No Easy Day: The Firsthand Account of the Mission That Killed Osama Bin Laden

ranks.
    “Welcome to paradise,” he said, as we walked toward the team room. “Hot enough for you?”
    “At least you guys have AC,” I said. “Last time I was here, I lived in a tent. We didn’t get AC for weeks.”
    “A little better living here,” he said, opening the door to our room.
    The room was in one wing of the palace. The hallways were wide, with marble floors and high ceilings. I was going to share a room with him and the newest guy on their team. My bunk bed was in the near corner, and I tossed my bags next to it. Jon helped me wheel my gear into the room before showing me around the palace.
    The palace had its own gym, chow hall, and pool. In fact, there was more than one pool. Each team had two rooms. There were five guys on the team. One of them was a former British Royal Marine who had dual citizenship. He came to the United States, enlisted, and eventually worked his way into the ranks of Delta. The other guys were like Jon, a mix of former Rangers and Special Forces soldiers. The newest guy was a Ranger who was wounded in Somalia during the “Black Hawk Down” battle. He looked like an Amish guy with a bowl haircut and a patchy beard that never seemed to grow together.
    After making small talk, I spent the rest of the night getting my gear in order. First, I unpacked my “op gear” in a cubby in the hallway outside of the room so that if something went down, I’d be able to throw on our gear and be out the door. After that was squared away, I unpacked my clothes and set up my bed. Since we had bunk beds, most of us used the top bunk for storage and hung a poncho liner over the bottom so we had a little privacy.
    It was close to dawn when I was finally done. Since we worked vampire hours—sleep all day and work at night—most of the guys were racking out. The room had a couch and a TV. I grabbed a cup of coffee and was watching TV when Jon came over.
    “We’ll get you plugged in tomorrow,” Jon said. “Let me know when you need anything.”
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “We’ve been busy,” Jon said. “This was a rare day off. I’m sure we’ll be out tomorrow night.”
    There was no easing into it. Most days, I’d get up in the afternoon and wander out to the pool with my iPod speakers. I’d chill to some Red Hot Chili Peppers or Linkin Park while I stretched out on an air mattress. I’d float a while, getting some sun and relaxing. One of my teammates started to take care of the grass around the pool as a hobby. In a country of sand and dirt, having a little grass to walk on was a real treat. Some days, I could smell fresh cut grass as I floated.
    Then I’d eat breakfast and work out in the gym or run. I tried to get to the range as many times a week as possible. By dusk, missions would start spinning up and we’d knock out one operation, two if we were lucky.
    I was part of the “roof team,” which meant we rode on pods above the skid on an MH-6 Little Bird. We would land on the roof of a target compound and then assault down. The rest of the force would arrive in armored vehicles and clear the ground floor and assault up.
    The Little Bird is a light helicopter used for special operations in the United States Army. It has a distinct egglike cockpit and two pods or bench seats on the outside. On the “attack” variant, the pods or seats are replaced with rockets and machine guns.
    Pilots from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR) flew the helicopters. The 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment flies most of the missions for JSOC. We’ve worked together for years and the 160th pilots are the best in the world. Headquartered at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, the 160th SOAR (Airborne) are known as the Night Stalkers, because almost all of their missions are done at night.
    I’d worked with Little Birds briefly in Green Team, but in Baghdad I found myself perched on the skid almost every night as the city passed underneath me in a blur.
    It was past midnight a few nights after I arrived, and all I could hear was the roar of the engine and the wind. At seventy miles per hour, the wind battered me as my feet dangled off the side of the seat. I knew calm, clear decision-making was the key. But that was hard when it felt like I was riding a roller coaster into a fight.
    I tightened the sling on my gun, keeping it pinned to my chest, and checked the safety lanyard that would hopefully keep me attached to the helicopter in the event I slid off my seat. Sitting on