They Rest Not at Night: Footnotes from the Field of Operations Intelligence

Copyright © 2013 Mark W. Merritt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse LLC

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0289-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0291-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0290-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013914337

iUniverse rev. date: 08/27/2013

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1:   Foundations

Chapter 2:   SEAL Team Six

Chapter 3:   Safe Haven

Chapter 4:   Special Endeavors

Chapter 5:   Expanding Horizons

Chapter 6:   Keeping Secrets

Chapter 7:   Your King and Country Need You

Chapter 8:   9/11: They Rest Not at Night

Chapter 9:   Indomitable Resolve

Chapter 10:   Sensitive Site Exploitation

Chapter 11:   Tap Out

Chapter 12:   Footnotes from the Field

Conclusion

About the Author

Who Dares, Wins

Motto of the British Special Air Service

The Men That Don’t Fit In

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,

A race that can’t stay still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin,

And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove the flood,

And they climb the mountain’s crest;

Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,

And they don’t know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;

They are strong and brave and true;

But they’re always tired of the things that are,

And they want the strange and new.

They say: "Could I find my proper groove,

What a deep mark I would make!"

So they chop and change, and each fresh move

Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs

With a brilliant, fitful pace,

It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones

Who win in the lifelong race.

And each forgets that his youth has fled,

Forgets that his prime is past,

Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,

In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;

He has just done things by half.

Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,

And now is the time to laugh.

Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;

He was never meant to win;

He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;

He’s a man who won’t fit in.

Robert Service 1874-1958

The True Gentleman

The True Gentleman is the man whose conduct proceeds

from good will and an acute sense of propriety

and whose self-control is equal to all emergencies;

who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty,

the obscure man of his obscurity,

or any man of his inferiority or deformity;

who is himself humbled if necessity compels him to humble another;

who does not flatter wealth,

cringe before power,

or boast of his own possessions or achievements;

who speaks with frankness but always with sincerity and sympathy;

whose deed follows his word;

who thinks of the rights and feelings of others rather than his own;

and who appears well in any company;

a man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.

John Walter Wayland, 1899

Acknowledgments

There are a lot of people to thank for this, my fourth book, and most don’t even know it.

For my late parents, Shirley and Paul, and sisters Karyn and Kathy.

To the boys from the hood:

Dudes, you rock in so many ways! You know who you are: Jim Henny Hennessey, Paul Luch Whalen, and John Ratbat Conroe.

To my brothers of Delta Theta Gamma:

Mark Harvy Bernstein, Brian Snapper Schwarz, Mike Snotter Margiotta, Paul Spud Spaulding, and the late Norm Stormin Norman Phillips.

To my fellow naval officers:

Chris Mac Macaluso, Bob Rutledge, Tom Cha, Christian Liles,

Zack Schneidt, and David Townsend.

To Jim Moss, Jeff Irving,

Dave Doc Dougherty, Clark Henson, and Fred Stacey for being there always.

To the men and women of the Eighteenth Military Intelligence Battalion: Paul Czarzasty (Lt. Col., Ret.), Wes Rhodehammel (Lt. Col., Ret.), Mr. Mike Harper, Col. Chris Winne, Thomas Gandy (Col., Ret.), Brig. Gen. Peter Zwack, and the late Chief Warrant Officer Four Doug Edgell.

To L. D., who suffered for my mistakes.

To all my friends, too many to count.

To my fellow warriors everywhere.

Molon labe!

INTRODUCTION

Death on a Highway

On July 6, 2003, we rolled out of Kabul on one of several weekly runs to Bagram Airbase. I was driving our unarmored SUV. As we came out of the Massoud Circle roundabout, not far behind a large European tourist bus filled with German soldiers, a suicide bomber rammed a yellow taxi into the side of the bus and blew himself up. The bus was not armored. Four German soldiers died, and twenty-nine suffered serious injuries. The soldiers were scheduled to leave Kabul that day after a six-month deployment to Afghanistan.

Fatalities included M.Sgt. (Officer Cadet) Andreas Beljo, Signals Intelligence Regiment 940; S.Sgt. Carsten Kühlmorgen, Signals Regiment 320; S.Sgt. Helmi Jimenez-Paradis, Signals Regiment 320; and Sgt. Jörg Baasch, Signals Intelligence Regiment 940.

We were close enough to witness the immediate effects of the blast: the bus near and in flames, panicked civilians running amok and closing around our SUV real tight.

Those who have been to Kabul know the area around Massoud Circle can get quite congested. When the bus was hit, it caused a huge explosion and fireball, bringing people out into the street by the hundreds. All traffic ground to a standstill, including our unarmored SUV. Scared shitless seems a mild understatement for what I was feeling at the moment.

Being the driver, it was my responsibility to get us the fuck out of there and quickly. Like a scene out of a movie, people massed around our vehicle, and all of them looked really pissed off. Visions from news clips of freaked-out people rocking cars back and forth raced through my mind. I had to move. I guess it was fortunate I was behind the wheel that day. All those world-class driving schools and hours driving around Kabul kicked in and proved invaluable as we finagled our way out of what could have been a real mess.

