Combat Swimmer (37 page)

Of course, that meant we were unprotected. I figured we'd know about any mine only after we found ourselves blown a hundred feet or so into the air. That is, if we weren't vaporized immediately; the old Russian mines were sized to sink large ships. A sixty-five-foot boat would never know what hit it. We assuaged nervousness by saying our boat was too small to detonate the mines, but deep down all of us knew that was BS. The men on the patrol boats had been doing this nearly every night, and they had developed the fatalistic attitude most fighting men develop when they have to operate around mines. Our little force controlled the waters around us. In time, Hercules had laid claim to the entire northern end of the gulf. But we couldn't control a mine that had been secreted off the stern of some Iranian boat weeks before and a hundred miles away.

Seas were out of the north, ranging from six to eight feet—significant for a boat our size—as we continued to cut through the dark waters of the northern Persian Gulf. The crews on both boats had become veterans of many patrols in the month they had been operating from Hercules. But this was my first night out in the Persian Gulf, and my adrenaline was pumping as it always did when I went in harm's way. Patrolling at about ten knots, we looked for signs of Iranian boat activity. Until we got to the northern end of the patrol zone, we saw nothing remarkable.

At about 0100, we spotted a blip on the radarscope. It headed south toward us. I didn't know what it was, but from the size of the mark on the Furuno screen we knew it was a good-sized craft, probably a large Arab dhow. Dhows have plied the waters of the gulf since the beginning of recorded history. They are mostly cargo vessels and fishing boats, but more recently some have become mine layers. We laid to just off the track of the suspected dhow. As the boat approached we saw no running lights, but that wasn't unusual for a dhow.

Our boats eased slowly toward the contact, dim gray shapes moving stealthily through the swells. The men had all manned their battle stations, since we didn't know what we were stalking. I stayed outside the pilothouse, just to the side of one of the .50-caliber machine-gun positions. The expectation of going into combat again made my senses ever more alert. I watched as the superbly trained crew went through their approach procedures. The coxswain behind the wheel was peering intently through the boat's windshield, straining to get a glimpse of the contact. The patrol officer, a young lieutenant, was moving back and forth in the bridge area, being careful not to interfere with the boat officer, a young petty officer first class, as he directed the PB.

The patrol officer sent our other PB to take station astern and to our port side, reminding the other boat officer of the fields of fire each boat would have if the contact proved hostile. I watched as the other PB maneuvered into position. We approached the mystery boat's line of travel from its starboard quarter and reduced our speed as the radar showed the contact was 500 meters from our port bow, traveling at ten knots. If it was a dhow, it wasn't under sail.

The gun crew manned the 40mm cannon forward on our boat. I heard them slide the first round quietly into the gun's breech. Other gunners were doing the same with the .50-caliber machine guns and the MK-19 automatic 40mm grenade launchers. The crew was all in battle dress, armored vests cinched tightly against their camouflage fatigues, helmets pulled down tight on their heads. I was wearing a vest and my 9mm Baretta 92 SF pistol in my right hand. If it came to a shoot-out, I was going to be shooting.

The patrol officer handed me his portable night-vision scope. He himself used the large night-vision device mounted on the boat. Through the eyepiece I saw the familiar green glow. Because our PB was rolling heavily in the sea swell, I couldn't get my scope fixed on where the contact should be, but the stabilized boat scope was cooperating better. The patrol officer grabbed my shoulder and pointed toward our port bow. Putting my handheld scope up to my eye, I saw a shape headed south, about 300 meters away.

We could identify the boat, a large dhow about seventy feet long. Both PBs now turned slowly to starboard. The patrol officer told me he intended to bring us parallel to the track of the dhow and slowly close in to have a good look. We increased our speed to match the dhow's. I looked through my scope again but couldn't see anyone or anything on the dhow's deck. Nor did we see any evidence of mines. The dhow's skipper wasn't reacting; clearly he had no idea we were there.

Our two boats were now abeam of the dhow, about 250 meters out and closing in. The dhow was getting larger and larger in my scope. Still I saw no activity on board that would suggest the crew knew they were being stalked.

