Kill Bin Laden: a Delta Force Commander's account of the hunt for the world's most wanted man by Dalton Fury Page A
Authors: Dalton Fury
Ads: Link
helmets, soccer balls, Adidas workout suits, and other gear that would provide us “cover for action” near a potential target site long enough to take some video or snap a photo.
Then we drove around checking the atmospherics of the cities and smaller townships, conducting route reconnaissance for future missions, and servicing safe houses that were scattered throughout the country. Jamie had been to the Balkans so much in the past few years that he didn’t need a map. Mine stayed in my lap and out of sight as I kept a forefinger on it to follow the roads.
On one summer day, we were conducting a low-visibility urban reconnaissance in a small, rundown city that had seen better days. We didn’t shower or shave for two days so we would match the unclean men who lived where running water was scarce, and we dressed in local mismatched and baggy soccer sweats. Our mission was to locate a specific casino restaurant that intelligence reports said was frequented by an indicted war criminal who often used it as a meeting place. This food joint, though, was different than most of the others, because it was floating on a river.
Driving a silver Volkswagen Jetta with all our props in the trunk, I dropped Jamie off several blocks from the restaurant and headed to a nearby park. Jamie set out on foot reconnaissance carrying his fishing pole, tackle box, and a bucket, while I settled in to reading the local paper, which might as well have been in Chinese or upside down, since I can’t read Serbo-Croatian. I chain-smoked locally made cigarettes to complete my midmorning masquerade. Both of us carried concealed M-1911 handguns.
Jamie turned the corner and headed down the street until the restaurant was a few hundred meters to his front. Crossing a bridge, he noticed some fishermen down on the riverbank, so he stepped over the wooden guardrail and descended the bank to the edge of the water with his own fishing gear. Just like that he was in a perfect position to observe the boat. If the fellow we were looking for showed up, Jamie was sure to make a positive identification. A guy fishing nearby with his daughter began shouting at him, and Jamie just stared straight ahead. If he ignored him, perhaps he would leave him alone. Unnecessary talking is a commando sin because it can alert locals that you are different. Jamie knew the language well enough, but his foreign accent would be a dead giveaway.
The other fisherman was persistent. He could see that Jamie wore a wristwatch and he wanted to know the time. Jamie frowned and gave some crude hand signals, tapping his hand with a closed fist several times, pointingat his ear, and cocking his head as if he wanted sympathy. He tried to make it so uncomfortable for the stranger that he would just leave him alone. It worked. The fisherman lowered his head, raised his hands, palms at waist level, and apologized to the deaf-mute before turning away with his daughter and heading up the riverbank.
After an hour and a half, Jamie approached the park and we made eye contact, the signal for me to depart and conduct another foot reconnaissance while he took over watching our car. My job was to see if I could spot the target’s vehicle and confirm it through the license plate number.
I took a different route, and as I turned a street corner in the bustling business district I found myself near a U.S. Bradley fighting vehicle, part of the Stabilization Forces (SFOR) that had been sent into the country. Several more were spread out at about hundred-meter intervals, but I had to brazen it out and continue walking. As I approached one, I noticed a soldier up in the turret and another sitting near him. I stopped and stared at them for a few seconds and they stared back. I took a puff on my cigarette, raised the folded newspaper that I could not read, and said, “
Dobro SFOR!
”
The young soldier in the turret asked the other, “What does that mean?”
“It means ‘SFOR is good,’ you dumb ass,”
Then we drove around checking the atmospherics of the cities and smaller townships, conducting route reconnaissance for future missions, and servicing safe houses that were scattered throughout the country. Jamie had been to the Balkans so much in the past few years that he didn’t need a map. Mine stayed in my lap and out of sight as I kept a forefinger on it to follow the roads.
On one summer day, we were conducting a low-visibility urban reconnaissance in a small, rundown city that had seen better days. We didn’t shower or shave for two days so we would match the unclean men who lived where running water was scarce, and we dressed in local mismatched and baggy soccer sweats. Our mission was to locate a specific casino restaurant that intelligence reports said was frequented by an indicted war criminal who often used it as a meeting place. This food joint, though, was different than most of the others, because it was floating on a river.
Driving a silver Volkswagen Jetta with all our props in the trunk, I dropped Jamie off several blocks from the restaurant and headed to a nearby park. Jamie set out on foot reconnaissance carrying his fishing pole, tackle box, and a bucket, while I settled in to reading the local paper, which might as well have been in Chinese or upside down, since I can’t read Serbo-Croatian. I chain-smoked locally made cigarettes to complete my midmorning masquerade. Both of us carried concealed M-1911 handguns.
Jamie turned the corner and headed down the street until the restaurant was a few hundred meters to his front. Crossing a bridge, he noticed some fishermen down on the riverbank, so he stepped over the wooden guardrail and descended the bank to the edge of the water with his own fishing gear. Just like that he was in a perfect position to observe the boat. If the fellow we were looking for showed up, Jamie was sure to make a positive identification. A guy fishing nearby with his daughter began shouting at him, and Jamie just stared straight ahead. If he ignored him, perhaps he would leave him alone. Unnecessary talking is a commando sin because it can alert locals that you are different. Jamie knew the language well enough, but his foreign accent would be a dead giveaway.
The other fisherman was persistent. He could see that Jamie wore a wristwatch and he wanted to know the time. Jamie frowned and gave some crude hand signals, tapping his hand with a closed fist several times, pointingat his ear, and cocking his head as if he wanted sympathy. He tried to make it so uncomfortable for the stranger that he would just leave him alone. It worked. The fisherman lowered his head, raised his hands, palms at waist level, and apologized to the deaf-mute before turning away with his daughter and heading up the riverbank.
After an hour and a half, Jamie approached the park and we made eye contact, the signal for me to depart and conduct another foot reconnaissance while he took over watching our car. My job was to see if I could spot the target’s vehicle and confirm it through the license plate number.
I took a different route, and as I turned a street corner in the bustling business district I found myself near a U.S. Bradley fighting vehicle, part of the Stabilization Forces (SFOR) that had been sent into the country. Several more were spread out at about hundred-meter intervals, but I had to brazen it out and continue walking. As I approached one, I noticed a soldier up in the turret and another sitting near him. I stopped and stared at them for a few seconds and they stared back. I took a puff on my cigarette, raised the folded newspaper that I could not read, and said, “
Dobro SFOR!
”
The young soldier in the turret asked the other, “What does that mean?”
“It means ‘SFOR is good,’ you dumb ass,”
Similar Books
