Hunting the jackal, p.1
Hunting the Jackal, page 1
Hunting the Jackal
A Special Forces and Cia Soldier’s Fifty Years on the Frontlines of the War Against Terrorism
Billy Waugh with Tim Keown
Dedication
To my wonderful Special Forces friends, living and dead.
You were my mentors.
You have never lived until you have almost died. For those who have fought for it, life has special flavor the protected will never know.
—SOA Creed
SGM Felipe Ahumada (Ret)
SGM Henry Bailey (Ret)
COL Aaron Bank (Deceased) “The Father of the Army Special Forces”
MG Eldon Bargewell (Active Duty)
COL Charles (“Charging Charlie”) Beckwith (Deceased)
MSG Brooke Bell (Ret)
LTG Jerry Boykin (Active Duty)
SGM Vernon Broad (Ret)
GEN Bryan Brown (CO of SOCOM)
SGM Harry Brown (Deceased)
CPT Jim Butler (SOA #1)
MAJ Isaac Camacho (Ret) (Ex-POW)
MSG Arthur D. Childs (Deceased)
MSG Henry Corvera (Ret)
MSG Darren Crowder (Active Duty)
CSM Paul Darcy (Deceased)
COL Paris Davis (Ret)
MSG Jimmy Dean (Ret)
SGT Dale Dehnke (KIA)
SMA George Dunaway (Ret)
LTC Lee Dunlap (Ret)
MSG Wendell Enos (Ret)
COL/DR Warner D. (“Rocky”) Farr (Active Duty)
SSG Donald Fawcett (Deceased)
MSG James (“Butch”) Fernandez (Ret)
COL Sully de Fontaine (Ret)
SGM Alex Fontes (Deceased)
CWO4 Bill Fraiser (Ret)
CSM John Fryer (Ret)
SGM Wiley Gray (Deceased)
CSM Sammy Hernandez (Ret)
SFC Melvin Hill (Ret)
MAJ Jerry Kilburn (Deceased)
SFC Bruce Luttrell (KIA)
MSG Larry Manes (Ret)
COL O. Lee Mize (Ret) (Medal of Honor)
MSG Robert Moberg (Ret)
CSM Peter Morakon (Ret)
SFC David Morgan (KIA)
SFC Cliff Newman (Ret)
MSG Richard Norris (Ret)
COL Charles Norton (Ret)
MSG Richard Pegram (KIA)
COL Roger Pezzelle (Deceased)
MSG Angel Quisote (Ret)
MSG Marcus (“Pappy”)
Reed (Ret)
MG Ed Scholes (Ret)
COL Daniel Schungle (Deceased)
SGM Jimmy Scurry (Ret)
LTC William Shelton (Ret)
SGM Walter Shumate (Deceased)
MAJ Alan Shumate (Active Duty)
COL Arthur D. (“Bull”) Simons (Deceased)
MAJ Clyde Sincere (Ret)
MG John Singlaub (Ret)
CSM Jack Smythe (Ret)
LTC Harlow Stevens (Ret)
MSG Howard Stevens (Ret) (Ex-POW)
SGT Madison Strohlein (KIA)
LTC Bill Sylvester (Ret)
LTG William Tangney (Ret)
MSG Paul Tracy (Deceased)
LTC Larry Trapp (Deceased)
SGM Art Tucker (Ret)
LTC James D. (“Shrimpboat”) Van Sickle (Deceased)
MSG Charles Wesley (Ret)
PO/1C (UDT) Clarence Williams (Ret)
SGM Jack Williams (Deceased)
CWO4 Ronald Wingo (Ret)
MSG Jason T. Woodworth (Ret)
SGM Fred Zabitosky (Deceased) (Medal of Honor)
And to the wonderful people of the CIA. Keep up the fine work, boys and girls.
Epigraph
We sleep safe in our beds because rough men
stand ready in the night to visit violence on
those who would do us harm.
—GEORGE ORWELL
Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying,
“Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?”
And I said, “Here I am. Send me!”
