Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man by Dalton Fury
Authors: Dalton Fury
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reaction of shouting throughout the entire two-story log structure and then spilled to the other structures.
Within two minutes of the breaches, the sweet sound of victory squawked through my earpiece. “One-One, this is Charlie-One, PC [Precious Cargo] secure,” reported Grumpy, the Charlie Team leader.
I called back, “This is One-One, I understand PC secure, over.”
“Roger, we got him, building three, bottom floor secure. I need some assistance on the second floor.”
Grumpy was mature, quiet, and unassuming, a no-bullshit kind of guy who had been in Delta for seven years and had a general disdain for the chain of command. He told it like it was and didn’t pull any punches, not even for me. Normally unflappable, his calm request for “assistance” was his way of telling me to send another team to help him—
now!
In fact, at the time, he was locked in a hand-to-hand struggle with a pissed-off, twenty-something Afghan male. Grumpy was not in much danger, but his opponent believed that he was fighting for his life. Grumpy somehow had held the guy at bay with one hand, protecting both his M-4 assault rifle and his M-1911 .45-caliber pistol from his opponent’s frantic grasping, and found a moment to squeeze the push-to-talk button on his radio. Nobody would have blamed Grumpy if he simply ended the fight with a single ball round to the man’s forehead. The rules of engagement clearly authorized lethal force in this situation, but the seasoned Delta sergeant knew this guy would be of no intelligence value dead. Besides, the loud report of a gunshot would attract unwanted visitors from around the neighborhood. So the wrestling match continued.
Two of Grumpy’s teammates charged up the outside wood and mud stairs toward their next breach point, moving fast toward their designated portion of the target area. They jumped over the two brawlers without breaking stride, confident that Grumpy, an expert in jujitsu, could handle one unruly Afghan who weighed maybe 150 pounds.
They kicked a dilapidated door to the right off its hinges. Grumpy was proud that his boys were acting like trained professionals. Sure, they cared about their team leader; they simply had assessed the situation and moved on to the next door, just what he had taught them to do.
All of the structures were clear and secure within five minutes without a shot being fired.
The incessant wailing and screaming of the twenty-five to thirty women and children in the small group of buildings woke up the neighbors. We didn’t expect so many women and kids. They outnumbered us. We collapsed our northern security team to help in calming and controllingthem. From the south came the distinct rattle of an AK-47, but no shots landed near us.
From the north, two adult males slowly approached, apparently more out of curiosity about the screaming family members than with any idea that American commandos had caused the ruckus. One had a weapon slung over his shoulder, and with no northern security to intercept them, I leveled my M-4 at him and placed my infrared laser on his forehead. An instant decision was necessary:
Armed? Yes. Displaying hostile intent? No. They live
. I eased a bright green laser line a few inches above his head and squeezed off two suppressed rounds to get their attention. They had come far enough. Message received, the two men turned about and beat feet back the way they came.
In addition to Mr. Ahmed, four of his sons and brothers were found and secured. We had zero time for sorting out who was who, so they also would be taken with us and turned over to the Joint Interrogation Facility in Bagram. Even if some were completely innocent, they still had value, for their stories could be used to determine whether Ahmed was telling the truth or not during his own interrogation sessions. They could also be played one against the other or to corroborate each other’s stories.
Gadget relayed to the Delta commander. “Wrangler Zero-One, this
Within two minutes of the breaches, the sweet sound of victory squawked through my earpiece. “One-One, this is Charlie-One, PC [Precious Cargo] secure,” reported Grumpy, the Charlie Team leader.
I called back, “This is One-One, I understand PC secure, over.”
“Roger, we got him, building three, bottom floor secure. I need some assistance on the second floor.”
Grumpy was mature, quiet, and unassuming, a no-bullshit kind of guy who had been in Delta for seven years and had a general disdain for the chain of command. He told it like it was and didn’t pull any punches, not even for me. Normally unflappable, his calm request for “assistance” was his way of telling me to send another team to help him—
now!
In fact, at the time, he was locked in a hand-to-hand struggle with a pissed-off, twenty-something Afghan male. Grumpy was not in much danger, but his opponent believed that he was fighting for his life. Grumpy somehow had held the guy at bay with one hand, protecting both his M-4 assault rifle and his M-1911 .45-caliber pistol from his opponent’s frantic grasping, and found a moment to squeeze the push-to-talk button on his radio. Nobody would have blamed Grumpy if he simply ended the fight with a single ball round to the man’s forehead. The rules of engagement clearly authorized lethal force in this situation, but the seasoned Delta sergeant knew this guy would be of no intelligence value dead. Besides, the loud report of a gunshot would attract unwanted visitors from around the neighborhood. So the wrestling match continued.
Two of Grumpy’s teammates charged up the outside wood and mud stairs toward their next breach point, moving fast toward their designated portion of the target area. They jumped over the two brawlers without breaking stride, confident that Grumpy, an expert in jujitsu, could handle one unruly Afghan who weighed maybe 150 pounds.
They kicked a dilapidated door to the right off its hinges. Grumpy was proud that his boys were acting like trained professionals. Sure, they cared about their team leader; they simply had assessed the situation and moved on to the next door, just what he had taught them to do.
All of the structures were clear and secure within five minutes without a shot being fired.
The incessant wailing and screaming of the twenty-five to thirty women and children in the small group of buildings woke up the neighbors. We didn’t expect so many women and kids. They outnumbered us. We collapsed our northern security team to help in calming and controllingthem. From the south came the distinct rattle of an AK-47, but no shots landed near us.
From the north, two adult males slowly approached, apparently more out of curiosity about the screaming family members than with any idea that American commandos had caused the ruckus. One had a weapon slung over his shoulder, and with no northern security to intercept them, I leveled my M-4 at him and placed my infrared laser on his forehead. An instant decision was necessary:
Armed? Yes. Displaying hostile intent? No. They live
. I eased a bright green laser line a few inches above his head and squeezed off two suppressed rounds to get their attention. They had come far enough. Message received, the two men turned about and beat feet back the way they came.
In addition to Mr. Ahmed, four of his sons and brothers were found and secured. We had zero time for sorting out who was who, so they also would be taken with us and turned over to the Joint Interrogation Facility in Bagram. Even if some were completely innocent, they still had value, for their stories could be used to determine whether Ahmed was telling the truth or not during his own interrogation sessions. They could also be played one against the other or to corroborate each other’s stories.
Gadget relayed to the Delta commander. “Wrangler Zero-One, this
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