SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper (28 page)

We lived with Delta Force, the Combat Control Team (CCT), and pararescuemen (PJs). CCTs were the air force’s special operations pathfinders who could parachute into an area and provide reconnaissance, air traffic control, fire support, and command, control, and communications on the ground—particularly helpful to us in calling down death from above. SIGINT drafted many of their people from the CCTs. The air force’s PJs, also special operations, focused on rescuing pilots downed in enemy territory and administering medical treatment. Both Delta and SEAL Team Six had begun augmenting their forces with CCTs and PJs. On a SEAL Team Six boat crew of eight men assaulting a building, the addition of a PJ, who could take care of patching up bullet wounds, freed up a SEAL hospital corpsman to kick more doors. Likewise, the addition of a CCT carrying a radio on his back and calling for air support freed up a SEAL radioman to carry other mission-essential gear on his back and help with the door-kicking. Although the air force CCTs and PJs were not as specialized in skills like door-kicking, they were experts in their fields—to a higher level than SEAL or Delta operators. Integrating them into SEAL Team Six and Delta was one of the best moves JSOC ever made. Although not held to as high a tactical standard (standards such as physical fitness remained the same) as SEALs, particularly for close-quarters combat training, they received Team Six’s Green Team training. During my Green Team, although a CCT and a PJ were among the four or five who failed, a CCT and a PJ passed. The CCTs and PJs also rotated over to Delta Force for their training. Then, after some time at home with their air force units, they rotated back and forth between Six and Delta again. In the hangar, the four of us SEALs mostly hung out with CCTs and PJs because we knew them from training together in Dam Neck, Virginia. Like most of Delta, they had high-and-tight haircuts to blend in with the Rangers, but the pale skin on their scalps gave them away.

One of our CCTs was Jeff, a pretty boy who was a woman magnet like Casanova; they even hung around together sometimes. Another CCT was Dan Schilling, a thirty-year-old laid-back Southern Californian. Dan left the Army Reserves to become a CCT. In the middle of the hangar, when we played cards on the fold-up planning table, Dan often gave me a cigar—he liked to smoke Royal Jamaica Maduros.

Tim Wilkinson quit his electrical engineering job for the adventure of becoming a PJ. Scotty served as the PJs’ team leader.

Near the air force planning table in the middle of the hangar, the CCTs and PJs set a blowup doll named Gina the Love Goddess on a chair with a sign around her neck advertising services and prices. She was a birthday gift from Dan Schilling’s wife and Jeff’s girlfriend for one of the air force guys who never got mail and didn’t have a girlfriend. After a congressional visit, Gina disappeared.
No sense of humor!

The Rangers outnumbered everyone, but they remained cautious about crossing the imaginary line, like a wall that reached the ceiling, into our area. Maybe we had a mystique that they respected—or a body odor. Whatever the reason, they gave us our space. A lot of the Delta guys seemed to have the attitude,
If you aren’t Delta, we don’t want anything to do with you.
We probably had some of the same attitude, but there were only four of us. If we’d had all of Red Team, we might have been more arrogant. Being the only four SEALs in Africa, we had to hang out with somebody.

Around the hangar, we wore shorts, T-shirts, and Teva flip-flops. When we wore military uniforms, we didn’t wear names or rank insignia. Military rank held less meaning for us than it did for Rangers and the conventional military. In the Teams, we often followed leaders because of reputations they earned or a certain skill set they possessed. Unlike the conventional military, our enlisted men usually called officers by their first names or nicknames. We didn’t subscribe to the robot-like military mentality of top-down leadership, either. Just because a person outranks someone else in the Teams doesn’t mean he’ll be leading anything—other than on paper. We adapted our weapons and tactics to changing environments and situations.

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At 2100, we received mortar fire, now becoming such a regular occurrence that guys in the hangar cheered. Some had a mortar pool going. A person could buy a time slot for a dollar. Whoever chose a slot closest to the actual time the mortar hit won the pool.

