13 Hours: The Inside Account of What Really Happened in Benghazi Page 12

  Bob hurriedly brought Oz up to speed then returned to his phone calls. Oz didn’t object, understanding that Bob needed to help coordinate the response, deal with the 17 February militia, and update Washington and Tripoli on the ongoing attack.

  As he looked around the Annex, an uneasy feeling settled in Oz’s stomach. From the way people were milling around, it seemed as though it hadn’t occurred to them that the Compound might not be the only target for violent anti-American extremists. Defenses needed to be organized and hardened immediately at the Annex. That job fell to him as the only GRS operator not en route to the Compound.

  Even as Oz swept into action, he tamped down a gnawing sense of frustration and disappointment that had begun during the drive back from dinner. Years earlier, his wife had given him a T-shirt with a question on the front: “Do you know the difference between you and me?” The answer was on the back: “You’re running away from fire and I’m running toward it.” Oz wore the shirt proudly and lived by its message. Now, though, as the only operator not on the Compound rescue squad, he felt sidelined. I want to be taking the fight to them, instead of sitting here waiting for them to come to us, he thought. I don’t want to be blocking and tackling. I want to be running the football to the end zone.

  Oz knew he couldn’t dwell on those thoughts, so he occupied his mind and devoted his energy to devising an improvised defensive plan using the limited assets and personnel at hand. Although all the CIA case officers at the Annex had some training and familiarity with weapons, Oz considered most of them ill-equipped for combat. In other words, non-shooters. He took a mental roll call and concluded that his core team consisted of six fighters with varying degrees of military experience and training, three Americans and three Libyans.

  The Americans were himself, the head of Annex security, and a case officer who’d had combat experience in Afghanistan. The three Libyans were the Annex guards, all of them friends or family members of the property’s landlord, who insisted that they be hired when the Americans rented the Annex. Although Oz would rely on the five men, he considered protecting everyone at the Annex to be his responsibility alone.

  Oz directed the remaining Americans at the Annex to congregate in Building C. There, the reinforced Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility could serve as their last refuge if the Annex were overrun. He posted an Annex support staffer outside Building C with an assault rifle and told him to make sure no more than one person went to another building at a time, and only if absolutely necessary. That way Oz wouldn’t have to round up more than one straggler in the event of an emergency. Oz knew that cell phone service was spotty inside Building C, so he told the staffer to allow anyone making official calls to loiter outside as long as they stayed close.

  When Bob the Annex chief took a brief pause between phone calls, Oz asked him to help enforce the rule about keeping everyone congregated in or around Building C. “My biggest concern is accountability,” Oz told him. “I need to know where everybody’s at, at all times.” Bob agreed, and with the base chief’s blessing the gun-wielding staffer took his place as the door monitor.

  Oz hurried across the driveway to Building B, ducking into his bedroom to collect his kit. Without changing clothes, he pulled on his body armor, his helmet, and his night-vision goggles. Oz grabbed his assault rifle and his go-bag, which contained a dozen extra magazines, two tourniquets, and other medical gear. Determined not to run out of ammo, he swept up a half-dozen spare mags and shoved them in his rear and side pockets as he ran back outside.

  Carrying his own assault rifle, the case officer with military experience in Afghanistan spotted Oz and asked how he could help. Oz directed him to a ladder at the northeast corner of Building C. The ladder led to a flat cement roof with a three-and-a-half-foot-high cinder-block parapet that could be used as cover. In the months previous, the operators had designed an Annex defense plan under which they’d use the Building C rooftop as their primary fighting position. On the roof were sealed green metal cans with thousands of rounds of ammunition, including linked rounds for a belt-fed machine gun, magazines for assault rifles, and grenades that resembled oversize salt shakers, to be used with a grenade launcher. The plan called for the weapons to be brought up when the fight began, to keep them from getting gummed up with sand and dust.

