During a briefing about targeting a suspected al Qaeda associate, a senior officer wondered aloud about the mission and its accompanying risk and asked, “Is it worth getting one of your guys killed?”
The question shocked me, and I answered bluntly, “Sir, there isn’t a target out there worth getting one of the boys killed, but if the American people can’t depend on Delta to take the risk, then we might as well pack it in.
If not Delta, then who?
Certainly, a commander must weigh the stakes when making such a commitment, particularly when politics are involved. He looks at the available intelligence and debates the pros and cons during his decisionmaking cycle, and if the intelligence meets the threshold for action, say 80 percent or so, then the mission is likely a go.
But what happens when the intelligence is rated as only 50 percent accurate? Or if only a single source of intelligence is available and the information cannot be corroborated? Is the mission still a go?
In my opinion, postponing a decision with your fingers crossed while you hope that the intelligence might improve after another hour or another day borders on downright negligence and hypocrisy. Analytical paralysis only helps the window of opportunity close faster.
Some men may be lost because of a commander’s call, and that is tragic, but war requires a steel stomach and a hardened mind. It must be understood that those who do perish are volunteers who are unafraid of paying the ultimate price in the global war on terror. They are fighting for their buddies, for their families, and for their country.
It wouldn’t be until the next phase in the war on terror, the invasion of Iraq, that the enormity and pace of the war put the Special Ops forces into overdrive, and audacity found its rightful place in the psyche of many a commander.
Obviously, we did not exist in an information-free bubble. The news channels were roaring about Iraq, and the scuttlebutt inside our tents in Afghanistan was about who in Delta would be going in first. The Afghan campaign was slipping to the back burner as resources were channeled to prepare for a massive invasion of Iraq, an invasion that I was still not sure would actually happen.
Instead of immediate redeployment to that brewing trouble spot, our squadron was given a couple of weeks of leave back home. There would be no yellow ribbons tied around the old oak trees, because we stayed black even when out of the danger zone.
In Delta, when the plane lands back at home station, the post band is not there to welcome the returning troops. There are no crowds of family, friends, and local townspeople waving American flags and homemade signs. There is no mustering into formation while the commander shares some emotionally charged comments over a microphone on a podium.
Yes, this deployment is over, but the moment that the plane rolls to a stop and the ramp is lowered, the job begins anew.
The boys load onto buses and head for the compound, where they repack their bags for a no-notice hostage rescue anywhere in the world.
A Delta operator may retrieve his wedding ring from his wall locker and slide it onto his finger, but then it is immediately back to business. They place fresh batteries in their NVGs, weapon sights, and ear protection. They clean their weapons with solvent and high-pressure air before applying a light coat of gun oil. They charge their interteam radio batteries and load pistol and rifle magazines before replacing them in their kit bag.
After taking a shower and winding down with a cold beer or two in the squadron lounge, a few minutes are spent remembering their fallen comrades, whose eyes watch over them from a wall of honor. Before jumping in their pickup truck or on their Harley-Davidson to head home to the families, they reach down to make a final check that their beepers are attached to their belts.
The beepers are as meticulously maintained as a delicate heart monitor, for an operator knows if his beeper fails while inside the local movie theater or a neighborhood bar, then he risks missing a real world call-out or deployment to a crisis site. The worst thing you can do to a Delta operator is leave him behind, even for just a training mission. Counterterrorists don’t punch time clocks.
At home, I received a call from Bragg telling me that my troop would not be deploying to Iraq in the first wave. With this news, my frustrations with our last tour in Afghanistan led me to do some hard thinking.
The combat rules of engagement had changed significantly since the early months at Tora Bora. Gone were the days of free-fire Hellfire missile strikes on convoys of SUVs, or stalking tall men wearing white robes and black turbans. The default position had become to simply take no action. That was unacceptable to me, and the hope that my troop would get the first nod for Iraq had been about the only thing preserving our morale at the time. Now that was gone, too.
I still had about eighteen months before I hit my twenty years in the army and I had managed to live the dream as a Delta troop commander for three years and nine months. Maybe it was time for me to move on and let someone else have some fun.
It was pretty clear that the army was not going to consider me for advancement into senior leadership, for I had intentionally not punched my career ticket in the right manner. I ducked attendance at the Combined Arms and Services Staff School, but got promoted to major anyway. Then I dodged the Command and General Staff College three times, scrapping that requirement for promotion to lieutenant colonel. I enjoyed Delta too much to spend much of what little time I had left doing classroom work, and the higher you were promoted up the pyramid in a small unit, the fewer slots were available for officers. The system had caught up with me.
I decided to get out of the way and prepare for retirement by looking for an assignment close to home so that I could spend more time with my family during my last year and a half. A friend up in the U.S. Army’s Personnel Command set me up with a job just forty-five minutes from my front door. My final assignment was to be an advisor to a National Guard mechanized infantry battalion. Oh, boy.
Gus Murdock warned me that the hardest part about leaving the Unit would be driving out through the front gate and seeing the compound in my rearview mirror. It was actually even more difficult than that, because I was leaving just as a real shooting war was cranking up and I felt like I was abandoning the boys in a time of need.
During thirty days of Permanent Change of Station leave, I spent many hours running country dirt roads, pounding up and down the vast rolling hills, thinking about Delta. As hard as I tried to get on with the next stage of my life, I simply couldn’t.
One of our sister squadrons had been among the first units to enter Iraq, leaving from Saudi Arabia and crossing the border days before the invasion began. They drove across the desert for hundreds and hundreds of miles, pushing toward Tikrit from the west and seizing two major enemy ammunition dumps and laying waste to dozens of Iraqi fighters en route. [19] The much heralded air force “shock and awe” bombing campaign started the war on March 19, 2003, and the big party began without me.
I could not purge the longing for the hunt from my system.
In April 2003, the same month that Saddam Hussein’s foolish statue was pulled down in Baghdad, I was well into my new job, taking a required Defensive Driving Course at Fort Stewart, Georgia, that was being taught by a kind lady instructor who had twenty-six years of experience. I wondered how she would have done behind the wheel if she was being chased by police through the dark streets in Bosnia.
I maintained a strict nondisclosure posture in regard to any former affiliation with the Unit. When someone asked the typical, “Where’d you come from?” I practiced what I was taught and responded. “Fort Bragg.”
“The 82nd Airborne, huh? I used to be in that division, too,” they might say, and that would be that.
As the new guy in the battalion, my presence was also required at a seemingly endless series of routine chores. There was a brigade change of command rehearsal in starch and spits for several hours on a parade field in category IV heat. Then there was combat lifesaver recertification, military driver’s license testing, drownproofing, MILES 2000 certification, observer-controller certification testing, and so on.
I had forgotten how much the army thrived off of
I even had to take a written test on how to wear and operate the AN/PVS-5 night vision goggles. I might as