No one had leads on Aidid.

SEPTEMBER 13, 1993

The next day, true to form, although he was the senior SEAL, Sourpuss didn’t initiate much of anything and didn’t exert control. He was content to sit around and write his wife letters. Little Big Man checked into using QRF helicopters as sniper platforms. We were also encouraged to go out on patrol with the Rangers when we didn’t have anything else going on.

A Pakistani convoy came in to resupply. Under General Garrison’s orders, Casanova and I rode with Steve (a Delta sniper working a lot with military intelligence), Commander Assad, and Assad’s Pakistani troops. We drove across town to the northwest, near Pakistani Stadium, where the Pakistanis ran a tight compound. Their troops exhibited excellent military bearing and a by-the-book attitude. They kept the area tidy. Nothing like the sloppy Italians who were constantly trying to undermine us.

During the night, Aidid’s militia fired on one of our helicopters, and they used the abandoned Somali National University as their sniper hide. Casanova and I climbed six stories to the top of a tower. From there, we could see the house of Osman Ali Atto—Aidid’s financier and evil genius. Atto allegedly used income from drug trafficking (mostly khat), arms trafficking, looting, and kidnapping to buy more weapons and support for Aidid’s militia. Next to Atto’s house stood his vehicle repair garage, an enormous open-top concrete building where his mechanics worked on cars, bulldozers, and technicals—pickup trucks with .50 caliber machine guns on tripods bolted onto the truck bed. This was the same garage where Aidid had held the rally to pump up his militia while we were in Pasha.
If we capture Atto, we cut off the financial support for Aidid’s militia. He who controls the purse strings controls the war.

Nothing significant happened at Atto’s house except that the porch light flickered on and off three times. Probably some kind of signal, but we didn’t see any movement in the house. It was only a matter of time before we captured Atto.

SEPTEMBER 14, 1993

We continued to observe Atto’s garage. People constantly came and went. Three mechanics worked on vehicles. Casanova and I spotted someone who looked like Atto, flashing a big white smile, having a meeting.

We took a picture, then transmitted the data via secure link back to the intel guys so they could make sure the man in the garage really was Atto. We lost him when he left the garage and drove away.

The same day, a Ranger thought he spotted Aidid in a convoy. Delta hit a building to find out they had captured General Ahmed Jilao instead, even though Jilao was much taller, heavier, and lighter-skinned than Aidid—and was a close ally of the United Nations. Aidid had become like Elvis—people saw him where he wasn’t.

At night, the Pakistani compound received fire from the area of nearby trees and buildings. Commander Assad said, “We keep receiving fire from there on a regular basis. Can you help us?”

“We can spot them with our infrared scopes and fire tracers at them, and your machine gunners can open fire on that area.” (The tracers are phosphorous covered rounds that burn with a glow.)

Allah was with those militiamen—they didn’t fire again that evening.

SEPTEMBER 16, 1993

Two days later, three women entered Atto’s house, and two left. One man also entered. Another meeting was held, including one person who appeared to be Atto, grinning with those pearly whites. He seemed in charge, directing people what to do.

Casanova came down from the tower in the Pakistani compound and moved closer to the retaining wall facing Atto’s compound. Casanova noticed that people were entering a house near the garage, rather than directly entering Atto’s house. We called the QRF to launch a mortar strike, but the three mortars landed nowhere near it.

Later, we exfiltrated back to the hangar at the army compound. There we debriefed with a Delta captain.

During the brief, I said, “We don’t mind patrolling with the Rangers, but we’d rather drive ourselves. We know what we’ll do when we come under fire, but we don’t know what they’ll do.”

The captain approved.

“Also, we’d like to do night sniper flights with the QRF: eyes over Mogadishu.”

“OK.”

Casanova and I took a trip to the CIA trailer and shared intelligence about Osman Atto with them.