—ISAIAH 6:8
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Preface
Chapter 1
As I waited to die in a rice paddy in…
Chapter 2
The people around me told me how bad I looked,…
Chapter 3
I am not a man who sits back and ponders…
Chapter 4
On the morning of February 2, 1970, I was ordered…
Chapter 5
I returned to the United States from Vietnam in December…
Chapter 6
Out of combat, out of the military, out of commission.
Chapter 7
So now I find myself in Hawaii, without a lot…
Chapter 8
A cloud of dust flew up behind the big white…
Chapter 9
In December of 1993, I sat at my CIA reporting…
Chapter 10
We searched sixteen hours a day, every day, for the…
Chapter 11
In the days following our photo session with Carlos, I…
Chapter 12
It’s standard practice for a person in my position to…
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Photographic Insert
About the Authors
Praise
Copyright
About the Publisher
PREFACE
On December 1, 2001, I celebrated my seventy-second birthday on the ground in Afghanistan, with a chitrali covering my head and an M-4 carbine slung over my right shoulder. I was beyond cold, and I stunk in a way civilized humans are not meant to stink. The contents of my nose flowed ceaselessly into a scraggly beard that was supposed to make me look more like a local Afghani and less like a freezing old man from Texas. The Vietnamera shrapnel that resides in my knees and ankles felt like a bunch of frozen coins, and I was losing weight as if it were falling off my body. I was part of Team Romeo, a combined Special Forces/CIA takedown unit hunting Taliban and al Qaeda at nine thousand feet of elevation and -10°C, through the desolate high plains of southeastern Afghanistan. I was cold, dirty, and miserable, and I wouldn’t have traded places with anybody in the world.
Two weeks earlier, when the United States Air Force C-17 headed for Afghanistan lifted off with me aboard, our country was officially embarking on its War on Terror. I, however, had been at war against terror for quite some time. To me, Operation Enduring Freedom was a natural extension of the work I’d been conducting for close to fifty years.
The men of Team Romeo, composed of CIA members and Special Forces ODA 594, treated me like a display in a war museum. They asked me to pose for photographs. They asked me about my experiences in Korea, my seven and a half years in Vietnam, my work on many high-profile operations as an independent contractor with the CIA. This attention made me uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed; I had convinced the higher-ups in my outfit that I could withstand the mental and physical punishment that awaited me in the first installment of the War on Terror, and I was not here to play the role of a living relic of the past half-century of U.S. combat. I was there to fight the Taliban and seek out al Qaeda, so when the adulation got too thick, I deflected it by saying, “Now, men, I assure you I cannot walk on water. And even if I could, there’s none out here in the middle of this fucking desert.”
Let me be clear: I am not a hero.
Chances are you have never heard my name, but I have worked in the shadows and along the margins of some of the most significant military and espionage events of the past fifty years. I have pursued enemies of the United States in sixty-four countries over those fifty years. I have faced danger in its many forms: armed, angry humans; sophisticated, undiscriminating weapons; harsh, unyielding landscapes.
There are many missions that cannot be recounted in the pages of a book, not ever. A good portion of my life has been classified, locked up in a safe in Langley or inside my memory. I will not betray any ongoing operations or threaten the lives of any of the great men who continue to fight those who have our demise as their ultimate goal. After all, I know the feeling. Through five decades of service to my country, I have purposefully and continuously placed myself in dangerous situations against our enemies. I have made my personal safety a secondary issue to the task at hand.
I have lived life on the edge of danger and of the law. I have found that I am good at it, and that I like it. I have developed qualities that are unique to my position; namely, I have lied my ass off many times to protect myself and my men. I have learned to avoid questions and suspicions from police or security forces in nations where I work.
Total countries in which I have worked: sixty-four.
Total times hauled in by unfriendly governments for spying: zero.
Total times tailed by unfriendlies, in their nation: countless.
