SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper (29 page)

SEPTEMBER 18, 1993

Casanova and I began surveillance on Atto’s garage from the Pakistani tower at 0600. At 0745 the CIA asset, mustache on his long face, wearing a red and yellow cap, a blue T-shirt, and a
macawi
made out of blue and white plaid material, appeared at the garage. He would earn $5,000 if he succeeded in fingering Atto. After twenty-five minutes he still hadn’t given the predetermined signal. Then Atto arrived, sporting his Cheshire cat grin. His bodyguards and an old man arrived with him. We radioed it in, but we were required to have the asset’s confirmation before launching the package.

Instead of giving us the signal nonchalantly, the asset acted like he’d seen too many B-movies or we were stupid. He took his hand straight out to the side, reached in an arc to the top of his hat, pulled his hat straight up, reversed the arc, and lowered it to his side. If I’d been one of Atto’s guards, I would’ve shot the idiot in the head right then. I fully expected him to be executed before our eyes, but no one had noticed his exaggerated act.

Casanova and I launched the full package. The QRF went on standby. Little Birds and Black Hawks filled the sky. Soon Delta Force operators fast-roped down inside the garage, Rangers fast-roped around the garage, and Little Birds flew around with snipers giving the assault force protection. Atto’s people scattered like rats. Militia appeared in the neighborhood, shooting up at the helicopters. News reporters showed up, and sniper Dan Busch threw flashbangs to scare them away from walking into a kill zone. It would later be erroneously reported that hand grenades were thrown at the crew.
Ungrateful idiots. A hand grenade thrown at that range would’ve killed them all.
Dan personally told me later that the Bat Phone rang from the Pentagon, and he had to explain to the higher-ups that he wasn’t throwing fragmentation grenades.

Having crawled over the ledge of a retaining wall and out to the lip of our six-story tower, I lay prone—four rounds loaded in my Win Mag with a fifth in the chamber. Casanova covered the left half of Atto’s garage area. I took the right. Through my Leupold 10-power scope, I saw a militiaman 500 yards away firing through an open window at the helos. I shot him in the chest. He fell backward into the building—permanently.

Another militiaman carrying an AK-47 came out a fire escape door on the side of a building 300 yards away from me and aimed his rifle at the Delta operators assaulting the garage. I shot him through his left side, and the round exited his right. He slumped down onto the stairs never knowing what hit him.

About 800 yards away, a guy popped up with an RPG launcher on his shoulder, preparing to fire at the helicopters. It was too time-consuming to keep adjusting my scope for the distance to each target. I dialed in at 1,000 yards—I could mentally calculate the distances under that—but I forgot to physically make the adjustment on the mil dots. Putting the crosshairs on Mr. RPG’s upper sternum, I squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit him right underneath his nose. People picture that when a guy gets shot, he flies backward, but the opposite is often true. The bullet penetrates at such a high velocity that it actually pulls the man forward as it goes through, causing him to fall on his face. This militiaman pulled the trigger of the RPG as he fell forward, firing it straight down into the street below.
Boom!

Hovering overhead in the Little Birds, Delta snipers saw me make the shot. Minutes later, one of the choppers buzzed our tower. “Hell, yeah!” the snipers yelled, giving me the thumbs-up. I was glad Casanova and I had been lying prone, because the windblast of the snipers’ chopper came close to blowing us off our six-story tower.

Delta took fifteen prisoners, but the Rangers in the Humvees hadn’t arrived in time to secure the area by cordoning off vehicle and foot traffic. Atto had exchanged shirts with one of his lieutenants and walked out the back of his garage—slipping away.

SEPTEMBER 19, 1993

In the dark hours of morning, I woke up to the QRF pulling a raid on houses 500 yards north of our position. The QRF took small-arms fire and RPGs. Aidid’s militia chose the wrong convoy to fire on that morning. From the tower, with my night vision, I had an excellent view of the enemy. I picked up the radio mike and vectored helo fire to the source of Aidid’s militia. The QRF helo showered down .50 caliber and 40 mm rounds, and QRF ground forces assaulted so heavily that the sky vibrated and the earth shook. The few enemy who survived couldn’t get out of there fast enough, running for their lives past Casanova’s and my position.

