13 Hours: The Inside Account of What Really Happened in Benghazi by Mitchell Zuckoff Page A
Authors: Mitchell Zuckoff
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engaged in brutal trash-talking that inevitably began with the phrase, “Your momma,” and ended with anatomically impractical suggestions.
As a running joke, during meals or just walking through the Annex, one would randomly call out the cliché line from every bad horror or war movie: “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” They read, talked, watched pirated movies on CDs purchased from local shops, called and sent e-mails home, worked out, ran, and napped. Jack called his bed a “time machine,” because every hour of shut-eye transported him one hour closer to returning to his family. That desire became more intense following a Skype session with his wife shortly after Jack arrived in Benghazi: She surprised him with news that she was pregnant. His excitement was tempered by the thought of another mouth to feed, another college education to plan for, and above all, another person relying on him to get home safely.
Jack’s nonwork routine also included regular visits to a large olive tree next to Building D that was home to a neon-green praying mantis almost as big as his hand. The tree had a flytrap with a one-way opening on top, so flies luredto the bait couldn’t get out. Jack watched up close as the giant mantis perched motionless above the opening, blending with the leaves. The moment its prey landed, the mantis would strike, snatching the fly with its spindly front legs, then devouring it. The mantis had a bulging stomach, testament to its speed and the endless food supply. Between flies, the mantis often turned its triangular head and calmly watched Jack watching it. After the mantis had eaten three or four flies, it would leave its spot at the flytrap buffet and climb higher into the tree. The mantis fascinated Jack, who considered it like a pet. Yet, in a hostile city where Americans made ripe targets for radical extremists who could blend effortlessly with their surroundings, Jack also could identify with the flies.
While Jack studied the mantis, Tanto had a different way of killing time between moves. Walking through the Annex, he’d pass a security camera and break into a wild dance, then resume walking as though nothing had happened. Tanto also enjoyed getting to know the Libyans they hired as local guards. One regularly hit him up for candy bars, so Tanto nicknamed him “Snickers.” Tanto kept his new pal well supplied, then watched as the formerly skinny guard grew a spare tire. “You try to befriend them so at least they’re a damn speed bump if we get attacked,” he’d say. “It’s a hearts and minds thing.”
Tanto had strong opinions on most things, none stronger than his views on the best kind of operators in a place like Benghazi: “Guys that are ramped up all the time are not good GRS operators. They won’t last at the job. You have to be able to associate, go to a restaurant and be out in town, go walk and order a paper, go order a coffee. If you’re always looking like you’re about ready to get in afight, the locals will pick that up quicker than shit. But also you can’t be so low key that when the shit hits the fan you can’t turn that light switch on and go a hundred miles an hour.” Tanto prided himself on being able to go “from zero to a hundred in five seconds, if not quicker.”
Usually every Friday, American security team members from the Special Mission Compound drove to the Annex for a status update and to talk about the week ahead. The visitors were members of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, known as the DS, the law enforcement and security arm of the State Department. Congress created the bureau in 1985, as part of a response to the 1983 bombing of the US Embassy and Marine Corps barracks in Beirut. Another impetus was the 1979 abduction of Adolph Dubs, the US ambassador to Afghanistan. Dubs died during a rescue attempt. No American ambassador had been killed in office since then.
Inside the United States, more than two thousand DS officers worked for
As a running joke, during meals or just walking through the Annex, one would randomly call out the cliché line from every bad horror or war movie: “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” They read, talked, watched pirated movies on CDs purchased from local shops, called and sent e-mails home, worked out, ran, and napped. Jack called his bed a “time machine,” because every hour of shut-eye transported him one hour closer to returning to his family. That desire became more intense following a Skype session with his wife shortly after Jack arrived in Benghazi: She surprised him with news that she was pregnant. His excitement was tempered by the thought of another mouth to feed, another college education to plan for, and above all, another person relying on him to get home safely.
Jack’s nonwork routine also included regular visits to a large olive tree next to Building D that was home to a neon-green praying mantis almost as big as his hand. The tree had a flytrap with a one-way opening on top, so flies luredto the bait couldn’t get out. Jack watched up close as the giant mantis perched motionless above the opening, blending with the leaves. The moment its prey landed, the mantis would strike, snatching the fly with its spindly front legs, then devouring it. The mantis had a bulging stomach, testament to its speed and the endless food supply. Between flies, the mantis often turned its triangular head and calmly watched Jack watching it. After the mantis had eaten three or four flies, it would leave its spot at the flytrap buffet and climb higher into the tree. The mantis fascinated Jack, who considered it like a pet. Yet, in a hostile city where Americans made ripe targets for radical extremists who could blend effortlessly with their surroundings, Jack also could identify with the flies.
While Jack studied the mantis, Tanto had a different way of killing time between moves. Walking through the Annex, he’d pass a security camera and break into a wild dance, then resume walking as though nothing had happened. Tanto also enjoyed getting to know the Libyans they hired as local guards. One regularly hit him up for candy bars, so Tanto nicknamed him “Snickers.” Tanto kept his new pal well supplied, then watched as the formerly skinny guard grew a spare tire. “You try to befriend them so at least they’re a damn speed bump if we get attacked,” he’d say. “It’s a hearts and minds thing.”
Tanto had strong opinions on most things, none stronger than his views on the best kind of operators in a place like Benghazi: “Guys that are ramped up all the time are not good GRS operators. They won’t last at the job. You have to be able to associate, go to a restaurant and be out in town, go walk and order a paper, go order a coffee. If you’re always looking like you’re about ready to get in afight, the locals will pick that up quicker than shit. But also you can’t be so low key that when the shit hits the fan you can’t turn that light switch on and go a hundred miles an hour.” Tanto prided himself on being able to go “from zero to a hundred in five seconds, if not quicker.”
Usually every Friday, American security team members from the Special Mission Compound drove to the Annex for a status update and to talk about the week ahead. The visitors were members of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, known as the DS, the law enforcement and security arm of the State Department. Congress created the bureau in 1985, as part of a response to the 1983 bombing of the US Embassy and Marine Corps barracks in Beirut. Another impetus was the 1979 abduction of Adolph Dubs, the US ambassador to Afghanistan. Dubs died during a rescue attempt. No American ambassador had been killed in office since then.
Inside the United States, more than two thousand DS officers worked for
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