Kill Bin Laden

Ispent less than two weeks at Bragg, redrawing the rest of my old gear, shooting, putting in some serious physical training, catching up on the intelligence picture in Iraq, and even running the obstacle course.

There was a definite sense of purpose within the Unit, which was knee-deep in another manhunt, this time for Saddam Hussein, but it was a businesslike approach by guys who acted as if they didn’t have a worry in the world. Then I headed to Iraq, back in the fight and at least for the time being, no longer a former Delta operator.

I was lucky, and rode the Delta stallion as long as I could. When the ride was done, I officially retired in February 2005. A month earlier, my family and I stood inside the Beckwith Room, aptly named after the Unit’s first commanding officer, at the Delta compound for a small and informal ceremony. I recall humbly looking around the room in awe at the warriors who had taken the time to attend.

In the room were Delta operators young and old. Standing only a few feet from me were heroes from the invasion of Grenada in 1983, Panama in 1989, some from Desert Storm, some from Somalia, and others from the Balkans. Mixed among these dedicated operators were fellow teammates in the war on terror, whose efforts and reputations in Afghanistan and Iraq meet the legacy of those who came before them.

This time, I knew I would not be coming back, but it was also a much easier parting, because it had not been so abrupt. All dues had been paid, and the personal demons were finally at rest. It was more of a passage than a retirement, for an operator represents Delta until the day he dies.

You think about it for months, even years, after you leave, and it is forever engrained in your mind. Your thought process for the rest of your life is largely affected by the way you were taught to operate, to organize, to plan, to execute, to lead, and to kill. The men with whom you served are guys you stay in close touch with for a lifetime and for whom you would do anything.

As the years pass, as the hair thins, as the knees and back go, you cling to the unrealistic idea that you still have what it takes to hang with the current operators.

Each time you pass a children’s playground, you feel the urge to climb over the monkey bars instead of swing on them. You think about snaking up the swing chain and sliding over the high bar. You can’t walk by a neighborhood privacy fence without thinking how fast you can get over it. You check your hands to make sure you still have the rough calluses acquired from hour upon hour of pistol shooting, climbing caving ladders, going over cinder block walls, commando crawling on or pulling yourself up the thick ropes on the obstacle courses, and routinely pumping iron. Even crazier, each time you shake another man’s hand you mentally gauge the grip strength.

You compare normal human emotions with abnormal experiences. When it is really cold outside, I think, Not as cold as Tora Bora. When the summer temperature soars, I think, Not as hot as Baghdad. When I experience physical pain or mental discomfort, I think, Not as bad as Delta selection and assessment.

Hundreds of years ago, ordinary citizens fought for recognition of a new, free, and sovereign nation called the United States of America. They were known as the Minutemen because they had to be ready to grab their weapons and be ready within a minute’s notice. Their operational battle space more than two hundred years ago was down the dirt road, across the back forty, past ole man Fiddler’s pond, or a half-day hike past Broken Wagon Creek.

Today, Delta serves not as Minutemen, but rather Momentmen, and their battle space is the globe. The unpredictability of terrorism has them on a short leash and a full-time war footing. The operators’ beepers are always on, their bags are always packed, personal wills have been signed, and notes to loved ones are taped inside their lockers with the bland instruction: “Give to my wife in the event of my death.”

Today, hundreds of thousands of committed American servicemen and women face the same risks and dangers, sacrifice just the same, and pull their fair share of the load. Delta, however, remains unique and does what must be done in a manner that draws little attention. Of course, it’s designed that way. It still does not officially exist.

There are no “reluctant warriors” in Delta. All are eager to enter harm’s way. They aren’t stupid, don’t carry a death wish, and aren’t necessarily looking for any more holes in their bodies than the good Lord already provided. But these elite operators are paid more and enjoy millions of dollars more in funding than any other command. In return, they are expected to do more. It is their raison d’etre, and they will not let down their mates.

As my wife, two daughters, and I pulled out of the compound shortly after the retirement ceremony, it came to me that Gus Murdock had been wrong about that last look in the rearview mirror. I had already seen that view, and now I had to look at it again.

I became a former Unit member-for the second time! It was twice as bad.

Index

Acid Gambit

AC-130 gunship (aircraft)

actionable intelligence. See also Central Intelligence Agency (CIA); HUMINT; intelligence

Admiral (U.S. Air Force combat controller)

Advance Force Operations (Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC))

Afghanistan. See also Tora Bora, Battle of (Afghanistan); Tora Bora Mountains (Afghanistan); specific Afghan cities, towns, and provinces

Bagram Air Base

culture of

Dailey, Dell

deception plan

Delta Force missions

deployment decision

intelligence

intermediate staging base (ISB)

Pakistan border

planning for

preparation for

quick-reaction force

Shelter Now International hostage crisis

Soviet Union

Tora Bora Mountains

United Kingdom

United States Marine Corps

Against All Enemies (Clarke)

Agam Valley, Afghanistan

Ahmed, Gul

bin Laden, Usama

capture of

Delta Force mission

described

helicopter evacuation

home of

Hot Wash

HUMINT

air force special tactics combat control. See also Admiral (U.S. Air Force combat