Lone Survivor: The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10

Marcus Luttrell became a combat-trained Navy SEAL in 2002 and served in many dangerous Special Operations assignments around the world. He is the author of the New York Times bestseller Lone Survivor and is a popular corporate and organizational speaker. He lives near Houston, Texas. Patrick Robinson is known for his best-selling US Navy-based novels and his autobiography of Admiral Sir Sandy Woodward, One Hundred Days, was an international bestseller. He lives in England and spends his summers in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where he and Luttrell wrote Lone Survivor. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Lone Survivor The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10 By Marcus Luttrell, Patrick Robinson Little, Brown and Company Copyright © 2013 Marcus Luttrell Patrick RobinsonAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-0-316-32406-9 CHAPTER 1 To Afghanistan ... in a Flying Warehouse This was payback time for the World Trade Center. We were coming after the guyswho did it. If not the actual guys, then their blood brothers, the lunatics whostill wished us dead and might try it again. Good-byes tend to be curt among Navy SEALs. A quick backslap, a friendly bearhug, no one uttering what we're all thinking: Here we go again, guys, goingto war, to another trouble spot, another half-assed enemy willing to try theirluck against us ... they must be out of their minds. It's a SEAL thing, our unspoken invincibility, the silent code of the elitewarriors of the U.S. Armed Forces. Big, fast, highly trained guys, armed to theteeth, expert in unarmed combat, so stealthy no one ever hears us coming. SEALsare masters of strategy, professional marksmen with rifles, artists with machineguns, and, if necessary, pretty handy with knives. In general terms, we believethere are very few of the world's problems we could not solve with highexplosive or a well-aimed bullet. We operate on sea, air, and land. That's where we got our name. U.S. Navy SEALs,underwater, on the water, or out of the water. Man, we can do it all. And wherewe were going, it was likely to be strictly out of the water. Way out of thewater. Ten thousand feet up some treeless moonscape of a mountain range in oneof the loneliest and sometimes most lawless places in the world. Afghanistan. "'Bye, Marcus." "Good luck, Mikey." "Take it easy, Matt." "See you later,guys." I remember it like it was yesterday, someone pulling open the door to ourbarracks room, the light spilling out into the warm, dark night of Bahrain, thisstrange desert kingdom, which is joined to Saudi Arabia by the two-mile-longKing Fahd Causeway. The six of us, dressed in our light combat gear—flat desert khakis withOakley assault boots—stepped outside into a light, warm breeze. It wasMarch 2005, not yet hotter than hell, like it is in summer. But still unusuallywarm for a group of Americans in springtime, even for a Texan like me. Bahrainstands on the 26° north line of latitude. That's more than four hundredmiles to the south of Baghdad, and that's hot. Our particular unit was situated on the south side of the capital city ofManama, way up in the northeast corner of the island. This meant we had to betransported right through the middle of town to the U.S. air base on MuharraqIsland for all flights to and from Bahrain. We didn't mind this, but we didn'tlove it either. That little journey, maybe five miles, took us through a city that felt much aswe did. The locals didn't love us either. There was a kind of sullen look tothem, as if they were sick to death of having the American military around them.In fact, there were districts in Manama known as black flag areas, wheretradesmen, shopkeepers, and private citizens hung black flags outside theirproperties to signify Americans are not welcome . I guess it wasn't quite as vicious as Juden Verboten was in Hitler'sGermany. But there are undercurrents of hatred all over the Arab world, and weknew there were many sympathizers with the Muslim extremist fanatics of theTaliban and al Qaeda. The black flags worked. We stayed well clear of thoseplaces. Nonetheless we had to drive through the city in an unprotected vehicle overanother causeway, the Sheik Hamad, named for the emir. They're big on causeways,and I guess they will build more, since there are thirty-two other much smallerislands forming the low-lying Bahrainian archipelago, right off the Saudiwestern shore, in the Gulf of Iran. Anyway, we drove on through Manama out to Muharraq, where the U.S. air base liesto the south of the main Bahrain International Airport. Awaiting us was the hugeC-130 Hercules, a giant turbo-prop freighter. It's one of the noisiest aircraftin the stratosphere, a big, echoing, steel cave specifically designed to carryheavy-duty freight—not sensitive, delicate, poetic conversationalists suchas ourselves. We loaded and stowed our essential equipment: heavy weaps (machine guns), M4rifles, SIG-Sauer 9mm pistols, pigstickers (combat knives), ammunition belts,grenades, medical and communication gear. A couple of the guys slung up hammocksmade of thick netting. The rest of us settled back into seats that were alsomade of netting. Business class this wasn't. But frogs don't travel light, andthey don't expect comfort. That's frogmen, by the way, which we all were. Stuck here in this flying warehouse, this utterly primitive form of passengertransportation, there was a certain amount of cheerful griping and moaning. Butif the six of us were inserted into some hellhole of a battleground, soakingwet, freezing cold, wounded, trapped, outnumbered, fighting for our lives, youwould not hear one solitary word of complaint. That's the way of ourbrotherhood. It's a strictly American brotherhood, mostly forged in