Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man by Dalton Fury Page A
Authors: Dalton Fury
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is Rascal-One. One-One sends PC secure. No casualties. Request exfil in ten minutes. Leaving with PC plus four crows. Over.”
The JOC exploded in applause and high fives and smiles flowed around the tent. They all had worked many long hours to make this happen. But we were far from being mission complete—essentially with all friendly personnel safely back at our sleeping tents and the precious cargo turned over to competent authority.
As the troop sergeant major, Stormin’, prepped to get everyone out of Dodge, I moved down the ridge to our primary helicopter pickup zone with Jeff, the combat controller. The spot had been chosen from studying recent imagery and we knew it would be tight. Jeff stepped off the dimensions of the area until he reached the end of the terrace, where he waslooking down a ten-foot drop to the next terrace. He shook his head, unhappy with what he saw. It was going to be extremely difficult to get the black MH-47 Chinook helicopter into such a tight spot, and he walked over and asked my opinion.
“Hey, brother, this is your ball game,” I replied. “Is it going to work or not? If you don’t think it is, we’ll move to the alternate. Trust your instincts.”
“Roger that,” Jeff coolly responded. “I’ll bring her in here.”
As we waited for the distinct thumping sound of double rotor blades, Stormin’ moved the teams down the hill, closer to the pickup zone, along with the five captives, who were barefooted and hooded, with their arms flex-tied behind their backs. A few were noncompliant, requiring the boys to use a few come-along techniques. A little well-placed pain goes a long way.
When they were seated on the ground, Crapshoot, our Alpha Team leader, approached Ahmed, grabbed a handful of the black cloth hood and raised it high enough to clear the eyes. Crapshoot leaned to within inches of the Afghan’s face and peered directly into his eyes.
“
You are Usama bin Laden
!” Crapshoot barked in the face of the middle-aged Afghan.
Ahmed’s eyes went wide with astonishment and he protested, “
No! No! No! Me Gul Ahmed!
”
“Thank you. Just checking,” Crapshoot dropped the hood over the man’s face and grinned. Instant positive identification.
The big Chinook helicopter approached low toward the landing area with its big twin blades whoop-whooping in the night. The bird made a test pass to size up the tight space that we had designated for a landing. Jeff talked to the pilots, advising them to orient the ship’s nose to the valley floor and, from a hover, slowly descend roughly 150 feet to make a lip landing above the damp terrace. The maneuver required that the aircraft lower until the tail ramp kissed the ground and we would rush aboard as fast as possible.
Under the circumstances, it was a risky and difficult maneuver for any helicopter pilot and crew, and we wouldn’t have even considered asking anyone but our brothers from the 160th to attempt it. * The rotors would be spinning precariously close to one of Ahmed’s stone farm houses, and any blade strike would likely prevent our exfil and force the bird to limp back to Jalalabad. If it didn’t fall out of the sky first. In addition, two high wires drooped dangerously close, and the crew chief and door gunner had to ensure they could be cleared during the descent.
The MH-47 pilots did a super job, but the danger mounted by the second, and when the helicopter was actually lower than the high terrain on three sides, it is a wonder that it was not shot out of the sky as it held in a long hover. It would have been an easy shot into the cockpit for even a novice marksmen sitting on his back porch with a slingshot.
When the rear rotor blade actually came within inches of striking a rock wall, Jeff aborted the landing and narrowly diverted a catastrophe. The ship pulled up and out of the area to reposition and acquire the alternate pickup zone on the valley floor.
We breathed sighs of relief, probably never
The JOC exploded in applause and high fives and smiles flowed around the tent. They all had worked many long hours to make this happen. But we were far from being mission complete—essentially with all friendly personnel safely back at our sleeping tents and the precious cargo turned over to competent authority.
As the troop sergeant major, Stormin’, prepped to get everyone out of Dodge, I moved down the ridge to our primary helicopter pickup zone with Jeff, the combat controller. The spot had been chosen from studying recent imagery and we knew it would be tight. Jeff stepped off the dimensions of the area until he reached the end of the terrace, where he waslooking down a ten-foot drop to the next terrace. He shook his head, unhappy with what he saw. It was going to be extremely difficult to get the black MH-47 Chinook helicopter into such a tight spot, and he walked over and asked my opinion.
“Hey, brother, this is your ball game,” I replied. “Is it going to work or not? If you don’t think it is, we’ll move to the alternate. Trust your instincts.”
“Roger that,” Jeff coolly responded. “I’ll bring her in here.”
As we waited for the distinct thumping sound of double rotor blades, Stormin’ moved the teams down the hill, closer to the pickup zone, along with the five captives, who were barefooted and hooded, with their arms flex-tied behind their backs. A few were noncompliant, requiring the boys to use a few come-along techniques. A little well-placed pain goes a long way.
When they were seated on the ground, Crapshoot, our Alpha Team leader, approached Ahmed, grabbed a handful of the black cloth hood and raised it high enough to clear the eyes. Crapshoot leaned to within inches of the Afghan’s face and peered directly into his eyes.
“
You are Usama bin Laden
!” Crapshoot barked in the face of the middle-aged Afghan.
Ahmed’s eyes went wide with astonishment and he protested, “
No! No! No! Me Gul Ahmed!
”
“Thank you. Just checking,” Crapshoot dropped the hood over the man’s face and grinned. Instant positive identification.
The big Chinook helicopter approached low toward the landing area with its big twin blades whoop-whooping in the night. The bird made a test pass to size up the tight space that we had designated for a landing. Jeff talked to the pilots, advising them to orient the ship’s nose to the valley floor and, from a hover, slowly descend roughly 150 feet to make a lip landing above the damp terrace. The maneuver required that the aircraft lower until the tail ramp kissed the ground and we would rush aboard as fast as possible.
Under the circumstances, it was a risky and difficult maneuver for any helicopter pilot and crew, and we wouldn’t have even considered asking anyone but our brothers from the 160th to attempt it. * The rotors would be spinning precariously close to one of Ahmed’s stone farm houses, and any blade strike would likely prevent our exfil and force the bird to limp back to Jalalabad. If it didn’t fall out of the sky first. In addition, two high wires drooped dangerously close, and the crew chief and door gunner had to ensure they could be cleared during the descent.
The MH-47 pilots did a super job, but the danger mounted by the second, and when the helicopter was actually lower than the high terrain on three sides, it is a wonder that it was not shot out of the sky as it held in a long hover. It would have been an easy shot into the cockpit for even a novice marksmen sitting on his back porch with a slingshot.
When the rear rotor blade actually came within inches of striking a rock wall, Jeff aborted the landing and narrowly diverted a catastrophe. The ship pulled up and out of the area to reposition and acquire the alternate pickup zone on the valley floor.
We breathed sighs of relief, probably never
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