, the lead SOAR pilot, started the mission clock at precisely 2330, as he lifted Chalk One off the ground. Delivery in Abbottabad would be 0100, plus or minus thirty seconds. Chalk Two followed immediately. Less than half a minute later, the enabler aircraft, an MH47-G containing the command group, JMAU, SSE, and OGA contingents, lifted off. It was followed by a nonstealth Black Hawk holding four SEALs and nine Rangers. The security craft would drop off when the assault package crossed the border and head for the FAARP.

The stealth MH60Js headed almost due south at an altitude of four thousand feet, until they passed over the U.S. Forward Operating Base at Shahi Kowt. That was Hotel 53’s first checkpoint.

2337 Hours: Tom Letter spoke into his secure radio. “Buick.” He banked the aircraft left, running parallel to the power lines eight miles to his north and gradually gaining altitude as he headed for his second checkpoint at Tawr Kham, thirty-three miles southeast. It was a natural border: a mountain range that formed the crooked spine between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Thirty miles south of Tawr Kham, the mountains reached more than eleven thousand feet. Here there was a natural dip. Letter climbed to ten thousand feet, and the top of the ridge passed safely, thirty-three hundred feet below the helicopter.

2359:37 Hours. “Cadillac.” Letter grinned inwardly. They would cross into Pakistan in twenty-six seconds. Whoever had given the checkpoints these names certainly had a sense of humor.

They’d go stealth now, running fast and low, threading the needle between Pakistani air defense zones and military commands. Far behind, the FAARP aircraft were leaving Jalalabad for their forward basing location. Thirty-three miles to the southeast lay his third checkpoint. The mountain ridge was dropping fast. Letter descended slowly so he could hug the ground.

0002.33 Hours. Master Chief Danny Walker listened to the pilots’ chatter on his headset. As the assault leader, he was the only non-aircrew on the helo who was wearing one. The SEALs and Rangers were holding their helmets and hearing protection as they sat, crammed together on the Black Hawk’s deck. Because this was a stealth aircraft, it flew with its hatches closed. Normally, between the engine noise and the wind, it would have been impossible to hear anything. Tonight, however, the SEALs could shout in one another’s ears and actually catch a word every now and then.

He’d heard Tom Letter call “Feet dry” when they’d crossed the border. They were in Pakistan now. He checked his watch. Less than an hour to target.

Then, in his ear, another voice. It was Captain Maurer, transmitting from the enabler.

“CONOP Hotel 53 this is X-ray Romeo One. Target Undertaker was incorrect. New Target tonight is Target Geronimo, also known as Crankshaft.” There was a pause on the line. “Please confirm.”

Danny Walker: “Hotel 53 Jackpot confirm.”

From Chalk Two: “Hotel 53 Rangemaster confirm.”

For one of the few times in his life Danny Walker was actually surprised. He unplugged his headset from the bulkhead, knelt down, and shouted at the troops. “New Target! Call-sign Geronimo.” He saw their puzzled reactions through his NODs, grinned, and shouted, “That’s Crankshaft, gentlemen!”

“UBL! We’re gonna hit UBL!”

“Pontiac.” T-Rob put his red-lensed flashlight on the GRG map he wore on his left forearm. They had passed the third checkpoint. They were just about a hundred miles deep into Pakistan now. Just south of Campbellpore. East of the Indus River. Soon they’d be swinging north, passing Checkpoint Chevy, threading the needle between Islamabad, hiding in narrow valleys between the mountain ridges. That’s where it would get bumpy.

But he didn’t care if half the package heaved big chunks. They were going after Crankshaft. This wasn’t just another mission, it was the mission of a lifetime. Son Tay. Eagle Claw. Entebbe. All the special operations he’d read about in
Spec Ops
. This is what he and Padre and every single SEAL in Red Squadron lived for, had become SEALs for, endured Hell Week for.

Not that the other missions weren’t special. They were. But this was something else. This was a whole fricking different universe. This was the asshole who’d killed thousands and thousands of Americans. The guy the whole world—well, a good part of it, anyway—had been hunting for ten-plus years. The high-value target that scores of SEALs, Rangers, and other special operators had given their lives trying to find.

Now it was payback time. And—luck of the draw—it was Red Squadron who’d gotten the call, and 6-Charlie and 1-Alpha who’d be the assaulters.

Troy sat there in that incredible aircraft noise, his mind churning.

And then he prayed.

He thanked God for giving him the chance to be in this particular spot, at this exact point in time.

Thanked God for his great shooting skills and the strength of character to have made it through BUD/S.

Thanked God for the blessing of these incredible shipmates, who were also being blessed with His bountiful generosity tonight.

And for an incredible wife and a glorious child and another on the way.

A child who’d be born into a safer world because on the day his new baby drew its first breath, months would have elapsed since Crankshaft drew his last.

It was . . . incredible.

God, Troy thought, is indeed great.

And yet, when he thought about it, there was something else going on that was even more incredible.

Which was this: CONOP Hotel 53 was just another three helicopters full of anonymous SEALs going out to do one of eight, nine, ten, a dozen HVT capture/kills tonight. Except for the significance of the target—which was, he had to admit, a pretty cosmic damn thing—this was just another mission. Another night he couldn’t talk about to anyone—except the other people on this Chalk and his shipmates back at Dam Neck. But bottom line? UBL was just another HVT who wouldn’t be breathing anyone’s oxygen tomorrow morning.