  Oz climbed to the roof with the military-trained case officer for a look around. To the northwest, in the direction of the Compound, he saw bright flashes from tracer rounds streaking across the night sky. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the immediate vicinity of the Annex. He scanned the surrounding area through his night-vision goggles but couldn’t see anyone trying to sneak up on them from the desolate area to the north and east they called Zombieland. Oz told the case officer to remain atop the roof on sentry duty and let him know by radio if he heard or saw anything unusual. Oz climbed down and continued his rounds.

  He positioned the Annex security leader at the front gate, giving him leeway to move back and forth between there and Building C, some sixty yards away. Oz felt confident in the man’s judgment and knew that he’d make the right decisions about where to be. The priority, they both knew, was to protect the people in Building C. If attackers breached the Annex walls and came gunning for them, they needed shooters inside the building, a position of relative strength if invaders tried to enter through doors, one or two at a time.

  With the case officer and the security leader in place, Oz went to work arranging his outer line of defense: the three Libyan guards. Months earlier, the operators had built several steel platforms close to the Annex walls to use as fighting positions if they came under attack. The floors of the rusty, orange-brown platforms were high enough to enable the operators or other Annex defenders to shoot over the walls. The platforms, which the operators called “towers,” were large enough for two fighters to move and crouch comfortably without knocking each other off.

  Oz positioned one of the Libyan guards on a tower near the front gate. He put one on a tower to the rear left of Building C. Oz placed the third on the tower at the southeast corner of the property. Oz moved from one to the next, to be sure the guards had enough ammo and were prepared to fight. At the very least, he hoped they’d hold their positions and warn him about an attack.

  As Oz walked around inside the Annex, he heard the radio traffic between his operator teammates and the DS agents inside the Compound. He was too busy to focus on everything they said, but he could tell that it didn’t sound good. After positioning the men on the towers, Oz returned to Building C, still hoping that the local Libyan guards were brave and loyal enough not to flee at the first sign of trouble. He had the same thought about the 17 February militiamen who were supposed to support his friends at the Compound.

  As Oz organized the Annex defenses, a supervisor of the three Libyan guards came to the front gate asking to speak with Bob. Annex staff members were familiar with the man, so Oz allowed him inside carrying his pistol. The guard supervisor told Oz that he’d come to the Annex to urge the CIA base chief to evacuate immediately.

  “You guys got to go,” the supervisor told Oz. “It’s not safe for you here.”

  Oz took him to Building C to see Bob. Oz returned to his duties while the guard supervisor and the base chief spoke outside, but Oz already knew the outcome. Six operators and a translator from the Annex were en route to a burning, overrun US diplomatic Compound where an ambassador and six other Americans were in mortal danger. If some or all of those fourteen Americans made it out alive, they’d need a place to take refuge. The men and women at the Annex weren’t going anywhere.

  Near the southeast corner of the intersection of Gunfighter Road and the gravel street leading to the Compound, Tanto, D.B., and the two young 17 February militiamen approached the wall they intended to climb. With any luck, it would lead them to a tall building they could use as a sniper roost and reconnaissance tower. Tanto remained apprehensive about the 17 February fighters, but he sensed that these two were trustwor
thy.

  As the sniper/observation team moved out, Rone, Jack, and Tig left the BMW and headed toward the intersection. Cement-block walls surrounded most of the homes and other properties in the area, so the operators used the walls as cover. They moved cautiously north up Gunfighter in the “low ready” position, rifle butts at their shoulders, barrels pointed safely downward. Index fingers stayed close to the triggers but not on them. Thumbs caressed the safety switches, ready to make the weapons live.

  Rone approached the driver’s side of the Technical truck with the mounted gun, taking cover behind the engine block. Jack stationed himself on the southeast corner of the intersection. Ambient light from homes and the occasional flickering streetlight made his night-vision goggles unnecessary for the moment. Jack poked his head around the corner to peer toward the front gate of the Compound, four hundred yards down the gravel street. He got his first look at some of the attackers who’d stormed the Compound and now were shooting in his direction. He saw eight or nine Arab men, at least some with weapons visible.