A circuitous route led us back to the safe house, but not without some sweaty palms and locked and loaded weapons. Word of the incident had already hit the world press by the time we got back. CNN was all over it, and we felt lucky not to have been a hundred yards closer. People had converged on the road between Massoud Circle and the attack site, and we had been right there. This was not a situation we had been briefed on prior to deployment. It was one of many occasions when situational awareness proved a lifesaver.

The CIA calls itself the Company. The Russian GRU, or military intelligence, calls itself the Aquarium. The East German Stasi called itself the Firm. In the United States, military intelligence officers call themselves the Community. Everyone wants to be a SEAL, Green Beret, Army Ranger, Air Force Combat Controller, or Air Force Pararescue jumper, but none of them can do their jobs without intelligence and/or an intelligence officer. How glamorous can that be, though? We think of an intelligence officer as hiding in some dark little room, staring at a computer screen, reading mounds of paper, trying to glean actionable information that will contribute to a mission he’ll probably never take part in until it’s over.

To be quite honest, the work of an intelligence officer is the most exciting and interesting profession this side of being an operator. It encompasses a broad range of endeavor, touching math, science, history, geography, geology, language, human nature, politics, and travel, with strong doses of excitement, intrigue, and sometimes danger. In short, it is one of the most diverse careers a person can pursue. You may not know whether you have the upbringing or propensity for the work, but this book will give you a good feel for the business and what it can offer.

Quite often intelligence officers deploy, embed with operational units, and go right to the edge of the battlefield. You may not be the case officer, but find yourself sitting next to one, providing real-time information or lines of questioning for some of the nastiest people on earth. You may not be a SEAL or a Ranger, but find yourself walking up to the front door of an insurgent hideout, waiting for the door kickers to do their thing so you can do yours—the mad minute of sensitive site exploitation. There is no part of find, fix, and finish the intelligence officer does not take part in.

The trouble with writing about intelligence invariably is that the coolest operations you support, the tactics, techniques, and procedures you use, are classified and must remain so. Another problem is the craft of intelligence has many contentious issues and an equal number of contentious people with differing opinions, attitudes, and approaches to those issues.

They say intelligence is the second oldest profession. (I’ll leave you to guess what the oldest is.) Intelligence-gathering has been around for a long time and has seen many successes and tragedies involving extremely brave and honorable people and cowards beyond compare.

This book is for everyone: high school and college students, midlifers, and retirees. There’s no one who can’t take away a lesson learned. The first half of this book is as much about a young man’s upbringing as about events that shape his profession. The second half, based upon twenty-six years of intelligence and special operations experience, is a compilation of personal footnotes from the field which I consider the crux of the work.

You can’t make this stuff up. In the following pages, I give some simple truths—ground truth, as we say—covering fifty-five years, twenty-nine countries, frostbite, hip replacements, cancer, three wars, five combat zones, eight marathons, multiple parachute jumps, three college degrees, two black belts in martial arts, authorship and copyrights, the high school hall of fame and NCAA athletics, mountain climbing, and kayaking. I’ve been a husband, son, brother, warrior, scholar, and gentleman. I’ve been called bullshit artist and teller of truths, honoree and scoundrel, radical and conservative, mentor and mentee, leader and follower, enlisted man and officer, overachiever and failure, giver and taker, provider and recipient, forgiver and forgiven, tormenter and tormented, selector and selectee, liar, cheater and thief, blessed and damned, winner and loser, asshole and cool dude, best friend and worst enemy, loved and lover, hater and hated.

Life’s lessons don’t change. In life, no matter when or how you live it, human nature repeats itself, and that’s a ground truth that will never change.

CHAPTER 1

FOUNDATIONS

It would be prudent to lay some groundwork for this book. It’s about growing up in small-town, middle-class America during interesting times—times that changed and influenced me greatly. It’s about experiences and lessons and world events that made an impact on my character and future endeavors.

I was born on July 28, 1958, in Massena, New York, and adopted by Dr. Paul Eugene Merritt and his wife, Shirley Mildred Codington Merritt, at two months of age.

Dad had an interesting background. He was from Watertown, New York, and was educated at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. He earned a PhD in chemistry and later was listed in Community Leaders and Noteworthy Americans. He became a navy reserve officer (Cdr., Ret.) and a published author.

My mother, Shirley, was born in Middletown, New York, and was a graduate of Russell Sage College, where she majored in Latin and education. Russell Sage was right across the street from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, and the boys took every opportunity to pursue the Sage girls. Apparently it worked well for them.

I have two sisters: Karyn Annette, three years younger, and Kathleen Anne, three years older. A family psychologist will tell you that made me a boy of girls, a phenomenon providing me with insight into the world of women. I think I’ll publish later on that analysis though.

