Product Description
When the Navy sends their elite, they send the SEALs. When the
SEALs send their elite, they send SEAL Team Six
SEAL Team Six is a secret unit tasked with counterterrorism,
hostage rescue, and counterinsurgency. In this dramatic,
behind-the-scenes chronicle, Howard Wasdin takes readers deep
inside the world of Navy SEALS and Special Forces snipers,
beginning with the grueling selection process of Basic Underwater
Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S)—the toughest and longest
training in the world.
After graduating, Wasdin faced new challenges. First there was
combat in Operation Desert Storm as a member of SEAL Team Two.
Then the Green Course: the selection process to join the
legendary SEAL Team Six, with a curriculum that included
practiced land warfare to unarmed combat. More than learning how
to pick a lock, they learned how to blow the door off its hinges.
Finally as a member of SEAL Team Six he graduated from the most
storied and challenging sniper program in the country: The
Marine’s Scout Sniper School. Eventually, of the 18 snipers in
SEAL Team Six, Wasdin became the best—which meant one of the best
snipers on the planet.
Less than half a year after sniper school, he was fighting for
his life. The mission: capture or kill Somalian warlord Mohamed
Farrah Aidid. From rooftops, helicopters and alleys, Wasdin
hunted Aidid and killed his men whenever possible. But everything
went quickly to hell when his small band of soldiers found
themselves fighting for their lives, cut off from help, and
desperately trying to rescue downed comrades during a routine
mission. The Battle of Mogadishu, as it become known, left 18
American soldiers dead and 73 wounded. Howard Wasdin had both of
his legs nearly blown off while engaging the enemy. His dramatic
combat tales combined with inside details of becoming one of the
world’s deadliest snipers make this one of the most explosive
memoirs in years.
An Excerpt from SEAL Team Six
Chapter One
Reach Out and Touch Someone
When the U.S. Navy sends their elite, they send the SEALs. When
the SEALs send their elite, they send SEAL Team Six, the navy's
equivalent to the army's Delta Force—tasked with counterterrorism
and counterinsurgency, occasionally working with the CIA. This is
the first time a SEAL Team Six sniper's story has been exposed.
My story.
Snipers avoid exposure. Although we prefer to act rather than be
acted upon, some forces are beyond our control. We rely on our
strengths to exploit the enemy's vulnerabilities; however, during
the war in the Persian Gulf I became vulnerable as the lone
person on the fantail of an enemy ship filled with a crew working
for Saddam Hussein. On yet another occasion, despite being a
master of cover and concealment, I lay naked on an aircraft
runway in a Third World country with bullet holes in both legs,
the right leg nearly blown off by an AK-47 bullet. Sometimes we
must face what we try to avoid.
* * *
In the morning darkness of September 18, 1993, in Mogadishu,
Somalia, Casanova and I crept over the ledge of a retaining wall
and climbed to the top of a six-story tower. Even at this early
hour there were already people moving around. Men, women, and
children relieved themselves in the streets. I smelled the
morning fires being lit, fueled by dried animal dung and whatever
else people could find to burn. The fires heated any food the
Somalis had managed to obtain. Warlord Aidid knew fully the power
of controlling the food supply. Every time I saw a starving
child, I blamed Aidid for his evil power play that facilitated
this devastation of life.
The tower we were on was located in the middle of the Pakistani
compound. The Pakistanis were professional and treated us with
great respect. When it was teatime, the boy in charge of serving
always brought us a cup. I had even developed a taste for the
fresh goat milk they used in the tea. The sounds and scents of
the goatherd in the compound reached my senses as Casanova and I
crawled onto the outer lip at the top of the tower. There we lay
prone, watching a large garage, a vehicle body shop that had no
roof. Surrounding the garage was a city of despair. Somalis
trudged along with their heads and shoulders lowered.
Helplessness dimmed their faces, and starvation pulled the skin
tight across their s. Because this was a "better" part of
town, multilevel buildings stood in fairly good repair. There
were concrete block houses instead of the tin and wooden lean-to
sheds that dominated most of the city and countryside.
Nevertheless, the smell of human waste and death—mixed with
hopelessness—filled the air. Yes, hopelessness has a smell.
People use the term "developing countries," but that is bullcrap.
What developed in Somalia was things such as hunger and fighting.
I think "developing countries" is just a term used to make the
people who coined it feel better. No matter what you call them,
starvation and war are two of the worst events imaginable.
I calculated the exact distances to certain buildings. There are
two primary considerations when making a sniper , windage and
elevation. Because there was no significant wind that could throw
my left or right, I didn't have to compensate for it.
Elevation is the variable considered for range/distance to the
target. Since most of my potential targets were between 200 yards
(garage) and 650 yards (intersection beyond the target garage), I
dialed my in at 500 yards. This way I could just hold my
higher or lower depending on range. When the shooting
began, there would be no time to dial in range corrections on my
between s.
