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

first time. At least my first jump was over Arizona. His was a real-world jump into the Indian Ocean.
    “We’re going to be fine,” I said.
    He didn’t look convinced.
    The ramp opened again. There were about forty jumpers on the plane, and we lined up on the ramp.
    “Stand by,” the jumpmaster yelled, giving us the signal that we had less than thirty seconds before the jump.
    I could feel the communications specialist’s leg start to shake. It was practically vibrating as we got closer to the ramp.
    “Hey, buddy, just relax,” I said.
    All I needed him to do was remember everything I had told him.
    “Green light, GO!”
    The jumpmaster pointed off the ramp.
    Up ahead, everyone started waddling to the ramp and diving off one by one. As we got closer to the ramp, I could see the sky and water meet at the horizon. I reached up and tapped my passenger on the shoulder twice and screamed over the wind into his ear.
    “HANG!”
    That was the signal to get into position. I wanted his toes hanging over the edge of the ramp so when we dove out I didn’t rake his shins on the ramp.
    He froze. I could feel his feet try and dig into the ramp. I tapped him again and yelled.
    “HANG!”
    Again, he didn’t move.
    We didn’t have time to wait. I pushed him forward and we dove off the ramp.
    The drogue chute popped off my back. The small parachute helped stabilize us and controlled our speed during free fall. Just like during hundreds of other jumps, I went through my checks and pulled the handle and opened the main canopy.
    Suddenly, all the airplane noise bled away and everything was perfectly quiet. The only sound was the chute snapping in the wind.
    Looking around, it was beautiful. The fresh air was a welcome relief from the C-17 cabin. The sky and water were the same crystal blue and only a few wispy clouds were high above us. Scanning below me, I could see a maelstrom of parachutes all circling the four gray boats bobbing on the ocean below.
    It looked like a World War II dogfight as my teammates swooped around in circles avoiding one another and coming to rest in the ocean.
    The water was calm, with very small waves. Not far off I could see the flat deck of the USS
Boxer
waiting for us. As we came in, I flared out the parachute and splashed down into the bathtub-temperature water. Unhooking the communications specialist, I started to work my way out of the parachute harness.
    We weren’t more than twenty yards from the boat. Sliding my flippers off my ankles, where I’d taped them for the jump, I started to swim over to the communications specialist. Behind me, the chute started to slip below the surface as the reserve parachute filled with water, dragging it to the bottom. I swam up to the communications specialist as he paddled, in a life jacket, toward the ladder hanging off the boat.
    “How was it, dude?” I said.
    “That was crazy,” he said.
    It was the first time I saw him smile since the ramp opened.
    Climbing aboard the HSAC, I found a place near the front while we waited to get a head count. Since the boats were only built for twelve people, it got crowded quickly. I climbed to the bow and let my feet dangle in the water. I let the current push my fins around.
    “Hey man, did you see any sharks?” one teammate said to me as he climbed into the bow area.
    “No,” I said. I knew the waters around here were infested, but I hadn’t noticed anything coming in.
    “Dude, as I was coming in I saw this massive shadow below,” he said.
    I slid my fins closer to the boat.
    During our flight over, Phillips tried to escape, ratcheting up tensions. He made it into the water before being fished out at gunpoint. The pirates bound the captain’s hands and threw a phone and American two-way radio into the ocean, thinking the captain was somehow taking orders from the ship.
    By now, the lifeboat was out of fuel and was adrift. Commander Frank Castellano, captain of the USS
Bainbridge
, persuaded the pirates to be towed by the destroyer, and to allow the ship’s rigid-hulled inflatable boat to deliver food and water. During one of the supply runs, the fourth pirate, Abduhl Wal-i-Musi, asked for medical attention for a cut hand. He was transferred to the
Bainbridge
for treatment. He’d been injured when Phillips attempted to escape.
    After setting up on the USS
Boxer
on Saturday, we sent a small team over to the USS
Bainbridge
. The rest of the squadron was told to hold tight. In the event that the