blood. Hard-won, unbreakable. Built on a shared patriotism, shared courage, and shared trustin one another. There is no fighting force in the world quite like us. The flight crew checked we were all strapped in, and then those thunderousBoeing engines roared. Jesus, the noise was unbelievable. I might just as wellhave been sitting in the gearbox. The whole aircraft shook and rumbled as wecharged down the runway, taking off to the southwest, directly into the desertwind which gusted out of the mainland Arabian peninsula. There were no otherpassengers on board, just the flight crew and, in the rear, us, headed out to doGod's work on behalf of the U.S. government and our commander in chief,President George W. Bush. In a sense, we were all alone. As usual. We banked out over the Gulf of Bahrain and made a long, left-hand swing onto oureasterly course. It would have been a whole hell of a lot quicker to headdirectly northeast across the gulf. But that would have taken us over thedubious southern uplands of the Islamic Republic of Iran, and we do not do that. Instead we stayed south, flying high over the friendly coastal deserts of theUnited Arab Emirates, north of the burning sands of the Rub al Khali, the EmptyQuarter. Astern of us lay the fevered cauldrons of loathing in Iraq and nearbyKuwait, places where I had previously served. Below us were the more friendly,enlightened desert kingdoms of the world's coming natural-gas capital, Qatar;the oil-sodden emirate of Abu Dhabi; the gleaming modern high-rises of Dubai;and then, farther east, the craggy coastline of Oman. None of us were especially sad to leave Bahrain, which was the first place inthe Middle East where oil was discovered. It had its history, and we often hadfun in the local markets bargaining with local merchants for everything. But wenever felt at home there, and somehow as we climbed into the dark skies, we feltwe were leaving behind all that was god-awful in the northern reaches of thegulf and embarking on a brand-new mission, one that we understood. In Baghdad we were up against an enemy we often could not see and were obligedto get out there and find. And when we found him, we scarcely knew who hewas—al Qaeda or Taliban, Shiite or Sunni, Iraqi or foreign, a freedomfighter for Saddam or an insurgent fighting for some kind of a different godfrom our own, a god who somehow sanctioned murder of innocent civilians, a godwho'd effectively booted the Ten Commandments over the touchline and out ofplay. They were ever present, ever dangerous, giving us a clear pattern of totalconfusion, if you know what I mean. Somehow, shifting positions in the bigHercules freighter, we were leaving behind a place which was systematicallytearing itself apart and heading for a place full of wild mountain men who werehell-bent on tearing us apart. Afghanistan. This was very different. Those mountains up in the northeast, thewestern end of the mighty range of the Hindu Kush, were the very same mountainswhere the Taliban had sheltered the lunatics of al Qaeda, shielded the crazedfollowers of Osama bin Laden while they plotted the attacks on the World TradeCenter in New York on 9/11. This was where bin Laden's fighters found a home training base. Let's face it, al Qaeda means "the base," and in return for the Saudi fanatic binLaden's money, the Taliban made it all possible. Right now these very same guys,the remnants of the Taliban and the last few tribal warriors of al Qaeda, werepreparing to start over, trying to fight their way through the mountain passes,intent on setting up new training camps and military headquarters and,eventually, their own government in place of the democratically elected one. They may not have been the precise same guys who planned 9/11. But they weremost certainly their descendants, their heirs, their followers. They were partof the same crowd who knocked down the North and South towers in the Big Appleon the infamous Tuesday morning in 2001. And our coming task was to stop them,right there in those mountains, by whatever means necessary. Thus far, those mountain men had been kicking some serious ass in theirskirmishes with our military. Which was more or less why the brass had sent forus. When things get very rough, they usually send for us. That's why the navyspends years training SEAL teams in Coronado, California, and Virginia Beach.Especially for times like these, when Uncle Sam's velvet glove makes way for theiron fist of SPECWARCOM (that's Special Forces Command). And that was why all of us were here. Our mission may have been strategic, itmay have been secret. However, one point was crystalline clear, at least to thesix SEALs in that rumbling Hercules high above the Arabian desert. This waspayback time for the World Trade Center. We were coming after the guys who didit. If not the actual guys, then their blood brothers, the lunatics who stillwished us dead and might try it again. Same thing, right? We knew what we were coming for. And we knew where we were going: right up thereto the high peaks of the Hindu Kush, those same mountains where bin Laden mightstill be and where his new bands of disciples were still hiding. Somewhere. The pure clarity of purpose was inspirational to us. Gone were the treacherous,dusty backstreets of Baghdad, where even children of three and four were taughtto hate us. Dead ahead, in Afghanistan, awaited an ancient battleground where wecould match our enemy, strength for strength, stealth for stealth, steel forsteel. This might be, perhaps, a little daunting for regular soldiers. But not forSEALs. And I can state with absolute certainty that all six of us were excitedby the prospect, looking forward to doing our job out there in the open,confident of our ultimate success, sure of our training, experience, andjudgment. You see, we're invincible. That's what they