SEAL Target Geronimo: The Inside Story of the Mission to Kill Osama Bin Laden by Chuck Pfarrer Page A
Authors: Chuck Pfarrer
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over the calves of the shooters to his right and left. The four men sprawled together, looking out of the two ports, their legs locked like teenagers watching a horror movie on TV.
Mel acknowledged the open window on the tactical net, and then said quietly to the men next to him, “Hold and track, I will initiate.”
“Check.”
“Check.”
“Check.”
Mel then keyed the sniper’s net. “Stoop Zero Three, track and hold. You are red-light.”
O’Hallaran’s voice came over the radio, buffeted by the wind through the open helicopter door. “Stop Zero Three, track and hold. We are red-light.”
Mel stared at the boat through his MO-4. He wasn’t going to shoot, he was going to call the shots. Green on green—he could see a pair of heads in the pilothouse. T-shirt and collared shirt. Mel pressed his shins down on the calves to his right and left.
“Who has?” Mel intoned.
“Bravo has,” Buckwalter said.
“Charlie has,” whispered MacQuarrie.
There was a pause, a deliberate, purposed interval of silence and Bubba Holland said, “No joy.”
It was the ritual language of surveillance and snipers. Their plaint and plainsong, part update, part incantation. Each of the shooters had a target. Each a specific kill. Subjects Bravo and Charlie were in the pilothouse, one on the starboard side, the other on the port. They were Buck’s and Doug’s. No matter where they went on the boat, no matter what hole they popped out of. They were tagged. They were visible head and shoulders through the windshield. They were had .
Bubba strained his eye against the green disk of his sight. There was nothing in the bow hatch. He could not see Delta.
Seconds passed like days.
Mel kept his eye on the spotting scope. The bow hatch was open, but there was no silhouette in it. Delta was not to be seen.
He watched, they all watched. Seconds ticked. The lifeboat heaved up and down as it breasted the swells. Mel knew, they all knew, that the Sea Fox package was coming, and with it, a great clamoring, jet-powered helicopter. The bad guys were jacked up and had been shooting off rounds. They wanted their friend back. If they heard a helicopter, or saw the boats …
Mel pressed his legs apart, renewing contact, touch, with his shooters.
“Who has?”
“Bravo has.”
“Charlie has.”
Then Bubba Holland said firmly, “Delta has.”
Mel saw them all, locked them all in his eyes, and as he opened his mouth the lifeboat lurched over the top of a cross swell and wallowed sharply. The towline jerked taught and above them it gave an audible twang.
The heads in the pilothouse disappeared.
The words strangled off in Mel’s throat.
“No joy!”
“Nada.”
The bow of the lifeboat went deep and then bobbed up nearly vertically. Still square in the hatch, Delta pitched forward, bent at his waist. Holding his rifle in one hand, the other sprawled out, fingers clutching at the bow cleat, Erasto managed barely to keep upright. Now he was visible, objective Delta, but in the pilothouse the other heads vanished.
Half a minute passed, an eternity.
“Who has?”
“ ______ ”
“ ______ ”
Only Bubba whispered: “Delta has.”
A vile string of blasphemy unspooled in Mel’s head. No one on the planet can string obscenity like a master chief petty officer in the United States Navy. But nothing came out of his mouth, not a sound.
Mel glanced to the left, outside of the light of his scope. He looked east, to the place in which the moon would eventually rise. It was gray-black darkness. Mel saw nothing, but he knew two HSACs were ripping toward them. He knew they were trailed by a Seahawk helicopter flying not higher than six feet off the water. He prayed a sinner’s prayer: Don’t let them be seen, and then, Please God, please, don’t let me fuck this up.
The lifeboat wallowed and then lifted its bow like a horse that had stumbled. Out of the bow hatch Erasto was still fully visible. He turned around, back turned
Mel acknowledged the open window on the tactical net, and then said quietly to the men next to him, “Hold and track, I will initiate.”
“Check.”
“Check.”
“Check.”
Mel then keyed the sniper’s net. “Stoop Zero Three, track and hold. You are red-light.”
O’Hallaran’s voice came over the radio, buffeted by the wind through the open helicopter door. “Stop Zero Three, track and hold. We are red-light.”
Mel stared at the boat through his MO-4. He wasn’t going to shoot, he was going to call the shots. Green on green—he could see a pair of heads in the pilothouse. T-shirt and collared shirt. Mel pressed his shins down on the calves to his right and left.
“Who has?” Mel intoned.
“Bravo has,” Buckwalter said.
“Charlie has,” whispered MacQuarrie.
There was a pause, a deliberate, purposed interval of silence and Bubba Holland said, “No joy.”
It was the ritual language of surveillance and snipers. Their plaint and plainsong, part update, part incantation. Each of the shooters had a target. Each a specific kill. Subjects Bravo and Charlie were in the pilothouse, one on the starboard side, the other on the port. They were Buck’s and Doug’s. No matter where they went on the boat, no matter what hole they popped out of. They were tagged. They were visible head and shoulders through the windshield. They were had .
Bubba strained his eye against the green disk of his sight. There was nothing in the bow hatch. He could not see Delta.
Seconds passed like days.
Mel kept his eye on the spotting scope. The bow hatch was open, but there was no silhouette in it. Delta was not to be seen.
He watched, they all watched. Seconds ticked. The lifeboat heaved up and down as it breasted the swells. Mel knew, they all knew, that the Sea Fox package was coming, and with it, a great clamoring, jet-powered helicopter. The bad guys were jacked up and had been shooting off rounds. They wanted their friend back. If they heard a helicopter, or saw the boats …
Mel pressed his legs apart, renewing contact, touch, with his shooters.
“Who has?”
“Bravo has.”
“Charlie has.”
Then Bubba Holland said firmly, “Delta has.”
Mel saw them all, locked them all in his eyes, and as he opened his mouth the lifeboat lurched over the top of a cross swell and wallowed sharply. The towline jerked taught and above them it gave an audible twang.
The heads in the pilothouse disappeared.
The words strangled off in Mel’s throat.
“No joy!”
“Nada.”
The bow of the lifeboat went deep and then bobbed up nearly vertically. Still square in the hatch, Delta pitched forward, bent at his waist. Holding his rifle in one hand, the other sprawled out, fingers clutching at the bow cleat, Erasto managed barely to keep upright. Now he was visible, objective Delta, but in the pilothouse the other heads vanished.
Half a minute passed, an eternity.
“Who has?”
“ ______ ”
“ ______ ”
Only Bubba whispered: “Delta has.”
A vile string of blasphemy unspooled in Mel’s head. No one on the planet can string obscenity like a master chief petty officer in the United States Navy. But nothing came out of his mouth, not a sound.
Mel glanced to the left, outside of the light of his scope. He looked east, to the place in which the moon would eventually rise. It was gray-black darkness. Mel saw nothing, but he knew two HSACs were ripping toward them. He knew they were trailed by a Seahawk helicopter flying not higher than six feet off the water. He prayed a sinner’s prayer: Don’t let them be seen, and then, Please God, please, don’t let me fuck this up.
The lifeboat wallowed and then lifted its bow like a horse that had stumbled. Out of the bow hatch Erasto was still fully visible. He turned around, back turned
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