We had used the tower effectively, but Aidid’s people put two and two together. A Somali woman stopped and looked up at us. Then she gave Casanova and me the throat-cutting sign. We decided our sniper hide in the Pakistani tower had been compromised and received permission to close it for a few days.

We left the Pakistani compound at 1700 and arrived in the hangar at around 1730. Half a dozen Delta snipers met us at the front door, high-fiving me. “Wasdin, you rock!” One of them looked at the other Delta snipers. “If I ever have someone shooting at me, I want Wasdin making those thousand-yard headshots!”

Later, Casanova and I lasered the actual distance of the head shot: 846 yards, making it the longest killing shot of my career. It also improved our relations with Delta. I never told them I was aiming for the guy’s chest.

SEPTEMBER 20, 1993

At 0230, Casanova and I took a QRF flight until 0545. During the flight, we spotted a man erecting a mobile transmitter. We thought we’d found the location of Aidid’s Radio Mogadishu, where he transmitted operation orders, how to fire mortars, and propaganda.
The UN and Americans want to take over Somalia, burn the Koran, and take your firstborn children.
Even when Aidid’s militia got its butt kicked, Radio Mogadishu broadcasted cries of victory, keeping his own people motivated and encouraging other Somalis to join his winning team. Casanova and I couldn’t shoot a man for raising a transmitter, but we marked the location as the possible location of Aidid’s station.

The QRF aircrew asked if we could fly with them all week. They’d been shot at enough that they wanted SEAL snipers.

Later that day at the compound, Condor contacted us. One of his assets reported that Atto would be at his house for a meeting. The four of us were the only operators who had frequently seen Atto and could ID him. Condor wanted a SEAL to go along with him and some Delta operators. We selected Casanova, but the mission was scrubbed. Our QRF flight got canceled, too. Although we’d loaded up the Humvees for an assault on Atto’s house, that was also canceled.
Jock up, stand down, jock up—and every time might be the last.
The stand-downs bothered me, but not to the point of weakening my motivation to jock up again. Whatever the challenges, I knew I had to pick myself up and keep trying. I grew up with a knot in the pit of my stomach, a perpetual state of worry over when my father would come after me. At BUD/S, Instructor Stoneclam told us, “I can make anybody tough, but it takes someone special for me to make mentally tough.” Although SEALs are known for their small numbers and efficiency, the military as a whole is huge and cumbersome—requiring us to be patient. My Teammates and I shared a similar mindset. We had learned how to control feelings of frustration. I knew I could overcome the challenges of a fluid environment. Nothing ever goes exactly as planned. Even with the best plan, when the bullets start flying, that plan is going to change.

SEPTEMBER 21, 1993

Our asset Abe reported sighting Osman Atto in Lido near our old safe house, Pasha. In dealing with human intel, we always had to figure out what was real and what was made up for personal gain. I don’t think any of our assets out-and-out lied to us, but they would exaggerate, probably to get more money. Abe didn’t seem to be doing this just for the money. Soft-spoken, he wouldn’t become anxious like the others. He talked calmly and matter-of-factly. We liked working with “honest Abe.”

In the movie
Black Hawk Down,
someone marks the roof of Atto’s vehicle with what looks like olive green military rubber-based adhesive duct tape (riggers’ tape). That would’ve stuck out like a turd in a punch bowl. What really happened was like something out of a James Bond movie. The CIA’s Office of Technical Services in Langley mounted a homing beacon inside an ivory-handled cane as a gift for Aidid, but the mission was scrubbed. Condor resurrected the cane and gave it to Abe, who passed it to a contact who met regularly with Atto. The contact would give it to Atto as a gift. While the contact with the cane rode in a car to northern Mogadishu, a helicopter in the air followed the beacon. When the car stopped for gas, Atto materialized. An asset called Condor to let him know that Atto was in the car. Condor radioed Delta.