taught us. That's what webelieve. It's written right there in black and white in the official philosophy of theU.S. Navy SEAL, the last two paragraphs of which read: We train for war and fight to win. I stand ready to bring the full spectrum ofcombat power to bear in order to achieve my mission and the goals established bymy country. The execution of my duties will be swift and violent when required,yet guided by the very principles I serve to defend. Brave men have fought and died building the proud tradition and fearedreputation that I am bound to uphold. In the worst of conditions, the legacy ofmy teammates steadies my resolve and silently guides my every deed. I will notfail. Each one of us had grown a beard in order to look more like Afghan fighters. Itwas important for us to appear nonmilitary, to not stand out in a crowd. Despitethis, I can guarantee you that if three SEALs were put into a crowded airport, Iwould spot them all, just by their bearing, their confidence, their obviousdiscipline, the way they walk. I'm not saying anyone else could recognize them.But I most certainly could. The guys who traveled from Bahrain with me were remarkably diverse, even by SEALstandards. There was SGT2 Matthew Gene Axelson, not yet thirty, a petty officerfrom California, married to Cindy, devoted to her and to his parents, Cordelland Donna, and to his brother, Jeff. I always called him Axe, and I knew him well. My twin brother, Morgan, was hisbest friend. He'd been to our home in Texas, and he and I had been together fora long time in SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team 1, Alfa Platoon. He and Morgan wereswim buddies together in SEAL training, went through Sniper School together. Axe was a quiet man, six foot four, with piercing blue eyes and curly hair. Hewas smart and the best Trivial Pursuit player I ever saw. I loved talking to himbecause of how much he knew. He would come out with answers that would havedefied the learning of a Harvard professor. Places, countries, theirpopulations, principal industries. In the teams, he was always professional. I never once saw him upset, and healways knew precisely what he was doing. He was just one of those guys. What wasdifficult and confusing for others was usually a piece of cake for him. Incombat he was a supreme athlete, swift, violent, brutal if necessary. His familynever knew that side of him. They saw only the calm, cheerful navy man who couldundoubtedly have been a professional golfer, a guy who loved a laugh and a coldbeer. You could hardly meet a better person. He was an incredible man. Then there was my best friend, Lieutenant Michael Patrick Murphy, also not yetthirty, an honors graduate from Penn State, a hockey player, accepted by severallaw schools before he turned the rudder hard over and changed course for theUnited States Navy. Mikey was an inveterate reader. His favorite book was StevenPressfield's Gates of Fire , the story of the immortal stand of theSpartans at Thermopylae. He was vastly experienced in the Middle East, having served in Jordan, Qatar,and Djibouti on the Horn of Africa. We started our careers as SEALs at the sametime, and we were probably flung together by a shared devotion to the smart-assremark. Also, neither of us could sleep if we were under the slightest pressure.Our insomnia was shared like our humor. We used to hang out together half thenight, and I can truthfully say no one ever made me laugh like that. I was always razzing him about being dirty. We'd sometimes go out on patrolevery day for weeks, and there seems to be no time to shower and no point inshowering when you're likely to be up to your armpits in swamp water a few hourslater. Here's a typical exchange between us, petty officer team leader tocommissioned SEAL officer: "Mikey, you smell like shit, for Christ's sake. Why the hell don't you take ashower?" "Right away, Marcus. Remind me to do that tomorrow, willya?" "Roger that, sir! " For his nearest and dearest, he used a particularly large gift shop, otherwiseknown as the U.S. highway system. I remember him giving his very beautifulgirlfriend Heather a gift-wrapped traffic cone for her birthday. For Christmas,he gave her one of those flashing red lights which fit on top of those cones atnight. Gift-wrapped, of course. He once gave me a stop sign for my birthday. And you should have seen his traveling bag. It was enormous, a big, cavernoushockey duffel bag, the kind carried by his favorite team, the New York Rangers.The single heaviest piece of luggage in the entire navy. But it didn't sport theRangers logo. On its top were two simple words: Piss off. There was no situation for which he could not summon a really smart-ass remark.Mikey was once involved in a terrible and almost fatal accident, and one of theguys asked him to explain what happened. "C'mon," said the New York lieutenant, as if it were a subject of which he wasprofoundly weary. "You're always bringing up that old shit. Fuggeddaboutit." The actual accident had happened just two days earlier. He was also the finest officer I ever met, a natural leader, a really terrificSEAL who never, ever bossed anyone around. It was always Please. Always Would you mind? Never Do that, do this. And he simply would nottolerate any other high-ranking officer, commissioned or noncommissioned,reaming out one of his guys. He insisted the buck stopped with him. He always took the hit himself. If areprimand was due, he accepted the blame. But don't even try to go around himand bawl out one of his guys, because he could be a formidable adversary whenriled. And that riled him. (Continues...) Excerpted from Lone Survivor by Marcus Luttrell, Patrick Robinson . Copyright © 2013 Marcus Luttrell Patrick Robinson. Excerpted by permission of Little, Brown and Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.