The Department of Defense and the Obama Administration have released the most comprehensive and accurate timeline yet of the details regarding the U.S. raid on the Bin Laden compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan.
The raid was officially conducted by a team of “the best of the best”, known as the Brassballs Battalion under the command of Sgt. Tank Furious.
The Brassballs had to be talked into this assignment, as they had already announced their retirement, buy they reluctantly agreed to do this one more job.
The Brassballs parachuted parachuteless from an unknown airplane from an unknown height under the dead of night April 30, 2011, landing within mere feet of the compound around 1:15 AM EST. After quickly dispatching the two sentries by sneaking up behind them and quickly snapping their heads to the left, Sgt. Furious and his four “Privates”: Dirk (a weapons expert), Beef (intel genius), Brick (hand-to-hand combat) and Nick (a computer wizard, and his first day as a Brassball) made various hand gestures to one another, including the “two fingers to the eyes” motion, the “slashes across the throat” motion and the “you left you right now go” motion before they split up to find Osama Bin Laden (code name: Geronimo) and capture or kill as many of his henchmen as possible using the extensive training they had received at an undetermined time and/or place using their unending supply of armaments they somehow managed to bring with them.
As the raid was being conducted President Obama stood back in Washington with his arms folded wearing a headset in an incredibly high-tech war room, watching with laser-like focus numerous giant flat-screen monitors projecting various high-def views, rotating and turning unrecognizable shapes and symbols and fast-scrolling data, accompanied by high-pitched typing sounds. Numerous technicians also wearing headsets worked fast doing inexplicable duties in front of bright-glowing VDTs just behind him. Members of the joint chiefs in perfect creased uniforms paced nervously behind him.
Back at the compound, Tank Furious stopped and lit a cigar stump gripped in his teeth prior to scanning his side of the compound, illuminated by green night-vision goggles. His goal? Geronimo himself.
Furious scurried quietly around a corner and quickly encountered two of Geronimo’s henchmen speaking in gibberish. Spotting Furious they raised their automatic weapons and began blasting hundreds of rounds. Furious faked left then right, running in slow-motion toward a wall as the henchmen shot all around him, every one missing. A third henchman stepped from a doorway, raised a rocket launcher on his shoulder and fired with seemingly no regard to the damage it would do to his own compound.
Still running in slomo with the contrail of the RPG gaining on him, Furious grabbed an overhead pipe and swung completely over as the RPG sailed under him, exploding in a roaring detonation against the compound wall. Taking advantage of the blinding flash, Furious released the pipe then ran three steps up the crumbling wall, back-flipped while drawing his sidearms, landed, tucked, rolled and squeezed off dozens of shots into the henchmen, their still-standing bodies twisting and twitching violently as the bullets filled them.
Back in Washington the President motioned to a 5-star general. “Why did Sgt. Furious shoot those men 20 times each?”
“I think he ran out of bullets, sir.”
Obama shook his head. “He’s a killing machine.”
Back inside another part of the compound, Dirk led Nick into a lavishly-outfitted garishly green and blue-lit computer room with no indication of electricity going in or out. They were in the belly of the beast – Bin Laden’s ultra-sophisticated high-tech evil genius headquarters. Nick sat down in front of a glowing video display terminal and typed rapidly until he got a blinking “access denied” message. “Come to Papa” he said as he plugged a thumbdrive into a USB port, typed rapidly until he got a “bypass password?” message. Typing rapidly again he hit “return” one time and millions of lines of data scrolled past.
He looked up at Dirk. “We’re in” he said just before shooting erupted in the next room.
“You keep working I’ll keep the mosquitoes out” Dirk said as he sprinted to the wall, listened, then fired his rifle through the wall. He and Nick heard a muffled scream and a thud on the other side, indicating he had successfully killed one of Geronimo’s bodyguards sight unseen through a wall.
Meanwhile, in another room Brick encountered a nunchuck-swinging bodyguard and was involved in an almost ballet-like martial arts hand-to-hand fight with the guy while Tank Furious ducked and weaved through numerous ululating and screaming white-robed bodyguards, ducking bullets and knives while punching, stabbing and head-butting every one of them until he reached Bin Laden’s bedroom literally unscathed. He put his finger up to his headset. “Brassball-one to Brassball-4, copy!”
“Copy Brassball-one!”
“Complete the download, I’m going inside Geronimo’s teepee!”
“You can’t, Brassball-one, I need more time!”
"Time is the one thing we don't have! Brassball-one out!"
Cursing, Nick typed furiously on the keyboard with not a single error when one of Geronimo’s henchmen snuck in behind him. Nick had his hand on the thumbdrive when a single shot rang out. The bullet struck Nick in the back, a slomo geyser of blood spurting straight up as Nick staggered, let out a long and slow “Noooooooo…” and landed on the floor with a dusty “Oomph!”
Outraged, his partner Dirk turned and unleashed a barrage of machine gun fire into the henchman, his body also standing while it twitched violently as hundreds of bullets exploded all over it. The henchman was still standing when Dirk walked up to him, blew on him softly and he tumbled over. He kicked the body twice. “That’s for Nick – and another for his widow.”
Back in Washington the President took a concerned step forward as he stared at the giant monitors. “What in the hell do those Brassballs think they’re doing?”
“They’re the best of the best sir. They know what they’re doing.”