We started our surveillance at 0600. While we waited for our
agent to give us the signal, I played different scenarios over in
my mind: one enemy popping out at one location, then another
popping up at another location, and so on. I would acquire, ,
and even do a simulated trigger pull, going through my rehearsed
breathing and follow-through routine while picturing the actual
engagement. Then I simulated reloading and getting back into my
Leupold 10-power , continuing to scan for more
booger-eaters. I had done this dry firing and actual firing
thousands of times—wet, dry, muddy, snowbound, from a dug-in hole
in the ground, from an urban sniper hide through a partially open
window, and nearly every which way imaginable. The words they had
drilled into our heads since we began SEAL training were true,
"The more you sweat in peacetime, the less you bleed in war."
This particular day, I was charged with making sure none of my
Delta Force buddies sprang a leak as I covered their insertion
into the garage. My buddies' not bleeding in war was every bit as
important as my not bleeding.
Our target for this mission was Osman Ali Atto—Warlord Aidid's
main financier. Although Casanova and I would've been able to
recognize the target from our previous surveillance, we were
required to have confirmation of his identity from the CIA asset
before we gave the launch command.
The irony wasn't lost on me that we were capturing Atto instead
of killing him—despite the fact that he and his boss had killed
hundreds of thousands of Somalis. I felt that if we could kill
Atto and Aidid, we could stop the fighting, get the food to the
people quickly, and go home in one piece.
It wasn't until around 0815 that our asset finally gave the
predetermined signal. He was doing this because the CIA paid him
well. I had learned firsthand while working with the CIA how
payoffs could sway loyalty.
When we saw the signal, Casanova and I launched the "full
package." Little Bird and Black Hawk helicopters filled the sky.
During this time, the Delta operators literally had their butts
hanging out—the urban environment provided too much cover, too
much concealment, and too many escape routes for the enemy. All a
hostile had to do was shoot a few rounds at a helo or Humvee,
jump back inside a building, and put his weapon down. Even if he
reappeared, he was not considered hostile without a weapon.
Things happened fast, and the environment was unforgiving.
Delta Force operators fast-roped down inside the garage, Rangers
fast-roped around the garage, and Birds flew overhead with Delta
snipers giving the assault force protection. Atto's people
scattered like rats. Soon, enemy militia appeared in the
neighborhood shooting up at the helicopters.
Normally, snipers operate in a spotter-sniper relationship. The
spotter identifies, ranges the targets, and relays them to the
sniper for execution. There would be no time for that on this
op—we were engaged in urban warfare. In this environment, an
enemy could appear from anywhere. Even worse, the enemy dressed
the same as a civilian. We had to wait and see his intention.
Even if he appeared with a , there was a chance he was part of
a clan on our side. We had to wait until the person pointed the
weapon in the direction of our guys. Then we would ensure the
enemy ceased to exist.
There would be no time for makeup or second s. Both Casanova
and I wielded .300 Win Mag sniper s.
Through my Leupold 10-power , I saw a militiaman 500 yards
away firing through an open window at the helos. I made a mental
note to keep my heart rate down and centered the crosshairs on
him as my muscle memory took over—stock firmly into the shoulder,
cheek positioned behind the , eye focused on the center of
the crosshairs rather than the enemy, and steady trigger
squeezing (even though it was only a light, 2-pound pull). I felt
the gratifying recoil of my . The round hit him in the side
of the chest, entering his left and exiting his right. He
convulsed and buckled, falling backward into the
building—permanently. I quickly got back into my and
scanned. Game on now. All other thoughts departed my mind. I was
at one with my Win Mag, scanning my sector. Casanova scanned his
sector, too.
Another militiaman carrying an AK-47 came out a fire escape door
on the side of a building 300 yards away from me and ed his
at the Delta operators assaulting the garage. From his
position, I'm sure he thought he was safe from the assaulters,
and he probably was. He was not safe from me—300 yards wasn't
even a challenge. I him through his left side, and the round
exited his right. He slumped down onto the fire escape landing,
never knowing what hit him. His AK-47 lay silent next to him.
Someone tried to reach out and retrieve the weapon—one round from
my Win Mag put a stop to that. Each time I made a , I
immediately forgot about that target and scanned for another.
Chaos erupted inside and outside of the garage. People ran
everywhere. Little Birds and Black Hawks filled the skies with
deafening rotor blasts. I was in my own little world, though.
Nothing existed outside my and my mission. Let the Unit
guys handle their business in the garage. My business was
reaching out and touching the enemy.
This wasn't the first time I'd killed for my country. It
wouldn't be the last.
A few minutes passed as I continued scanning. More than 800
yards away, a guy popped up with an RPG launcher on his shoulder,
preparing to fire at the helicopters. If I took him out, it would
be the longest killing of my career. If I failed...
Copyright © 2011 by Howard E. Wasdin and Stephen Templin