Inside SEAL Team Six(70)

We pulled up to a forty-footer, sounded the siren, got on the bullhorn, and ordered the boat to stop. When it did, four of us boarded—me, Adam, and two others.

After we had searched the vessel and not found the Panamanian we were looking for, one of the crew members told us that the man had crawled under the deck and was hiding in a very tight bilge area at the bottom of the boat—a long tube-like container, about twenty-four inches in diameter and twenty feet long.

Lieutenant Curtis started to take off his gear so he could squeeze inside.

I said, “No, LT, you’re not going down there.”

He said, “I’ll go.”

I said, “No, you’re an officer. I’ll do it.”

We both wanted to crawl in and catch the guy.

I squeezed through the tight opening, holding my .45 in front of me, and squirmed my way through. It was pitch-black and I couldn’t use a flashlight because I’d give away my position.

I remember thinking, If the guy is armed and he shoots, there’s no way he will miss me.

Turned out the Panamanian wasn’t down there, but he was captured later.

The following day, I was asked to go to Howard Air Force Base to assist a Special Forces Reserve unit that had been sent down for Operation Just Cause with orders to trek through the jungle of San Blas Island and capture one of Noriega’s officers. This particular Panamanian general had a reputation for being a sadist, and he had recently decapitated one of his servants for serving bad wine.

The SF Reserve unit was composed of a warrant officer and twelve soldiers—all of whom had recently been recalled. They were poorly trained and in terrible physical condition. In fact, their medic was so fat that they didn’t think he could make it over the difficult terrain. That’s why I was asked to join them on the op.

I accepted the offer and took two Navy guys with me—a lieutenant and an E5 who were both preparing to go to BUD/S.

The San Blas Islands are actually an archipelago of 378 islands and cays—49 of which are inhabited—that string out along the Caribbean coast of Panama nearly all the way south to the Colombian border. They’re home to the Kuna Indians, who worship the ancient god Erragon.

The islands are as close to a tropical paradise as you can get—powdery soft beaches, clear blue-green water, gently swaying palm trees, and tree-covered slopes and mountains.

We packed our rucks for what was supposed to be a weeklong trek through the jungle.

The SF warrant officer was a big man, weighing about two hundred fifty pounds and standing about six two. As three of us from SBU-26 and eleven SF Reserve guys listened to him give the patrol leader’s order, I took notes. As the only SEAL on the op, I didn’t want to be overbearing, but the PLO sounded incomplete.

At one point I said, “Warrant, I didn’t hear the loss-of-comms plan.”

The WO grinned and answered, “You guys in the Navy….We don’t need any loss-of-comms plan, because our radios work.”

That was a bullshit answer coming from an inexperienced operator. You always have a loss-of-comms plan. Comms fail often, and for a variety of reasons.

I said to the lieutenant and E5 I’d brought with me, “If the shit hits the fan, we will stick together.”

We set out early the next morning into the jungle. It was extremely hot and humid. The terrain was steep. The SF guys were noisy and smoking nonstop. They had to take frequent breaks because they weren’t used to carrying heavy gear.

A platoon is supposed to move quietly and use hand and arm signals. Every member is supposed to have assigned responsibilities—the point man, rear security, automatic weapons, and so on.

This platoon would patrol for twenty minutes, then the WO would call out, “Okay, guys, let’s take a break.”

When a platoon on patrol takes a break, it’s supposed to establish 360-degree security weapons at the ready. But this WO would plop down on the log or a rock, take off his boots, rub his feet, then eat a sandwich.

He’d say in a booming voice, “These friggin’ boots are killing my feet.”

Meanwhile, all the SF guys would take out their cigarettes and light up.

The first day out, we were walking through the jungle when one of the SF soldiers ran up to the warrant and said: “Hey, sir, I left my AT-four against a tree the last time we took a break.”

An AT-4 is a powerful antitank grenade and rocket launcher. Any twelve-year-old could have picked it up, snuck up behind our very noisy patrol, and blown us all away.

Instead of castigating the soldier, the WO shouted, “Break!”

Then he turned to the soldier and said, “We’ll wait here while you go back and get it.”

If a SEAL ever did that, he’d be relieved from SPEC WAR—but a SEAL would never do that! When the SF Reserve soldier returned, the WO simply said, “Good job. You found it.”