When we were about 100 meters from the dhow, one of our men fired an illumination flare. Immediately we increased speed to twenty knots and closed to within fifty meters. Illuminating the contact was standard procedure. If they were up to no good, they would probably panic and either start shooting or haul ass.

The flare hovered over and in front of the dhow at about 200 feet, then drifted slowly toward the water, suspended under its parachute. It lit up the dhow like Christmas. It also lit us up. At once the dhow decreased speed, and we slowed as well. The moment of truth was upon us.

At first there appeared to be no one on deck. Then a man emerged from the small deckhouse and looked at us. What he saw must have been frightful. The boats had all weapons trained directly at the dhow. Our other boat was about fifty meters aft of us, their weapons, too, bristling in the white glow of the illumination flares.

The man turned and yelled at someone back inside. I could almost feel our gunners' fingers tightening on their triggers. They were well disciplined, and I knew there would be no shooting unless someone on the dhow threatened us. Would those on the dhow be stupid enough to fight? As the flare floated down just above the sails of the dhow, another appeared overhead.

At that instant more men emerged from the deckhouse and ran around on deck. Were they running to man hidden weapons? We didn't know, but I had my Baretta aimed directly at the fellow yelling instructions to the crew.

It soon became apparent they weren't running to man weapons. They began pointing at the fishing nets attached to the rigging to show they were harmless. They knew who we were, and they were scared to death of us. The patrol officer moved our PB closer to the dhow and told the other to maintain station aft. The dhow's crewmen were all manning their starboard rail, with their hands held high in the air over their heads. If they were getting ready to fight, it was the strangest battle formation I'd ever seen. The man who appeared to be in charge started waving his hands in a friendly gesture.

We stayed alongside the dhow while our guys got a good look. All we could see was fishing nets.

The patrol officer turned to me and said, “Nothing on this one, boss.”

I said something like, “At least not on deck.”

There was no way we could really tell what they had below, but the dhow was riding high in the water. It certainly looked like nothing more than a fisherman. I remembered, though, some “innocent fishermen” from Vietnam, who had AK-47s hidden just below the gunwales of their sampans, waiting for one of our SEAL ambush patrols to relax. I still didn't completely trust what I saw in front of me.

I turned to the patrol officer. “Why don't we board her and look below?”

“We can't—the commander would have our asses if he ever heard about it.” He went on to explain that our rules of engagement didn't allow us to go on board to inspect. In fact, as I later learned, we were pushing the rules by threatening the dhow close aboard.

The patrol officer said, “I'm going to let her pass. She appears to be nothing more than Arab fishermen from Kuwait.” He turned to the boat officer and gave the order to break off.

The PB pulled slowly away from the dhow but stayed parallel course until we were about a hundred meters out. Our trail boat sped up and moved to our starboard beam. I looked at the Furuno scope and watched the blip move slowly away.

Since the dhow was headed in the direction of Hercules and we were on the last leg of our patrol, we fell in a couple of hundred meters astern and followed. We all relaxed. I could feel the adrenaline draining from my system. Even though we didn't get to do any shooting, I felt good about what I'd seen. The boat crews were very professional. While acting within the rules of engagement, they were conducting aggressive patrols; no wonder the northern Persian Gulf was quiet. The Iranians would have been stupid to take on our guys.

When I returned to my headquarters in Little Creek, I began touting that little joint force to all in my chain of command. My guys would not have been able to do the job in the Persian Gulf without forces from the other services. For example, the Navy didn't have any helicopter gunships on active duty, and its two reserve squadrons of Vietnam-vintage Seawolves didn't have nearly the capabilities of the Army AH-6s, and they weren't available to us SEALs.

Unfortunately, everyone above me considered the barge operations to be strictly Navy, with “a little support” being provided by the other services. I knew the real story, and I knew having one commander for all special operations forces would mean that future missions would have the same good chance of success as our work in the Persian Gulf.

