Hd13 Hours- The Secret Soldiers Of Benghazi 【4K × HD】

They knew Benghazi was a powder keg. Every night, they heard the rattle of AK-47s and the thump of RPGs in the distance. But on the evening of September 11, 2012—the eleventh anniversary of 9/11—the air felt different. Heavier.

But the mortar team had already adjusted their aim. A 120mm round—the kind used by conventional armies, not militias—slammed into the roof directly behind Rone.

The GRS scrambled. Jack Silva was first to the armored Toyota Land Cruisers. "Let’s move!" he yelled. But the CIA’s chief of base, codenamed "Bob," issued a contradictory order: Hold. Wait for the local Libyan militia allies to secure the route.

They searched the perimeter. They fought room-to-room in the burning annex building. But the fire was too intense. The roof began to collapse. Sean Smith was later found dead from smoke inhalation. Ambassador Stevens, separated in the chaos, had been dragged by Libyan "rescuers" to a hospital, where he was found dead of asphyxiation. HD13 Hours- The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi

At 12:05 AM, September 12, the second wave began.

Seven Americans had survived only because a handful of former special operators refused to abandon them.

As a Libyan militia convoy finally arrived to secure the area, the GRS loaded the wounded and the dead onto a C-130 evacuation plane. Jack Silva sat next to Rone’s body bag, staring at the floor. He didn’t cry. Not yet. That would come later, alone, in a hotel room in Germany. They knew Benghazi was a powder keg

Years later, a journalist asked Oz Geist if he regretted going back into the burning compound. He looked at the scars on his arm and leg, then at a photograph of Rone Woods holding his daughter.

Prologue: The Ghosts of War

Oz Geist took a second round, this time to the arm, shattering the bone. Tig was hit in the back by a piece of shrapnel. But they didn’t stop. They couldn’t. They dragged Rone’s body inside, covered him with a flag, and went back to the wall. Heavier

From three directions, mortar rounds began walking in. The first explosion cratered the parking lot, flipping a Land Cruiser onto its side. The GRS took positions along the north and east walls. Rone Woods climbed to the roof of the villa—the highest point, with no cover—manning a Mk 48 machine gun. "I need eyes on the north ridge," he said calmly over the radio. "They’re setting up a mortar tube."

Minutes bled. The radio screamed: Ambassador Chris Stevens and Sean Smith, a communications specialist, were trapped in the burning safe house. The attackers—a coalition of al-Qaeda-linked militants and Ansar al-Sharia—were pouring through the gates, armed with PKM machine guns, RPG-7s, and diesel-soaked rags.

In the weeks and months that followed, the story of Benghazi was twisted into political theater. Hearings, investigations, and accusations flew across cable news. But no committee ever called the GRS to testify about their courage. They were secret soldiers—off the books, invisible to the Pentagon, ineligible for the Purple Hearts they had earned in blood.

Inside the tactical operations center, a CIA technical officer named "Bob" (the same one who had delayed the rescue) was now pale with terror. He kept calling for air support—AC-130 gunships, fighter jets, anything. But the response from Washington was a maddening loop: "Unavailable. Stand by." (In reality, a Predator drone circled overhead, unarmed, streaming live video to the White House—where officials watched the battle unfold but ordered no military intervention.)