Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man by Dalton Fury
Authors: Dalton Fury
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with fastek buckles and Velcro will not transform them into special operators. The very idea is utterly naïve and dangerous.
Regardless of the spin, any widening of entrance prerequisites, changing grading systems, or “relooking” previous SOF failures is the same as lowering the standards. You still must find just the right type of American to meet the highest standards, not revised and lesser tests, before he can join the ranks, and another SOF truth remains unassailable:
You cannot mass-produce commandos
.
Within a few months of my joining the squadron, Gus Murdock sent me on a real-world mission to the Balkans, and there I had the opportunity to see the unique skill, talent, and commitment of a typical Delta sergeant. Again, it made me feel pretty average, for although I was qualified in every way as a Delta officer, I was still a rookie. Murdock would not team me up with anyone who did not know the ropes.
My partner was Jamie, a longtime clandestine operator who truly enjoyed stalking humans, and I knew enough to take my lead from him. Jamie had started off as an assaulter and was wounded in Somalia before moving on to more advanced stuff. I discovered that he had the mind of a criminal and the free spirit and awareness of a fugitive. Jamie could have made a fortune as a crook in the outside world.
He grew up in New Mexico, where he spent his time racing dirt bikes, four-wheelers, go-carts, and eventually professional BMX racing bicycles. His favorite toy was a Z-28 with a nitrous oxide kit, and he outran the local police more than fifty times with his bikes, trucks, and cars. But he was smart enough not to flee the authorities unless he was certain he could shake them.
When Jamie first arrived at Delta as a young assaulter, he took the initiative to check out all the squadron’s motorcycles, adjusting all the controls so they were ergonomic to the rider, replacing all the spark plugs, checking the wiring, and putting fresh gas in the tanks. Then he did thesame thing to all the mechanical breaching tools. He was a master mechanic, meticulous about routine things, and fanatical about ensuring the little things were done well above standard. Okay was never good enough. He tuned those machines like fine concert pianos.
He took great pleasure in focusing on things like ensuring that our operational vehicles ran perfectly. It was a daily chore that the rest of us were happy to avoid, and it captured his attention like nothing else, almost to the point of being annoying, as he sought perfection. Watching him tinker with perfection was like listening to fingernails being scraped across the chalkboard.
Jamie was a serious driver, but aren’t we all? Only he was unique with his seriousness about driving under duress, at high speeds, on uneven terrain, in rain and snow, on sand and on gravel. Perfection was the goal. One day the unit brought in a
professional
motocross rider to upgrade their skills and Jamie skipped the first two days of training. He came on the third day after a teammate asked him to check the guy out.
It didn’t take long for Jamie to recognize the special instructor was not all he advertised, and he challenged the guest to a race. The guest hopped on the fancy and expensive race bike he brought with him while Jamie just picked one of the squadron bikes. Well, the guy was good, but Jamie kicked his ass.
Shortly after arriving in the Balkans, we took off for a downtown outdoor market to purchase several props and clothing to support our urban reconnaissance mission. We tried to buy a rusted bicycle with bald tires and a tattered seat for one hundred dollars cash from an old lady, but she wouldn’t let the bike go. A hundred bucks wasn’t enough? It was a sweet piece of junk, at least twenty-five years old and exactly what we needed, but we let it go. We found another one an hour later and threw it in the trunk.
We bought some fishing poles and tackle, buckets, street brooms, construction
Regardless of the spin, any widening of entrance prerequisites, changing grading systems, or “relooking” previous SOF failures is the same as lowering the standards. You still must find just the right type of American to meet the highest standards, not revised and lesser tests, before he can join the ranks, and another SOF truth remains unassailable:
You cannot mass-produce commandos
.
Within a few months of my joining the squadron, Gus Murdock sent me on a real-world mission to the Balkans, and there I had the opportunity to see the unique skill, talent, and commitment of a typical Delta sergeant. Again, it made me feel pretty average, for although I was qualified in every way as a Delta officer, I was still a rookie. Murdock would not team me up with anyone who did not know the ropes.
My partner was Jamie, a longtime clandestine operator who truly enjoyed stalking humans, and I knew enough to take my lead from him. Jamie had started off as an assaulter and was wounded in Somalia before moving on to more advanced stuff. I discovered that he had the mind of a criminal and the free spirit and awareness of a fugitive. Jamie could have made a fortune as a crook in the outside world.
He grew up in New Mexico, where he spent his time racing dirt bikes, four-wheelers, go-carts, and eventually professional BMX racing bicycles. His favorite toy was a Z-28 with a nitrous oxide kit, and he outran the local police more than fifty times with his bikes, trucks, and cars. But he was smart enough not to flee the authorities unless he was certain he could shake them.
When Jamie first arrived at Delta as a young assaulter, he took the initiative to check out all the squadron’s motorcycles, adjusting all the controls so they were ergonomic to the rider, replacing all the spark plugs, checking the wiring, and putting fresh gas in the tanks. Then he did thesame thing to all the mechanical breaching tools. He was a master mechanic, meticulous about routine things, and fanatical about ensuring the little things were done well above standard. Okay was never good enough. He tuned those machines like fine concert pianos.
He took great pleasure in focusing on things like ensuring that our operational vehicles ran perfectly. It was a daily chore that the rest of us were happy to avoid, and it captured his attention like nothing else, almost to the point of being annoying, as he sought perfection. Watching him tinker with perfection was like listening to fingernails being scraped across the chalkboard.
Jamie was a serious driver, but aren’t we all? Only he was unique with his seriousness about driving under duress, at high speeds, on uneven terrain, in rain and snow, on sand and on gravel. Perfection was the goal. One day the unit brought in a
professional
motocross rider to upgrade their skills and Jamie skipped the first two days of training. He came on the third day after a teammate asked him to check the guy out.
It didn’t take long for Jamie to recognize the special instructor was not all he advertised, and he challenged the guest to a race. The guest hopped on the fancy and expensive race bike he brought with him while Jamie just picked one of the squadron bikes. Well, the guy was good, but Jamie kicked his ass.
Shortly after arriving in the Balkans, we took off for a downtown outdoor market to purchase several props and clothing to support our urban reconnaissance mission. We tried to buy a rusted bicycle with bald tires and a tattered seat for one hundred dollars cash from an old lady, but she wouldn’t let the bike go. A hundred bucks wasn’t enough? It was a sweet piece of junk, at least twenty-five years old and exactly what we needed, but we let it go. We found another one an hour later and threw it in the trunk.
We bought some fishing poles and tackle, buckets, street brooms, construction
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