 

From 1988 to 1990, I was the senior SEAL on the Chief of Naval Operations staff in the Pentagon. I spent 90 percent of my time ensuring that the migration of SEALs from Navy control to the special operations command went as smoothly as possible. When I got there, Weinberger's decision to transfer SEALs to SOCOM still stuck in the craw of many senior naval officers. My primary concern was that the flow of operating money not be interrupted by some bureaucratic accountant with a chip on his shoulder. Fortunately, the continued excellent performance of our forces in the Persian Gulf made it increasingly difficult for anyone to contest the efficacy of joint special operations forces. I was finally able to show that SEALs could better support the Navy under the watchful eye of a CINC whose only concern was the care and upkeep of all special operations forces.

During my time in the Pentagon, political infighting was intense. The day I checked in I ran into General Al Gray, the commandant of the Marine Corps. We'd worked together when he commanded all the Marines in the Atlantic and I commanded all the SEALs in the Atlantic.

He asked, “Bob, what the hell are you doing in Washington?”

I said, “General, they finally trapped me for a Pentagon tour.”

“A bit of advice,” he said. “Get a dog—that's the only friend you'll have in this zoo.”

He was right about the “friend” part, but to my surprise, I enjoyed my tour in the zoo. I was there during a watershed time for our defense structure and the special operations community. We solidified a new way of doing business that has worked very well. SEALs have never been better funded, trained, and supported. They have new boats, for example, that we old guys would have loved when we were protecting shipping in the Persian Gulf. They are masters of their own fate, fully responsible for their own destiny. Instead of being buried at the bottom of the Navy structure they have the ear of a four-star general, charged by Congress to make sure they are well cared for. That's a good way to do business.

I
n August 1990, Saddam Hussein's forces overran Kuwait. Desert Shield and Desert Storm, the military operations that held the line in Saudi Arabia and then retook Kuwait, captured the emotions of the country.

At the end of August 1990, I transferred to SOCOM at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, and became the Deputy Director of Simulations and Analysis. I had the task of overseeing the analysis that would determine special-operations-forces funding into the next century. It was not the most exciting work I'd ever done, but the Iraqis helped make my assignment more interesting. During Desert Storm, I was in charge of the SOCOM liaison to the U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM), getting more SOCOM forces employed in the war and helping the CENTCOM commander, General Norman Schwarzkopf, meet terrorist threats outside the combat area. For me, Desert Storm was simple: I went, we conquered, and I came home.

I'd decided to retire from the Navy two days before I got tapped to go to Saudi Arabia. It was time for me to leave. I was too old and too senior to ever again command SEALs, and I knew I wasn't going to be promoted to admiral. General Carl Stiner, for whom I'd worked in the past, was the commander in chief of SOCOM. In January 1992, when I left the Navy, he and Rear Admiral Chuck LeMoyne, an old swim buddy from UDT-22 days then assigned to SOCOM, gave me a rousing send-off. At a larger retirement ceremony than I had wanted, Stiner awarded me a “good-bye medal,” which I promptly noted should have gone to Becky for putting up with me for so many years. Becky and I were “piped over the side” to civilian life and left Tampa the next day. I haven't been back and I haven't looked back.

I became an independent consultant on security and other related matters. One of my clients has been my old Mekong Delta buddy Satch Baumgart. Satch got contracts to transport humanitarian aid—food—from the Russian Black Sea port of Novorossisk, by air to Yerevan, Armenia. I helped him set up the process and establish the security needed to ensure the cargo got to its destination.

The first time I went to Russia, I didn't know what to expect. I found a country that in many ways reminded me of what America must have been like in the early 1900s. Communications were terrible. Roads, outside of Moscow, were all two lanes. It could take up to five hours to place a telephone call to a town twenty miles away—if you spoke Russian. It was a country in decay. Things have improved since my first visit. Two types of Russians have emerged: the ones who couldn't shake their ties to the old way, and those who have become prosperous entrepreneurs, taking advantage of the “wild west” opportunities. There are a lot of rich Russians in Moscow now.