Growing up, I had two grandparents: Gramma Myrtle, my father’s mother, and Gramma Booty, her mother and my great-grandmother. Myrtle, I found out later, didn’t get along with or approve of my mother, but she was wonderful to me. Booty doted on me endlessly and made the best molasses cookies this side of the Mississippi.

I was all boy. Kathy, my older sister, wasn’t even on my radar as a toddler, so things went along pretty smoothly for me. She seemed to dote on me, as did my young and beautiful mother.

Growing up, we lived in Canton, New York. Life at that point was pretty much eating, sleeping, pooping, and similar things a toddler does. I still have the original Newborn Instruction Book given to my parents, containing burping instructions and when to get diphtheria, smallpox, and polio shots.

At some point I was baptized and blessed into the world as a God-fearing Christian. I have a bunch of newborn congratulatory cards sent to my parents on that glorious occasion and, of course, the obligatory baby pictures. Mom always told me I was a very well-behaved baby. Little did we know that, years later, I would turn into a little hellion—but the pictures are adorable!

Not only did I have birthdays, but we celebrated the anniversary of my adoption as well. I was told that occasion was very special and deserved an extra special day.

I remember my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Waite, snow and trees, and my backyard. I dressed up like a little G-man in fedoras and trench coats, the fashion for older, conservative gentleman at the time. I remember the house on Cottage Street, where I lived, and falling in love with my next-door neighbor, Rebecca. It was a normal, happy childhood. I went through the normal boy stuff of falling down, getting up, stepping on nails, scraping my knees, climbing into places I shouldn’t, going to Sunday school, and visiting my grandma and great-grandma.

In 1965, we moved ten miles north to Potsdam, New York, which became my home for the remainder of my teenage life. Dad had accepted a position as an associate professor at the State University of New York—Potsdam. I entered the first grade at the Congden Campus School.

The Congden Campus School was a byproduct of the State University of New York (SUNY) system. It was designed and funded by SUNY to be a training ground for students bound for secondary education careers. The permanent staff was hired from all over, but assistant teachers were chosen from the SUNY Potsdam student body to participate in daily classroom activities. They provided us with a breath of fresh air and an unlimited amount of entertainment. I of course fell in love with a sixth-grade student teacher and to this day will never forget her.

I remember the sixth through eighth grades quite clearly as turbulent times for our country: the Vietnam War, hippies, the Beatles, rock and roll, the drug culture, and the deaths of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. Sometime during this period I met Jim Hennessey, who attended Catholic school across town and became my stalwart friend and partner in crime. We were separated during high school by mutual consent of our parents due to the inordinate amount of trouble we got ourselves into, but that’s a story for another day.

High School

The Congdon Campus School was pretty much segregated from the public school system and other kids in town. It wasn’t until 1972, the ninth grade, when we all were brought together at Potsdam Central High.

Potsdam Central was an average small-town high school. You remember the cliques: jocks, artists, brains, hoodlums, druggies, and musicians. I had friends in each but never really associated myself with any one of them. I was a loner (loser). About the only things that kept me in high school were wrestling and tae kwon do, two sports I would later excel at. I was good at both but neither rated a cool status among the student body, girls most importantly. During that time I also developed a fondness for mountain climbing, cross-country skiing, shooting, history, and military affairs.

I hated high school, pure and simple. I’m sure some psychologist somewhere could come up with basic premises for why, but think I have a good idea. One, I never joined a clique. Two, I had no focus and failed miserably academically. I played soccer, pole-vaulted, ran cross-country and earned Life rank in the Boy Scouts, but just barely made it through my classwork, failing algebra twice, history once, and geometry once. Three, my nonscholastic pursuits were highly unpopular and abstract: wrestling, tae kwon do, and drinking. I survived those years, albeit with some earth-shattering drama I don’t care to remember.

In 1976, I graduated with a New York State Regents diploma (by the grace of God), a New York State Section 10 Wrestling Championship title, and a brown belt and two Presidential Sports awards in Korean tae kwon do. Because of my wrestling prowess, I was recruited to attend the State University of New York Agricultural and Technological College at Delhi, New York, at the time the best NCAA Division IV wrestling team in the nation.

College

My undergraduate career, encompassing five years, was filled with tales of pain and glory, many of which I can’t remember. I attended college not to enhance my intellectual prowess but to learn the finer points of partying. I’m sure some of you can relate. I had a blast. I joined and was later elected president of one of the most notorious fraternities in Delhi’s history, Delta Theta Gamma.

After three semesters at Delhi, I quit, or should I say was kindly asked to leave. This was a devastating blow to me and my family, my father most of all. I found myself in Colorado with a fraternity brother, Dave, who himself was undergoing an identity crisis of sorts.

At first we worked on the Eisenhower Tunnel project, the longest underground tunnel in the United States, built to bypass Loveland Pass in the Colorado Rockies. Dave and I mostly commiserated about life’s trials and tribulations, which we thought were earth-shattering at the time. Tunnel work was culture shock for two white-collar boys from