Not each assignment was filled with excitement, and not every country tells a breathless story of dodging bullets and nabbing bad guys. But I have had my share of successes. I have been awarded one Silver Star, four Bronze Stars for Valor, four Commendation Ribbons for Valor, fourteen Air Medals for Valor, and two Combat Infantryman Badges. (Along the way I developed a propensity for attracting gunshots and shrapnel; I possess eight Purple Hearts to commemorate those occasions.) I joined the U.S. Army in 1947 and Special Forces in 1954, two years after its inception. Following my retirement from Special Forces, I embarked on a second career as a CIA independent contractor, hunting down s
I was one of the first CIA operatives to be assigned to keep tabs on Usama bin Laden in Khartoum, Sudan, in 1991 and 1992. In 1994, again in Khartoum, I was the leader of a four-man CIA team that conducted an epic search and surveillance operation that led to the capture of Carlos the Jackal. My job required me to inhabit the minds of these men and countless others, adopt their ways, see the world through their twisted eyes. I was forced to become a cultural chameleon, able to anticipate and understand the actions of men who are different from me in every aspect save one: dedication to a cause. Like any man who studies the tactics of his enemies and attempts to predict his actions, I gained a grudging respect for the men I hunted.
I attribute my accomplishments to hard work and persistence, old-fashioned concepts that never failed me. Perseverance is my best quality, to the point where it sometimes becomes a fault. The glimpses into my private life within these pages are few. My chosen lines of work—Special Forces, then CIA—are not conducive to long marriages or stable home lives. Whenever I was faced with a decision between home and work, there was very little debate. I chose work.
This dedication to my country and its protection took hold one week after my twelfth birthday, when I was interrupted from my job as a popcorn popper at the Strand Theater in Bastrop, Texas, by Bastrop County sheriff Ed Cartwright. It was a little after 2 p.m., a Sunday afternoon, and this larger-than-life man—the stereotypical hard-nosed Texas sheriff—strode into the theater lobby and said, “Billy, go upstairs and tell the projectionist to shut off the movie and turn on the house lights. And hurry up.”
I did as I was told, leaving my dime-a-bag popcorn stand and heading up the stairs two at a time. The Movietone news for this day—December 7, 1941—had just ended and the projectionist was starting the prefeature comedy when I barged into the booth and repeated Sheriff Cartwright’s instructions. The projectionist looked at me a little funny, but he followed orders as soon as he heard they came from the sheriff. Everyone in Bastrop County knew better than to fool with Ed Cartwright.
When the projectionist flipped on the house lights, I stepped onto the balcony area, where I looked down and watched the fifty or sixty patrons squint and grumble about the movie coming to a whirring halt. Sheriff Cartwright walked onto the stage and quieted the room by saying, “Folks, I have some news for you. You need to listen.”
He was deadly serious, and every eye in the room centered on this tall, stern sheriff.
“Now,” he continued, taking a deep breath. “The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor and done great damage to the United States Navy.” He looked at the crowd. The importance of his words had yet to register. “Folks, it is being said the Japanese may bomb our country today or tomorrow. They may even invade with ships and men. I want you folks to know I am serious:
“We are at war as of this date.”
That woke everybody up, even the teenagers who had been necking in the back. A man’s voice broke the quiet by asking, “Mr. Ed, where’s Pearl Harbor?”
“Hawaii,” the sheriff said.
Another man yelled, “Well, Sheriff, where in the dang hell is Hawaii?”
I’m not sure Cartwright knew, at least not precisely, so he said, “Don’t worry about Hawaii. Just walk from this movie house and go home. When you get there, place black coverings over your windows so no light shows.”
As he walked off the stage he stopped and turned back. “And I don’t want to see anyone on the streets. If you’re not in your homes within one hour, I am going to put you in your house—forcefully.”
I stayed behind the popcorn stand as the patrons filed out of the theater. There were no sales.
I went home and recounted the scene to my mother. She had not heard the news, but as an educated woman—a substitute teacher in our community—she knew the location of Pearl Harbor. Lillian Waugh dutifully cut up some black material and covered the windows of the small, one-bedroom apartment I shared with her and my older sister, Nancy.