The first time Casanova and I rode in a QRF helo, we found out their rules of engagement allowed them to keep a magazine in their weapon but no round in the chamber until an enemy fired at them. We always kept a round in our chamber, so all we had to do was flick off the safety switch and shoot. In a war zone, the QRF’s rules of engagement were ludicrous.

One day, Casanova and I boarded a Humvee with the QRF. I said, “Lock and load.”

The soldiers gave me a strange look. “What the?” Gradually, the lightbulbs came on. Each man made sure his weapon was still on safe and loaded a round in the chamber. Casanova and I would take responsibility for any repercussions from the army brass.

The next time some Rangers, Casanova, and I drove up in our Humvees at the QRF compound, the QRF soldiers who had ridden with Casanova and me before hurried to ride with us again because they knew what our first command would be. “Lock and load.”

Later, as more soldiers had an opportunity to ride with us, they’d be standing in line waiting to see which of the Humvees Casanova and I drove up in. We laughed at the sight of them fighting to see who would ride in our vehicle.

At 2400, we boarded a helo with the QRF, both of us sitting on one side of the aircraft. “Lock and load.”

The two QRF snipers sitting on the other side of the bird locked and loaded.

Our flight crew used to wait until being fired upon to return fire, but they had taken small-arms fire and two RPGs the night before. “Shoot anyone you feel threatened by.” If anyone aimed at us or took an aggressive stance, or positioned themselves to take a shot at us, then we could fire at them.

Although the daytime temperatures averaged 89°F, nights cooled off to around 59 degrees. During our flight over Mogadishu, campfires burned in the upper stories of abandoned buildings. I could imagine refugees gathered around them to keep warm.

Two Somalis on the ground pointed their weapons up at us. Casanova aimed his CAR-15 at one of them. He squeezed the trigger—capping the Somali. The buddy took off running between some buildings, and our pilot couldn’t get us near him.

That same night, a Delta operator with a CAR-15 shot a Somali three times in the chest—one of Aidid’s lieutenants.

Unfortunately, Delta also had their second accidental discharge (AD). An operator from one of the best fighting units on the planet accidentally fired his weapon in the hangar. He could’ve killed someone. I remember seeing the look on the operator’s face afterward—he knew what was coming. Garrison and others were irate. Even though the operator had trained most of his career to put his gun in a fight, now he had to pack up his gun and leave. His military record would suffer, too. Whether Delta Force or SEAL Team Six, an AD meant a quick trip back to the States. Although we could endure physical pain and suffering, being ostracized from the group was often the heaviest punishment—as I would personally find out later.

SEPTEMBER 17, 1993

The next day, Casanova and I climbed up to the top of the Pakistani tower and relieved Little Big Man and Sourpuss. They had observed Atto for three hours at his garage.

A CIA asset had to go inside the garage and verify that the person was indeed Atto before we launched the full package—at least a hundred men, including a Humvee blocking force, Little Birds with Delta snipers, and Black Hawks with Rangers and Delta operators. To signal us, our asset would walk to the middle of the garage area, remove his red and yellow cap with his right hand, and walk around. Casanova and I would then call in the full package—an enormous responsibility for two enlisted men.

We found out that Atto would have a meeting in his garage the next day at 0730. Our HUMINT was amazing, telling us exactly when and where a meeting would be taking place for Atto. Unfortunately, we couldn’t acquire that kind of intel for Aidid as we had before.

Delta launched on the radio station to capture Aidid but hit another dry hole.

That evening, Casanova stayed in the tower while I snuck over to the edge of the Pakistani compound and looked over the wall at the adjacent Save the Children house. There was just too much activity going on in the dark of early morning and night. Later, HUMINT sources told us that one of the Somali drivers secretly used the trunks of the cars to transport weapons and ammunition, including mortar rounds. Flying the Save the Children flag on their vehicle, they could drive through almost any roadblock unchecked. I don’t think that the people at the Save the Children compound knew the drivers were using their vehicles in this way, but it answered a lot of questions for us about equipment and ammo transportation.