The President looked back at the monitors. “Those guys are loose cannons! I’m afraid we’re losing the initiative.”
In another area on the second floor, a cowardly, babbling robed henchman who may have served Bin Laden as plucky comic relief tied a rope around a giant safe and the other end around his own waist as he was going to lower himself down into the driver’s seat of a jeep parked on the ground below to escape. As he was lowering himself Beef entered the room, saw what was going on, took aim with his pistol after stopping to light a cigarette and shot the brake on the safe wheels. It suddenly rolled forward from the weight of the coward, dropping him first in the jeep with a thud, then the safe rolled crashed through the window behind him. The coward looked up and screamed as the safe plummeted and smashed him and the jeep flat before exploding in a massive fireball.
Beef leaned out the window and spit before quipping “I hope you have your triple-A card.”
Back at Geronimo’s teepee entrance, Sgt. Furious quietly set a plastic explosives charge on the wooden door, complete with a huge digital countdown that beeped with each second. As it detonated, blowing the door off the hinges Tank charged the room, only for his quarry, Bin laden himself, to drop from overhead like a swamp snake, landing on top of him. With Tank pinned to the floor, Bin laden beat him mercilessly in the face while screaming epithets about yankee dogs and imperialist war mongers. Finally Tank was able to roll Bin Laden off and, after losing their respective weapons, squared off in a perfectly-executed martial arts face-off.
Brick and Beef, meanwhile, had retrieved every hard drive, laptop, Blackberry and CD from the computer room (along with several cases of 12-year-old Scotch) and were stacking them in the back of a truck, conveniently parked there by someone.
Back in “Geronimo’s teepee”, just as it seemed Bin Laden was about to put the finishing touches on Sgt. Furious with Chinese Kung fu, the Sgt. grabbed a hot water heating pipe against the wall, broke it from the joint and pointed it in Bin laden’s face, scalding him. “You need to let off some steam,” Furious said as Bin Laden screamed in agony, suddenly completely recovered from his beating before he pulled a pistol out from somewhere and shot Bin laden one time in the chest. The criminal mastermind dropped unconscious to the floor.
“I’m one yankee dog that ain’t yet housebroken.” He said, chomping his cigar stub.
Cheers broke out in the high-tech war room back in DC but the President quickly silenced them. “This is no time for celebration,” he said. “I want verification of death, including DNA results. And I want them in 5 minutes.”
After moving Bin laden’s presumed dead body onto a cot in an unlocked and unguarded storage closet the Brassballs met up in the al Qaeda leader’s rumpus room. They stripped out of their gear, lit cigars and poured whiskey in celebration of a job well-done.
But Sgt. Furious quieted them after the drinks were poured. “We pause to remember our fallen comrade, Nick.” He pointed to a cot in the corner by the door, where Nick’s body had been brought in by somebody. “Even though it was only his first day as a Brassball, he was a good egg, and a wiz with computers…”
Meanwhile, back in the dark but not too dark closet, Bin laden – without even opening his eyes – slowly reached up and opened the front of his robe, revealing a Kevlar jacket underneath with a .38 caliber bullet embedded in it.
Back in the rumpus room the Brassballs were finishing their whiskey when suddenly the door kicked in with a splintering crash. There stood Bin laden with a crazed look on his face. Sgt. Furious wondered how Bin Laden was able to merely kick a door down when he needed a pound of C4 to do the same.
Back in DC the President put his finger to his headset. “What’s happening, Furious! Talk to me!”
In shock at the sudden appearance at the man they thought was dead, the men sat helpless, their guns and weaponry in a stack on the floor as Bin laden crossed his arms in front and pulled matching 9mm submachine guns from under his robes. “You Americans have ‘little’ friends, but you can say hello to my very large friends!” he shouted, “Allah and Akbar!”
But suddenly a voice yelled from the cot by the door. “Hey Bin Laden!”
Stunned, Bin laden stopped everything and looked down at the man they all thought was dead – Nick the computer wizard. “Didn’t your mommy tell you to always keep an eye out for Americans?” he said weakly just as he raised his sidearm and fired a single shot straight through Bin laden’s right eye, blowing off the back of his head. Bin laden could only stare in disbelief with his one good eye before he started shaking violently all over, squeezing off several rounds from his machine guns into the ceiling before he gurgled and dropped to his knees, then fell flat on his face, dead.
As Nick’s lifeless hand dropped to his side, it slowly opened to reveal the presumed lost thumbdrive that contained all the information on Bin Laden’s criminal enterprise.
Back in DC, President Obama was infuriated as he continued to scream into his headset. “Furious! Answer me! What’s happening there!”
Suddenly one of the drop-dead beautiful black female technicians wearing a headset stood and held up a SAT phone. “Sir? You’re going to want to take this!”
President Obama walked over and gave the technician the evil eye. “This better be good.”
He held the SAT phone to his ear. “This is the President.”
It was Sgt. Furious. “This is Brassballs-one, Mr. President. Mission accomplished. We’re outta here.”
“Damn you Furious! Where are you? You’ve breached protocol for the last time . . .!”
In front of a sunset on a Caribbean beach, as a Jamaican water brought drinks, Sgt. Furious laid down the phone in the beach chair beside him, the President’s voice trailing off and unintelligible as he rolled over and full-body kissed the bikini babe beside him.