This day is etched deeply and vividly in my mind. It wasn’t fear I felt; it was excitement. Even at twelve years old, I itched to be part of the war. I would defend my country against its enemies, wherever and whoever they might be.
My father had died two years before, and I was consumed with the idea of duty. At least one man in each family had an obligation to perform for his country, and I was the only son of John and Lillian Waugh. Being a man in southwest Texas, to my way of thinking, meant being a military man.
I was ready for the military long before it was ready for me.
In 1945, just before my sixteenth birthday, another event in Bastrop shaped my future. Two local Marines, both wounded in World War II, returned to our little town. One of the Marines had a shrapnel wound to his head, the other wore a cast on his lower leg after receiving gunshot wounds in the Pacific. Whenever I was near them on the street or in a store, I felt awed to be in their presence. I admired their strength and nobility. They had seen things I could only dream of seeing, and I made a decision right then and there: I wanted to be like them. What they had done for the country, I would do for my country.
I knew enough to know I couldn’t join the Marines in Texas, but I had heard somewhere that in Los Angeles a boy could join the Marines at fifteen or sixteen. I don’t remember where I heard this information, but I do know I didn’t question it. Instead, I ran away, hitchhiking west from Bastrop, with my destination some unknown recruiting station in a faraway, exotic city.
I made it as far as Las Cruces, New Mexico. Hitchhiking on the west side of town, I was approached by a local police officer.
“Where are you going, son?” the officer asked. “And what are you doing?”
I put on my best adult voice and said, “Going to Los Angeles, sir, to join the Marines.”
I had no identification, and I refused to tell the cops where I came from. I was bold enough to attempt such a caper, but I knew full well my mother would have tanned my hide if she knew what I was doing.
“You look a little young for the Marine Corps,” the officer told me.
Then, without giving me much chance to state my case, he threw me in jail.
There were some wild ones in the Las Cruces jail, and I quickly realized this wasn’t the life for me. I pleaded with the police to let me go, that my only crime was a desire to serve my country. Eventually, I convinced the police to allow me to see a Marine recruiter in nearby Deming.
The recruiter looked at my skinny self and laughed in my face.
Then he asked me how old I was.
“I’m eighteen, sir,” I said.
More laughter.
“Actually, I’ll be eighteen soon,” I said.
More laughter.
“Where’s your mother, son?” the recruiter asked.
I gave him some vague answer, and it was back to jail for me. The police told me they wouldn’t release me until I had a ticket out of town, and my complete lack of money made that impossible. The way my sixteen-year-old mind saw it, I was going to have to face my mother or spend the rest of my life with all these crazy men in the Las Cruces jail.
So I called my mother, explained the situation, and then listened as she gave me several of the sharper pieces of her mind. But by the end of the phone call she had agreed to wire me the bus fare from Las Cruces to Austin, and soon I was out of jail and on my way home. When I got there, my mother gave me a lengthy lecture and a firm belt-whipping. Also, a very clear set of orders: Get back in school, or else.
I finished high school with a 4.0—all A’s—and a sore rear. Mom never did spare the belt on me, but she combined discipline with sound teachings on good manners, accepting responsibility, and understanding the importance of striving to achieve success in life.
The sting from the whippings eventually dissipated, but my desire to be part of the military did not. In August 1948, six months after my eighteenth birthday, I joined the U.S. Army paratroopers, a group I studied after hearing of their exploits during World War II. Beginning with my training at Fort Benning, I jumped out of a heck of a lot of aircraft. In fact, I didn’t experience a landing until I returned from Korea in 1952—almost five years after I joined the military. I’ve jumped out of just about every aircraft possible—C-46s, C-47s, C-82s, C-119s, C-123s, C-130s, L-20s, Twin Beeches, U.S. Navy TF-1s, an Army Caribou, and helicopters by the dozen. I’ve crashed in three helicopters and two planes, but I’ve somehow managed to avoid death.