Delta launched. The assault helo landed almost on top of the target vehicle, and a sniper fired into the engine block, stopping it—the first helicopter takedown on a moving vehicle. Atto threw open the car door and fled. The bodyguard fired his AK-47 at the assault team, but a sniper shot the bodyguard in the leg, disabling him. Assaulters jumped out of the helo, rushed the building, and captured Atto.

Other Delta guys formed a perimeter around the building. The Somalis burned tires to signal others for help. A few probed Delta’s perimeter. A crowd formed. AK-47 and RPG rounds were shot at the helos. Delta snipers in one helo and the guns on another helo fired at the enemy, taking ten to twenty of them down, and pushing back the mob.

Inside, Delta took Atto to the top of the building, where a helo landed and picked them up.

Later, back at the compound, Delta asked us, “We’re not sure if it’s Atto or not. Could you guys come over and verify his identification?”

“Hell, yeah.” Casanova and I walked over to the other end of the runway near the CIA building where they were holding Atto captive in a CONEX box. In
Black Hawk Down,
he was a large man who wore nice clothes, coolly smoked a cigar, and ridiculed his captors. In reality, although he dressed in semiformal shirt and
macawi,
he sniveled. Short, skinny as a broom handle, and shaking like a leaf, Atto looked at Casanova and me like we were the Grim Reaper coming to dispose of him. I almost felt sorry for Atto. Part of me wanted to give him a hug and say, “It’ll be OK,” and part of me wanted to shoot him in the face.

“Yeah, this is him,” Casanova said.

“I don’t know,” I joked. “Every time we saw him before, he was smiling a big white smile.”

Casanova looked at the interpreter. “Tell him if he doesn’t smile we’re going to beat the crap out of him.”

Before the interpreter could translate, Atto flashed a fake smile.

We hadn’t realized Atto spoke English. Casanova and I high-fived each other. “That’s him!”

Delta whisked him away to a prison on an island off the coast of Somalia. A note found on Atto advised him to meet with reporters to set up a negotiation session with the United Nations Operation in Somalia (UNOSOM). We assume the note was from Aidid—the big fish we still wanted to catch.

12.

Eyes over Mogadishu Mission

In order to capture Aidid, we’d have to overcome the military game of Red Light, Green Light. We’d be told that there wasn’t good intel to act on. Suddenly, we’d get the green light to act on something. Then someone above would cancel our mission before we lifted off the ground.

A senior sniper from Blue Team at SEAL Team Six called on the secure line from Dam Neck and asked about mission and tasking in preparation for replacing two of us on October 15. We told him about what we were doing, what to expect, what equipment to bring, and what not to bring.

SEPTEMBER 22, 1993

While we sat on our cots in the hangar, the JSOC sergeant major came over and shot the bull with us. He sagely recommended that we mingle more with Delta operators, particularly the assaulters from Charlie Squadron. In some ways SEALs were quite similar to Delta. For instance, we both excelled at door-banging and shooting. In other ways, though, we were quite different—for instance, takedowns of ships vs. planes. The busy tempo of ops, often done separately, added to the difficulty of getting together with Delta. Plus, in the highly competitive environment of special operations units, especially at the tier-one level, some Delta operators seemed jealous of us. We were tightest with the Delta snipers because we had the most in common with them, and we hung out with the Air Force CCTs and PJs that we knew from before.

*   *   *

The upper echelon canceled our rides on the QRF flights “to work out kinks.” I can only guess that the conventional army leaders of the QRF couldn’t get along with the unconventional leaders of Delta. Commander Eric Olson, the Team Six officer who would one day become JSOC’s first navy commander, met with us in the hangar. He had come to relieve SEAL Commander Tewey, who would go to another assignment at UNOSOM.

“I just came by to say hi and see what you guys have been up to,” Commander Olson said.

We told him what we knew.

SEPTEMBER 23, 1993

Maybe it was due to Commander Olson’s influence or maybe not, but we were able to reestablish QRF flights, now officially tasked as the Eyes over Mogadishu Mission. From 0300 to 0715 Casanova and I flew with the QRF. During that time, we received a call about a machine gun nest. In the five minutes it took us to reach the area, the gunner had evacuated. After returning to base, I caught a few hours of sleep.