  Sometimes the attackers fired at the operators and the 17 February militiamen from behind the concrete Jersey barriers outside the Compound gate. Other times they milled around in the open. They were too far away for Jack to identify them. All he could see were shadowy figures moving near the gate.

  Suddenly Jack heard loud gunfire coming from close by. One of the militiamen fired several large-caliber rounds from the Technical in the direction of the Compound. The operators could feel the shock waves of the shots reverberating in their chests.

  Rone moved around the truck and Jack leaned around the corner to join in the shooting. After firing several rounds, they ducked back behind cover. Three 17 February militiamen who occupied the northeast corner of Gunfighter Road and the gravel street returned the attackers’ fire, as well. The attackers answered with pops of sporadic gunfire.

  As Tig moved to join in, a 17 February militiaman on the west side of Gunfighter Road fired two rocket-propelled grenades toward the men outside the Compound gate. The grenade-firing militiaman was positioned about twenty yards behind Tig, who heard the alarming sound of shells whizzing over his head. The grenades didn’t faze the attackers, who kept firing.

  Tig answered with added firepower. He’d brought a grenade launcher of his own, and he fired three high-explosive, dual-purpose cartridges, capable of killing anyone within a five-yard radius and wounding anyone within fifteen yards. Each round launched with a resounding fwump, followed by a momentary silence punctuated by a powerful coccoom explosion. The launcher had a range of about 350 yards, but Tig purposely lobbed the grenades short, to put the explosives well in front of the attackers and to avoid hitting the Compound gate. He worried that a direct hit on the gate would slow the operators, exposing them to fire, when it came time for them to move through it to reach the Compound.

  The operators couldn’t see if Tig’s grenades injured or killed the men outside the Compound, but there was no doubt that the powerful rounds cleared them out. The gunfire from the attackers toward Gunfighter Road stopped. When the operators looked down the street after Tig’s third shot, no one stood between them and the main gate. It was time for the operators to move in.

  First, Tig rushed back toward the car, to get his assault rifle, a belt-fed machine gun, and two two-hundred-round drums of ammunition. With more than enough to carry, he left his go-bag in the BMW. As Tig collected his gear, he heard a DS agent repeat his radio plea: “We’re going to die if you don’t get here!” the agent said, choking out the words and struggling to breathe.

  After the firefight, the GRS Team Leader and Henry the translator resumed talking with the 17 February commander. The discussions focused on coordination of the combined forces and the possibility that the militia would provide heavy weapons for a counterassault, a prospect that seemed to be going nowhere.

  Tig listened as the Team Leader and Henry the translator discussed their conversation with the militia commander. The commander had told them that he didn’t want to move his troops toward the Compound gate. Instead, he told the T.L., he’d make a phone call to the attackers to negotiate for the release of the trapped Americans. Tig wondered how the militia commander knew whom to call and how he was on good enough terms with someone connected to the attackers to think he could work out a deal.

  One positive development of the talks was that the 17 February militiamen finally appeared ready to set up roadblocks at all intersections leading to the Compound, to prevent the attackers from calling in reinforcements and overwhelming the fourteen Americans—seven from the Compound and seven from the Annex’s Quick Reaction Force—who’d be there.

  With no sign that the militia would move beyond the perimeter of the battle, Tig, Rone, and Jack were done waiting. “Fuck it,” Tig said. “We’re going.”

  Rone called Tanto by radio: “Hey guys, we’re going to start moving on foot. What are you seeing, Tanto?”

  Tanto, D.B., and the two militiamen had yet to reach high ground, so Tanto radioed back: “I think you’re fine. I’m not hearing much fire coming down that road anymore. The consulate is definitely on fire, it’s in blazes. Just do your thing. Shoot, move, and communicate, and you’ll be good.”

  “Roger that.”

  Tig radioed the Annex to let Bob and the others there know that they were moving out.

  Leaning forward, guns up, Rone, Jack, and Tig rounded the corner onto the potholed, two-lane gravel street leading to the Compound. They hugged the wall on the south side, ducking in and out of cutouts that led to entranceways or marked the separation between properties. Alternating the lead position, watching each other’s backs, and exposing themselves as little as possible, Rone, Tig, and Jack bobbed in and out of two construction sites, moving steadily through the dark toward the Compound. Their muscles tensed as they scanned from side to side. With each step, they expected to encounter the enemy.

  Jack’s contact lenses had finally cleared enough for him to see straight, but in the confusion of the firefight he momentarily lost his bearings. He called to Tig: “Is the gate on the left or the right?” Tig told him it was on the right, and Jack reoriented himself. Tig had his own vision problems, caused by the weather. The temperature had reached 84 degrees Fahrenheit during the day, and the night was only a dozen or so degrees cooler. As Tig’s body overheated from exertion, his goggles fogged so much he found them useless and lifted them to his helmet.

  About 150 yards down the street, the three operators came across an unarmed man in his forties talking on a cell phone. Wearing long pants and a polo shirt, the man seemed to have wandered out of one of the homes to see what was happening, as though a parade was passing by.

  “Get down! Get down!” the operators shouted.

  The man pointed to his phone and kept talking. The operators concluded that he might be a threat to himself, but not to them. Shaking their heads and shooting him dirty looks, they kept moving.

  Jack and Tig heard voices speaking Arabic in clipped, urgent tones. They glanced to their left and saw movement on the opposite side of the street, fifteen or twenty yards behind them.

  Fuck, Jack thought. Who the hell are THESE guys?

  With a quick look, he realized that the three men posed no danger. To the contrary, they were the operators’ self-appointed backup. The men were the militiamen who’d returned fire at attackers from the northeast corner of the intersection. Now they were shadowing the operators’ movements on the opposite side of the street. Jack and Tig noticed that the militiamen learned from the Americans as they went, slipping in and out of construction sites and entranceways as they sought cover moving east.

  Jack didn’t know how useful the trio would be, but at least they were there. After all the uncertainty, at least five members of the 17 February Martyrs Brigade had fulfilled their promise to support the American Quick Reaction Force: three on the gravel road and two searching for a sniper location with Tanto and D.B.

  Ahead the three operators
saw a large mound of dirt outside a construction site, about one hundred yards from the Compound gate. Jack and Tig looked to the peak, more than fifteen feet high, and had the same thought: vantage point.

  Having a sniper in position from the street as they moved into the Compound would provide them with cover fire and a tactical advantage. They hoped that the dirt pile was firm, but as soon as Jack and Tig began to climb, they felt like they were scaling a sand dune. Their legs sank to their knees as they trudged higher. Each man carried forty or more pounds of weapons, ammo, body armor, and equipment, and the weight seemed to grow with every step.

  “Son of a bitch,” Tig said, his breaths growing labored.

  Jack felt winded, too, and he assumed that he was worse off than his partner. He knew that Tig’s workouts included long runs around the Annex, so Jack blamed himself for focusing on his upper body strength and neglecting his lower limbs.

  “Man,” Jack said halfway up, sweating buckets and huffing for breath. “I need to do more legs.”

  But Tig felt equally smoked. His long runs had left his leg muscles sore.

  “Man,” he panted, “I should be running a lot less!”

  Both coughed out a laugh.

  As they reached the top, Jack and Tig discovered that they weren’t high enough to see inside the Compound walls. They’d climbed the mound for nothing. Doubling their frustration, as they slid down, the ammo drum on Tig’s belt-fed machine gun fell off. They had no time to reattach it, so Tig went “Rambo-style.” He broke off more than a hundred rounds from the lost drum and split them in two, leaving half dangling from the gun and draping the other half over his shoulder.

  Tig knew that their goal was to save lives in the Compound, but that wasn’t foremost on his mind as he moved closer to their destination. His first thought was survival. With each footfall, his eyes darting left and right, he clutched his machine gun tighter. The former Marine replayed a single existential thought: Is somebody going to engage us?